My New Year Resolutions Otherwise Known As Ways I Want To Change Myself

1. Lose a minimum of 18 kilos and a maximum of 23
2. Go to bed at 10pm on weeknights and get up at 6am
3. Exercise every day
4. Eat well
5. Re-establish a regular meditation practice
6. Finish the second draft of my novel
7. Read a minimum of 15 books this year
8. See a minimum of 10 movies at the ciinema this year
9. Pay off credit card debt
10. Cut down on expenses and be resourceful with what we've got

Easy right? I'll let you know how I go...

Movie - While We're Young

Last week I decided to start a 'Monday Night Movie Club' at the Nova. At this stage, the club only has one member - me! - but I'm hoping it'll catch on pretty soon...ha!

Actually it doesn't bother me if it's a club of one - watching a movie isn't the most social thing you can do anyway.

My partner and I are pretty broke at the moment, we have upgraded our home from one to two bedrooms - yippee! - and move into our new place at the end of this month, so our mortgage payments will increase quite a bit. So, it feels a bit decadent to see a movie once a week, however I am justifying it because it only costs $9 on a Monday and because I intend on reviewing each movie I see on this blog.

Now you might say to yourself - Dizzy, I don't believe you! You are constantly inventing new goals and challenges for yourself and you never follow through and my response to that is Yes, you are quite correct but I'm working on improving that part of my personality. I have been working through a course on procrastination and hopefully I am making some headway.

So without further ado, here is my first movie review.

Movie Title - 'While We're Young'

Directed by - Noah Baumbach

Starring - Naomi Watts as 'Cornelia' and Ben Stiller as 'Josh'

Supporting performances by - Adam Driver as 'Jamie' and Amanda Seyfried as 'Darby'.

Plot - A middle-aged couple's career and marriage are overturned when a disarming young couple enters their lives.

Source - IMDB

The movie starts with Cornelia (Watts) and Josh (Stiller) visiting their friends who have just had a baby. Cornelia and Josh are clearly out of their comfort zone and struggle to interact with the baby. They return home and reassure themselves that their life together is full and meaningful and best of all they have the freedom to do whatever they want, whenever they want...the trouble is that they just don't! They haven't taken a holiday in years due to demanding careers in the film industry. They are part of the middle-age rat race as much as their friends with kids are.

Enter Jamie (Driver) and Darby (Seyfried), a funky gen Y hipster couple, in their mid-twenties and also married. The pair ooze new-skool coolness and reject technology at every turn by living a 100% retro lifestyle. They prefer boardgames to online games, testing their memory rather than googling facts, using a typewriter versus a laptop and the list goes in.

Josh becomes totally enamoured with the couple and as he and Cornelia feel increasingly alienated from their peers who now have to act like responsible parents, they form a close aspirational bond with the youngsters. Josh is a documentary filmmaker and it turns out that Jamie is starting out in the same industry. He lavishes praise on Josh, and as Josh has been working on the same boring documentary for years, Jamie's admiring gaze helps to boost his wounded self-esteem.

But can Josh and Cornelia really fit into a younger crowd? Are they cool enough and is it really want they want? And are Jamie and Darby really as genuine as they first appear to be?

I really enjoyed this film with it's trademark Stiller humour. I'm not sure if he collaborated with Baumbach or the script writer, but it has a definite wry wit about it that is refreshing for American film. However, this doesn't make the movie free from a corny ending or predictable plot. The wryness is more evident in the solid performances by the whole cast.

The film is interesting in that it's exploring modern Western society whereby couples are waiting longer to have kids or deciding they don't want children at all. The film celebrates youth and the simple life of forty or so years ago, when technology hadn't bombarded our every waking second.

But moreover, what this film is really about is friendship and how far someone can fall when you put them on a pedestal.

I give 'While We're Young' 3.5 stars...good film to watch at home with a glass of red on a Sat night.

Bin Food Man Saves the Day!

I think I'm gonna start blogging more. I guess I've always thought that I need to be in a good mood or have something really pertinent to say to do a blog post, but maybe that's not true. I tend to get good feedback from people when I blog, so maybe I'll do it more often.

Today I'm in my writing space in Footscray. I come once a week to write my novel. It is pure heaven, regardless of the way I'm feeling. Part of what makes it so heavenly is that the office space is so inviting, so light and airy and very funky. The other part is my lunchtime jaunt through the heart of Footscray. It's like coming to another world that's only a 20 minute drive from where I live.

I was sitting in a cafe half an hour ago eating a steak sandwich as you do, when through the open window of the cafe, someone's barely touched, leftover burger was nibbled at. Now where I come from, normally when discarded food is nibbled at, it's by an opportunistic seagull. But no, this was just a dude passing by who said to the waiter as he was clearing the plate, "I'll eat that, what a waste!" and proceeded to shove the burger into his mouth.

Wow. Speechless. But somehow I felt I wanted to pat this man on the back. Yes, that quarter-eaten burger was a waste and now you have filled your stomach and won't need to buy lunch. You've also helped reduce landfill. I think we may have a new contender for Australian of the Year!

And in case you're wondering, he wasn't homeless. Well at least he didn't look homeless. His clothes were clean and he was well put together. Maybe a little eccentric but definitely not someone you'd expect to see foraging for bin food.

Although, I guess if I was Laurina from The Bachelor, I wouldn't be impressed. In fact I wouldn't be eating there in the first place - not in a cafe that sells dirty street burgers...

