Working Girl

Do you remember that movie? Sigourney Weaver as the ball-breaker, and Melanie Griffith as the completely unbelievable Bimbo With Brain (and hair and squeaky voice). For some reason it came back to me as I was aimlessly thinking about shoes and whether to dye my hair, while also drafting some very serious and urgent financial services copy relating to those pesky credit crises besetting global markets ... I can't say I'd describe myself as having a head for business and a bod for sin (wasn't that the line?) but it is funny how one can be both idiotic/vacuous and also serious professionally.

Goal!

Hol's team lost the baseball grand final last weekend, and his run at King's on Saturday was not great. So at least his team flattened the opposition at their soccer gala day. Holden scored a goal. He looks quite happy in this photo.

We ate barbecued octopus for our Earth Hour dinner (no, there is no logical connection) with some last-minute guests. Unfortunately there is a house behind ours that leaves its lights on 24/7, which detracted from the candlelit vibe somewhat. But it was fun.

Must work NOW.

Vanity Fair

Warning: Another frivolous, vain, self-obsessed blog entry.

Because this is a democratic blog, I bowed to popular opinion and ordered the black and cream ones. Then I assuaged my guilt by going for a half hour run at the gym (or was that work avoidance?). It didn't work. It just made me feel flabby and middle-aged, surrounded as I was by other unfit, middle-aged women. Note to self: avoid gym on Monday morning.

Now it's already mid-morning and I have three jobs to finish. It's always a toss-up - should I feel guilty because I'm neglecting a) work; b) children; c) self? Or all three? I was watching Grumpy Old Women on Friday (see, sums up my life) and one of them said 'You cannot have it all. It's a joke.' Unfortunately it was one some of us fell for.

Pret-a-porter

Every so often, I get this strong urge to reinvent myself, to stop wearing jeans and t-shirts all the time, learn to do something about my hair, and be altogether more chic. Someone once tried to persuade me that the difference between us and animals is that we can accessorise. Sadly, this means I am an animal. And, as I have mentioned before, I hate shopping. And I hate having my hair done. I know lots of women who regard the whole hairdressing thing as a delicious luxury. I can think of few things worse than sitting immobile for two hours, at the mercy of someone who CHOOSES to muck around with hair and wear rubber gloves. If you read a book, you're not very friendly. If you don't read a book, you have to talk to them, and they say witless things that make you cringe more than having a comb scraped across your scalp. Actually I have a friend who is a hairdresser and she's not like that, but she is rude enough to live in Canberra.

The only girly things I'm any good at are shoes and lipstick. I truly believe that you can't have too many pairs of shoes (so what if you already have Mary Janes, you don't have black PATENT ones yet, do you?) and that having six different red lipsticks is perfectly sensible. Of course, I do choose my lippy carefully every morning, but I usually can't be arsed to reapply it during the day. I think I'm what they call 'low maintenance'. Or just plain scruffy.

So anyway, this autumn afternoon, I am not loving my work, and resigning myself to a life of jeans and t-shirts, and the occasional dull work suit, albeit with an ever-changing selection of shoes and lippy.

The tan or the black and cream?

How to Make an American Quilt

I mentioned in my last post that I had been sewing and that I hate sewing. I hate sewing because it is something I feel that I ought to be good at, and I'm not. I have no sewing sense.

But I am nevertheless making a patchwork quilt for a baby, and Phoebe decided to get in on the action and make one too. Now I hate sewing even more because my 7-year-old came up with a design that is a perfect pattern, in about 10 minutes. I, on the other hand, spent ages moving bits of fabric around, and mine still looks like a dog's breakfast. I'll post photos when they're closer to done.

Today the kids have gone to the Royal Easter Show with Andrew's parents. They will be home shortly, high on sugar and dead tired, no doubt, lugging showbags full of rubbish that I will have to stealthily bin or send to Vinnies.

Easter Parade

Can you believe there was actually a musical called Easter Parade, starring Judy Garland and Fred Astaire? Wow. Better not tell Phoebe or she'll want to track it down on video.

This is what I sent into class on Thursday.


This long weekend I have mostly been avoiding work by doing things I like only slightly less - sewing and ironing. The only good thing about those two tasks is that they allow for good thinking time. Picture me, sitting at the sewing machine, having a little conversation with myself. That was me yesterday. And one of the more interesting conversations I had with me was this: why do some women think that their 'mother' self is not their 'actual' self?

