Inside My Handbag

X Weighted

2008-06-07T18:55:00.002+01:00

I have lived most of my forty plus years with a fat person inside me, trying desperately to get out. As a child I was quite tubby and well on my way to becoming a Teletubbie when, at fourteen, Mother Nature stepped in and sentenced the fat person to life imprisonment with time out for bad behaviour.

I did not hear or see anything of the sanctioned fat person for a long time. But as I approached twenty five, IH friends warned that on the day of my 25th birthday the fat bottom of the fat person would be released and the width of my own rear end would double over night. While the over night phenomenon did not eventuate, over the course of the next three years my rear end was blossoming into a fat bottom. It was not at the stage where I needed to wear a ‘wide load’ sign but it was approaching the stage where wearing a thong was no longer in good taste.

However, at twenty eight Mother Nature intervened once again, and as a reward for enduring hours of breast feeding, the fat person and the fat bottom were banished. As wonderful as breast feeding was in maintaining a trim figure, I was not very good at it. After weaning Youngest Son, I chose the See Mother Run weight maintenance program. With two children in very close succession, this program did not require a personal trainer, nor did it require an allocated time slot in my daily routine. It was my daily routine.

But with both Sons now becoming teenagers, the See Mother Run program has been superseded and replaced with the Hear Mother Nag program. Unfortunately despite giving my vocal chords a rigorous daily workout, this form of exercise does not burn many calories and the fat person has been paroled once again bringing with them the fat bottom and the fat thighs.

With a holiday planned for Dubai in a few months, in order to avoid terrorising beach side holiday makers with the sight of my fat bottom in a swim suit, my choices were limited. Another child, breast feeding and the See Mother Run program were ruled out based on time constraints. Liposuction sends a shiver down my spine and I love good food too much to engage in fad diets. So I have enlisted the help of GM friend, who after living a comfortable life for the last few years has managed to gain a few extra kilos.

There is something about making a public declaration about your weight that immediately motivates you to get out of bed when it is still dark and do a 5km stint on the treadmill. However, when GM friend reported that he had lost 5kg in the first week I was called to attention and cranked it up a notch – banning all scrumptious treats in our household until further notice.

And things were going so well until a one week visit to Germany threw a spanner in the works, along with Bratwurst, Bockwurst, Weisswurst and every other type of sausage known to mankind. Imagine my horror when confronted with a menu choice of sausage with pommes, sautéed potato or dumplings. Despite the fact that the menu was written in German, the universal language of calories was translation enough – fat, fat and more fat. Added to this was the temptation of the ice cream vendors on every street corner, the aroma of fresh coffee filling the streets and family members obsessed with stuffing you with chocolate. Note to self; next visit to Germany must be by bike in order to avoid the possibility of fat person inside making an unwanted appearance.

Needless to say, I have not dared set foot on the scales since our return. But with the Dubai trip drawing closer and GM friend reporting this week that the weight is falling off at his end, I fear that a bad result could send me into one of those eating frenzies that just do not make sense. The one where you have put on a kilo so you figure that adding cream or eating the whole chocolate bar won’t make any difference. Time to use the wild card and embark on the swim suit shopping mission – the site of the fat bottom and the fat thighs in the three way mirror should be motivation enough to get back on track.

Mother's Day

2008-02-20T18:14:00.001Z

After being home ill for three days last week, Youngest Son posed the following question ‘What do you do all day, Mum?’ This question puzzled me somewhat, for I had vacuumed, mopped and dusted around him whilst he had been fed and watered all day, without having to leave the comfort of the sofa. So what exactly does Mother do all day?

Mother’s Day starts with a 5km walk on the treadmill. Shower. Dress. Makeup. Hair. Breakfast orders received. First mediation; two sons and one husband but only two muffins. While Mother accepts full responsibility for not securing enough muffins Mother does offer to split the muffins equally giving each person two thirds of a muffin. Unanimously rejected. Mother rattles off the ten plus other breakfast options. Husband accepts cereal. Mother makes new offer of one muffin each to Both Sons. Unanimously rejected. Counter offer by Youngest Son; scrambled eggs. Mother accepts. Counter offer by Eldest Son; pancakes. House Rules – no pancakes on a school day. Eldest Son accepts cereal. Muffins remain uneaten. Reminders to Both Sons to get dressed, brush teeth and pack school bags. Mother eats breakfast. Husband leaves for work. Five minute school bus warning. Homework, bus pass and PE Kit check. Both Sons leave for school. Mother clears breakfast dishes. Youngest Son returns for piano book. Time check; Youngest Son can still catch bus if he runs.

Mother makes beds, loads dark washing, vacuums and mops, hangs up dark washing, loads light washing, empties rubbish bin. Windows cleaners arrive. Mother makes three teas and one coffee. Mother hangs up light washing, cleans toilets (boys, need I say more), makes a dinner decision, compiles shopping list and leaves house.

Mother collects jacket on order for Eldest Son, does banking and grocery shopping.

Mother returns home, unloads groceries, cleans fridge, packs away groceries, eats a banana, drinks a cup of coffee and goes to office.

Mother does paid work.

Mother returns to home duties. Mother walks dog, brushes dog, and makes a cup of tea. Both Sons home from school. Mother makes toast, hot chocolate, slices melon, peels an apple, makes more toast, rattles off ten plus healthy snack options. Eldest Son asks for crisps. No. Youngest Son asks for chocolate. No. Mother offers raisins and banana chips. Accepted. Mother empties dishwasher. Second mediation; two sons, two televisions, what is the argument over? Mother gives first warning. Mother turns television off. Third mediation; two sons, two computers, what is the argument over? Mother gives second warning. Accepted.

Mother folds dry washing. Mother requests that school bags are removed from the front door. Mother ignored. Mother gives another warning. Mother ignored. Mother screams. Accepted. Mother puts PE Kit in bucket to soak. Mother starts ironing. Door knocks. Mother answers. Youngest Son leaves to play. Mother gives reminder of home time. Mother returns to ironing. Eldest Son asks about expressionist art. Mother Googles. Mother summarizes expressionism. Mother returns to ironing. Youngest Son yells from front door. Mother ignores. Youngest Sons yells louder. Mother yells back. Phone rings. Youngest Son phoning through request that he yelled from the front door. Mother returns to ironing. Door knocks. Mother answers. Page 3 girl comes in for a cup of tea. Mother abandons ironing. Page 3 girl leaves. Mother puts ironing away and starts dinner.