Must Be Winning

Woke up this morning feeling pretty shit. I've been battling low-level anxiety all week. We are going through a restructure at work and we all have to apply for our own jobs, plus several more in case we don't get our own job. I'm in a better position than most as I'm on a fixed-term contract that ends in January and would be leaving then anyway, and now I have the opportunity to go permanent if I'm successful. However for some reason it feels as stressful for me as it does for people that are permanent staff members.
Anyway, that aside, I've had anxiety all week. I do a pretty good job of hiding it most of the time. And maybe you might ask, why hide it? Well, I guess because it feels like the more attention I give it, the bigger it gets. I don't know if that's true or not though. Maybe that's part of the mind-fuck of this illness. I guess I normally ignore it and after a few days, it's grown like a fungus anyway, threatening to overtake me and wind it's way around my legs like the thick roots of a tree till I can't walk a step further...I confess, it also makes me a bit dramatic ;)
So today I dragged myself out of bed. I didn't want to get up. My first thought of the day was 'there's nothing good about today.' It didn't matter that it was Friday and tomorrow is the weekend. It didn't matter that it was sunny outside. My second thought as I heaved myself out of bed, and watched my reflection in the mirrored wardrobe was 'I'm so fat and there's nothing I can do about it.' So as you can see, the day was getting off to a great start.
It sounds like I'm depressed doesn't it? But I'm not. Anxiety is different. You feel flat, depleted of energy, lethargic but there is still brightness you can clutch hold of if you want to, unlike depression which cruelly gives you no out.

My brightness today was:
1) - my little cat had snuggled his way under the doona while I was sleeping and when I got out of bed, he stretched out his little paw at me. All I could see was his grey arm, the rest of his body was obscured by the doona.

2) - my gorgeous boyfriend saying good morning and hugging me in a warm embrace as he does every morning (but it never gets old.)

3) - eating my breakfast in the sun on the couch and really enjoying the texture and flavour of the gluten-free muesli...no I'm not being sarcastic - it's actually really nice! (And no I'm not a glutard but I have started eaten some gluten-free things as it aids my digestion.)

So I'd managed to get up, shower and have breakfast but now I was debating with myself about whether to ride to work. I have started cycling to work on occasion but I fell off my bike last week and although I'm now a proud owner of a really cool, disgusting scraped knee, it has knocked my confidence around a bit. So feeling anxious already and fatigued, I wasn't sure if riding to work was a great idea.

But I did. Why? Because I got out of bed and that was a victory. And because three little things had
brightened my morning, it was enough to tip me over the edge of my indecision and convince me that riding was a good idea.

And how am I now? Still a little anxious, there's a general unease and I have to push myself to be bright and perky around my colleagues but the sun is shining, and I must have got a few endorphins from the exercise, so on that basis, I conclude that today...I must be winning.

The Worry Warrior or Anxiety and Alcohol = Perfect Bedfellows?

Is life a constant struggle? Do you feel guilty that the good things in your life aren’t making you happy? Are you battling negative self-talk every minute of the day? If the answer to these questions is yes, you are probably suffering from anxiety.

I guess I’m a bit of an expert on the subject seeing as I’ve got a long history with the big A. Two anxious parents raised me; one was more of your garden-variety lovable worrywart and the other a closet security freak. Both were tending towards the OCD side of the scales when it came to hygiene issues too. So I guess you could say that it’s in my blood.

As a child, I avoided every crack in the footpath so Mum wouldn’t end up in a wheelchair. I would never under any circumstances walk under a ladder or cross the path of a black cat. Umbrellas, when inside, would never be fully flexed. As I grew older, and I was given a key to the front door, I would run back and check it was locked, even though I knew it was.

Then as I teen, I began surreptitiously touching wood, whenever a bad thought came into my head that a loved one might come to harm. Many a tree trunk or fence paling would be touched nonchalantly as I walked down the street. I don’t think anyone cottoned on to these habits until one day, when I was nineteen and sitting in the bath, I asked my boyfriend to pass me an empty toilet roll. Of course, he asked why and when I answered back, ‘cos I just need to touch it’ and he looked at me like I was crazy, I suddenly realised that maybe I was.

A few years ago, it got to the point where every night, before I fell asleep, I would hold my palm to the bedhead and would ‘touch wood’ for all of my friends and family. One by one. Then all my enemies too. As you might imagine, this was a time consuming process and I am very grateful it’s something I’ve been able to shake.

These days, I seem to be less focused on repetitive anxiety prevention measures like OCD and more in cahoots with GAD (Generalised Anxiety Disorder). I’m on medication, which has helped a lot, but with anxiety, it’s kind of all or nothing. Some days I’m totally fine, not a care in the world, I’m feeling good, alive, excited and life is good. I forget that I even have a mental health condition.

Then other days, like today, in fact like most of this week, I feel like I can’t even put one foot in front of the other, because that requires a decision. It requires my brain to tell my foot to move and repeat, left in front of right and to keep heading in one direction and who knows if that direction is right? Maybe it’s better to stay still but even that is a decision in itself. Maybe it’s better to climb into bed and pull the doona over my head but that’s a decision too and doing that would prove that I’m lazy and I’ll never amount to anything and why am I even trying to write a novel anyway and if I can’t cope right now, how am I ever gonna be a good mother one day and a good wife and why do I have such an aversion to cooking and cleaning and maintaining myself and my home and…

You can see what my brain is like on these days. I guess it’s a bit like being depressed, the feeling of wanting to shut down and the inability to do anything but unlike depression, I actually have the desire to do things, I just feel like I can’t. It’s a feeling of being frozen.

This is really hard to write about, especially when I inhabit this space right now.