Background: I went to an afternoon tea last Sunday, that was officially NOT a baby shower even though the person it was for is about to bring forth her second bundle of joy. Most of the women there have small children, smaller than my two. Anyway, the discussion got round to people doing things they used to do - like going to see bands, etc. 'And I remembered what it was like to be ME' was the conclusion of all of these stories.

I didn't say anything at the time, but it did get me wondering. Are these women saying that they feel like they're faking it? That motherhood is not part of their self-image? That they're putting their 'real' lives on hold while they have kids?

I don't feel that way at all. Obviously there are differences between the pre-kid me and the post-kid me, but to me they're all just stages. I'm basically just the same, but my focus has shifted slightly. And it will shift again ...

Maybe they feel like that because they had their kids later. Maybe they have a stronger or more rigid sense of who they are, and babies and kids don't fit into it. Maybe they're just getting used to being parents.

Lord knows, I'm hardly a paragon of maternity. My kids drive me insane quite regularly. But at least I don't feel like there's another more interesting version of me waiting to come back when they leave home. This is it.

Now let me think about whether this is a good thing or a bad thing.

The English Patient

How sad that Anthony Minghella died. He was only 54, and I think he probably had a few more beautiful movies in him.

That was a cheerful start to a post, wasn't it? Here's something more light-hearted.

Tomorrow at school Phoebe has the Easter Hat Parade AND it's Harmony Day so they can wear orange. The hat is her own design.

I am sending in treats for Easter, as I always do, but I have to confess that I have taken shortcuts and made utterly no effort ... Phoebe's teacher accused me of getting everything I do from the Martha Stewart website. Unkind and untrue. But in this case I've done something completely unoriginal. Photos tomorrow.

Bad News Bears

For reasons known only to my 10-year-old self, I quite wanted to be Tatum O'Neal. Be careful what you wish for, as they say. Instead, I managed to end up married to a look-alike of Billy Bob Thornton, who starred in the most recent version of the movie. Go figure.

I never played baseball as a kid. Actually, anyone who knows me knows that I avoided all sport, at all costs. It mystifies me that Holden is a sporty, sporty kid. But I guess he does have some non-me genes in him, after all. And his baseball team is in the grand final again this year. Last year's grand final was a complete nailbiter (they won); I don't think I can go through that again ...

And yesterday Hol ran his school cross country and got through to the next stage - a run at King's School in a couple of weeks.

Wild at Heart

Yup, still dining out on the weekend that was. Not much to say about this week except that we have too much on our plates. I have actually had to turn down work because I simply cannot take anything more on ...

National Velvet

She's a natural - look at that seat.

Waterworld

I like to refer to the Central Coast as the western suburbs by the sea. That's where we went for the weekend, with Andrew's parents.

No trailer park for us, however. We stayed in a huge, ridiculously luxurious apartment in one of those strange residential resorts, with amazing views and acres of stone floors. The kids were in heaven, what with swimming pools, tennis court, squash court, etc. I was in heaven doing NOTHING, extended bouts of nothing interspersed with a bit more nothing for good measure.

And Phoebe went horse-riding on Saturday morning and could barely contain herself. The poor bemused teenager who was leading her around endured a full half hour of Muppet monologue - about horses, I might add; mostly about Black Beauty and the terribly sad fact of Ginger's death, etc, etc, etc.

But suddenly it is Monday again, deadlines have got alarmingly close (it's like playing What's the Time, Mr Wolf, they creep up when you have your back turned), and juggling of children and schools and jobs and transport is taking up every waking moment. Sigh.

PS There are photos but Blogger was being uncooperative last night when I tried to upload.

Brat Camp

Holden had a great time, as one would expect. He came back dead tired, with a hoarse voice from all the yelling. His wise teacher allowed them to have (I quote) a 'relaxing' day on Friday to get over the excitement.

I also had a moderately relaxing day on Friday, if you don't include 45 minutes with Year 1 in the morning.

Today is a gorgeous autumn day. I feel like gardening, knitting, baking and generally being domestic, but instead I must edit. I have so far avoided working by doing a shift on canteen for baseball, looking at a house, and drinking coffee with spouse. Now I must knuckle down.