Husband home. Mother asks Eldest Son to set the table. Mother reminds Eldest Son that we eat with knives and forks. Mother advises Husband and Both Sons that dinner is ready. Mother reminds Both Sons to wash hands. Dinner is delicious. Unanimously agreed. Youngest Son clears table and loads dishwasher. Mother reloads dishwasher. Mother reminds Both Sons that they do need to shower every day. Both sweet smelling Sons sit with Husband and Mother to watch repeats of Friends. Mother gives five minute bed time warning to Both Sons. Mother reminds Both Sons to brush teeth. Good night to Both Sons. Mother checks work emails. Mother checks on Both Sons and watches them sleep for a moment. Angels.

Mother makes coffee and sits alongside Husband. End of Mother’s Day. Wife’s day begins.

Ode To Spam

2008-01-28T15:11:00.000Z

I do not like green eggs and ham.
I do not like Viagra spam.
I do not want to reach the peek
Of sexual highs within a week.
So would you, could you, should you please
Stop spamming me with remedies.

I do not trust Nigerian banks.
I do not want the millions thanks.
I do not want to ever supply
Bank details to any guy.
So would you, could you, I desire
Stop spamming me with funds to wire.

I do not understand Roulette
I do not wish to place a bet.
I do not want games to play
At Casinos far away.
So would you, could you, with respect
Stop spamming me with these requests.

I do not bank here and there.
I do not need to despair.
I do not fear a security blunder
I will not click the link here under.
So would you, could you, be so kind
Stop spamming me with this in mind.

I do not wish to buy a bride.
I do not want to be a bride.
I do not need a computer date
Or need to chat with girls til late.
So would you, could you, please I beg
Stop spamming me with your Jpegs.

I do not want to win a phone.
I do not need another loan.
I do not want a Gucci bag
Or anything with a copy tag.
So would you, could you, I insist
Stop spamming me your product list.

If I accept your kind invite
I’d be having sex all day and night
I’d be richer than Bill Gates
And meeting friends on cyber dates
I do not like green eggs and ham
I really hate this endless spam.

Reflections

2008-01-06T13:07:00.000Z

I have never understood the whole New Year Resolution thing; why wait for the start of another year to change something about ourselves? Surely if you have decided that something needs to change why would you delay it? I have only ever made one New Year Resolution. It was made following persistent nagging by Dad to make some form of public declaration on the stroke of midnight. In desperation I blurted out that I would abstain from chocolate for the entire year. However, I think he was actually looking for an explanation of my whereabouts on the infamous Mr BMX date. Having a bit of a stubborn streak, that New Year Resolution actually became two fold; give up the chocolate for a year and to never divulge my whereabouts on the Mr BMX date.

In the lead up to the New Year I prefer to take time to reflect on the closing year, celebrating achievements and happy times and putting the darker days behind me.

Simple things brought me great delight during 2007; my first successful crop of tomatoes since moving to the UK and the most glorious display of daffodils nodding in our front lawn. Husband and Both Sons celebrated the discovery of a ready made Spaghetti Sauce that put an end to my inedible homemade recipe. We soaked up the carnival atmosphere of the Tour de France as it passed by our doorstep and our Aussie flags hung with pride after reclaiming The Ashes.

There were moments of drama such as Eldest Son sustaining two broken arms during a daring five brick high bike jump and £8,000 fraudulently charged to my MasterCard. Some days were spent in fits of laughter; our family day out with FOF wading through six inches of mud at the height of summer, CF and wife of CF spending hours trying to decode his secret identity in this blog, Little Acorn reading out passages of Captain Underpants to the Mothers Day diners at our local Thai, and the much talked about nocturnal noise incident with the neighbours. Both Sons managed to keep themselves and others amused with snow and ice themed activities. They rolled a giant snowball down our street and dragged me out to assist when it became stranded in the middle of the road. An ice making experiment caused CF much angst when he realised that Husband would unknowingly drive into the carport and skid uncontrollably into the garage when he hit the brakes. And I could only laugh when, boys being boys, they accidentally set off the fire extinguisher in my office leaving computer, printer, fax, laminator and black carpet in a beautiful frosting of white powder.

Some incidents unleashed the green eyed monster within me and left some people shaken, others stirred and a few stunned. Audi felt the force of a tornado when someone neglected to tighten the oil pump in my car, leaving me stranded 10 miles from home late on a bitterly cold February day. British Airways ducked for cover when my Golf Boys found themselves in Portugal without their golf clubs. But the best was saved for last when in early December the car park attendant at House of Fraser copped the angry walk, the wide eyes and a mouthful of loud Aussie abuse when he held me and other motorists in a 45 minute Car Park Gridlock caused by a faulty gate. (Thank you to all my friends who kept me calm with amusing text messages during my detainment.)

But unfortunately these minor scraps are put into perspective when I reflect on the darker days of the year. My heart was ripped out when my niece was born into this world and was denied a single breath before passing into the heavens. I was deeply saddened by the sudden passing away of WP friend and was angry with the cruelty of this world when my gorgeous friend had to endure a nasty course of Chemotherapy. These dark days remind me of the importance of family and friends and the strength we draw from them and they draw from us.

In 2007 I have laughed and cried with friends and family. Met family in far off places, made new friendships and re-established old friendships. I am entering 2008 with a New Year Resolution to only buy Free Range Chicken (Jamie Oliver asked me to do so) but more importantly I want to send a New Year Message.

Please laugh often and love with all of your heart.

My Family Tree is of the Nut Variety

2007-11-30T19:04:00.000Z

This week my own mother labelled me a nut. While others have loosely thrown the word about, my own mother actually telling me so shook me. What had made her come to this conclusion? Had I always been a nut? Why did she wait until I was 10,000 miles away to tell me?

Apparently it was the message I had left on her answer machine that triggered her nut accusation. Naturally I thought this to be quite harsh and asked for other nut examples. Trimming the Christmas tree while we were moving house on Christmas Eve (2 points). Honeymooning in a tent (1 point). Camping with a baby in cloth nappies whilst pregnant (3 points). Moving into a house requiring commercial quantities of Detol to eradicate the odour of cat pee (2 points plus bonus points for allowing friends and neighbours to carry our unpacked belongings across the street). Exposing my true self to the world via this blog (she rested her case).

