Shimmy, Shimmy, Shake!

Week two of burlesque classes involves clustering around what has to be the tiniest laptop with the tinniest speakers in existence trying to watch short clips that will help us understand the origins of burlesque and give us some clues about choosing a prop and developing our alter egos. I have a strong idea about my alter ego’s personality, a vague sense that it shouldn’t be allowed out in public and not even the vaguest hint about what her name might be.

During the week I did practice my dance. In fact I ponied up, applied a skimpy outfit, did my hair and makeup and performed our little routine for Charles after the kids had gone to bed. Before I went to get ready I asked him to clear me some space in the family room. When I came back I found about two square feet of clear space directly in front of his chair. I rolled my eyes and explained that he would not be receiving a lap dance. A larger space was hastily cleared. Then I laid out the ground rules. If you laugh, you’re dead. If you criticise, you’re dead. If you look remotely sceptical about any part of the performance, you will be severely maimed and left for dead. Yes you’re allowed to tell your friends.

And then I take my place and wait. The dance starts with my back to the audience and I have maybe two seconds while Charles cues the music. I almost make a run for it. But then I swallow my fear and turn, starting the dance. As soon as my eyes hit Charles I lose almost all of my nervousness. He is wearing that stunned half smile I imagine men reserve for those infrequent moments in their lives when amazingly erotic things take place. Things like bursting in on two women making love, stumbling across frisky nymphs skinny dipping in sun-dappled pools…that sort of thing. His eyes are full of wonder and a hint of disbelief that he’s being allowed to watch this. Sixty seconds in and that’s all the routine we’ve learned.

“I don’t care,” says Charles, “Just ad lib it.”

And so I do. Adult situations ensue.

So here we are back at burlesque classes for week two and this week we’re joined by the rather aptly named Deb Delicious. First up we gather to watch various burlesque-related clips. Some of it is so amazingly risqué that I feel a little like a teenager watching porn. After watching the clips it’s time to learn how to twirl nipple tassels. This is a lot easier to do than it sounds. Really all you do is pin the tassels to your bra and bounce. Lunge to the right and they spin clockwise. Lunge to the left and they’ll spin anti-clockwise. It’s a neat little trick. What’s a lot harder is getting them to spin in alternate directions by shimmying your breasts. I shimmy like I’ve been tasered to no avail. All I manage to do is make my tassels look like they’re in the throes of an epileptic fit. Deb Delicious can do the most amazing breast shimmying I’ve ever seen and her tassels obliging spin in alternate directions. It is completely mesmerising and totally soul-destroying. I have to stop and watch – which is a much better use of my time because there’s no way I’ll ever be able to do that.

Before we leave Miss Kitka impresses upon us the need to come up with our alter ego names and props. I feel horribly pressured because I'm nowhere near coming up with a name, so I race home and immediately start working on it. I start by typing “burlesque name generator” into google. There are quite a few but my favourite is at http://www.empty-handed.com/archive/burlesque/burlesque.html This site just throws up random burlesque names – some are worthy of glittery billboards in Vegas, others are purely the giggle factor. I flirt with something involving Kitten or Kitty, which has always been Charles’ nickname for me. Unfortunately Kitty or Kitten is about the cheesiest burlesque name in existence. That and anything Rose.

Clearly my mind is working on the name issue even while I sleep because a few days later I wake up at three in the morning and announce that my new burlesque name will be Ginger Storm. Charles’ response is, “Huh? Okay. Ginger Storm. Sure.”

The next morning I wake up and announce I have a burlesque name.

“I know,” Charles says a mite smug, “Ginger Storm.”

“No, Ginger SNAP,” I giggle.

I get an eye roll before he goes to have his shower but the name sticks and the feedback so far has been pretty positive. The name also works with my prop – a riding crop. So I have a name, I have a prop, and I can twirl my nipple tassels. And thus concludes week two of burlesque…

Get Your Shimmy On

The number of official comments and followers I have on this blog would suggest that maybe four people start reading it and two actually finish it (and one of those two will be a paranoid Pippa checking up to see what I wrote about her). Mind you, when I separate from my husband and stop writing the blog suddenly there are people I didn’t even know had access to it who start calling me up and asking me why I’ve stopped writing and when the next instalment will be.

