Life & Other Crises

The Game

2013-05-21T08:26:00.001+10:00

Last night I went out to dinner with two of my male friends. We ate steak and chips (apparently this is what men do) and we played my favourite game (which was only fair, because the men got their steak and chips).

My favourite game does not involve dice or a board, because board games are excruciatingly boring (and besides, I always lose). In my favourite game, absolutely everyone wins, because that is the point of the game, and what makes it so thrilling.

It is The Lottery Game.

You’ve all played The Lottery Game. I’ve played it dozens of times. And yet each time, the game is a little more exciting, and each time, my imagination runs a little more wild.

Last night’s version of The Lottery Game began as it always does. With a question.

“Do you ever just wonder what life would be like if you won ten million dollars?”

“YES!” I yelled, practically jumping off my chair, and choking on a chip in my zeal.

“Um… okay,” said my friend Rich*, recoiling slightly in his chair. I realised that the question had been posed rhetorically, and I tried to regain my composure.

Naked Woman Depicted Not Actual Blogger

“I have too,” said my friend Buck** happily, and shovelled in another bite of cow.

“What would you do?” I asked.

“I’d play guitar all day.”

Hmmm. I figured I’d just hire someone to play guitar for me with all my money, but perhaps I was missing the point.

“And what about you?” I asked Rich, who was gazing wistfully into the distance.

“I’d get a butler!” he pronounced, and it sounded eminently sensible.

“Which would give me time to spend up to three hours a day in the gym,” he continued, and I decided that my friend was seriously unhinged.

“And I would travel!” he added, which was redeemed him a little. “I would travel through Europe, and backpack through India, and…”

No no no no.

“Why would you backpack through India?” I demanded. “You’d be a multi-millionaire! You could stay at the best hotels! You could hire people to carry your luggage!”

“But I like backpacking,” he said shamefully, and the table fell silent.

“What about you?” Buck asked me finally, and I was very glad he did.

“Well firstly,” I announced, “I would get staff for absolutely EVERYTHING.” My eyes began to glaze over as I warmed to my topic. “I would get a maid, and a chef, and a chauffeur, and a nanny. I don’t want to do ANYTHING that looks like work, EVER again.”

My fantasy began to overwhelm me, and adrenalin surged through my body. “I want to play with my kids, but not have to lift a finger! I want to sleep until noon and then read in the bath! And I want to get a massage every day of my life. A two hourmassage. No. A three hour massage! And then another bath!”

I stopped. I realised that I was bouncing in my chair, and clapping my hands with glee. And Buck and Rich were staring at me as if I was totally deranged.

Sometimes, it seems, even The Lottery Game can produce losers.

*not his real name, but this is what he would be if the game was real

**also not his real name, but I assume you knew that

Accidentally Fancypants

2013-05-17T07:04:00.000+10:00

So the other day I somehow bought a baby on a whim. (Not a human baby, of course. I wouldn't pay money for one of those. [Though I may occasionally pay someone to take one of mine away.])

No, I bought a furry baby. A little rescue kitten. And I didn't mean to buy her. I truly didn't. I had intended to pick up my son from school and drive him directly home. But my friend Lana had mentioned over breakfast that the vet near my home had some rescue kittens, and a sudden, feline madness took over.

"Can I make a quick stop?" I asked my son impulsively.

"Okay," he said. "Do you need to go to the shops?"

"No, not shops," I said, and parked the car. The kittens were calling to me. They were girls, I just knew it. My Princess Fancypants was inside waiting.

Seriously - could YOU resist this face?

My son looked confused as we walked into the vet. "Mum, what are we..."

"I hear you have rescue kittens?" I asked the receptionist.

"NO," he said. "No! REALLY?" (My son, that is. The receptionist said "Yes!" as I knew she would. Because I could see the kittens beside the door.)

""We have two little girls here at the moment," she said, and I looked over and there I saw my baby.

She was tiny, and cute, with four little white socks. She had huge green eyes, and a Fancypants face.

"Penelope!" I cried, and I still don't know why. I don't like the name Penelope; at least, I didn't before. But she was totally Penelope. It may as well have been written on her collar. (But she didn't have a collar. She was way too small.)

So Princess Penelope Fancypants has come to live with us. And already we know quite a bit about her. She likes tuna, but definitely doesn't like chicken. She likes her bouncy ball, but thinks the toy mouse is lame. She likes her scratching post but refuses to scratch it. And if she wants to sleep under the couch all day then she's damn well going to do it and there's nothing we can do but RESPECT.

We welcome the newest member of our family. We will serve you, Penelope, and you own us already.

But if anyone else ever casually mentions a rescue animal, I'm going to block my ears, hum, and drive on.

WTF Is Going On With My Hands?

2013-05-10T09:03:00.000+10:00

The other day, rummaging in Places I Probably Shouldn't Rummage, I came across this photo.

I am 16 and wearing pearls.

This picture was taken in 1985, on my school Muck-Up night. I was 16 years old and dreadfully excited. I was also, I now appreciate, dreadfully dressed. Whereas some other 16 might go for a 'Good Girl Goes Bad' look to celebrate their high school graduation, I was geared more towards the 'Medical Receptionist meets Flower Child'. Perhaps it was deeply fashionable in some very niche circles, but I suspect the niche was made up solely of me.

I was terribly fond of my salmon pink shirt and its matching, calf-length white skirt. Sadly, the photograph does not do justice to the brocade-like print, or the high polyester count of the fabric. Happily, though, you can appreciate the string of pearls, so effortlessly (read: carefully) slung around my neck.

As for the smudge on my cheek, no, it was not a hideous birthmark that I have since had removed in a painful but ultimately rewarding surgical procedure. It was a flower, that I had begged my mother to paint on my face. Despite my profoundly conservative attire (and the fact that it was the 80's, and I was a decade too late), I fancied myself as a bit of a hippie. My lovely mother acquiesced, so it is she who is responsible for my completely idiotic appearance.

But all of that pales into significance next to my hands. Because... what the fuck is going on with my hands?

This is not the kind of gesture nice medical receptionists make

I got such a shock looking at this picture. I am making an obscene gesture with my hands! Presumably I wasn't aware of it, but still! I can't believe it! It is like listening to a Taylor Swift album backwards and hearing Satanic messages, or finding your sweet five year child old planning monstrous acts of evil (except that I do find my five year old planning monstrous acts of evil, but you get the idea).

So honestly, people, I have no idea who I am in this picture. A flower child? A medical receptionist? A naughty, naughty girl? Or just a confused 16 year old who paired a salmon shirt with a rude gesture and still passed it off as sweet?

Whoever I am, though, I am glad those days are over. For one thing, I don't wear polyester anymore.

And for another thing, if I'm going to make a rude gesture, I'm going to make damn sure I know I'm doing it.