And one of the hardest parts of this illness is avoiding alcohol. Because alcohol is an extremely seductive mistress to anxiety. Although anxiety may know that clean living is the best partner for them, let’s face it, clean living is not attractive. Clean living is the mousy, shy, boring girl next door. The reliable, diligent, wholesome friend who doesn’t like loud music or sangria because it’s too sweet on the tongue. But alcohol, is another thing altogether. Alcohol wears fishnets and tight miniskirts and a push up bra. Alcohol has sweet intoxicating breath that whispers in your ear, you know you want me.

So I succumb. On and off. Looking for that high, that moment when I can shrug off my cloak of anxiety and sprint around the yard naked and carefree. When I can feel safe in a social situation, when I can feel normal on a night out with my boyfriend, when I can have a lively conversation and impress my friends with my wit and intellect.

But it never feels the way it used to when I was younger. I don’t feel a freedom when I drink anymore. If anything, since I have truly recognised that alcohol and me just don’t mix, drinking can heighten my anxiety. I’m on alert, trying to walk the tightrope of the fine balance between feeling relaxed and not being a douchebag. Because a few drinks on an empty stomach and I’m not ok. I’m a liability and it’s up to my loved ones to look after me. So these days, I take a step back from the precipice. I don’t look over the cliff and tumble off anymore. I’m not free.

So now, the biggest challenge is to finally, for once and for all, realise that I’m much better off with the boring beige-stockinged, plain-faced girl next door.

Day 3, 4, 5, 6 & 7

Ok, so I didn't stick to my promise to blog daily about this challenge...the week ran away from me and I was too tired to chase it.

So instead, here's my rundown now!

Week 1 went pretty well. I only meditated 3 times (I just couldn't be bothered and really didn't think 10 mins of meditating would do me any good - red flag!) but I managed to do 5 studio practices and 1 home practice as instructed.

Nutrition wise - I didn't really change anything. There is no eating plan for this project but the recommendation is to cut out caffeine, sugar, bread and alcohol. I cut out one of the four and didn't have a bevvie all week. Which was of course not hard as I am practically a teetotaler now anyway. (I say practically as I have decided the odd glass here and there in a safe environment won't hurt me.)

I answered the self-enquiry questions about my ultimate purpose in life, my dreams etc.

So I'd give myself a 5 out of 10 for Week 1. I think I did really well on the yoga component, but not so good on the eating and meditation parts.  Monday to Thursday, I ate pretty healthy but as usual on the weekend, I got stuck into some 'rot-gut' as my elders would say.

Yesterday I felt shocking with a headache and nausea for most of the day and today I feel much the same. Straight away I start stressing that it's something to do with my blood clot (as a scan a couple of weeks ago showed that there is still a pesky clot super-glued onto my left upper lung). But maybe I'm just overdoing it? Or maybe all the crap I ate on the weekend is causing the sick feeling? I'm not sure but all I know is I hate feeling off-colour.

Day 2 of TMYP

So I got up this morn around 6ish and made my way to the yoga studio. Luckily my sister and I have already been doing the 6.30am class three mornings a week, so it wasn't a huge shock to the system.

I've decided to do the 6.30am class Mondays to Fridays, then a home practice on Saturdays. Sunday will be a rest day.

I also will meditate every evening after dinner.

It's like having another full time job!

I'm hoping by the end of the 42 days I will be stronger, illness-free and have more energy. And more discipline to redraft my novel. These are my intentions that I set in our first class last night.

For dinner tonight, I'm having veal snitzel, ratatouille, mashed sweet potato and steamed broccoli. A meal fit for a modern yogi!

Chat tomorrow :)

The Modern Yogi Project

Today I'm starting a 6 week yoga project with a bunch of other likeminded yogis. The aim is to practice yoga six days a week, meditate daily, be mindful of what I eat and do some soul-searching. 

I will also commit to blogging my progress daily - so watch this space dudes!

Let the zen begin!

I Vant to Clot Yer Blawed

About three months ago, I started a new job in the tertiary sector. I was beyond thrilled as I've been dying to get out of banking and finance for years now. It was a whirlwind selection process, as I had my interview and was hired on the same day. My new boss was in a hurry to onboard me as she was due to go on a four week holiday to Thailand the following Monday, which was also my first day of employment. She was very apologetic that she wouldn't be there to help me settle in but I was left in the very capable hands of my predecessor and the rest of the lovely, knowledgeable office staff.

Then, on Monday of my second week at the new job, I started noticing a shortness of breath which I put down to my past history with asthma. I took a puff of Ventolin and when that didn't help, I borrowed my friend's nebuliser for a hardcore dose of the drug. But it wasn't asthma, I still felt short of breath.

The symptoms continued and I experienced chest pain as well, particularly after walking up a flight of stairs or hurrying to catch a bus outside work. I felt like an old woman. I started taking the lift and reluctantly let public transport pass me by instead of sprinting to catch the departing vehicle.

I was concerned by the symptoms but being the second week of my new job, I didn't want to take time off to go to the GP. Instead I soldiered on, trying not to grimace too openly when I sharp pain erupted in my chest.

By Friday, the symptoms had disappeared but I still made a GP appointment for the following day, just in case. I described my symptoms to the GP, and expressed my concern that I could perhaps have a blood clot? My Mum had blood clots in her lungs in 2009, which caused a heart attack and stroke, which led to epilepsy and dementia. Mum had had a bumpy ride health wise and I didn't know if I was suffering from hypochondria or spot-on-ism.

My GP dismissed my fears, saying that I probably had some sort of virus but if I experienced any of the symptoms again to come back and see her.