Well I stopped writing because my husband left me – hard to be witty and jovial when you’re feeling like one of life’s great losers. And when will the next blog be? Well that would be NOW.

So getting things back on track suffered a minor setback with the whole SEPARATION but since then I’ve managed to turn (some) things around. As I write, all three laundry hampers are empty, the only dirty dish in the house is the cup I’m drinking out of and it’s been at least three nights since I had to call in emergency takeaway so my family didn’t starve to death. I even have the ingredients for tonight’s dinner in the fridge as I type. Plus the kitchen and the bathroom are clean, I’ve cleaned and vacuumed my car and the living and dining room are looking quite tidy. Household wise, I’m doing fairly well.

Then there was diet and exercise. Well the diet has been okay, not great and so far no real weight loss. I’m chalking this up to nursing my sorrows with my good friend Cadbury. Exercise is slowly building up. Tuesday night I mowed the lawn (which was far more epic than first anticipated thanks to all that Indian Summer and rain we had recently). Thursdays and Fridays I walk Charlotte to and from preschool – which is a lot harder than it would be if she wasn’t so taken with the concept of being my personal trainer. “Faster Mama!” “We can’t go home yet, I’m not tired!” (That’s because you’re in the stroller that I’m pushing). Speaking of that stroller – it weighs 12 kilos, James weighs 11 and Charlotte weighs 20+. So I’m pushing about 45 kilos – a tidy workout really – not that Ms Brat will give me any credit for that.

So I did promise you that I would complete a series of physical challenges during March on my way to getting fit and I also promised that I would make Pippa come too. Our first brand new activity is, somewhat ironically, an activity that Ms Pippa has suggested. We’re doing burlesque. YouTube it if you have no idea what I’m talking about and for those even less inclined to look it up, it’s a very gaudy sort of erotic dance. Think Chicago. Sequins and beads, shaking of T and A, bawdy big band music.

I am so nervous about doing this class that I wake up with night sweats in the week leading up to our first class. I have visions of myself, rapidly heading into middle age, post-two kiddies body and about ten years since I last went clubbing, surrounded by lithe young whipper snappers with Playboy-worthy bodies doing my best to pull my shattered self esteem together and jiggle in a way that might be attractive to someone somewhere while they giggle behind their feather boas. Bitches. I hate them already.

When I actually show up to class, I realise pretty quickly that I am far off the mark. Everyone that shows up is as nervous as I am and we all huddle and chat, pretending to ignore the music filtering through from the class before ours. I doubt any of them are in their twenties and none of them are the atypical bimbo type. My confidence perks up a little. When we’re ushered in we’re confronted by our teachers – who are wearing pink polo shirts and tights. So much for glamour. Before we start we sit in a circle and we talk about how we found out about the class and why we’re there. Then we have to go around and say what makes us feel sexy and what makes us feel unsexy. Before we start our teacher, Miss Kitka, emphasises that we’re talking about what makes us feel SEXY not HORNY.

Ironically the stuff that makes us feel sexy is almost universal – looking good, nice clothes, nice lingerie, perfume, makeup, confidence and having people compliment us or appreciate us. No shattering of clichés for this lot. But what makes people feel unsexy varies a great deal. When it’s my turn, I don’t talk about tracksuits and ugh boots (which are quite unsexy in my opinion) but instead I mention nasty comments and bitchiness – nothing can shatter my confident, sexy mood faster than that. Since they’re all nodding and smiling in agreement I figure they feel the same and hopefully those things will be absent from the class.

And now it’s time to get our jiggle on. We start by – well I suppose the only accurate word for it is – “strutting” in a circle. Hands on hips, elbows back, breasts out and up, swing those hips to the beat ladies. As we strut we learn how to hip thrust, breast shimmy and grind. It is all deliciously titillating and a number of us are giggling uncontrollably. Almost as soon as we’re done with the strutting we learn how to butt shimmy. Fortunately I know how to do this one thanks to belly dancing. Unfortunately I have the same problem now as I did back then– the instant I try to think about or concentrate on what I’m doing and it’s a bit like blowing a tyre on the highway. The shake starts to be a bit off centre, then it’s horribly exaggerated and finally the material you’re driving with explodes in all directions and you limp to an ungainly halt.