I Am Anxiety

2013-05-06T12:13:00.004+10:00

Watch this video.

If you have ever experienced anxiety, if you have ever thought you have experienced anxiety, if you have anyone in your family or circle of friends who experience anxiety, watch this video.

This. This is what anxiety feels like.

This morning I co-launched this new Anxiety Awareness initiative by Beyond Blue alongside the amazing Garry McDonald*.

I couldn't be prouder to be part of such an incredible campaign.

When I released The Little Book of Anxiety a year ago, my primary aim was to help to lift the stigma associated with being an anxious person, and to show other sufferers that they were not alone.

But there is only so much that one little author can do with one little book. This campaign will do this a thousandfold.

Please watch this two minute film and share it. And please, if it resonates with you, seek help.

There is hope. There is light. There is a life away from anxiety.

Sending love to you all.

*Who later accepted a lift home with my mum and I, which was one of the more surreal moments of my career to date.

You Won't Believe What I Ate Last Night...

2013-05-03T09:06:00.002+10:00

Last night I ate a stock cube. Seriously. And not one of those small Maggi ones, either. I ate a giant, squishy Massel chicken stock cube, straight out of the wrapper. It was horrible. I mean, chicken stock is great in soups and casseroles, but pretty gross by itself on a fork. But I couldn't help it. I was craving that stock cube like the deserts crave the rain. (Except that the stock cube also made me crave rain. Or at least water.)

Now, the obvious conclusion to reach is that I am pregnant. And when I am pregnant I do crave strange foods. When I was pregnant with my son I bought so many spinach and feta pastries from the local baker every day (three to four, to be precise) that I became too ~~fat~~ embarrassed to go into the store, and had to learn how to make my own.

However, I am certain I am not pregnant. This is because:

My kitchen has been surgically closed;
I am not nauseous and dizzy and weeping for no reason at all;
See number 1.

No, I am not pregnant. In fact, I am as far as one can get from pregnancy without being menopausal. I am craving weird foods not because I am pregnant, but because I am not.

Yes, once gain PMS rears up its ugly head. It happens all the time. Once a month, actually. Every. Single. Bloody. Month.

I don't need to keep a chart of my menstrual cycle because I know exactly where I am based on the foods I am craving. Early in my cycle I eat my normal, boring diet. When I am ovulating I become quite extraordinarily hungry, and need about seventeen meals a day (at least three of which are based on chocolate). Clearly, my body is preparing for a potential baby by packing in enough energy in three days to last me nine months. Clearly, my body is stupid.

Mmmm.... DINNER

And then I hit PMS, and I head down to the salt mines. Oh yes. Salt salt salt salt. I eat stock cubes and drink cup-a-soup and eat Vegemite with a spoon. I chomp on Feta and swallow olives and ask for extra anchovies in my salad. And I get fluid retention and grumpy as hell and turn to alcohol to ease the pain.

You'd be in pain too if you'd been eating stock cubes.

So next time you are grumpy with PMS and cursing your hormonal surges, spare a thought for me. I am sitting at my kitchen bench eating stock cubes washed down with gin and tonic. It ain't pretty.

What does PMS look like for you?

The Frightening Attack of the KnickerMoths

2013-04-29T08:32:00.001+10:00

Yesterday I had to concede defeat and accept that my home had been colonised by weevils. Tiny, bizarrely gravity-defying weevils who leave the sanctuary of the cereal box and crawl across my ceiling.

Clearly, these weevils aren't particularly rational, because Blind Freddy can see that there are no cornflakes on the roof, but plenty of world leaders have been irrational. And the weevils are my leaders now. They have invaded my home, thwarted every effort on my part* to remove them, and have partied on my ceiling (literally, not metaphorically as the Lionel Ritchie song would suggest) until I am forced to accept their victory.

I turned to social media to bemoan my fate, because if one's life has been destroyed by vermin, the care and support of people you don't know can really help to lift your spirits. But social media is a strange beast - not quite as strange as cornflake-hunting ceiling-dwelling worms, but still - and somehow the conversation turned to moths. Hardly surprising, really, as they are closely related to weevils (in a chicken-and-egg sort of way, which I shall not attempt to deconstruct now.)

"You should write about your fight with the pantry moths," said Lisa. "Just don't forget the 'r'". And I couldn't have forgotten the 'r'. Until the 'r' was forcibly removed, and I could think of nothing else.

"Panties" (ugh) shown not Blogger's Own

Panty moths. Panty moths. Moths in my panties.

Years ago, when I was at school, a teacher referred to a passage from the Bible in which God sent a fly into a man's ear to send him crazy**. Since then, I have had a morbid fear of insects entering my bodily cavities, whether they make me crazy, or just give me unpleasant flutters. And aside from neurotic fantasies, I HATE the word panties.

"Can we call them knickermoths?" I asked. Knickermoths do have a nice ring to them, reminiscent of nineteenth century undergarments that have been in a dank cellar for too long.

"G-Moths?" my friend Annie suggested, and that was probably as good as it was going to get.

And it was good. Because later that night, when my Weevil Master commanded me to Google Panty Moths, I got a huge surprise.

They do exist. And you can buy them right here.

Not that I would recommend them. No-one wants moths in their panties, or in the panties of anyone else. If you know what I mean.

But what the Weevil Master commands, I do. I am beyond saving.

I just hope that it's not too late for you.

*and the part of my friend Jodie, to whom I was deeply grateful, until I realised she FAILED. **I give no guarantee that such a passage exist. Many of my teachers were a little unhinged.

This. This Is What Friendship Is.

2013-04-23T08:16:00.000+10:00

Last night I dreamed about my best friend from school. We were in a holiday house, sitting on the bed. My friend told me an enormous secret, and I accepted it without question. And then I realised some doors were open in the house and I went around closing them, to make us both safe.

And then I woke up.

In the scheme of dreams, it was pretty tame. I mean, I have dreams about sex and death and cars flying off cliffs and houses floating in the sky. A dream about a secret and some doors is pretty mild by comparison.

But having been awake for an hour now, I'm starting to see more in the dream than met the unconscious eye.

Because to me, that dream encapsulated friendship. It represented everything my close friends give to me, in one scene.

I have a fairly sizable circle of friends, and a massive circle of acquaintances. I have friends with whom I'm laughed, with whom I've cried, with whom I've had conversations which lasted for hours, and with whom I have stayed up late exchanging texts and message which have had me weeping with hilarity.

I have friends who have brought me food in a crisis, driven me here, and accompanied me there, and exchanged advice on everything from child rearing to anxiety to which bras will provide the greatest uplift and support.

But there is one quality that elevates true friends above everyone else, that goes beyond the chatter and the fun.

Unconditional acceptance.