Fast forward to two weeks later on a Saturday night and the symptoms were back. Again, I thought I had asthma and when the Ventolin didn't have any effect, I started to worry. I felt pretty average on Sunday and considered calling in sick on the Monday but I decided not to. The main reason was that my boss was due back from her holiday and I didn't want her to think that I was prone to taking sickies. What a bad look it would be for me to call in sick on her first day in the office with me. So I dragged myself into work.

From the get-go that day, I knew something was definitely not right. I had pain breathing in, so my breaths were shallow. Part of my role is executive support to a professor and he asked me for assistance with collating his new book for publication. I had a lot of work on that day but wanting to help, I set about the task with a fierce determination to complete it - the total absorption in my assignment helping me to ignore the pain. It got to mid arvo before I realised that I had worked through lunch, hadn't eaten a bite and now couldn't stand to work any longer. I put on a vague out of office message and went to tell my boss that I needed to see my GP.

I guess I looked pretty pale and sickly because she almost pushed me out the door. I told my stunned colleagues I was leaving to go the doctor. I guess I'd been quiet that day but I hadn't really complained much about the pain, so they seemed a bit confused when I left.

I called the GP and told them about my symptoms. They said to come straight in and see whoever was available. I saw a different doctor this time who was quite concerned about my symptoms in light of my Mum's medical history and the fact that I had recently gone back on the Pill, after a long hiatus.

He tested my urine which was infection free, although I was a bit dehydrated. Then he ran some blood tests, including a D-Dimer test to see whether I had any blood clots, and an ECG. The D-Dimer test is interesting because if it comes back negative, you definitely don't have a blood clot, whereas if it comes back positive you may have a blood clot or you may not.

After the tests, my GP told me to make an appointment to come back the next day to get the results. However, if my symptoms got worse, I was to go straight to the emergency room.

Lying in bed that night, I couldn't get comfortable. The pain down my left side was horrible, so I could only lie on my right. My lovely boyfriend tried to distract me with watching an episode of a favourite TV show but the pain kept clutching at my chest. Then my mobile rang. I didn't recognise the number and I was feeling too shit to speak to anyone, so I let it go to voicemail.

A nagging thought that maybe my Mum wasn't well, made me play back the message. Ever since we nearly lost Mum a few years ago, I am hyper-vigilant about taking random phone calls. But this time, it wasn't about Mum.

"Hello Elizabeth, this is your Healthscope pathologist calling. I've received the results of your D-Dimer test and it has come back positive. Due to your family history and the fact that you are on the Pill, I'm quite concerned that you may have a blood clot and I'd like you to go straight to emergency tonight. Please give me a call back to discuss."

I was stunned. I couldn't get the words out to tell my BF, so I played the message back for him instead. His eyes widened and we both climbed out of bed, silently getting dressed to go the hospital. "Which hospital?" he asked. There was only ever one answer that I could give to this question.

THE AUSTIN

Once I got to the ER and told them of my symptoms, I started to feel the emotion of the situation. It felt like deja vu although this time it was happening to me and not Mum. The did a quick ECG on the spot which came back clear in terms of heart trauma but would not help to determine whether I had a blood clot. So I was ushered through to the fast-track section of ER and more blood tests were taken, including the D-Dimer test. Sitting there with my BF and my Dad, and their much-welcomed distracting chit-chat, the results came back quickly - I had a blood clot.

An x-ray of my lungs was taken and I had a heparin injection in my stomach to thin my blood. I then said goodbye to my beautiful BF and loyal Dad and went to spend the night in the short-stay area, where I had a bed to sleep in. They wanted to do another test in the morning, called a VQ scan to better determine the location of the blood clot.

During the night I was woken intermittently by nurses to check my blood pressure, pulse and temperature and I even had a doctor perform a rectal exam to check for bleeding in the bowel. The doctor apologised profusely for waking me at 4am to spread my cheeks but I was too sleepy to care. When I woke in the morning, I wondered if it had been a dream!

The next morning was a long wait to do the scan. I texted my BF and told him not to hurry into see me because they might end up sending me home after the scan. Lying in bed waiting for the scan, I asked a nurse for some water. It's over there, she said putting at the sink in the corner of the room. I couldn't believe it. Apparently a pulmonary embolism does not justify bedside care...

Around midday a male nurse arrived with a smile and a wheelchair to take me for the scan. He was a lovely bloke, chatting to everyone he passed on the way to the examination room. Once in the room, I lay down on a narrow shelf that slowly rolled me into the heart of the machine like a conveyor belt.

After 30ish long agonising minutes laying beneath a revolving camera and trying not to squirm with pain, the test was over. I felt horrible. I stood up and felt very dizzy, so wheelchair man came back and fetched me. I waited another hour or so in short stay before they confirmed that I indeed had several blood clots in my lungs and I would need to be admitted onto the respiratory ward.

I called my BF and my Dad who rushed in to see me, bringing clothes, toiletries and much needed cafe latte. Once settled onto the ward, I felt a lot better. I was being taken seriously, something was definitely wrong and I was going to get the care I needed. The difference with the nurses on the ward was amazing. Not only was I asked if I wanted water, I was offered my choice of two flavoured cordials! It was like being put up at the Ritz after spending a night in a jail cell with Bubba, my anal probe night caller!

The next couple of days before I was discharged was a flurry of twice daily Heparin injections, once daily Warfarin tablets to thin my blood, obs checked every four hours and trying to ignore an annoying patient in the bed opposite me who thought it was necessary to holler every sentence, rather than just speak at a normal pitch. I even had a 'counselling' session with a bikie who was also in for a PE. He was a heavy drinker and smoker and I told him my story of how I quit and how much better life is now. I hope he left the hospital and made some changes.