These may reflect traces of nut but why should I be singled out as the only nut on my family tree? Husband recounts his early days with my family. Dad took him aside and warned him of the six month grounding I incurred when Mr BMX brought me home late and the time he took Future Doctor aside and ruthlessly chopped a pair of sheep’s testicles in half with his meat clever sending a message about the dangers of doing the wrong thing. Then there was the time Mum bought me seven pairs of knickers, each printed with the individual days of the week and the fact that I then matched my knickers with the calendar. His favourite Griffiths Family nut trait was our singing of Happy Birthday; out of time, out of tune and very, very loudly in order to encourage our dog to join in with painful howls of despair.

He describes his first exposure to my extended family as extraordinary despite me fore warning him of the important facts. Nana Wallace was totally blind and there was a good chance of being served a cup of coffee containing a tea bag. Aunty Jean would serve you a mountain of mock whipped cream, despite the fact that you were eating something savoury. Most of the males were called Bill and the majority of the family were hard of hearing. After an afternoon of people yelling Billy, Brenda’s Bill, Lorraine’s Bill, Big Bill and Little Bill Studd on top of the family catch phrase of ‘want a bit of cream love’ he politely announced that they were all nuts.

So am I actually nuts or do I merely contain traces of nut? As strange as it may sound there are rational reasons for most of my quirks. Arriving at work in my slippers was due to the fact that my beautiful patent shoes were getting ruined whilst driving; I just forgot to pack my shoes that day. Writing a Mr Men story during my chemistry exam was because I was not permitted to leave the exam within the first hour; my Mr Pipette and Mr Burette story actually earned me a pass. Setting my alarm for 4am in order to lay out the Easter egg hunt is out of necessity; the dog will eat the eggs if laid the night before and Sons set their own alarms for 5am. And relocation from the sunny shores of Australia to the long dark winters of England was a no brainer; love.

I am who I am. I am me. If this makes me nuts then steer clear if you suffer nut allergy.

I Want One of Those

2007-11-23T02:12:00.000Z

I have been through a disturbing few weeks. I blame it on Mother Nature.

Most of the time, Mother Nature has done the right thing by me. When Eldest Son chose to be born in the back seat of our car she sprinkled Calming Dust over Husband’s head, enabling us to make it to the sanctuary of the hospital car park. And following the birth of Second Son she sprinkled me with the Two is Enough Dust. From that time on new babies no longer brought on waves of gushiness. I now greeted new mothers with ‘you poor thing’ and third time mothers got the ‘was it planned’ treatment.

As Second Son passed through each milestone I went through a celebratory and purging phase. Nursing bras were binned. Bassinet, baby bath and steriliser were handed over to You Poor Thing or Was It Planned friends. A turtle step sat proudly at the base of our toilet and I had great delight in wiping up misfires. There was a celebration after my final day of kinder duty and overwhelming joy when waving both Sons goodbye at the school gate. I was happy with my lot.

But then one November day, whilst a small child was screaming hysterically in a Tesco trolley, I decided that I wanted one of those – another child. Maybe there was a full moon looming or maybe I was having an out of body experience. I took a moment to regroup but during laps up and down the Tesco aisles my mind was busy planning a new addition (or possibly two) to our family.

Upon sharing this with Husband he set about diagnosing what could have triggered such a moment of insanity. Theories included the recent spell of bad weather, too much sleep or the possible onset of menopause. We both concluded that it was due to excessive exposure to Sons of CF and Daughter of FOF. Ranging in age from eighteen months to three and a half, they were at that really adorable stage. So the remedy was simple – cut all contact with these small creatures.

However, as days went on the left and right side on my brain debated the extra child pros and cons. Was Mother Nature ill or on a career break? How could she do this to me? I am an intelligent, sensible person. Both Sons can boil their own eggs (but choose not too), select their own wardrobe and hairstyles. We can now holiday with adjoining hotel rooms and dine in restaurants without a kids menu. Our household could not cope with two testosterone raging Sons and a new baby.

And with this thought Mother Nature kicked back into action. With the wave of her wand I found myself in the middle of a mock WWE showdown between Second Son and Eldest Son. One was in a head lock, the other had blood streaming from his nose and I was squawking about the blood staining the sofa. After banishing them both to opposite corners of the kitchen I felt relief. Harmony had been restored. The I Want One of Those thoughts had turned to I Don’t Want Anymore of These.

Stress Junkie

2007-11-09T14:16:00.000Z

If thriving on the adrenalin of being under the pump, surviving on four hours sleep, saying yes to requests for help, are signs of being a stress junkie; then this is me.

My stress optimum performance relationship goes way back to my High School days. At 15, I started an after school job as a deli girl. I could work up to 25 hours some weeks and while the money was great the effect on my homework was amazing. The less time I had available for homework, the better the results. I discovered the benefits of time management and multi tasking at this young age. I was able to plan a project while slicing ham, write an essay during my tea break, and revise for exams while wrapping cheese.

Obviously I put myself in this situation not just out of necessity but also for the buzz. Why else would I have decided to get married while working full time, attending uni part time and building a house? It was sheer madness but it was fabulous. While most brides treat themselves to a few days of luxury in the days prior to their wedding, I spent the day prior to our wedding penning a 10,000 word essay, packing the tent (we spent our honeymoon camping) and looking for nail polish, lipstick and shoes.

And while the whole new mother thing should have been enough stress to give me a long term buzz I added cloth nappies, making my own bread and a curly coated border collie to the mix. My mornings were a whirlwind of nappy buckets, flour and vacuuming and somehow both Sons learnt to talk, walk and toilet train amongst all of this.

However there have been times when stress has been damaging. In the dark days of working at WP my life had become a tornado. While I had developed some strategies to juggle home and work, such as walking the dog at 5am, doing Son’s readers during the school run and speed shopping during my lunch time, things were spiralling out of control. In true junkie fashion, I ignored the offers of help, and when Mum suggested taking some of the ironing, I smuggled it out of the house and travelled with it in the boot of my car. As the dark side of stress took control, the smallest issue could be enough to tip me over the edge (crumbs on the floor or a sniffing nose). Some innocent call centre operator copped the full barrage when they called me about mobile phone plans one evening.