And now we start learning our routine. The smooth moves are set to some very cheesy big band type music and “tawdry” is a fairly accurate description for it. It begs to be danced to by a bunch of floozies. Or us – housewives cleverly disguised as floozies in training. For our dance half the class must sit and be the subject of the dancing while the other half dance. Miss Kitka explains that she used to give people a couple of weeks to get used to the dancing before this bit but then she just figured people could deal with it and get over it. She promises that by the end of the beginner’s course we’ll be able to perform this dance for anyone. For some very weird, unknown reason a mental image of John Howard pops into my head and I get the giggles.

The dance is quite saucy, very teasing and I love it instantly. What I’m not loving is having to perform it for another woman who is clearly deep in shock with her eyebrows half cocked in disbelief at the realisation that she is actually about to be the subject of an erotic dance performed by me. After all, it’s Sunday afternoon at the Irish Club – I’m sure we could find half a dozen slightly inebriated rednecks who will wear that stupid grin of masculine appreciation while we grind away. Never mind, deep shock it is. Not a single woman in the room looks like next month’s Playboy pinup. And yet I can confidently say that every single one of them is managing to dance in an extremely enticing way which makes me look away and blush quite a bit. Burlesque is not just about the moves, it’s about the feeling and emotion behind it too. And what makes it so exciting is the fact that we’re all about the tease and showing off our feminine charms – this is not a lap dance designed to harvest a five dollar bill as fast as possible.

By the end of the class I’m totally hooked. It’s not often you walk into a dance class for a new style of dancing and feel instantly at home with it and confident that you’ll be able to master it. We’re given a bunch of homework – pick out a burlesque name, think of a prop to go with the name, and practice everything we’ve learned today. Pippa has already thought of hers – she’s “Dolly Pegs” and she’s going to make her own saucy little housewife apron to go with her routine. I have not a clue what my name will be but I’m almost 100% sure my prop will be a riding crop. And I can’t wait to go home and practice…

Off The Track and Into The Ditch

Well Back on Track month has hit a slight glitch because my husband has decided to leave me. I could go into a lot of detail about the D&Ms, the various topics, the way our lives have been for the past few months. For me it can be best summed up as, “We have two small children, one of whom wakes me up three times a night, we decided to move house and I had to renovate a house at the same time. Plus you’ve had depression for a year now and frankly I’m so tired I have to schedule times to cut my toe nails and even then it doesn’t happen. So yes, couple time is a little thin on the ground.” He summed it up as, “It doesn’t make sense because you’re perfect on paper but I just don’t love you anymore”. Succinct, no?

A large part of me at this point is divided equally between;

1.) Wanting to hit him. A lot.

2.) Wanting to kill him.

3.) Wanting to run away.

4.) Wanting to gloss over it all and pretend nothing’s happened.

5.) Wanting to throw myself at his mercy and beg him to stay.

I know myself quite well. I know that these feelings will get 48 hours to battle it out and then the very tiny part that isn’t the large part taken up by those five things is going to take over. And that small part is the part of me that secretly agrees with him and knows that the only way we will ever be together in the future is if we’re apart now. And the even tinier part that relishes the idea of not having to involve anyone else in my decision making process ever again and can’t wait for shared custody so I can ditch the kids occasionally and remember what being hopelessly drunk is like (much like Indian food I expect – sounds like an exciting prospect at the time and then 24 hours later you remember why it’s been six months since the last time you ate it.)

I am, of course, devastated. I love my husband dearly and I’ve spent a long time encouraging him to be happy. I probably wouldn’t have done that quite as much if I’d realised that happiness means him not being with me, but that’s all water under the bridge. I think, now that there is 24 hours between me and the earth-shattering moment when my heart broke, that we are both quite obliging people and we do far too much of what we “should” do and not enough of what we want to do. And we spend a lot of time trying to make each other happy instead of ourselves.