Fast forward to today and I'm slowly on the mend. I started yoga this week and tomorrow I'm going on a gentle bike ride with my BF. To be honest, I have been so frustrated about my slow recovery because I haven't exercised in 3 months and it shows. I've put on weight and all my clothes are ready to burst at the seems. I know I shouldn't focus on this but I just don't want to accept these changes in my body. I'd be more comfortable if I went clothes shopping and bought the next size up but that seems like admitting defeat. I guess I'm a lot like my Mum in that regard, who has never let her health issues rule her life. Up until the last few years where she can't fight it anymore.

Anyway, I'm hoping yoga and light exercise will work wonders and I'll start getting my fitness back. I can't believe that I ran a half-marathon in 2010 and this year I find it hard to walk around the block. Also, my mortality has reared its ugly head. At the time I went into hospital, I was going through the motions, staying calm, keeping my head on straight. It wasn't till I was back at home, telling everyone my story that I realised that things could have been a lot worse. People die from PEs. People collapse and have heart attacks. So many people have told me that I am lucky to be alive and its freaked me out. How strange that I got through the experience relatively calmly but seeing the distress of my loved ones and the passing comments about my narrow escape from death, have been the part of the experience that has been the hardest to bear.

I met my awesome foursome girlfriends for brunch today (ok, I'm a loser, there's four of us) and told them what I've just told you. And I finished by saying that I don't know how to feel about the experience. One of my friends gave me the perfect response that finally knocked some sense into me. "Grateful. You should feel grateful", she said. And I do.

The Pub With No Beer

I've always thought there was no such place as 'The Pub With No Beer'. I thought it was an urban legend that someone cooked up to scare Aussie blokes all around our sunburnt land, where a hard-earned thirst can only be quenched by an ice cold beer.

Sure, it could be argued that the humble pub originated as a meetinghouse for the community, a place to converse with your fellow man, not a place to get off your head. So if by some freak occurrence the pub ran out of beer and punters had to forgo a frothie (or whatever your favourite tipple is), would it really be such a devastating event?

The answer, quite simply, is yes.

For those people that don't drink beer or alcohol (and I mean people who pass on alcohol because they don't enjoy the taste, effects etc, not problem drinkers who have given it up because it interferes with their life), let me put it this way to you. To a drinker, a pub with no beer is akin to Christmas without presents or Easter without chocolate - a very sad occasion indeed that has had all the magic sucked out of it.

Last weekend I visited the pub with no beer. All the other patrons were ordering pints of amber ale or chilled glasses of pinot gris - so refreshing on a 40 plus degree day. But for me, the pub was dry. The beer on tap had stopped flowing, the corks remained in the bottles, the spirits sat stiffly on the shelf. It was as if I was a ghost, unseen by the publican, instead of a paying customer with a need to wet their whistle with the good stuff.

I'd be lying if I said I'm finding the transition from drinker to non-drinker easy the second time round. The first booze-free nine months I spent last year were a breeze because I was single, living with my Dad and totally consumed by writing and finding the zen within. But this time round, I'm distracted by the dazzling bright lights of my future. I am in love with the most amazing person and the temptation to drink with him is constant. Especially when hanging out with his friends. A drink or two would help to lubricate my social tongue, take the edge off, reduce my anxiety, help me to relax enough to let my personality and sense of humour shine. But I can't drink. It's not worth it.

Back to the pub. So considering I had to be content with a lemon, lime and bitters, I remembered that there was actually something else I loved about pubs which didn't involve alcohol. The chicken parma. Surely, eating a delicious parma would be just as exciting and satisfying as drinking a Coopers Pale Ale?

I eagerly took the first bite but was immediately disappointed. The chicken was dry in parts, the gloopy cheese on top was a cheap variation to mozzarella, the pasatta was sour and manufactured. The salad flopped in an awkward basket on the plate was smothered on top with squeeze bottle dressing instead of tossed through the salad. On the bright side, the crinkle cut chips were pretty good.

Noticing the disapproval on my face, my boyfriend asked me what I thought of my parma.

"I'd give it two out of five," I said.

"Really?" What do you think's missing?" he asked.

"The beer," I answered without missing a beat. Then I laughed because I wasn't joking. "What would you give yours?"

"Three out of five" he said.

"That's because you're drinking a beer," I responded.

His rating was understandable. He hasn't visited the pub with no beer yet...

Un-Australian

Our PM - 100% Australian

I'm Un-Australian. I didn't drink yesterday to celebrate Australia Day. I don't like cricket. When I'm watching the tennis, I don't barrack for someone just because they are Aussie. I barrack for the player I like the most.

I'm totally Un-Australian and I'm proud of it.

Why? Because if I'm Un-Australian, it means that I am something other than fitting a subjective psychological mould of what's right and wrong. What's good and bad. What's patriotic and what's not. What is so bad about not being Australian anyway? 

I find the term Un-Australian utterly racist. It implies that any behaviour that is not classified 'Australian' must be bad, shameful, wrong. Therefore, not being Australian is bad, shameful and wrong. You can come to our shores (by plane, not by boat) but you better start eating Vegemite and choose a footy team before you get through customs.

I can't believe that the term is used so loosely and bandied about all the time on TV by presenters. Don't people realise how racist it is? When Americans claim to be the greatest country in the world, don't we as Australians recoil in horror at their arrogance and their ignorance? When we hear the Poms declare to be the best nation in the world due to their class and heritage, don't we shake our heads and think 'that's bullshit, I've seen Ladette to Lady!'