But there was a lifeline. It came in the form of our relocation to the UK. The dark side of stress was lifted from my shoulders and a new stress buzz was waiting. I had four weeks to pack, complete all unfinished projects (one entire room not even plastered), paint the house, install a sprinkler system, complete the landscaping, find tenants, sell two cars, re home two guinea pigs and two budgies and transport the dog. Not wanting to be completely self-indulgent, I generously shared this stress buzz with Mum and Dad. Husband missed out as he was already in the UK.

Today, having recognised that I am in fact a stress junkie I feel better equipped to manage and enjoy the buzz of stress. Sons do their best to offer a little stress taster every day and Husband surprises me with unexpected stress treats (lost golf clubs on a recent trip to Portugal springs to mind). But like any true junkie, I just can’t wait for the next big stress buzz – Christmas!

Could A Push Up Bra Change My Life?

2007-10-20T15:51:00.000+01:00

The UK love breasts. It could be the climate or possibly something in the water, but around every corner, there is a display of cleavage or breasts. For those who have spent too much time out of the country or avoided the water, life with Non Page 3 Girl breasts can be challenging. But a few weeks ago I decided I was going to take control of my own breast destiny and seek enhancement; I bought my first push up bra.

Obviously a push up bra can only do so much and cannot perform miracles. However my push up bra was an absolute wonder; friends wondered where these breasts had come from, the postman wondered which way to look and Husband wondered where the breasts had gone when the bra was removed.

So was this going to be a short lived phenomenon or could my push up bra change my life?

This simple piece of underwear brought with it some obvious advantages. A whole new world of wardrobe possibilities had opened up. The low cut items that I had avoided for fear of offending innocent bystanders now displayed a neat cleavage. Tops that had gaped open displaying a clear view to my navel were now filled with my voluptuous bust.

But while the wardrobe possibilities were exciting the attention that my improved breasts were attracting was a little disturbing. My breasts had now been welcomed into conversation; they had become a topic of discussion. With this came a very strange experience that was not dissimilar to being pregnant. Just as people have an overwhelming desire to rub a rounded pregnant belly, they now had the overwhelming urge to cup my breasts. Both men and women alike grasped, poked and prodded without invitation. Was this what the world was like for those endowed with Page 3 Girl breasts?

Other drawbacks were also starting to emerge. The simple act of folding my arms was uncomfortable and no longer sent a defensive message. This act now plumped my breasts, defined my cleavage and warned others to defend themselves for fear of having their eyes poked out. Other basic tasks, such as reaching for items, bed making and carrying packages were considerably hindered. FOF suggested that I may have to adjust my driving position in order to be aware of other road users. Is there a future for my push up bra?

Maybe it is just a matter of finding some balance. Perhaps my push up bra should only be worn with items of clothing that need to be filled. Or maybe my enhanced breasts should only be allowed out on special occasions. Both of these options could cause confusion (there one day, gone the next) and may actually exacerbate the novelty factor leading to more group discussion and more touchy feely situations. So maybe I should only wear the push up bra on special occasions, attending a function with people I have never met before. But then do I have to take a mental note of who they are, to spare them the confusion next time we meet?

Am I making this more complex than it needs to be? Wearing a push up bra has been a life changing experience. This must be why it is named the Wonder Bra; I am left wondering where to from here. I think I will raise the issue at the next group breast discussion.

Health Warning - Buying Jeans Can Damage Your Health.

2007-10-11T16:42:00.000+01:00

Death and divorce top the stress league tables and, in my opinion, buying jeans must be a very close third. The act of purchasing this basic commodity can increase blood pressure, destroy self confidence and cause fitting room rage. I fear the damage to my own health so much that I delay purchasing jeans until my current jeans are well beyond the grunge stage and pose a threat to the nation should the thin denim threads give way.

So why is this task so stressful?

It starts at the rack of jeans. When buying any other garment we simply thumb through the rack, make a few selections and proceed to the fitting rooms. Jeans require one additional step – the body check. This involves examining the size of the zip and/or the number of buttons. The shorter the zip and the fewer the buttons is a warning that the jeans will not fit on anyone with a body. This test can lead to dangerously high blood pressure so I detour to another department and pick up a Make Me Feel Good top.

Then it is time to brave the fitting rooms. While some might find the security of the fitting rooms a problem; I don’t. It doesn’t really phase me that some poor, unsuspecting soul will be exposed to my backside protruding from a curtain. My fitting room problem starts with the mirrors. Fitting room mirrors are surely made by the makers of amusement park mirrors; for they reflect a distorted image of your bottom. Add to this, lighting that has been designed to highlight cellulite, and you have a cocktail for self confidence destruction. To avoid this I try on the Make Me Feel Good top first.

After a few deep breaths (calming as well as stomach flattening) the first jeans are on. The front view looks good. The rear end looks like the back of a Renault Megane. The second pair look good front and back but fail the squat test; underwear exposure. Next pair fails the muffin top test and others are just ugly. No need to panic; this is all normal jeans behaviour. At this stage I like to sort the rejects and fling them out of the fitting room in an attempt to keep the assistant at bay (for her own safety). The next pair looks great until I turn for the rear view; the two back pockets are pointing at fullest part of my bottom like two road hazard signs. What was the designer thinking? These jeans make the Renault Megane style look sexy. My self confidence is plummeting fast and I am no longer rational. I politely offer the remaining jeans to the fitting room assistant and signal that I will take the Make Me Feel Good top.

So with stress now at league table level 3, I go for coffee and assess the possible solutions to the jeans dilemma.

· Fashion industry standards banning all jeans with zips less than 5cm or fewer than 3 buttons.
· Prohibition of mirrors and lights in fitting rooms.
· Government regulations imposing a one pair of jeans limit per fitting session.
· All fitting room assistants equipped with panic alarms.
· Establishment of a National Jeans Crisis Line.

I conclude that without the adoption of such measures there may actually be no alternative but to issue a health warning stating that ‘buying jeans can damage your health’ and I hope that the grunge look is acceptable for a little longer.

Tax Torture

2007-10-02T19:48:00.001+01:00

This time each year I wonder whether the word ‘tax’ may have been once been spelt with a double x; for it really is a four letter word in our house.

At the conclusion of each tax year I vow to be more tax organized and I adopt a new method of storing tax paperwork. Each year I hope that the new system will be the one; the one that will be there for me in the good times and the bad, in sickness and in health and have all tax requirements painlessly at hand.