It is my desperate, fondest hope that by giving ourselves space and time we will remember why we were together in the first place. I really hope that he decides that I’m not perfect on paper and that he loves me anyway. I want to go back to dreaming of a future together instead of planning one apart.

My daughter’s birthday wish this year was “I just want to be with my family forever”. I don’t want to tell her that it won’t be true. I tried. I really did. I told her Mama and Daddy weren’t feeling very happy together and she told me not to worry, we’d feel better in the morning after a sleep and then we could all go and have pancakes for breakfast. I thought my face would crack. Even now, as I write with my throat and chest constricted, I hope that I can avoid trying to explain this to her again.

I suppose that when this sort of thing happens people look to take sides and assign blame. As much as I’d love for there to be a bad guy, and for that bad guy to not be me, I think the truth is that we’re both just in a really sad situation where no one is at fault. I certainly don’t think I’m the only one that’s hurting.

Anyway, basically Back on Track month is still going to go ahead but it’s going to be a lot harder now because there are so many more things that I’ll need to recover. I don’t think that dwelling on this and agonising over what happened is going to help me so I’ve decided that I’m going to keep striving to be happy and let my relationship with Charles run its natural course, whatever that be. There is one positive thing in all of this – I’m so traumatised I can’t eat and I’ve finally lost some bloody weight. Hurrah!

How To Sell Houses and Make Friends

Recently my small family unit and I moved house. Originally we were going to keep our first house as an investment property and rent it out. This plan relied on me returning to work sooner rather than later - and the plan missed out on one very important factor: Baby James and his serious attachment issues. I know that most babies have attachment issues at six months old. It's normal. Try to remember that my oldest came out of the womb with a cunning plan for world domination that basically entailed achieving independence as soon as possible - which meant that her parents were recognised as convenient, but largely disposable in the long run. At ten months old when she started daycare, I instantly became invisible. And while I sobbed all the way to my first day at work - my little one plonked herself down with her brand new best friends and got into the serious business of playing.

So I was not quite prepared for a baby who follows me everywhere I go with his eyes, frets when I leave the room and screams inconsolably when I pop him down on the floor to make his lunch. Crisis talks were held while we were moving because our normally happy little man screamed the whole time I was gone and he was in the care of his Aunt Pippa - much to her chagrin because he would only shut it while she walked up and down jiggling him. And he's not exactly the smallest baby. The upshot of these talks was the realisation that Baby James is probably not going to handle daycare as well as his big sister and consequently we decided that perhaps I wouldn't go back to work for a while. Which meant we had to sell the old house.

Selling a house, and selling it quickly, means that you need to prepare yourself in several ways.

1.) Maximise the appeal of the house. It should be as good as you can get it. Paint, mulch, clean, the works.

2.) If you want a fast sale, consider selling your house for a little bit less than market value.

Our house was built in 1973. Between then and when we bought it, the only thing that was done to it was that it received a new bathroom and kitchen, somewhere around the time I was entering high school. Fortunately it was a rather good kitchen with Tasmanian Oak benchtops and a brillo stainless steel cooktop. Unfortunately the bathroom was not especially well done and the tiles had cracked - letting the water in to totally rot the floor. Speaking of rot, the tenants that were occupying the house had had a leak in their washing machine for three years and by the time my in-laws ripped it up to replace it as a house warming present, you could push your finger straight through the sodden floor. If it hadn't been for a couple of well-placed noggans banged in between the joists for security, I am quite certain that a vigorous spin cycle would have landed their washing machine on the ground under the house.

The whole shebang was painted in thrilling plantation white and mission brown both inside and out, including the exposed beams for the flat roof. Oh yes, and every door in the place was a deep forest green in high gloss. The garden had 30 years of gum tree debris supporting a veritable ecosystem of insects and in case that wasn't bad enough, the previous tenants had allowed their children to lose about seven years' worth of McDonalds toys and chip packets in the garden. Basic maths performed on the amount of crap we removed indicated to us that they'd been eating one of each of these once a week for the whole seven years.