So why do we think it's ok to judge our behaviour by its Australianness? Isn't that just the same as claiming to be the best country in the world, in fact isn't it even worse because its not just about geography, wealth and opportunity, but down to character traits and birthright. It's not just alienating the rest of the world, its alienating those people living in Australia who are not Australian by birth or citizenship or who are Australian but don't fit the status quo.

As a kid I always felt ashamed to be Australian. I craved the culture I believed was lacking in Australia. I was more interested in artistic pursuits like writing and music. I hated football and all sport in general. I wished I had been born to migrant parents; I wanted to have Italian or Greek or Indian blood like half of my classmates at school. They had history, architecture, tradition, food and exotic language. Whilst most of these kids might have been secretly wishing they had Aussie parents, little did they know that the pasty white skinned kid sitting in the shade, desperately wanted even just a teaspoon of that difference. That Un-Australianness.

Then in my twenties I went backpacking and lived in the UK for a couple of years. I decided that being Aussie was a good thing after all. We had a good reputation when travelling (at least we did ten years ago), the cost of living was affordable, we had little conflict internally or from external threats and Melbourne was starting to become a global city in its own right. I felt blessed when I returned from my stint in grey, dreary England.

So I loosened up. Started to accept all facets of being Australian. The larrikin, the bogan, the underdog. Hell, I even chose a footy team and started watching the Aussie Open every January. I embraced our culture. We like a beer. We like a derogatory joke. We like new cuisines. We'll accept new races into our fold but not until we've put you through the wringer and you've populated our cities with an Australian-born generation or two. Then you're ok. Then we'll not only eat your food, we'll learn how to cook it and share a table with you. As long as you don't mind us calling you a wog. As a joke of course.

But now, having ditched the booze and spent a dry Aussie day, not playing cricket but instead eating pannetone with some Italians, I'm reconsidering my stance on being Aussie. I'm not proud of our treatment of refuges, I'm not proud of a culture that makes me feel bad for being sober and not joining in sports, I'm not proud of a culture that only accepts difference once it can pick it apart, eat the good bits of meat off the bone and then throw away the gristle.

And that's why I'm proud to be Un-Australian.

2014 Australian Women Writers Challenge

This year I pledge to read and review at least four books written by female Aussie authors. This puts me in the Stella category.

Check out the website here for more info or to join yourself.

Sober As A Judge

Happy New Year everybody!

I love this time of year. I love making New Year resolutions and all the promise of potential that the New Year holds. And going into 2014 is particularly exciting for me as I embark on a new chapter with my amazing man.

And I have finalised my contract with alcohol, deciding to give it up entirely. Although it's hard to comprehend NEVER drinking again, I think it's the only way to keep my sanity intact.

Recent festivities have reminded me of why I decided to stop drinking in the first place. The two main reasons are:

1 - I'm a bit of a douchebag when I drink
2 - My anxiety skyrockets in the days following drinking

I probably didn't emphasise the second point enough in previous posts but alcohol relaxes me in the short-term and then increases my anxiety following a drinking session. And the amount I drink doesn't really matter because I can't avoid feeling anxious by limiting my consumption. For example, I can have a couple of drinks and feel shit for two or three days, or drink a truckload and be anxious for the next seven days.

So I decided a few weeks ago to stop drinking again and I have just experienced my first sober Christmas and New Year's Eve since I was a teenager. And on the whole, it was no big deal. Christmas was a bit hard because let's face it, Christmas is a stressful occasion. Family dynamics, emotions and lots of red wine consumed by your loved ones, can make things a bit tense. And when you can't have a drink yourself to take the edge off, its hard to relax and enjoy the day. But I resisted the urge to drink.

And last night was New Year's Eve. Which was a lot easier than Christmas Day. My boyfriend and I spent the night at my sister and bro-in-law's place. It was a very tame night. We had a BBQ and managed to keep awake till midnight to watch the crappy ABC countdown. My sister (who is also a non-drinker) and I got stuck into a variety of non-alcoholic beverages including soda water with lime, blood orange mineral water and bitter lemonade. Scrumptious!

So now I'm proud to say that I'll be sailing into the New Year as a confident sobertarian. Awake, aware, switched on and still up for a good time... if the company is right.

Back on the Horse

So I lasted 9 months and 1 day without drinking. The first 9 months were easy. The last 24 hours were agony. All of a sudden, on Melbourne Cup Day, I just really wanted a drink.

There may be a few reasons for this but the one I like to focus on, is that I'm happy. I met a boy. A wonderful, amazing, caring, smart, sexy man. And my desire to drink, to socialise, to have a beer or a wine just because I feel like it, returned.

And as my sexy man said to me, "You're just changing your relationship with alcohol". Did I mention that he is wise too? This statement is so correct. When I stopped drinking earlier this year, it was through shame. Shame at my behaviour when drunk, shame at the self-inflicted abuse of my body, shame at my self-destructive patterns that I carried all through my twenties (and allowed me to nurture a melancholy safety-net of negative self-talk that I would never be good enough to follow my dreams.)

And this shame made me scared to ever have another drink again. After I stopped drinking, I had dreams every night for months on end, that I got drunk either intentionally, accidentally or I was drugged by someone else. And each time I woke up, I was sooo relieved that I hadn't had a drink. I had a fear, a phobia almost, about what would happen if I drank. Not so much about losing control but more about being disappointed in myself. About regret and not living up to my own high standards, even though I couldn't really articulate what they were.

