I am a superwoman in baggy trackpants

One Tuesday I went to pilates for the first time and it was just  the best. I haven't felt that good in a long time - it's everything I used to like about yoga but I found it a bit more challenging, and there's the added bonus of not having to say namaste or hear about energy fields and stuff. I felt relaxed and stretched and calmer than I've been in ages and ages. The only down side was that the two girls on the mats in front of me were the kind of teenage girls that usually make me sick with envy. Tall, willowy, sun-kissed and just generally gorgeous. They were also much, much better at pilates than me, and moved lithely into each new posture, even taking on the advanced moves, while I flailed and sweated behind them. Just to make matters worse, my feet kept cramping up and I fell over a couple of times, and generally looked like someone attempting to do a horizontal polka dance while having a cardiac arrest.

And on Thursday I went to my first kickboxing class, which was also just the best, but in a slightly different way. I haven't worked that hard... ever. 

I walked into the gym and saw a dozen gigantic, beefy men belting the bejeezus out of punching bags and each other and nearly turned around and walked out. But I was spotted by the owner, who gave me a big smile and said 'this must be your first time. Everyone looks scared when they first walk in, but it's really not that bad.' And it really wasn't. I was put in a class with some other newbies and we were taught the moves. Our teacher is this teeny tiny blonde girl - she's about five nine and if she weighs more than sixty kilos I'll eat my sweatband, but I saw her training with a guy twice her size before the class started and she was beating seven kinds of snot out of him, so clearly not someone you'd want to get on the wrong side of. I expected her to be a bit gung-ho and intense, but she was just amazingly sweet and patient. After she showed us the basic kicks and punches we went and joined the circuit, which consists of; five minutes of skipping, one minute of slow boxing, one minute of fast boxing, five crunches, ten seconds in the plank position, thirty kicks with each leg, and thirty pushups. I didn't think I could do it, and I did have to stop to get my breath a couple of times, but I got through it and was so damn proud of myself.

The point it I actually went and did two things that I've wanted to do for ages, and I had a great time. It's funny to think that a year ago I would a) never have gone anywhere like that alone, and b) never have allowed myself to push myself as hard as I did out of fear that I would look silly. But you know what? I jumped in, and I had a damn good try at everything and though I might not have done a great job, at least I was having a go. There was one other new girl in my class who had a half-hearted attempt at a few of the punches, then refused to go on and went and sat in the corner to wait for her friend to finish. And it dawned on me that she was the one who looked stupid. Not me, not the other girls in my class who were missing their punching bags or tripping over their skipping ropes and giggling about it. She looked stupid for refusing to try, and she looked bloody miserable sat in the corner watching everyone else. I felt bad for her, because that used to be me. 

I don't know what's changed - whether it's just getting a bit older, or whether it's the effect of having lived in another country where you have to accept that you will look a bit stupid every now and then when you try to speak another language, but I seem to have finally shed my conviction that everyone is laughing at me all the time. I mean, they might be, but I've stopped caring about it. I didn't even let the two supermodels in my pilates class get me down, because for once I didn't look at them and hate them for being perfect and myself for being all the things that I am that I hate. I looked at them and thought 'I can never look like them, but maybe if I work hard I can get to be as good at pilates as they are. Maybe we'll become friends and they'll tell me how they get their hair to look like that.' 

And I felt confident for the first time in ages, not just because the exercise made my feel like some sort of Amazonian superhero (my body is not used to the serotonin released by exercise and I reacted to it like a kid shot full of ecstasy and red cordial), but because for the first time in my life I don't feel like I have to apologise for everything all the time. I don't know how long this is going to last, but man it's nice while it does.

As if this woman needs more people to link to her website

but anyway. I thought this was great. Read the rest here.

Sometimes people will make fun of you. This is not because you deserve to be made fun of. It’s because some people are assholes. When I was in junior high, kids called me “Fievel Mousekewitz” because I had this wonky ear that stuck out, but now I love my wonky ear. It makes me special. Plus, if I’m ever mauled by bears, it will help my family identify my body.

Eat more veggies!

Undeniably, we are faced with the very challenging question: how can we eat really well every day without contributing to global warming, the suffering of animals or the pillaging of our precious marine resources? There is one, unequivocal answer: to eat more vegetables. Addressing this issue isn't about giving anything up, it's about filling your boots: embracing a world of fabulous, fresh ingredients and finding some new and irresistible ways to cook and serve them. The crucial thing is the mental shift: after that, I predict you will find it a breeze.

A great, positive and enthusiastic column on the joys of near-vegetarianism from one of my foodie heroes, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall - read it here.

Sorry about yesterday, I think I had low blood sugar or something

Following on from my half-crazed rant about music yesterday, here is a - slightly saner - observation. 