Needless to say it was one of the four cheapest houses on the market the weekend we looked at it and it was listed as a "renovator's delight". We might have been renovators, but we weren't overly delighted. But we did get it for a song and then we began clawing it back from the wilderness - a good thing really because two more years of habitation and the Huntsmen would have owned it under Squatter's Rights. So now that we were looking down the barrel of a sale, things are not looking too bad apart from some touch-up painting, a new bathroom and a tidy of the garden. How easy that sounds on paper! The reality was about a month or more of hard work for yours truly and then it was ready for sale.

Which brings me to the subject of real estate agents. I have had mixed experiences with real estate agents. They're your best friend when you're selling but when you're buying, it's a different story. When we bought our 70s house we had the worst ever experience with a real estate agent who, amongst other things;

1.) Would not talk to me and actually said, "If your husband's available, I'd prefer to speak to him".

2.) Served the existing tenants plus their four children with an eviction notice indicating they were to clear out two weeks before Christmas, even though we'd said we wanted them to stay on.

3.) Gave the final few weeks' rent that belonged to us to the previous owners and then claimed it wasn’t his problem.

4.) Refused to answer the phone to deal with any of the above issues until we asked to speak to his boss - whereby he suddenly "just became available".

So we were a little bit wary when it came to using a real estate agent. We asked for quotes on how much the house was worth and an indication of commission - which, we learned, is based on a percentage of the sale price of the house. Once we worked out what their commission would be on the sale of the property and factored in the fact that they expected us to pay for all our advertising we figured that if we sold the house ourselves we could lower the asking price, thereby giving our buyer a "good deal" and still we'd come out with more cash than if we'd used an agent. A few things were in our favour here. Mainly it was that for around $1000 you can list your property on www.allhomes.com.au which is basically the one stop shop for anyone looking to buy property in the ACT. But there was also the fact that I'm on maternity leave and was able to basically show people through the place any time, day or night (theoretically. In practice I needed about two hours' notice to organise the kids and myself to drive two minutes down the road).

Enter our potential buyers and there were quite a lot of them and I quickly learned that there are two types of buyer. There are the realistic ones who know what they can afford. They're looking for a house in their price range and they don't mind paying for what they want if the price is fair. Charles and I fall into this category. We prefer not to haggle, we can either afford what you're asking or not and if there's anything we feel is serious enough to have an impact on the price, we'll raise it, ask whether there's wiggle room and leave it at that.

Then there are the bargain hunters. Bargain hunters never, ever look for a property in their price range because everything out there is negotiable and they figure that if they criticise a property enough, maybe you'll be dumb enough to sell it for a stupid amount and then they'll have their bargain. We had a lot of people through our house and most of them were the reasonable sort. We had a couple of bargain hunters but none were quite as bad as Daniel and Amanda*. Daniel and Amanda had two children between them and were getting married in six weeks. They needed a house fast and, hunky-do, our house was vacant and ready for the moving.

As soon as they're in the door Daniel starts criticising absolutely everything. Despite this I can sense that they are super keen. They are whispering furtively in low, excited tones between themselves and then he's booming things at me like, "The cork tiles look a bit rough, don't they?"

Other choice lines include, "Well we saw a four bedroom place with an ensuite up the hill and it was only $440,000". (Not renovated at all and, I'm told, with a significant pest problem).

And "Well we saw that you bought this place for only $295,000 and that was only four years ago. Did you know that we could see that on allhomes?" His tone when he delivers this one is almost accusatory.

I have a smart mouth on me which is one of the many and varied reasons for why I don’t ever do customer service anything. This smart mouth kicks into gear when I’m annoyed and Daniel and his accusatory tone have found my limit. The smart mouth has a range of answers to choose from because they’re zinging through my brain, jockeying for pole position;

Um, yes actually, I did know that. Did you happen to see the photos from four years ago?

Whoops – boy is my face red! You've caught me out there trying to make a massive unearned profit and of course I'm buying another house for the price it would have been four years ago too so how's about I cut a hundred grand off this one for you? Would that be fairer?

Perhaps you’d prefer a cheaper four bedroom house, oh that’s right, there aren’t any!!!