It's when your friends know all your shit and they love you anyway. It's when you can tell them absolutely anything and they won't judge you or stop loving you, they'll just hold out their arms to catch you if you fall. It's when you know they may not agree with everything you say or do, but they will always be there, no matter what.

It's when their unquestioning acceptance helps you to go around your metaphorical house, shutting the doors and keeping yourself safe.

To everyone who has this type of friend in their life, I hope you appreciate how blessed you are.

And to my beautiful friends, who know who they are, thank you.

To Bidet or Not To Bidet, THAT Is The Question

2013-04-18T16:30:00.001+10:00

At a party the other night, a friend waxed lyrical about her newly renovated house, demonstrating particular enthusiasm for her brand new ensuite bathroom. As well as the usual suspects – a toilet, shower with frameless glass, bath with spa feature, wall to wall mirrors– the bathroom has a special, vaguely exotic addition.

A bidet.

My friend loves her bidet. She talks about it often, and with tremendous pride. Apparently, the bidet gives her a new level of ‘freshness’ that toilet paper alone cannot provide – a freshness that evidently provides exceptional joy, because she was glowing just talking about it.

Well, glowing or not, I don’t want that level of ‘freshness’, or at least, I don’t want to receive it from a porcelain bowl. To me, a bidet is a malfunctioning toilet – one that flushes up, instead of flushes down. We have all had the experience of receiving a little splash back when we have flushed slightly too early, and we all know it is not pleasant. Why one would wish to give oneself a deliberate spray of water up the bum is utterly beyond me.

Of course, there is the possibility that I am traumatised by past experiences, and that I am forever prejudiced against bidets. I was once deeply scarred by a malfunctioning toilet that threw up water into my face. To make matters worse, the toilet was on a boat, and I was sea sick and desperately miserable. Since that day, I have associated spraying toilets with nausea and distress, which is as far from ‘freshness’ as one can possibly get.

Baby Shown Not Blogger's Own

Still, I am aware of my bias, and I do try to be open minded, so I took the issue to Facebook. To bidet or not to bidet, I asked my friends. And the results were rather surprising.

Okay, so the results weren’t really all that surprising. The vast majority of respondents answered with a resounding NO.

“Ain’t no way I wants water shooting up MY arse!” wrote Anita.

“It would seem awfully like sticking one’s bum in the toilet bowl and flushing,” commented Peter.

“My over-riding concern is the ‘warm-up’ factor,” wrote Carol. “Instant warm water necessary. Impossible.”

And I agree.

But apparently, bidets do have their place in society, or at least in the bathroom.

“They’re awesome for cleaning your feet!” wrote Jono.

“We’ve got one in our apartment here. We use it for the wet towels and cossies,” said Jen.

And from Kirsty, who lives in Qatar and has a bidet in every upstairs bathroom but has never used them for their intended purpose, “Doubles as a laptop resting spot while watching a movie in the bath.” So the bidet moves into the technological era, which is indeed something to celebrate.

But then there was a comment from my friend Adam, who was at the party the other night, and was listening to the entire bidet discussion.

“Depends on if you scrunch or fold!!!” he wrote on my Facebook page.

To scrunch or to fold. To scrunch or to fold……

But that is another issue entirely.

Wet and Exciting

2013-04-16T12:01:00.002+10:00

Today I became demented with excitement. Over something rather mundane.

For very sad reasons, I have had to part ways with my cleaner. And because I have had to part ways with my cleaner, I have had to reacquaint myself with that task known as 'cleaning one's own floor'. Now, I do lots of menial-type chores. I wipe and I wash and I scrub and I iron and I shove frankfurts in boiling water and call it 'dinner'. But I have not cleaned my own floor in a very long time. This is partly because I have been lucky enough to have a cleaner, and partly because I wouldn't know what to do with a mop if it jumped into my hands, turned on some music, and began to waltz. (Then again, most people wouldn't know what to do with a waltzing mop - I imagine they would scream and run and seek psychiatric assistance - so I don't feel too bad about that.)

But three days ago, I realised that the floor was not going to clean itself, nor was I going to clean it by power of the mind alone. Nor would my children agree to float a foot above the ground as they moved from room to room, although the youngest in particular did say that she would very much like to be able to fly.

Artist's Impression of Me Mopping

And so it was time to face my demons. I went to the store and I bought a mop.

I bought a mop. Oh, how simple I make it sound. But it wasn't simple. It wasn't simple at all. Because, I discovered, there are many types of mops, and I didn't at all know which one was right for me. Did I get the mop that looked like an octopus with 37 ropes for legs? Or the one with the big yellow sponge attached to the end? Or the blue and white one that looked like a hundred chux superwipes had been shredded and attached to the end of a stick?

Well, let's just say I got the wrong one. Because when I came home and mopped my floors (which was not like waltzing with a mop at all) they ended up all streaky and horrible and I ended up rocking in a corner on my knees.

I confessed my tragedy to a girlfriend of mine, who taught me the error of my ways. She told me the correct mop to get for my floors, which I ran out and bought within the hour. And the mop worked like a charm, which made me crazed with glee, which made me horrified that I just got excited over a mop.

And so this is what my life has come to, my friends. I get excited about mops, and try to drown out my own shame by sharing my pathetic secret with the world.

Don't judge me. Okay, judge me. Just don't pity me. Or pity me! But if you really want to help me, please find me a good laundry detergent. The one I use isn't quite brightening my whites, and if I don't get some fulfillment from my laundry, I'm going to end up waltzing with that stupid mop all bloody day.

A Letter of Resignation

2013-04-03T19:53:00.001+11:00

To My Family & Friends,

After around thirty seconds consideration and with a heavy heart, I have decided to resign from my position as Mother.

I have enjoyed working with my children for the past nearly fourteen years. Unfortunately, however, this latest outbreak of lice has made my position as head of the family (no pun intended) to be untenable.

There are several reasons why I have come to my decision.

There was no mention made of the possibility of lice when I took on the position of Mother. I feel that I was tricked into a role that I did not agree to.
Removing lice from my children's hair is virtually a full time job in itself. There is simply no time in the day to attend to other parenting duties, such as feeding my kids, bathing them, doing the laundry, and drinking wine.
Lice are revolting.
Lice removal lotions smell terrible.
My children are clean. Lice, apparently, like clean hair. This creates a paradox which leads to severe cognitive dissonance which causes me extreme stress.
I can't claim worker's compensation for my extreme stress because Motherhood doesn't come with insurance.
My children complain that their heads are itchy then they complain when I put the lice potion on them then they complain even more when I use the fine toothed comb. I can't win. What is the point of a job where I cannot win?
There is no pay. There has never been any pay, but this is completely unacceptable now that I have to remove lice.