But on Cup Day, that fear took a backseat, when all of a sudden at my brothers house, nervous and happy after introducing my family to my beautiful boy, I decided to have a drink. To calm my nerves. To celebrate. To relax. To socialise. To live a little.

I drank lots of water. I only drank a little bit because I was driving anyway. And I felt great. So happy. And the next day, not a skerrick of a hangover.

Fast forward to last Saturday night. Celebrating my friend's 40th birthday, I had a few drinks. Not many. Two beers and four modest glasses of red wine. Again, I drank quite a lot of water. But for the next two days I had a hangover. That red wine in your veins, heavy limbed, dull headache and general blah feeling. After hardly drinking anything and eating a big wedge of pork belly for dinner! Surely the pig blubber would've soaked up any nasty hangover-producing molecules!

So that's where I'm at now friends. Two drinking experiences under my belt, one positive, the other less so and a gorgeous new boyfriend who helps me to articulate what I'm feeling. And now, with no sense of shame or fear, I know that I am merely drawing up a new contract with booze. A pre-nup if you will. For the first time in my life, I am renegotiating my relationship with alcohol in a refreshingly sober fashion.

Why I Write

I write because I need to put words on the page. Because it is the truest form of expression for me. When I write, I can confidently articulate exactly what I want to say. Some people say that if they had to make a choice between reading or writing, they would pick reading. But although I have a thirst for knowledge that drives me constantly, I would chose writing. Not because I think that I have anything particularly interesting or important to say but if I didn't let myself write when I got the burning desire, I would go insane. Die a thousand deaths. Drink myself to oblivion. End up in a psych ward. Lie in the gutter, mumbling incomprehensible sentences at the people stepping over me. I write because it's the only thing that makes life have purpose for me. It is my spiritual path and now that my soul has aligned with it, there's no turning back.

It's Been Awhile...

Blogging is an interesting beast. A bit like Facebook, I only tend to publish my thoughts online when I'm feeling positive or if not positive, at least objective about my state of mind.

Hence, it's been awhile since my last post but since it's now October and I totally skipped August and September, I thought I better check into cyberspace and blog to all the unknown readers out there...

So I'm currently unemployed (week 3 of being a bum) and I have to admit - I'm loving it! It's just soooooo nice to take it easy for a change. I woke up this morning (just before 9am, sorry I have to rub it in!) and my first thought was, thank god I don't have a job to go to today. I'm not sure if this is a bad sign? Could I possibly turn into a dole bludger? Or a nicer term unpublished author? It sounds so good doesn't it?

Anyway, I started off my work hiatus with a trip to Vanuatu a couple of weeks ago. It was a lovely, last-minute holiday. I was invited by one of my writer buddies (who I met in Fiji earlier this year.) She is a very generous, welcoming lady and seeing me at a loose end after finishing my banking job (woohoo! did I mention WOOHOO!), she invited me along to gatecrash her south pacific holiday along with her husband and some of her old high school friends.

They were an entertaining bunch and knew how to party, free from the shackles of their teenage offspring. Beer o'clock came around early each day, as it tends to on holiday, and it wasn't long before they were including me in their 'in-jokes'. After slapping loudly down the stairs one day in my thongs, I was nicknamed 'slapper' from then on in!

Port Vila (Vanuatu) has some magnificent scenery. Beautiful crystal clear lagoons, waterfalls, bays and beaches. It really is paradise on earth. The group had already been to Vanuatu a couple of years ago and they were amazed at how much progress has been made with building and infrastructure. A lot of foreign aid has been put to good use in Port Vila, with new smooth roads being donated by America. Also, alot of young people are seizing the opportunity to travel to Australia and do some agricultural work in Northern Queensland, signing contracts for 5 years of guaranteed work. 

We had a great driver, Mac (or Mike or Mark, we couldn't quite work it out with his accent!) who showed us around the island, introduced us to his new bride and told us about his plans to travel to Australia next year for fruit-picking. Mac is 23 and his new bride Sylvie is 21 and they are both signed up to a 5 year contract, consisting of 5 months hard labour, 2 months off to go home to Port Vila, then 5 months on again. For each 5 month stint, they will earn AUD$20,000 which is a hell of a lot of money to them. If they work hard and save all their money, they will make $200,000 by the end of 5 years, and then be ready to build a house and start a family.

Vanuatu is a kaleidoscope of beauty as I said, but flip a coin and you will see what appears to be extreme poverty. Most roads are full of potholes, mangy stray dogs litter the streets and the cost of food and groceries is very expensive. The only reasonably priced commodity seems to be the public transport, in particular the bus service. In Port Vila, buses are normally minivans that are identified by the letter B in the number plate and taxis can be cars or vans, identified by the letter T.

The standard bus fare is 150 Vatu or AUD$1.50 to get around the city centre and buses run all day until around 10pm or so. You don't have to wait at a bus stop (there aren't any) and there is no timetable to follow. You simply stand on the street and wave down a bus, the same as you would with a taxi. If the bus has room, it will stop and pick you up to take you wherever you want to go. This makes getting around very affordable and convenient, whether you are a local or a tourist.

Tourism is the biggest money earner in Vanuatu. The locals are very accommodating, friendly and polite. You get the feeling that the tourist is king in Vanuatu. For example, they sell fireworks in their bargain shops, however it is illegal for Vanuatuans to set them off. But it's fine for tourists to do this. I wonder how these double-standards make the locals feel behind their courteous smiles...

Well I better get off to bed now. I have a 6am yoga class in the morning. I've decided to have a productive day tomorrow for a change! Adios amigos!!!