Don't get me wrong - I can tolerate criticism of my house. If you're going to sell your house yourself, you have to face up to its flaws and be prepared for people to point them out to you. After all, it's almost forty years old and far from perfect. But I've also done a lot of work to it and even though it’s priced as one of the cheapest four bedroom homes in Canberra, it is no longer one of the worst four bedroom homes in Canberra by far and away. It takes a lot out of me to swallow this, grit my teeth and remain pleasant, but I do manage it. I continue to answer questions and dodge the negative statements and privately I promise myself a healthy scream when it's over. And when it is finally over I feel like I've run a marathon and I get the distinct impression that they'll be making an offer. A stupidly low offer if the whole situation is anything to judge by.

A couple of days later I do get a phone call from Daniel. True to the form I've witnessed so far, he spends almost two minutes telling me all the reasons why my house is crap and I should accept his offer. And then he delivers it and it is, of course, stupidly low. It is so low that I laugh. I'm honest and tell him that yes, there is room for negotiation, but not that much room. If they're willing to move quickly, I'll drop $12,000 from the price but not $32,000. He tells me there's no way they can even come close to that so I thank him politely for his time and hang up.

The thing about bargain hunters is that all of their negativity crawls inside your head and starts to mess with your resolve. This is probably right about the time a real estate agent comes in handy. What I'm thinking is... Maybe the price is too high... Maybe no one else will be interested... Maybe I can afford to sell it for that price... After I discuss it with Charles, we do drop the price from $457,000 to $449,000. Charles thinks we should be asking for a number closer to what we actually want. Realistically the house has only been on the market for three days. An offer this soon is a good thing and we've had a lot of people look at the house. So we agree to review the price again in two weeks if there's no movement by then.

Lucky for us, before I can dwell on those thoughts for too long, in come Paul and Mel. Paul and Mel live in Sydney and are fresh from being jerked around by the people they were trying to buy a house from. Their vendors strung them along for two months and then pulled out right before exchange. They have already given up their Sydney house and job, enrolled their daughter in a Canberra school and now they have no house to move into. Over the phone, sight unseen, they tell us how fabulous our house is and offer us a little bit more than we're asking for our place with a catch - they want to exchange in two days and settle ASAP. Well fine by me.

Lucky for us, our more-expensive-than-usual solicitors are like a team of well trained greyhounds. In 24 hours they hammer out the contract, throw in a clause that will allow Paul and Mel to move in before settlement if they wish, and deliver it to the other solicitors. When Paul and Mel see the house for the first time, it is one hour before their appointment with their solicitors to exchange. They are freaks for all things 60s and 70s and they adore the house even more in person than they did in the photos. Mel is completely in love with everything Daniel hated about the property and Paul, while a little more laid back, is clearly a bit excited too.

Mel keeps saying things like, "I can't believe we're going to get this house for only $450,000!" while Paul says things like, "Shut up, Mel" in a low voice. I assure him that the house is his and there will be no revision of the price. He visibly relaxes. I explain the clause allowing them to move in as soon as we exchange and they give us proof of finance. I think Mel is going to cry. They can now move on their original schedule. We seem to have landed in the happy situation where everyone gets what they want and thinks they got a good deal (well, almost everyone – I don’t know how Daniel and Amanda feel about all this but I do spend a fair amount of time fantasising about it!)

The thing about buying and selling houses is that most people know what they want for their house before it hits the market and there is only a certain amount of negotiating room before you hit the limit. In our case, we thought we'd been more than fair with the price and we thought it was a good deal. So did almost everyone else we spoke to. Unfortunately it just wasn't a good enough deal for Daniel and Amanda. Incidentally, they called us back the same day that we sold the house to Paul and Mel to tell us that they wanted to offer $432,000 and we should take it because we were unlikely to get any more than that from anyone. They were exceptionally lucky that Charles answered the phone because all they got was, “Sorry, we’ve already accepted an offer of $450,000.” I would have been more creative. In fact, a month on and I’m still fantasising about potential responses to that offer.

The upshot of it all is that I don’t think you have to be ruthless when you’re buying or selling a house. If you’re buying then you’ll get the right house for the right price. The trick is to not be overly ambitious, particularly in a rising market and don’t count your chickens before they hatch. And if you’re selling, you might consider sparing a thought to your buyers. They’re about to hand you a massive amount of money that will probably cost them most of their salary for their foreseeable future. It won’t kill you to let them move in a little bit early, drop the price a little or negotiate terms that will suit their requirements.