So goodbye children, and goodbye Motherhood. It's been fun. Some of the time. The rest of the time has been lice.

I wish me the best of luck with all my future endeavours.

Kerri

How An iOS Upgrade Nearly Destroyed My Life

2013-03-27T08:25:00.001+11:00

I wanted to download a ringtone. It wasn’t a big deal. Or at least, it shouldn’t have been a big deal. Other people had personalised ringtones so I thought I could have one too. It’s not like I’m some sort of technology Luddite. I’m a Woman of Social Media! I have a blog and everything! And if I can email and Tweet and Facebook and Instagram, then surely I could download my favourite song to play when my phone rings.

Well, it wasn’t so easy. It never is. I tried to download my ringtone, but my iPhone got stroppy. “You have to upgrade to the latest iOS,” it said. Now, I don’t know what an iOS is. I’ve never given iOS’s a moment’s thought. But apparently, I had to have one, and so I set about finding it.

I realised that I couldn’t upgrade my iOS simply by looking at my phone in confusion (though if I could have made it happen through act of will alone I would have had such a late version of iOS the thing wouldn’t have been invented yet).

By a process of elimination (that looked a lot like throwing things and sweating) I deduced that I could upgrade my iOS by plugging my phone into my computer and pressing a few buttons. Easy! Except that it turned out that the upgrade took OVER TWO HOURS and if my computer lost internet connection for ONE SECOND the whole thing would fail and have to restart.

Which it did. THREE TIMES.

By the time the thing was complete, some six hours later, I was exhausted. I was also disappointed to discover that the upgrade hadn’t actually taken effect (using ‘disappointed’ in the sense of ‘I was disappointed to learn that a meteor was hurtling towards earth and we were all going to die). By a process of elimination (that looked a lot like crying and drinking gin) I deduced that I had to start and restart my computer and phone and then plug them into each other again and wait, without breathing or moving a muscle, until the upgrade began to work. (I don’t know why the breath holding and remaining still was so vital, but it just was.)

Eventually, the upgrade took place and all was well in the world. My phone looked slightly different, which mildly concerned me, but I figured that it was just the new, improved iOS - whatever the hell that was.

I felt proud of myself and in a celebratory mood. I turned on some music and prepared to dance the ‘I’m Queen of Technology’ shuffle. Except that the music didn’t come on, because somehow all my music had been wiped from my phone, and it was clearly never, ever coming back.

By a process of elimination (that looked a lot like rocking in the corner in the foetal position) I deduced that the iTunes music was not syncing to my iPhone no matter what settings I chose or plugs I stuck in. And this made me very, very disappointed indeed.

Happily, though, I managed to get my ringtone. Unhappily, this will be of little use to me as I never plan to use my stupid iPhone again. From now on it’s carrier pigeons for me. And the only ringtone will be their gentle cooing.

This Woman of Social Media hates technology.

Managing Anxiety, Part Two: A Day

2013-03-25T07:27:00.000+11:00

This is the second part in my new series, ~~Beating~~ Managing Anxiety; Advice from a Worried Person. For Part One see here. To buy The Little Book of Anxiety click here.

Anxiety is a bitch. Anyone who has experienced it knows. Sometimes it fades into the background, sometimes it rears it's ugly head, and sometimes it roars so loudly that the best I can do is just put one foot in front of the other.

At times like this, I turn to my last resort, the technique I use when things get really dire (and, occasionally, when things are just reasonably dire, or I'm not feeling particularly robust).

I take one day at a time.

Why do I need to take one day at a time? Well, anxiety has many side effects - fun things like a racing heart, a cloudy head, and a sense of disconnect with the world. However, one of the most debilitating impacts of anxiety is to reduce my ability to cope. When my anxiety is roaring, it becomes the loudest voice in my head, and takes up all the energy I need to function.

Without my emotional resources, I become easily overwhelmed. Simple tasks like cooking dinner seem difficult. Bigger projects like organising my car rego or generating invoices seem scary. And long term responsibilities like my career and parenting my children seem utterly impossible.

So I do what I need to do. I don't think about the scary or impossible. I push those thoughts away and focus myself directly on the here and now. I decide I just need to get through today, and not think about all the tomorrows that are going to come later. I can get through one day. It's just twenty four hours. Anyone can get through one day.

There is a tremendous release in just taking one day at a time. Life is complex and frightening and we never know what is around the corner. But a day is just a series of hours that lasts until bedtime. A day is manageable. A day is limited. A day has a beginning and an end. And if it's too hard to make it through a day, you can resort to making it through the hour. One hour at a time. One day at a time. And when you make it through, start again.

Sometimes, that's all you can do. But if you keep getting through, hour by hour, day by day, eventually the anxiety will recede again. I promise you, it will. So hang in there.

Anyone can get through one day.

Managing Anxiety, Part One: Force

2013-03-19T11:16:00.003+11:00

As many of you will know, last year I released The Little Book of Anxiety; Confessions from a Worried Life. Since writing the book I have been toying with the idea of releasing an ebook entitled ~~Beating~~ Managing Anxiety; Advice From a Worried Person. However, I don't know the first thing about releasing an ebook, and besides, I don't want to charge anxious people for advice. We all deserve as much help as we can get, and I want to share what I know for free.

And so, without further ado, here is Part One of my new series. Parts Two to Until-I-Finish will follow shortly.

Let me tell you this one little secret - anxiety hates nothing more than company. Anxiety likes to live alone, dwelling in the fertile lush pastures of the empty mind. The very best weapon against anxiety is to keep busy. Anxiety needs to be driven out with force.

When I am anxious, my natural instinct is to fret. I become completely useless to myself and everyone else. I wander around in circles, I pace, I bite my nails. My heart races. My mind goes cloudy and I can't focus. If all I need to do is make the school lunches or write a blog post, I can't function. I can take an hour to put a sandwich together. I can sit at the computer and not make any sense.

Still, I've noticed something strange. If I am in this state and a producer from a radio station calls, and asks me to go on the air in five minutes, I will pull myself together. If an editor calls me and asks me to urgently write a piece, I will manage to do it. And for the entire time I am on task, I am focused and lucid and positive. I feel good. I feel strong. And when I finish the interview or column I feel better. It helps me to find my feet again.

Now, obviously I'm not advocating guest spots on the radio or calls from editors as the cure for all anxiety (but if radio producers or editors read this, please call me, I'm yours). What I am advocating, however, is that you find your own equivalent, something that works to get your mind off yourself and on the other. It is different for everyone, but we all have something, a task that will haul us out of our introspection and focus our attention elsewhere.