The other night at dinner with my parents, I decided put some music on. I chose Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon as a suitable aural accompaniment. And it suddenly occurred to me that when that album came out it was quite radical, definitely something for the yoof, and not something for their parents. 

I asked my dad about it (not worth asking mum as if you ask what her favourite album is she will vacillate at length between the three Lord of the Rings soundtracks, and eventually wander off to watch the special seventy-six hour special extended director's cut. Music is not her thing). Did he ever think that when he had kids of his own they would sit down to dinner with him and play him Pink Floyd? What did he think that music would be like now?

Aside from telling a delightfully racist anecdote about my grandfather's hatred of the wailing woman in The Great Gig in the Sky (who he mistakenly assumed was black, with hilarious and appalling results), he said that music these days just isn't radical. He wasn't being dismissive, it's just that there it's hard to imagine what else could be done that would be totally new, and still something you would want to listen to. 

I suppose the same is true of visual arts as well - in order to get a reaction you have to push further and further towards 'shocking' just because there isn't much that is new. I know that's not a new observation, and I'm not in any way being snotty about it. I just find it interesting. 

I wonder if the answer isn't to refine art forms, to move backwards rather than forwards, to focus on honing techniques. I know I've got pretty suburban tastes, but I'm a big fan of things like carefully wrought line drawings and intricate guitar playing because they demonstrate a dedication to an art form that needs a lifetime to perfect.

Anyway, that's enough navel gazing for tonight. My usual unhinged ranting will resume tomorrow.

I am cross about popular music

I was listening to the NPR Planet Money podcast on my way to work today, and the topic was Manufacturing the Song of the Summer (there's a link to the story here). It basically concludes what I think most of us already know; the process of writing most pop music is basically a conveyor belt sort of model, a factory that churns out song after song. The 'musician'/pop star doesn't even come into the studio until the songs are more or less finished, then they chose which will go on the album.

It's not really that much of a shock to find out just how cynical and heartless that part of the process is, but what did surprise me - and I suppose I'm just being naive - is how much radio stations get paid to actually play the songs. I suppose it was silly of me to think that they might be playing music that they thought was the most deserving, instead of the most profitable. 

I bring this up is that we play TripleM in my office. It's actually not too bad, though it wouldn't be my first choice. At least it's not bloody 2DayFm or - shudder - Nova. There's a lot of crap on there, but at least you get a bit of Led Zeppelin, the odd Queen song and such. 

But you also get the new Pete Murray song THREE TIMES A DAY

Now, I don't have a problem with Pete Murray as such. Seems like a nice enough guy, and I haven't ever especially disliked his music before. 

But this song...

Every time I hear it I feel the rage slowly rising. It's just the worst. The first time I heard it I texted Jo 'wow, the Zombie Pete Murray has a new song out. It's OK for a dead guy. What's that? He's not dead? Oh. He....does not sound great'. You've got lyrics as awkward as a jingle from regional TV station ads, and singing that sounds like slowed down Tuvan throat singing, it's so droning and dull.

Basically, it's just a prime example of a song having the absolute fuck marketed out of it in the hopes that people will buy it, and I refuse to believe that anyone likes it. Most of the music TripleM plays really just reminds me of why I don't listen to the radio or watch TV any more, because I just can't stand this mediocrity, and that there is a general, unquestioning acceptance of this mediocrity.

All of which leads me to my wider point, which is basically that I'm angry about the pervasive culture of mediocrity and contempt in our society. I know that sounds funny coming from someone who has just trashed the music of a perfectly nice, well-meaning man, but I don't mean rudeness. I mean the contempt that I feel producers of music, movies and TV have for their audiences, the contempt the mainstream media have for their readers and viewers, and the contempt our politicians have for their constituents. That they obviously feel that they can palm the mediocre off on us, and we'll be too stupid to know the difference, or just too apathetic to demand something better.

God it feels good to get that all of my chest.

You're just lucky that I'm choosing not to rant about the new Eskimo Joe song, or this post would be a hell of a lot longer. 

Oh Barnaby, you loveable bigot!

How much do you think it would cost to pay someone to follow Barnaby Joyce around with a trumpet, so that every time he says something like this on the topic of gay marriage;

“We know that the best protection for those girls is that they get themselves into a secure relationship with a loving husband and I want that to happen for [my daughters]. I don’t want any legislator to take that right away from me.”

we could have an appropriate sound effect played? I'm thinking something like this.

It reminded me of nothing so much as this brilliant skit;

Gosh Barnaby, you're absolutely right! Women should really focus on finding a man to make sure that they never have to make a decision or have an independent thought, ever. We should be gently cradled, like the delicate flowers that we are, because the big bad world is just too scary for little things like us!