Words In Winter Festival

Hi peeps! I am very excited to announce that I will be part of the amazing Words in Winter festival this year.

I will be doing a 'edgy' reading at 9.30pm on Saturday 9th August at the Rex in Daylesford, along with some very talented emerging writers.

Check out this link and hope to see you there!

The Kissing Disease

That's right folks. You guessed it. I have glandular fever.

The sad part is that I ain't been kissin' nobody 'cept my purdy twin nieces.

After 12 months of boot camp and general good health, I now have glandular fever, anaemia and a vitamin D deficiency.

I guess this is the universe's way of telling me to stop procrastinating with extracurricular activities, stay indoors and bloody well write!

Ideally I'd take some time of work to rest but I have no sick leave left, cos I kept getting 'colds' for the last few months and taking off a couple of days here and there.

Oh well, I'll just slash and burn my social calendar for a little while...except for something very exciting that I have coming up next month. It deserves a separate post though, so I'll sign off for now.

I did it!

Everyone...I just finished the first draft of my first novel! I already know heaps of changes that I wanna make but that's beside the point. I know there will be HEAPS of redrafting to do and I know that the end result will be nothing like the first draft is now but it doesn't matter. I FINISHED IT! It took four years but I did it!!!

I know lots of people write novels but what you may not know is that there are hundreds more who start them and never finish. Finishing a novel is like running a marathon. Like birthing a babe. With a very long gestation period. And now my baby is here and it might be missing some fingers or toes and it might have a wonky smile but its here and I'm gonna love and nurture it into something special.

Watch this space.

Body Knows Best or My May Meltdown

It seems like everytime my brain tries to outsmart my body, my body turns around and opens a can of whop-ass on my feeble will. Huh? Well you get what I mean, don't ya?

No matter how hard you push yourself, how much you try to cram into your 7 day week, if you're burning the candle at both ends, your body will just stop and welcome in a virus with open arms. It won't even let you dwell on what you should be doing. It prescribes sleep, dead, delirious, drowsy sleep.

As you've probably guessed - I've been sick. No, not just sick in the head ;) I've been properly sick with a cold. This one was another doozy. It took 3 weeks to take hold, then a week of bed and snottiness and then finally, I gave up trying to fight this thing on my own and filled my antibiotic prescription.

So now I'm finally on the mend. Anyway, enough wallowing in self-pity, I'm here to blog goddamit! I've got lots to tell you!

For starters, May didn't go quite as I planned it. I was soooo excited about life in April, the weather was still good and I signed myself up for every possible distraction (from writing my novel) that I could in the month of May.

Then May happened and I couldn't keep up the momentum. I failed my yoga challenge (I went 18 times in 28 days instead of the prescribed 24) and only meditated a few times (I comforted myself by the fact that I would meditate for 5 mins at the end of every yoga class). Instead of having a totally zen month, I got sick and then my stress levels rose to an all time high till about a week ago.

Hence, why I've kept quiet on the blogging front.

After all my amazing bragging about my life and the changes I'd made, I hardly wanted to jump online to admit to you all that I am a charlatan. But I guess I'm doing that right now anyway!

But the yoga challenge ended up teaching me something worthwhile.

Listen to your body and leave your ego at the door. 

I realised that I couldn't do 24 sessions of yoga, not because of some personality flaw or lack of willpower but because my body, the dear old vessel that carries me around every day, was tired. It just needed a rest. It needed to get sick to clear out the debris - the ultimate detox.

The best thing to come out of 'My May Meltdown' was that it reminded me to focus on my writing. Although I haven't been blogging, I've been writing a lot more of my novel and I am so close to the end of my first draft, its scary! I never thought I'd get here. I bloody hoped I would but I'm not always 'follow through' girl. Most of the time I get bored and give up on things. Not important things like people, work and study, I mean little creative projects that I have started over the years. And this is probably because I haven't allowed myself to consider creative things as 'important' or acceptable ways to spend my time.

For example, I have a little black travel cosmetics case (probably about the size of an old-fashioned hat box) that I got given years ago. Inside I used to put all my writing from dinky diaries I kept as a child to teenage journals and angsty poetry. For about 20 years, this is where I put anything I wrote. Occasionally, I would bring it out and read through my scribblings, laughing at how much things had changed and how much they had stayed the same.

Sometimes I would even read parts out to my best friend or boyfriend at the time. But apart from that, it was sealed tight and kept buried at the bottom of my wardrobe.

It was only a few years ago, when I started writing my novel (and I couldn't keep my computer in this box!) that I realised what I had been doing. I was a bloody closet creative. I had locked away that part of my personality, as if it was 'wrong', as if it should be hidden from public view. It was my deep dark dirty secret.

And now, I know this is bullshit. I know I can allow myself to create. I know it makes me a happier, better person. I know it helps me make sense of this crazy world we live in. I know this is my path in life. Finally I have found my passion, my dream. (Maybe not found, more like rediscovered or admitted to myself!)

It feels so good, I want to join the bloody literary mari gras! I wanna get on top of a float, covered with books and magazines and periodicals and gyrate to songs about literature (if there are any and they can be mixed into dance tracks, that is!) I wanna wear my author status with pride. I wanna make a big badge saying "I write and I'm proud of it!"

I wanna go back upstairs now from my lunch break and tell them that I quit. Effective immediately. They can stick their office job where the sun don't shine cos I am worth more than all the dollars and pounds and yen in the world. I am a writer!!!

Hmmm...maybe I've had too much caffeine today? ;)