Way, way back in the pre marriage, pre house and pre children days, I used the expanding file method. I lovingly labelled each little tab and put each document to bed in their relevant slot. Apart from some minor filing errors, this system was good and it served me well.

Then came love, marriage and another expanding file. I adopted minor changes to integrate the additional expanding file (his and hers files, current and past year files) but things became a bit confusing and I was forced to implement my first tax system overhaul. The expanding files were laid to rest and I upgraded to a three drawer desk. Unfortunately I failed to consider the power of the desk top. It very quickly attracted piles of documents that continued to multiply as the year moved on. Apart from causing immense stress at tax time, the piles obviously became unsightly to visitors because a filing cabinet arrived from Santa that year.

I fell in love with Filing Cabinet. It was like a grown up version of the expanding file. I invested heavily in vertical files and lovingly labelled each tab (in pencil just in case of unforeseen emergencies). Filing Cabinet and I had a wonderful relationship for years.

Then came motherhood. Filing Cabinet and Oldest Son did not get along and for its own safety, Filing Cabinet was locked behind closed doors with restricted visiting rights. Piles now formed on top of Filing Cabinet as well as the desk top and when Youngest Son was born we entered our darkest tax years. Filing Cabinet was forced out of our remaining spare room to make way for a nursery. Filing Cabinet was now on public display in our living room and the piles just had to go. Enter arch lever binders.

I have tried to block this period out of my mind. The arch lever binders and I just did not get along. This system was very labour intensive, requiring time to hole punch and time to clean up the little punched holes that two small boys had delight in emptying from the hole punch. This system didn’t survive the year.

Then came return to work time and employment at the infamous WP. This organization can only be described as wacky but it offered me tax system hope. They utilized A4 archiving boxes for all of their paperwork and as wacky as the place was, this system worked. I suppose it really is a sophisticated version of the old shoe box method that accountants joke about. So a little procession of A4 archive boxes marched into my house and have been loyal tax servants since, quietly awaiting their time to be called upon.

So quietly in fact, that without the paper piles haunting me every day there has been no need to mention the four letter word in our house. Yet again I am preparing the Tax (double x) with only days until the due date. Goodness only knows what will happen if this due date ever falls on a Friday (refer D-Day Friday).

Confessions of a Recovering Chocoholic

2007-09-25T10:22:00.000+01:00

This year I made a declaration to the world that I am a chocoholic. I hoped that this bold move would be the first step along the road to recovery. So far so good – but it has been hell.

In times of happiness, sadness, fatigue and stress I have always reached for the Cadbury. While this may seem harmless enough, at times I have consumed so much in one sitting that if I was to blow into a chocolate breathalyzer, I would be well over the legal limit. Apart from petitioning the government to make over consumption of chocolate a criminal offence, I could not see myself kicking this indulgent habit without recognizing it as an addiction.

Psychologists would probably probe deep into my childhood in search of answers. I point the finger at Grandad. He had an endless supply of chocolate. We would read Lady and the Tramp and share rows of Dairy Milk at the turn of each page. Whenever I slept over I would wake the following morning to find a Milky Bar tucked securely under my pillow. How wonderful. But if I look deeper, it could well be Nanna’s fault; for she was ahead of her time in the healthy diet front and fed me sugar free porridge served with powdered skim milk, wholemeal sandwiches and broad beans seemed to make an appearance at every evening meal. Maybe Grandad was actually supplying me the chocolate as a means of basic sustenance.

But why then, as a grown up free to avoid powdered skim milk, wholemeal bread and broad beans, do I still have this dependency on chocolate? On the advice of High School Commerce Teacher I began using chocolate as a crutch in times of crisis. He preached the benefits of taking a Kit Kat break during exams. Rather than go into a full panic attack when your writing hand cramped up or your brain went numb, you simply took a moment to enjoy one finger of Kit Kat. I found the technique extremely successful and took it with me to Uni, full time employment and motherhood.

The transition however from dependency to addiction is rather blurred. It may have started in the first few months of new motherhood when a quick chocolate fix could keep me awake during the 2.00am feed or take the place of the evening meal that Oldest Son was determined to keep me from eating. It may well have been due to the fact that as a breast feeding mother I could consume excessive amounts of chocolate and not gain any weight. But unless I was going to continue adding to the population beyond Youngest Son or take up marathon running, my chocolate consumption needed to be dealt with.

So without the aid of chocolate replacement patches, a national chocolate quit campaign or the outlawing of chocolate consumption in a public place, I have had to go about this cold turkey. You may laugh, but look around you. Tesco has an entire aisle dedicated to chocolate. I am yet to find a petrol station that has the facility to pay without queuing alongside neatly stacked rows of Mars, Snickers and Yorkies. Then there are the mini chocolate thank yous that accompany your dinner bill and to top it all off, the Dry Cleaner has a bowl of Favourites sitting on the counter.

There have been moments of weakness and I have snuck a Freddo here and there. There have been moments of sheer desperation when I have devoured the cooking chocolate that was hidden way up high in the cupboard. I have had dizzy spells, overwhelming tiredness and voices inside me head urging me to weaken. But yesterday Oldest Son bought a bar of Galaxy and offered me a token single block. I ate it. I loved it. Then I declined a second piece. I have done it. I am a recovering chocoholic.

Disclaimer: I am a recovering chocoholic. Please do not bring chocolate into my home.

Age Concern

2007-09-15T12:47:00.000+01:00

Age – the length of life or existence (per Oxford Dictionary), number of birthdays (per Youngest Son), just a number (per 40 Something Friend). For me, age is a cache of my life experiences. Some of these are memories and others are visible snapshots unwillingly placed on public display. While I have always been truthful about my age I have waged a mini battle against it for some time now.

Our bathroom cupboard is bursting with goodies that aid in age preservation and age disguise. For the last decade I have used anti wrinkle eye cream, age defying day cream and rejuvenating night cream. But Wife of FOF recently bought me the Boots No. 7 Beauty Serum and spoke glowingly of its power. Did this mean that the other products, that had served me loyally for so long, were not working or was 41 the trigger age for using the Boots No. 7?