So what works for me? Well, my list is varied. It includes:

Doing radio or TV;
Doing any kind of public speaking;
Meeting a close friend for a coffee;
Writing to a deadline;
Attending a meeting, whether about my children or work;
Clearing out a cupboard or sorting through clothes;
Going for a walk with hip hop music blaring through my headphones. (It has to be hip hop. No other music calms me);
Organizing my handbag;
Browsing through online stores to choose something I need. (It doesn't work when I'm window shopping in real life - I can spend hours walking around Westfield in a haze of anxiety. But put me on the net and I immediately concentrate. All hail the online world.)

Your list may be completely different. The key is to identify what works for you, write it down, and then turn to it when you're feeling anxious.

Maybe you feel focused when you're cooking, or attending a spin class, or painting your nails. Maybe you are able to concentrate when you're planting tomatoes or running a seminar or drawing up a spreadsheet. Maybe you're about to become immersed in The Bold And The Beautiful or in the works of Dostoyevsky or in the Fifty Shades Trilogy.

Whatever it is, use your strategies. When you are feeling anxious, pick one of your activities and do it. Keep busy and drive the anxiety out, even for a half hour or so. And the more respite you get, the stronger you will feel, and the easier it will be to drive it out in the long term.

Let me know how you go, and I'll see you for Part Two.

Trampoline of Hell, Part: KILL ME NOW

2013-03-10T14:51:00.000+11:00

I thought my days of trampoline assembly were over. I was wrong. Oh, how painfully, tragically wrong was I.

Due to some impending garden landscaping, our impossible-to-assemble trampoline was required to be disassembled and moved, temporarily, to a different location. The 'different location' is 'my parents' back garden', given that they are a) the ones who bought the bloody thing, and b) no-one else will have it as it is IMPOSSIBLE-TO-ASSEMBLE.

The Architect disassembled the trampoline with the help of our daughters. This, clearly, was far easier than the assembly, which is IMPOSSIBLE and DESIGNED INTENTIONALLY TO SEND YOU CRAZY.

I HATE YOU SO MUCH RIGHT NOW

I transported the pieces of trampoline to my parents' place, where they waited eagerly, tools in hand. (Okay, so my mother was drinking a cup of tea and my father was asleep on his bed, but they were sweetly eager in spirit.)

The first part of the trampoline was simple to assemble, because the manufacturers are EVIL and TRYING TO TRICK YOU. My mother and I got the base up and attached part of the mat, and then things went hideously, catastrophically wrong.

For a start, we lost the special tool you need to pull the springs that attach the mat to the base. My mother, who is endlessly resourceful, fashioned a tool out of a metal clamp, which seemed to do the trick. However, very shortly thereafter, it became clear that we were simply not strong enough to pull the springs into place. My father was summoned to come and lend some Man Power to the operation. This irritated my 13 year old son, who felt deeply offended that we had not thought to seek his help, but the entire task was clearly beyond him as it was IMPOSSIBLE.

My parents and I laboured for over an hour in the scorching summer heat, trying all sorts of techniques to get the RIDICULOUS STUPID SPRINGS into the BLOODY CRAZY-MAKING HOLES. We failed. At one point, I was lying on the grass underneath the trampoline trying to assist with navigation as my mother wept in despair above me and my father complained of chest pains.

We still failed.

After a further five minutes, my parents quit the trampoline in a cloud of rage and disgust. I looked sadly at the pile of springs and decided to take my five year old for a walk whilst my mother took to her bed and my father locked himself in his study.

I returned after half an hour, and my 11 year old daughter greeted me at the door.

"Mummy, come see what we did!" she cried.

I called my parents and we all proceeded to the backyard. The trampoline was fully assembled. My two children had assembled it. They had done the impossible. And they said it was "easy".

I hate that trampoline. I do. I really do. But I love my children. If they can assemble that trampoline, they can cure cancer and save the earth from meteors. And I feel very lucky to have them.

I wish that trampoline would go and spontaneously combust, though. I hate it.

When Good Gifts Go Bad

2013-03-07T14:08:00.001+11:00

Today I bought one of my children a present. I'm not going to say which one, because I don't want any of you to spoil the surprise. I'm not going to say what it was, because I bought it on ebay, and it may not even turn up. I will say how much it cost, because it was $2.75, which struck me as ridiculously cheap considering that the postage from Hong Kong was free. You can feel safe in assuming it wasn't an iPad, or a car, but it was something very sincere, and anyway, it's the thought that counts.

I love buying presents for my kids. I love buying presents for any of the people I really love. I get ridiculously excited about it. It doesn't matter how much the present costs or whether it is expected or not. It is wonderful to be able to bring joy to someone you care about.

Now, that's not to say that it's better to give than to receive, because of course that is utter nonsense. I love receiving gifts. LOVE it. The problem, of course, is that I rarely get gifts I really love, unless, that is, I have chosen them myself. Occasionally someone will hit the jackpot, but so often it's just not-quite-right. You know - I've dropped hints I want a new purse, but when it arrives it's just that fraction too small; or I ask for a friend to bring back a T-shirt from the US, and when they do it's V-neck tight in the sleeves.

But of course it's all good (I have to say that or I sound ungrateful) and I'm lucky to have people who care enough about me to buy gifts. And I'm certainly not the best gift buyer in the world. Right now I am wearing a fringed vest I bought for my friend Princess Fancy Pants* which I took back when I realised she had never worn it in her life. What's more, my children have discarded at least a third of the presents I've bought them - especially those I was truly thrilled about because they were an amazing bargain at Costco. SO annoying.

This is nothing like the vest Princess Fancy Pants rejected. But it is still a fringed vest.

But I'm totally sure my child is going to love their $2.75 present. And if they don't, I'm going to give it to Princess Fancy Pants.

After all, I'm wearing her vest.

*Name changed to avoid making her sound ungrateful

Bosoms. Heaving & Not.

2013-03-04T20:41:00.000+11:00

Today I was in an elevator and I heard a woman use the word 'bosoms'. I was awed. It is rare to hear a woman use the word 'bosoms' these days. Actually, I think it was probably always rare to hear the word 'bosoms'. It's theoretically possible that people would occasionally mention their own (or somebody else's) 'bosom', but I suspect no-one has ever mentioned the plural. After all, I am pretty sure that 'bosoms' has only ever been linked to the word 'heaving', and I suspect 'heaving bosoms' has only ever appeared in print. And quite frankly I can't imagine a person of any generation verbally referring to 'heaving bosoms'. How would it happen? In what context?

Bosom not Blogger's Own.
Groin not shown.

"Oh, I saw Jillian today. My god but she has heaving bosoms."

or, "Every time Max walks into the room, the women's bosoms begin heaving."

or perhaps, "He has such raw sexual power. He gives me the heaving bosoms."

The woman in the elevator did not put her 'bosoms' together with the word 'heaving'. It's possible, of course, that they are inextricably linked in her mind - that bosoms heave just like cats purr or flowers bloom. But she didn't say it. She did, however, put her 'bosoms' together with a 'groin', which to me was even more startling.