Women, outsource all your thinking to a man, because everyone knows that thinking gives you wrinkles.

But wait a minute, doesn't this mean that a relationship between two men will be even more secure and blissful, because it contains two of nature's most perfectly formed creatures, men?

And, hang on, that last bit that you said seems to suggest that the legislation is designed to actually prevent heterosexual marriages from taking place. You do know it's not an 'either-or' situation, don't you? I mean, it's not like there's a limited number of relationships allowed at any one time, and that just because some dude wants to marry another dude that it's going to mean that a heterosexual couple can't get married. Or maybe it does. I'm no lawyer. 

And what if one your daughters turns out to want to marry a lady? Wouldn't she be overjoyed that her dad had been a major player in changing the laws of this country so that she could do just that?

But what do I know? I'm just a girl. At any rate, you certainly would have given me a lot to think about, if thinking was something I ever engaged in. I'd better go and ask my husband what my opinion should be. 

Fuck sake.

Employment ho!

No, not that kind of ho. I have not turned to sex work out of desperation. That's 'ho!' as in 'land ho!', as in what delirious and scurvy ridden sailors would scream in relief when they finally saw something other than ocean after months of drifting aimlessly in becalmed waters. 

What I am trying to say in a metaphorical sort of way (the ocean represents unemployment, just in case you hadn't caught that) is that I have a job. Huzzah!

A couple of weeks ago I got a call from a friend at the bookshop where I used to work who gave me the phone number of a guy who runs a small publishing company here on the Northern Beaches. He had just taken on a lot of new business and was looking for someone to go in for a couple of weeks to help out with some admin stuff. So I called him, and at 8:30 the next day I presented myself to start work. Somehow or other he must have got the impression that I am in some way not a complete waste of space, because by Friday he had offered me a full time position.

I was a bit ambivalent about starting work in another publishing company, given that my previous publishing company job had left me with severe stress issues that made my hair fall out. So I was cautious. 

And I had been pretty apathetic about looking for another job, because I just could not stand the thought of working in an office environment again. But by the end of my second day I started to realise that either this place is absurdly nice or  - and this is what I'm leaning more towards - my last job was just flat out toxic. In my previous job at X Publishing Company, no one talked to me for the first month. I had no idea what I was doing, or who to ask when I had problems. People who were supposed to be my colleagues treated me like I was the enemy, and gave me no support. I had four bosses, none of whom took any interest in me other than to tell me they were disappointed in my progress. I'm reading a book at the moment which has a great description of this feeling. The character is talking about her experience working in a publishing company;

I used to cry, every night, literally, I would get a milkshake and put vodka in it and cry because I thought I must be stupid. I had these dreams, every night, where everybody speaks some foreign language and I don't know it.'

I hated every minute of my time there. 

And now at this new place.. I feel cautiously optimistic. During my first week there, if anyone was walking past my desk they'd stop and ask if I needed anything. On my first day I had three people offer to show me where the shops are. I was introduced to someone who was my designated 'question answerer', who I would go to with any problems.

And what is more, instead of being an hour's journey through the rush hour traffic, my office is just twenty minutes up the road in an area that feels almost rural. There are small farms behind the business centre where I work, with horses and ducks and alpacas. Alpacas! If I so choose, I can walk through the bush instead of along the road to get to work;

There's a garden centre with a nice cafe a block away and the beach is a ten minute walk down the road. And the warehouse attached to the office is full of thousands and thousands of books. All that separates me from more books that I could read in a lifetime is a flimsy door that the suckers don't even bother to lock during the day!

All in all, it seems pretty good. In fact, I am slightly suspicious. Is it too good? What nasty surprises are  lurking in wait? Maybe I'm being ridiculously pessimistic. But hopefully this will turn out to be a good thing. Please let it turn out to be a good thing.

What a recommendation! I'm definitely going to try [product x]!

As anyone who reads this blog knows, I have been having a tiny problem lately with my hair falling out. I have been to see two doctors, have had a range of horrifying tests performed on me, and the conclusion is that it is telogen effluvium, which is basically a fancy way of saying that my hair is falling out. There doesn't seem to be a cause, other than that magical medical catch-all of 'stress'. I think (knock on wood, fingers crossed, please, please, please) that it's slowing down now, but it's still pretty distressing.

I did that thing that you're really not meant to do, and I Googled the condition. I found all sorts of conflicting information, ranging from the hysterical (YOU'RE GOING BALD AAAAAAAHHHHH!) to the reassuring (it's very common, and most people's hair grows back eventually). But my favourite was from one of those Ad-farm piece of crap website that just generate vaguely related text in an effort to get you to click on their site. And this is the first thing I saw;

It's fantastic! I really think you're onto something with this [insert search term]. Thanks for the recommendation Yvonne-definitely-a-real-person-Snell of USA!