When sharing these concerns with Husband he asked whether this magic potion could help the creases that were creeping around my upper chest. What creases? How had they escaped my attention? Where had they come from? Page 3 Girl advised that they are the result of gravity and that I should only sleep on my back. Not having Page 3 Girl breasts myself, I was sceptical but did not want to risk any further damage. So my Non Page 3 Girl breasts are now treated to the Boots No. 7 and despite waking with neck strain, I am sleeping on my back. I am, however, concerned about the measures required in my next decade – could they involve sleeping in a lycra bandage?

As absurd as this may sound, I have been down the no pain no gain road before. Two Sons have left an interesting road map of spider veins on my legs. Modern medicine can do some wonderful things and with a few small injections of saline these spider veins miraculously disappear. My roadmap however is very comprehensive and after 14 visits I have had over 300 injections, spent 12 months in surgical stockings and paid for an overseas holiday for the plastic surgeon.

But despite my best age preservation attempts both Sons feel obliged to broadcast the honest truth to the world. Just mention the funky multi coloured highlights in my hair and they are quick to pinpoint the problem grey areas that are lurking underneath. Offer me a tasty treat and they will politely decline on my behalf chanting the ‘weight for age’ mantra. And all cheesy ‘too young for children that age’ compliments are promptly quashed with an age announcement.

So where does this leave me in my mini age battle? As I see it, an effective option would be to invest in Boots Pharmaceutical, remain horizontal while wrapped in a lycra body stocking, get intimate with the plastic surgeon and abandon the children. This seems a bit harsh – maybe just gag the children.

Return to School Hangover

2007-09-11T19:09:00.000+01:00

Apologies for no blog entry last week. It was a very strange week. I struggled to get through the most basic tasks and have only just realised what it was – return to school hangover.

The week started with the euphoria of Youngest Son commencing secondary school and the house being returned to a haven of peace and quiet between the hours of 8.30am to 4.00pm. Bliss.

Tuesday had been pre booked with appointments that I never really wanted to keep and had cleverly used the summer break as my secret weapon. The threat of the Yellow Pages Rep having to sit through an appointment with both Sons present was enough to scare him away for another 12 months. However, the BT Rep was more persistent and insisted on scheduling an appointment post summer break. Other persistent callers included the Stationary Supplier and a man selling advertising in an unknown directory. Hell.

Wednesday was the day the hangover set in. When Youngest Son waved good bye in the morning I realised that he had grown into an independent, confident young person. There was a feeling of loss and a short burst of broodiness. Then there was realisation that I was now the mother of two High School children. This made me feel old – so very old. I spent the rest of the day floating around in a trance that must be very similar to an out of body experience. Weird.

Thursday was a day of madness. We had been invited to the Proms, which seemed like a good idea at the time. The logistics proved challenging – collect Sons from school, eat light dinner in the car, arrive at home, quick change, travel to station, catch train, catch taxi. I made two mistakes; forgot the light dinner and forgot the peak hour commuters that would greet us in London. Frantic.

Friday can best be described as a blur. The night at the Proms was brilliant but very late. The out of body experience had not dissipated over night. I prepared my infamous Friday List over breakfast, knowing too well that this particular Friday was going to be true to form. Scrap the List.

But this week, the sun is shining, my tomato crop has ripened, Youngest Son is loving secondary school, Oldest Son has started learning the electric guitar. I am the mother of two independent, happy young people. Life is buzzing.

Is The Remote Control The New Glass Ceiling?

2007-08-31T13:53:00.000+01:00

Our television remote control has always been a powerful item. However, it was not until recently that I realised the actual strength of this small unit and why it has been dubbed ‘The Power.’

Husband is normally the keeper of The Power. He has not disclosed what damage The Power could cause if it fell into the wrong hands, but I do fear it could be immense, as he guards it very closely and becomes quite frenzied when it has been mislaid.

Husband has not been home much of late and Oldest Son has been anointed Second In Charge Of The Power. Despite being only 12 years old, he has stepped up to the challenge like a grown man and has guarded The Power with due diligence and care. Husband has obviously had The Power talk with Oldest Son and warned him of its dangers, for he has taken his new role very seriously and has ensured that channel surfing, advertisement aversion and lack of program choice continues in Husband’s absence.

Looking at it closely I can see that holding The Power is some right of passage to manhood – similar to the pre historic club waving of the caveman. Long ago, in the pre remote control days, Baby Brother showed signs of early Power Holding Worthiness by setting up a primitive form of The Power. This consisted of a broom handle and a long piece of string attached to the on/off knob of the television. Pulling the string turned the television on while poking the broom turned it off. While I thought this absolutely absurd, Dad allowed Baby Brother to continue with the practice for some time (probably until The Power was invented.)

When I first cohabitated with Husband we did not own a television that had The Power. But he also displayed primitive Power instincts and chose to sit on the floor directly in front of the television to protect me from advertisements and program choice (or maybe he was protecting me from the television itself).

So what danger lurks within The Power? Mum has always been a strong, independent lady and has managed moments of holding The Power without incident. However, she has spent years studying the television guide so that she is equipped with the knowledge to handle such a dangerous device. Hairdresser has no Sons and has been forced to control The Power every Monday, while Partner is at band practice. She boasts that to date, she has not come to any harm. But it was a comment made by divorced MD that suggested that the dangers of The Power were little more than control itself. She declared that she does not seek a permanent male partner as she wants to watch television on her own terms.

Therefore, is The Power simply an urban myth? Do we have nothing to fear except the fallout from the power struggle with male species in the household? I no longer fear the damage of long term exposure to one channel or advertisements or even having program choice. However, I feel safe with the current hierarchy of The Power and this is one glass ceiling that I won’t be smashing.

Big Pants

2007-08-24T12:45:00.000+01:00

I like to describe myself as a big pants girl. When it comes to underwear I just don’t have the kind of bottom that should be wearing a thong and I am not alone.

Family Friend has confided that her bottom sucks the thong into a wilderness and describes her thong wearing experiences as physical and mental torture. As much as she wants to be a fashion conformist, she can’t survive more than an hour of the discomfort and the urge to constantly correct her wardrobe malfunction.

On the other hand, IH Friend had been a thong advocate for years, declaring that she found the thong very comfortable. However her thong relationship came to an abrupt end when she saw her thong wearing bottom in a four way mirror for the first time. She described her disgust at the sight of wobbly 40 something year old cellulite being divided by a white lace thong and blamed IH Husband for not sharing this information with her years earlier.