"Watch out for your bosoms and your groin," she told the young woman next to her, who nodded politely and kept holding the cardboard box.

And I was fascinated. FASCINATED. What was going in the box? Why did the woman have to watch her bosoms and groin? What was the thing that was going in the box potentially going to do to her bosoms and groin? How was she supposed to protect said bosoms and groin from the fearsome attack of the thing-in-the-box? And why on earth was she calling them 'bosoms' and 'groin' instead of the far more colloquial 'breasts' and 'thighs', 'boobies' and 'front bottom', or even 'bazoongas' and 'vajayjay'. I mean, no-one says 'bosoms' and 'groin', unless they're some kind of weirdo 1950's doctor who is talking earnestly to a woman in a girdle and underwired bra who has strained something private.

Unfortunately for you (and me), there is no satisfactory conclusion to this story. The woman (who, for the record, was approximately 50 years old and dressed conservatively in a white shirt and tailored black pants) stepped out of the lift with the young woman (who was dressed more jauntily in a floral skirt and pale blue blouse) and disappeared on the second floor. I have no idea what happened to them, the box, or their bosoms (heaving or not) and I suspect I never will.

But if you have any clue, I'd be grateful to know. This mystery is going to give me heaving bosoms all bloody night.

It's All Okay

2013-03-01T16:10:00.002+11:00

Life is hard. I've known that for a while, but sometimes the fact of life's hardness slaps me in the face and grabs me by the hair and twists me around and throws me against the wall.

Life is hard. Parenting is hard and relationships are fraught and friends can disappoint and loved ones can get sick and people die and there is no smooth path to eternity.

Life is hard. The past couple of weeks have been especially hard for me. Actually, the past couple of months have been especially hard for me. Hell, the past couple of years have been especially hard for me. There has been great joy, beautiful moments, lots of love and lots of laughter. But interspersed with the joy and the beauty and the laughter has been confusion and complication and worry and grief. My mind has felt messy, and my life has felt messy. I have made choices that I've regretted, and choices that I've regretted not making sooner. I have struggled to make sense of it all, and wondered how I'm going to proceed in the future.

I have always been flooded with amazing support. I have people who love me and care for me and boost me up when times are rough. I have people who empathise and sympathise and offer practical help. And I cherish all of them. I feel lucky and grateful.

But today someone gave me something no-one else had. I was pouring out my soul to her and she listened for a long time. I told her about my mistakes and my anxieties and my fears and my regrets, and she shared some of hers, and we laughed and we understood.

Then she said, "That's okay. It's all okay."

And I believed her. It is okay. It's all okay. I'll muddle through, as I've always muddled through, and so will you. Life is hard and it's messy and it can be complicated and sad. But that's okay. It's all okay.

That's how it's supposed to be.

Betrayal... And Forgiveness.....And Olives...

2013-02-25T14:40:00.002+11:00

I love my friend Lana. I do. I cherish her friendship, I cherish her unconditional support of me, and I cherish the fact that she nearly always pays for drinks when we go out. (I tried last night, I really, truly did, but she beat me to it. She's sneaky that way.)

However, last night Lana betrayed me in a fundamental way, which left me shocked and desperate. Even now, 16 hours later, I am struggling to reconcile my love for her with her extreme disloyalty. It is hard. I hope one day I will get through this.

We met for a drink at a wine bar near our kids' school, as the kids were busy at a school disco. (For the record, my five year old can dance like nobody's business. The child has moves on her never seen by human eyes before.) We drank a jug of sangria, and split a bowl of olives, and caught up on each other's lives. It was heaven.

I didn't notice anything was wrong. I thought that we were as close as ever. We went back to school and I collected my kids, and chatted and laughed with some of the other parents. All was fine. Or at least I thought it was.

(mouth shown not author's own)

But then I got in my car, and looked in the rear view mirror. And I saw it. As clear as daylight, only black, which is not at all like daylight, but rather like night - very, very black night.

A big piece of olive stuck between my two top teeth.

I was devastated. And horrified. Because Lana, my dear, dear friend Lana, had not informed me that I had olive between my teeth.

I felt sad. I felt betrayed. I felt hurt. And then I sent her a message asking how she could have done such a thing.

"Sorry," she replied. "I was trying to find your ears."

And just like that, I forgave her.

Me In A Turban, Or "Hurtie Ears"

2013-02-15T15:00:00.005+11:00

It is rather unseemly to complain about pain that one inflicts upon oneself. It's probably not reasonable to expect sympathy when one has undergone a purely elective procedure for something as minor as an ear.

But I am not complaining about my pain, nor am I asking for sympathy. I am simply outlining, for those of you interested, what it feels like to become a character from Star Wars.

As many of you know, I underwent surgery on Monday to correct my one-and-a-half sticky-out ears. (Obviously, I have two ears, and both were operated on, but only one was very sticky-out. The other was moderately sticky-out, but it's easier to achieve symmetry if they do both.)

I suffered from an affliction known colloquially as 'bat ear', or, in medical terms, as 'bat ear'. (Yep, sometimes Latin just doesn't cut it.). The ridge of my ear was lacking a crease, causing it to stick out at a 90 degree angle instead of lying flat against my head.

The operation, known as 'otoplasty', involved creating a crease. The surgeon made an incision in the back of each ear, scored the ridge of each ear with a special instrument (as opposed to, say, a spoon), inserted permanent stiches to hold the ears in place, and then dissolving stiches to re-connect the skin.

He then slapped a massive piece of gauze on each ear, wrapped a bandage the size of a turban around my head, fastened it with approximately twelve metres of surgical tape, and sent me on my way.

In the long term, the result will be two beautiful flat ears.

In the short term, the result is two hurtie ears, a new taste for pain medication, and a rather startling resemblance to Princess Leia.

I have never before noticed the similarity

The surgeon reassured me that the pain wouldn't be too bad, and that I could probably make do with just paracetamol. And I totally could, provided that I washed it down with a couple of Digesics, a nice strong sleeping pill, and a slug or two of gin.

The sensations themselves have varied from day to day. The first night it felt as though my earlobes had been sliced off, and two red-hot pokers inserted in my earholes. The second day my entire ears ached, and it pained me to open my mouth. The third day, the pain localised to the site of the incision, and the bandage began to feel very heavy. The fourth day, the ache began to subside, bar the occasional shooting pain in various locations throughout my aural region. Today, day five, I am frantically itchy, and quite desperate to remove the massive turban.