Idiots.

Who is this strange man in my house?

No, not my husband. I knew about him, and I even see him around from time to time. 

This is an older guy who seems to think he has some sort of relationship to me... I think I recognise him. It's coming back to me... Doug? Darren? Dan? Daaaa... Dad? That's it. Dad. 

My dad is home. Aside from a couple of days over Christmas last year, I haven't really seen him since this time last year, so it's not surprising if I'm a bit hazy. Mum and I went and picked him up from the airport on Monday morning at 5-bloody-a.-sodding-m., which meant I had to get up at 4:30. AM. In the morning. But it was worth it, just to see the tender way he glared at us as we walked into the airport and saw him sitting on a bench, whereupon he grunted 'I've been waiting for twenty minutes.' I'm misting up just thinking about it. To be fair, we were running a bit late, but I figure that after a fifteen hour flight, waiting twenty minutes in the arrivals lounge is not that bad. 

We stopped at the beach on the way home, and were just in time to see the sunrise over South Curl Curl;

Maybe I need to start getting up earlier in the morning;

Then we went out for breakfast, which was nice. But it's going to be a funny period of readjustment for all of us. Dad's been away for a year, and it's going to be interesting seeing how we all learn to live together again. Added to that is the fact that my brother is due home in a month, and then my sister comes home at Christmas, so over the next couple of months it's going to get a bit crowded in here. I suppose Jo and I could move out, but I think that's more than we can really afford just at the minute. So, fingers crossed. This could be about to get messy.

Vegetarians are the Catholics of the dietary restriction world

When we fall, we fall hard, and wallow in our guilt with all the sick pleasure that our choice of lifestyle affords us.

I am not an evangelical, shouty vegetarian. I have a couple of issues with meat eating, but I try not to judge anyone else's choices, and I even cook meat for my meat eating family. I don't think eating meat is inherently wrong, and as for the argument that we are not 'meant' to eat meat? Total crap. I try to avoid meat and dairy because I think it is cruel to subject animals to the factory farming process, and I think that from an environmental standpoint it is pretty much unjustifiable. But like I said, I don't think you're a bad person if you eat meat, and I do my best not to make an issue of it most of the time. 

The the last time I ate meat was four months ago on my birthday and before then it had been at least two months since the time before that. I sort of see it as a bit of a treat, and at my birthday dinner (at a steakhouse, an obvious choice for a vegetarian) I had a 400g rib eye steak, rare, just as I always used to B.V.* But, somehow, I just could not enjoy it, and I was sick as a dog the next day.

So, I vowed to give up meat altogether, and I lasted a couple of months. But this is where my big confession comes in. Bless me Veggie Father, for I have sinned. Oh, how I have sinned. On Friday night (Friday night!) we went out for dinner to a very nice Thai restaurant, where I ate the following;

• Pork ribs
• Pork belly
• 'Cracker Dip', a Thai dish consisting of minced pork, crab and chicken
• Beef salad
• Duck curry
• Prawn crackers
• Stuffed zucchini flowers. That's not too bad, you say? Well, they were stuffed with minced pork. 

The funny thing is, I'd had no craving for meat, such as a vegetarian might occasionally get when they're not getting everything their body needs from their veggo diet. I even ordered some vegetarian spring rolls and deep fried bean curd as an entrée, and they were delicious. 

But then the other dishes started to arrive, and I just had to have a tiny little taste, just a nibble, just a morsel, I swear, and before I knew it I was face down in a plate of caramelised pork belly, pouring the dipping sauce over my head.

Of course, I felt sick for two days afterwards (which may have something to do with the bucket of wine I drank with my meal), but while I was eating, it was as if a primal, reptilian part of my brain had been activated. 'Gorge', this part of my brain urged. 'Scoff the lot. If anyone tries to stop you, stab them in the hand with your fork'.

And now, I feel guilty. I feel as if I not only went against everything I believe in as a vegetarian, but as if I have disproved something fundamental to my philosophy; that we don't need to eat meat. I still don't think that we need meat to be healthy, but I feel as if there is something hardwired into our brains to make us crave flesh. As rational, evolved beings, we can override this impulse. Most of the time. 

I think it will be some time before I eat meat again, partly because I feel very strongly about this issue, but mostly because eating meat makes me feel like crap. But I think I have to accept that, a few times a year, I will be unable to resist the prehistoric lizard part of my brain that urges me on to carnivorousness. 

And when that happens, you had better make sure you have a steak handy, and that you hide your fluffier, more BBQ-able pets.

*Before Vegetarianism