More importantly, Female Neighbour recently warned others to never wear a thong whilst cycling. A beautiful sunny day inspired her to take a bike ride around the local area. Half way through her journey she stopped to adjust a minor wardrobe malfunction. More cycling - further adjustment. By the time she returned home she feared that she would need to have the thong surgically removed.

Men also have their own thong demons. Builders Labourer Brother has been assigned laundry duty in his house. His first day of laundry duty became complex when confronted with the thong. Firstly he wondered whether it was safe to put the thong in the washing machine and then faced an even greater dilemma when trying to peg the thong on the washing line.

GM Friend described over exposure to the thong as the ‘which way should I look syndrome’. Whilst at lunch he pointed out a thong exposed at the top of a large bottom sitting at the table opposite. He went on to say that he had already been exposed to three other ugly thong incidents that day. The morning started with a mother reaching into her car at Pre School, followed by a bare midriff girl in low cut jeans walking ahead of him in the car park and then the shop assistant bending over to get the milk for our coffees. Each incident forced him to wonder which way he should look.

So if the thong is uncomfortable, potentially dangerous and unsightly to some, why has it moved into the every day pants drawer? The No Visible Panty Line could be to blame but this is questionable given the prominent ‘Visible Thong Line’ we are now exposed to. Maybe we could blame the Shopping Line. Have you ever noticed that when standing in line to pay for underwear purchases, the thong lady holds the hanger at shoulder height, with the thong carelessly swinging in the breeze, whilst the big pants lady has her purchase tucked discretely under her arm? Or is the Washing Line to blame? Do women wear the thong for fear of pegging big pants out on the line? Not me – my big pants are out on the washing line, swaying carelessly in the breeze. I am a big pants girl.

Holiday Quirks

2007-08-17T09:06:00.000+01:00

Have you ever noticed the fact that whilst on holiday your quirky inner self surfaces and you participate in some weird and wacky activities that are not normally part of your every day life?

I am not referring to the obvious holiday sins such as buying the giant wooden fork and spoon, singing karaoke or even wearing socks with Crocs. I am referring to the true quirky actions that for some reason or another don’t often happen at your regular residential address.

Let’s start with fashion. As Husband’s golf clubs travel on every holiday with us, I have always travelled light. I manage to pack a mix and match wardrobe consisting of three tops, three bottoms, underwear, beach wear, pyjamas and a jacket. With all the permutations and combinations this enables me to wear a different outfit for about 8 days (all achieved with only two pairs of shoes and one handbag.)

There is also a change in our family diet whilst on holiday. Oldest son knows that holiday time is Nutella time. The delicious chocolate hazelnut spread that all children adore has been banished from our house for crimes of sticky mess and bouncy behaviour. So is it the fact that some other poor soul is left with the sticky mess or the fact that the holiday activities disguise the bouncy behaviour that give Nutella a temporary reprieve during holiday?

Then there is the fire making. This ritual stems back to our years and years of camping holidays. All male species seek wood, build a fire and cook marshmallows. Non camping holidays make the ritual a little more challenging but we have managed to make do with fire proxies such as wood stoves, fire eating performers or even candles. This year our chalet came with its own Weber BBQ and Youngest and Oldest sons built a fire with wood they collected from the forest and charcoal we bought from Aldi. The neighbouring Germans did not understand but smiled politely.

The most wonderful holiday quirk for all of us is the television. Holiday television is either in a foreign language, leaving you no choice but to watch CNN, has no cable channels or is completely non existent. These factors all result in the pursuing of other interests. Late night walks, board games, cards. This year it was the carving of spears using the Swiss Army knives Husband purchased for Youngest and Oldest sons (note to self: hide these when we return home.)

So why do these quirks only surface during holiday? I can survive with two pairs of shoes and one handbag. Fire making in Kings Hill is not as wacky as it sounds – we just need to purchase a suitably acceptable outdoor fireplace, and we lived for years with a retro television with no remote control or cable channels. But despite Oldest son smuggling home two packets of Nutella in his pockets and then begging for mercy, I am not ready to stage war with Nutella just yet and I will definitely never wear socks with Crocs.

Holiday Happenings

2007-07-30T22:19:00.000+01:00

This week we set off on our summer holiday – a two week driving tour of Germany. The days prior to departure were tense. We, like any other family, face the regular pre holiday pressures; work commitments, washing, ironing and packing, dog to kennels, lawn mowing, empty fridge, etc. However, unlike other families, we have the fear factor to contend with – fear of what holiday disaster we may face this year. It’s not that we plan an extreme sports holiday, a safari, or even a walking trek across the desert; we just manage to turn a relaxing break into a wild adventure.

And now as I write this from our chalet in Bavaria, I can say that this year is no exception.

Day 1: We were Continent driving virgins and while some had warned us to book en route accommodation ahead; others had assured us that accommodation along the major routes would be readily available. We chose to risk it. Maybe it was a combination of the heavy rain and the GB sticker on the car, or maybe it was something as simple as Belgium being the least hospitable country in Europe. Whatever the reason, there was no room at the inn (or any other inn.) Husband detoured from the motorway in search of a hotel. We see neon lights. We see ladies in underwear in windows. Mother in Law suggests that we are at the wrong end of town. Youngest son asks why (not noticing ladies in windows as yet.) Return to motorway.

It is 2.00 am and the rain is absolutely bucketing down. Ahead of us a car is stopped on the side of the road with hazard lights flashing – poor man. A sudden thud and a wobble suggest a tyre blow out. Poor us – we are now wearing our high visibility vests, unloading our luggage to recover the spare tyre. It’s 2.30 am and we are back on the road and it’s still raining.

It is 3.00 am and oldest son lets out a yelp. A tooth has miraculously fallen out of his mouth. It could be due to the stress of the journey or it could be due to him chewing his own tongue (we have not had dinner and have consumed all the soft mints.)

It is 3.30 am and Husband stops at services. We buy sandwiches, use the bathroom and take a nap in the car.

It is 6.00 am and we set off. No further mishaps between here and our destination.

It is 5.30 pm and we arrive at destination. It is truly beautiful and we love it. We laugh about the whole adventure and reminisce about other holiday sagas.