Last night I felt a mild panic attack arise, as the claustrophobia of the bandage began to overwhelm me. I had wild fantasies of attacking the turban with a pair of (safety) scissors, ripping it off dramatically, and scratching my new ears. Perhaps, I began wondering in fear, there weren't even ears under there at all, but two transplanted fingers attached to each side of my head. Perhaps the surgeon had removed my ears and put them back on backwards, as a joke. Or perhaps he'd tattooed them with purple spots and bejazzled them with sequins, just to lift my spirits.

I still don't know. The bandages come off on Monday and all will be revealed. Until then, I am trying desperately not to scratch, and to breathe through the crazed desire to return from planet Star Wars.

Thank you all for your support, and my ears and I will see you soon. Or at least hear you soon.

From a much flatter distance.

Hooray!

So I'm Doing It....

2013-02-10T08:25:00.000+11:00

As some of you will know, in recent times I have been contemplating my sticky-out ear. Actually, I've been contemplating my sticky-out ear forever. It is something that has bothered me for as long as I can remember. It bugs me when I look in the mirror. It bothers me when it pokes out from under my hair in photos. And it drives me crazy in strong wind when I fear I might actually take off and fly (but in circles, because only one of my ears sticks out, so I have no chance of going in a straight line).

And now, I have finally decided to do something about it. I am forty-four. It is now or never. And I want to know what life feels like without a crazy ear. I want to know what it feels like to be able to wear my hair back without looking like a lopsided Minnie Mouse. Most importantly, I guess, I want to like my ears.

Since writing my previous post and talking to friends, I've been amazed at the support for my decision - at least from women. "If it bothers you and you can fix it, then do it!" they say. Several friends have admitted to having their own minor procedures done. I had no idea how many of my friends have had nose jobs, Botox, teeth capping, and their own bat ears corrected.

Men, interestingly enough, don't seem to understand. "Your ears have never bothered me," said my husband. "I've never even noticed your big ear," said a male friend. But then I've always maintained that men see the entire picture - face, body, boobs, four limbs - whereas we women are all about detail.

Only one female friend of mine questioned my decision (and yes, hon, I'm talking about you). "The whole quest for perfection bothers me," she said. "I love imperfections in people. I love your ear."

But I'm not trying to be perfect. I'm far from perfect. If I'd wanted to be perfect then I'd be fixing a lot more than my ear. I'd be getting the veins on my legs stripped. I'd be getting a boob job. A tummy tuck. A face lift. That special fraxel laser treatment on my skin to remove all the pigmentation. And Japanese ionic straightening to permanently correct my crazy frizzy hair.

But I don't want any of that. I don't want to be perfect. I just want to have a nice normal ear. So I'm going in tomorrow for a day procedure and I'm saying goodbye to my sticky-out ear forever. It's a strange feeling. But bizarrely exciting.

So thank you for your support in anticipation. Photos shall come soon. And my ear and I shall see you on the other side.

There Is No Excuse

2013-02-08T06:34:00.003+11:00

I don't get outraged a lot these days. The older I get, the more aware I am of my own flaws and limitations, and the less I judge other people. What's more, as the years go by, the more attuned I am to the dark side of the human condition, and the less surprised I am by some of the shocking things that occur.

But the Chrissie Swan saga outrages me. Not because the woman had a sneaky cigarette whilst pregnant. I mean, seriously people - do we not have more important things to worry about? She didn't beat one of her already-born children, or take to her pregnant stomach with an iron bar. She didn't mainline heroin or strap a dozen mobile phones to her stomach to send radiation to her poor helpless fetus. She didn't even smoke a pack a day. She had a few sneaky cigarettes. I mean, give me a break.

And yet the woman is required to offer a tearful apology to the entire nation because of her bad behaviour. It is outrageous. It is none of our business. NONE. It has nothing to do with you and nothing to do with me. Chrissie Swan is a 'personality'. She has made her living through media work - television, radio and newsprint. And good on her. That is incredibly hard to do and she has risen above the pack and succeeded. I admire her and I envy her.

But the fact that she has made her living through media work does not make her public property. Chrissie Swan is not Kyle Sandilands. I have listened to her radio show many times and read her columns and watched her on TV. She is respectful of other people, self-deprecating and warm. She does not deserve or invite public shredding.

As for Woman's Day, well, they ought to be ashamed of themselves. They won't be, of course, because they are a tabloid publication, and celebrate women by mocking their weight gain, pointing out their plastic surgery, speculating on their eating disorders, and celebrating their personal tragedies. Of course they're going to publish photos of yet another 'fallen' celebrity, however ridiculously fabricated the 'fall'.

I just wish they weren't pretending to believe they were doing a community service by highlighting the dangers of smoking whilst pregnant, because that is cruelly and laughably disingenuous. We all know the dangers of smoking whilst pregnant. They did it because they knew it would sell a lot of magazines, at the expense of a decent human being. And there is no excuse.

Sometimes, these days, I still get outraged.

I Sing The iTunes Electric

2013-02-05T10:37:00.001+11:00

A few years ago, I lost my mobile phone. I can't remember where (no doubt if I did, I would have found it). To make matters worse, my laptop had recently died, and I hadn't backed up my iPhone on my new computer. My entire iTunes collection was wiped out.

Over the years, I built up a new collection, slowly. As I remembered the songs I'd downloaded from the net, I would add them to my playlist, but I knew that most of them were lost forever. And it hurt. Those songs were a part of me. They evoked a myriad of feelings, a thousand memories from my life. There were songs that made me cry every single time I heard them. There were songs that made me get up and dance. Songs that made me energised. And the sexiest song I'd ever heard.

Sadly, I couldn't remember what that one was.

And then last week, something miraculous occurred. I used my brain. I realised that there simply had to be a system for identifying and re-retrieving songs one had downloaded from iTunes. And, lo and behold, there was. It was time consuming and cumbersome, but it could be done.

So I did it.

My entire, previously wiped playlist magically appeared before me, and I retrieved the songs, one by one. It was incredibly exciting - like uncovering lost-lost photos, or love letters, or childhood diaries. I rushed through the download and began playing my tunes. I was in heaven.

There was I Sing The Body Electric, from the movie Fame - a song that gives me goosebumps every single time.

There was Shout and Deliver by The Reels, which takes me back to 1981, a daggy Year 8 girl with frizzy hair and too-thick eyebrows. US Forces by Midnight Oil, which reminds me of an old school friend. Pass The Duchie, which is as close as I ever came to drugs in my youth. Pressure, by Billy Joel, which never fails to get me up and moving.

There was Goodbye Yellow Brick Road by Elton John, which makes me pensive. Michael Nyman's piano score for The Piano, which makes me weep. And Teardrop, by Massive Attack, a song my sister famously pointed out and cried "Look, how cute! She has a cool song in her collection by mistake!"

Oh, and the sexiest song in the entire world? Well, I'll leave that up to you. But let me tell you, I'm playing it right now....