There were the bombs in Bangkok last Christmas. We experienced false fire alarms in the early hours of the morning in France the year before. Then there was the fishing trip where the car camping next to us caught fire and nearly started a bush fire. On day two of our driving tour of Tasmania Husband had a car park accident resulting in us touring most of Tasmania with a temporary packing tape repair to the door (so embarrassing for both Sons.) Other car related incidents include a collision with a kangaroo in The Blue Mountains, a car accident on Day one of the Kangaroo Island holiday and a major breakdown of the replacement car on the final day of the same holiday. We have also contended with natural type challenges such as our camp site being completely flooded at Swan Hill on the final day of a 400km kayaking marathon, a plague of dead rabbits and blow flies in the Flinders Ranges and a dingo stealing our camping supplies on Fraser Island.

Mother in Law has the fear of God on her face. This is her first holiday with us and only day three of her ten week stay with us.

Dial Zero to Speak to a Real Person

2007-07-20T13:58:00.000+01:00

All of you have probably heard my groans of desperation this week. I have been attempting to speak to a real, live, in the flesh person in relation to our deteriorating and now, non existent broadband service.

I have adjusted to the fact that, no matter where I am in the world, my query will be answered by a very helpful person in India. I have learnt to be patient and allow this helpful person to tell me how sorry they are that I am experiencing difficulties with the service they provide. However, I have not overcome my frustration with the fact that there is no longer a direct line to a real person.

Take my experience this week, for example. I have a handy little sticker displaying the broadband helpline number. Mistakenly I believe that this is a secret number supplied to a handful of very special people. This number in fact takes me directly to the automated call centre. So I proceed with the button pressing – 3,3,1,4,2,1 – and an automated voice then places me in a queue and tells me how important my call is. I am not patient and hang up after 12 minutes.

One more try later on with no success and then it is time to roll out the secret weapons.

Press zero – I have found, over the years, that pressing zero can often take you directly to a real person. Once at this person, the trick being not to allow them to transfer your call until there is another real person at the other end. While this proved successful for the first three people, at the fourth transfer I was back in the automated system. Maybe they have monitoring equipment that alerted them to the fact that I had managed to speak to real people without pressing a string of numbers.

Sales – In organizations with commission based sales staff, pressing the sales option can prove successful. You then apply the real person transfer method mentioned above. This also proved successful, however I think fatigue had set in and I let my guard down. I ended up in the automated system after transfer number two.

I had no choice but to be patient and just play the game.

I press numbers. I say my number. It gets the number wrong. I say my number again. It gets the number wrong again. Maybe it doesn’t like my Aussie accent. I round my vowels and try my best Kentish accent. Wrong again. I use my best Northern accent. Success! Now I have the queue message and the piped music. I put the phone on speaker and I wait.

I mop the floor. I empty the dishwasher. I bring in the washing and fold it. I begin to thank the recorded message each time it reminds me how important I am. Then I begin to wonder if there is actually someone at the other end, merely amusing themselves at my expense – waiting for me to make some ridiculous remarks that could be broadcast to the rest of the world. I am polite, just in case.

My call is finally answered by a friendly customer service operator, based in India, who kindly informs me that this call may be monitored for training purposes. I ask him if the on hold message was recording me for training or any other purposes but he was a bit vague.

The lesson to be learnt from this – equip yourself with a speaker phone, press zero immediately and speak politely to the on hold message or you may become an overnight celebrity on You Tube.

PS. Presently waiting for their engineer to phone me. I am sourcing an automated system to enable him/her to speak to me in person.

D-Day Friday

2007-07-13T12:12:00.000+01:00

As long as I can remember, Friday is my D-Day; deadline day. Whether it be a cold hard, written in black and white, the buck stops here deadline, or my own imaginary deadline; it is always a Friday.

You would think that after four decades on this earth I would be prepared for the onslaught of Friday deadlines but sadly, I'm not. I am even given a reminder every Thursday afternoon, when the wheelie bins in our street start to roll out in preparation for the Friday rubbish collection. They all sit there subtly prompting me to wheel out my own bin and loudly reminding me that Friday is only one sleep away.

But alas, this morning started as any other Friday. Oldest Son was following me around with his school planner requesting a signature to signify the end of the homework week. Then the normal Friday morning game of wading through the ironing basket for a school shirt began. Why is it that even though he has five shirts there is never one ironed for Friday morning?

Next came the Friday morning list making. I have found that this is the best way to cope with the Friday deadline demands. Today there are a few cold hard deadlines; advertising copy, handbag orders and banking. But then on top of this I have added some of my own deadlines.

Collect dry cleaning, pick up Younger Son's bike wheel after a puncture repair, buy car polish, visit garden centre for flowering annuals, empty the recycling from the boot of my car (that has travelled with me all week), clean the bathrooms, mow the lawn and wash the car.

The stupidity of this list being, any of these items could have been done during the week. Why have they all surfaced on Friday. Take the dry cleaning and the bike wheel for example. The courteous shop assistants asked me when I dropped them off (last Friday of course) what day I would like to collect them. Before I knew it the words "Friday please" came spilling out of my mouth. And how selfish of me; this is also adding to the shop assistant's own Friday deadline crisis.

Then there is the ridiculous pressure I put myself under to have all the domestic tasks done ready for the weekend. Why? It really does not make sense. Husband and Sons will be home all weekend and we all know how they are attracted to a sparkling clean toilet. And the lawn will have those dry left over bits of grass all over it ready for Husband and Sons to walk inside the house. The car always clocks up most of its miles over the weekend and will end up dirty by Saturday evening.

So should I be seeking Friday deadline counselling or maybe I should walk around with a post-it-note stuck to my forehead warning others to not allow me to say "Friday please." On seeking advice from Husband he pointed out that Mother In Law is arriving for a ten week stay, a week on Wednesday. Then the penny dropped - during that week, Tuesday will become the deadline day. This could be my big chance to change my destiny. But after thinking about it I realised that she is not arriving until Wednesday evening. So maybe Wednesday will be the new D-Day.

Wife, Mother, Lover

2007-07-12T21:19:00.000+01:00

This blog will not wage a political campaign for or against the government. It will not provide financial planning advice of any kind. Nor will it turn you into a domestic goddess in ten easy lessons.

This blog simply shares the day to day happenings of a wife, mother and lover.

I am an Aussie girl who has moved half way round the world to experience the highs and lows of the Northern Hemisphere. My husband, two boys, dog and a 40ft container have also come along for the ride.