Gone.

2013-02-01T10:27:00.001+11:00

My baby was almost late to her first ever day at school because I couldn't get my mascara right. I don't usually wear mascara, but my eyes looked like I'd been crying all night (which was not surprising, because I had). And so I slathered it on, then got teary again, so the whole lot smeared. In the end, I left the house with grey-rimmed puffy eyes, which will look truly memorable in those First Day At School photos.

I didn't expect to have such a strong reaction to my youngest starting school. I was quite excited when my big boy and girl started Year K all those years ago. I was ridiculously proud, marveling at their uniforms, taking endless photos of them with their hats and bags. It felt like the start of a wonderful new chapter. There was no sense of loss, no sense of mourning, just fresh beginnings.

This time, though, this time it's my baby. My beautiful, precious girl. She was born when her siblings were already six and eight. Last year her brother started high school, and next year her sister will join him. They are growing up, moving forward with their lives. Every day I see them morphing from children into teenagers. Every day I am stunned by the passage of time. It rushes ahead, and they rush with it. It's magnificent and wonderful and incredibly quick.

But it's been okay, because I have had my youngest. The big kids could grow up but she would always be with me. She would always be cute. She would always want to snuggle. It would be okay because I would always have my baby. I couldn't even fathom my girl growing up.

Today my baby put on her uniform and shoes, hoisted her backpack onto her back, and walked into school. And it hurt. It hurt. I didn't want to let her go. I was careful to be positive and cheerful, but inside I was crying. I know it will be fine, I know she will have a fabulous day, but I'm just not ready to let her go.

Time, it goes so fast. And kids grow up. Even your babies. Even the ones you think will stay young forever.

In years to come, I'll look back on the pictures from today and laugh. There is my daughter, in her too-big dress and her perfect, shiny shoes. There is my husband, smiling broadly. There is our big girl, having run down from her classroom, proudly showing her sister around. And there is me, with my grey puffy eyes, clinging on to my baby with all I've got.

One day I'll laugh. But right now I'm still having a little weep. Until 3pm, when I pick her up, and she'll be my little girl again.

What IS It With Men & Hair?

2013-01-29T12:37:00.001+11:00

The other day I got my hair cut. It's not a big deal. I didn't get a buzz cut, or a mohawk, or - god forbid - a mullet. I got a fairly standard, chin length, concave bob; you know, shorter in the back, slightly longer in the front. My hair is curly so it bounces up. But it's not that short, and it wasn't that drastic a cut, and at the end of the day it's just hair.

So why did my husband freak out so much?

Okay, he didn't exactly 'freak out'. He didn't cry or throw things or rent his clothes or tear his hair or run of the house screaming 'WHY, KERRI? WHYYYYYYYYY?'

If my husband had his way.....

But he did look horrified.

"I hate it," he said to me. "I hate it!"

I shrugged. "I really like it," I told him. "And there's nothing I can do now, anyway."

"Grow it!" he pleaded, despairingly. "I want you to grow it back! Now!"

My husband is 46 years old and has a masters degree. I hadn't anticipated his faulty grasp of the laws of biology and physics, but it's always interesting to learn new things about your partner.

"You do know hair doesn't grow six inches overnight?" I asked him.

"I can't look at you," he cried. "I'm not going to look at you till it grows back!"

"Okay!" I said. I poked him in the chest. He looked at me. I giggled.

Since getting my hair cut I've discovered that many men seem overly invested in their partner's tresses. They become distressed or unsettled if she cuts her hair significantly, with the level of upset proportionate to the number of inches trimmed. It's like a Rapunzel complex, only without the eternal youth, and I have to wonder what it's all about.

Perhaps men subconsciously link their own masculinity to the length of their partner's locks. Or perhaps some primal instant links long hair with fertility and the ability to skin and cook a woolly mammoth. Or perhaps they just like to see hair on the pillow that's not theirs. I DON'T KNOW.

All I know is that I love my new hair. And my husband seems to be getting used to it. Or at least, he's stopped talking about how little hair I have. Which is good. Very good. Because once we're on that topic, let me just say....

You Want Schnitzels? Go Pound Yourself.

2013-01-25T10:23:00.000+11:00

My husband is a very easy man to please – gastronomically, anyway. He loves every meat, as long as it’s schnitzel, and every vegetable on earth, if it’s potato, and fried. And even though I hate cooking at the best of time, and schnitzels are the messiest, splatteriest, most annoying things to make, my greatest joy is pleasing my husband*.

So every now and then, I will buy a mountain of chicken, and a huge pile of veal, and fry up enough schnitzels to last the year. Or at least feed my husband for a week or two.

Last night was one of those nights. I prepped the kitchen, pouring a mound of flour on one plate, a mound of breadcrumbs on another, and a bowl of whisked eggs in the middle. Then I added my secret ingredient , love (using ‘love’ in the sense of ‘combination of herbs, spices and salt’), and began pounding the meat.

Totally (not) my schnitzel

Now, let me tell you: I don’t like pounding the meat. Bits of chicken spray gets into my hair, and tiny shreds of veal get up my nose, and the whole thing is sickly carnivorous and gross. And then my five year old needed a bath, and my husband took ages to come and get her, and it was totally unfair because I was cooking him bloody schnitzels and the very least he could do was take one third of our joint offspring off my hands.

So I kept on pounding the meat, hard. Like, really hard. I wasn’t just pounding that meat. I was pounding my husband, and the bits of chicken spray in my hair, and the veal in my nose, and the whole unfairness of my life, of having to spend hours messing up my kitchen only to spend hours cleaning it up again when everyone around me just hung about taking it easy. I pounded and pounded until the kids became alarmed and my husband appeared before me.

“What are you doing?” he asked warily, looking as anxious as if I was wielding a mallet in my hands, which, of course, I was.

“I’m making you schnitzels,” I yelled. “And you’ve forgotten about the bath!”

“I just ran it,” he said carefully. “Um... I think the chicken is ready.”

I looked down. The piece of chicken was in tatters. There would be no schnitzel for this particular bit of bird. There wasn’t even enough left for a nugget.

Chastened, I continued to prepare the rest of the meat. I dunked and I dipped and I rolled and I fried, and then I presented my family with a nutritious meal (using ‘nutritious’ in the sense of ‘containing trace amounts of protein amongst lots and lots of oil’). And then I sat down at the table with my own nutritious meal of Gin and Tonic and a slice of cheese (because I never wanted to look at schnitzel again), before rising seven minutes later to start cleaning.

It took one and a half hours. And another glass of gin.

My husband can be a very easy man to please. But next time he wants pleasure in the kitchen, he’s going to have to bite the bullet, and damn well please himself.

*Okay, so it’s maybe not my greatest joy, but it’s certainly up there in my top fifty.