I’m thrilled with the way things have turned out. I feel like we got a great price for our house and it’s nice to see someone who loves the place move in. It was the first house we owned together and it was our home while our children were babies. The value the house held for me wasn’t purely a monetary value and I feel like the sale we eventually negotiated incorporated all of the other intangible assets I felt were attached to the house. Letting the house go to Paul and Mel hasn’t been anywhere near as traumatic as I thought it would be because they feel like friends and I know they’re going to love that house as much as I did. And there’s no way you can put a price on that.

* Names changed to protect the greedy.

An Inauspicious Start...

I am, not to put too fine a point on it, fat. I have a million excuses and reasons for why I got here but something I realised recently is that how I got here isn’t as important as deciding whether or not I’m going to stay here. I’m not going to tell you how much I weigh yet because I’m still coming to grips with the numbers. It’s enough to say that even if I was pregnant with octuplets my current weight would probably alert you to the fact that I’ve made friends with more than one chocolate biscuit in my lifetime.

As part of my “back on track” month, I want to start addressing what I consider to be some of the major potholes in the road towards me being a fitter, healthier person. I also want to make sure that March doesn’t kill me. So this morning is the first of February. I can feel the pull of something disgusting for breakfast (and there's no way I'm 'fessing up to what I've been eating lately...) but it's back to my staple - All Bran Dual with some nut mix (including pepitas and sunflower seeds) and low fat natural yoghurt. The only drink I plan to have for the next few days will be water. The kids both get WeetBix and then some fruit after. They suck it down eagerly. I take a bit longer. The mind is willing but the spirit is weak. Then I weigh myself.

Crap. It's way more than I'd thought it would be. Any urge to hit the Tim Tams for a morning snack evaporates in the face of reality. A nectarine it is. I duly record my weight and body fat percentage beside the date in an Excel sheet. Then I start a second sheet to show what I eat during the day. There will be no cheating.

Finally, after everyone has been fed I tackle the house. This morning I start by removing the rubbish, doing the dishes and tidying the kitchen. Later, while James has his morning sleep, I will tackle the lounge room. I’m meant to be hosting a baby shower on Valentine’s Day, so I have a very firm timetable to get on top of the house and make it presentable for visitors. All the way through this my body aches and complains like a six-year-old on a trip across the Nullarbor. I just know it's angling for one of the Tim Tams because my mouth waters any time I go near the fridge and my hand is usually halfway to the door handle before I catch myself. It helps to have those little digital numbers flash up in my head and glare accusing in a bright pink neon. Ah...thanks but no thanks.

I’ve switched the scales from kilos to pounds because, although the number is a lot higher, it means that results will seem faster and better. Frankly I need the psychological boost. When James has his morning nap I change into my workout gear and cue Foxtel IQ up to the Workout show I recorded off the Lifestyle Channel. My Workout rotates through celebrity personal trainers. This morning we have Geraldine – a glorious example of the female species who can most accurately be described as a black Barbie. She is tall, beautifully proportioned with long glossy hair and has a killer smile. I hate Geraldine on sight.

Geraldine and three other perkies are guiding me through the “New York Ballet” workout. Two minutes in and I’ve managed to do everything the perkies and Barbie have managed. I’m feeling a little out of breath and I can feel some muscles complaining, but I’m confident that I can keep this up for the half hour the show goes for. In fact – I’m starting to step into over-confidence. Maybe I could be a New York Ballerina.

Four minutes in and Barbie announces that we’ve finished the “easy warm-ups”. I should have known this was way too easy. I pause the workout and run for my heart rate monitor. If I’m going to be doing some serious work, I want to know how hard it was. Press play…and then comes a series of moves which involve squats disguised as pliés, leg lifts cunningly hidden behind a veneer of arabesque and general torture disguised as fluffy pink ballet fun. Five minutes in and my legs are screaming and I’m sweating all over. Seven minutes in and my legs are quivering with the trauma inflicted and I start cutting some of the moves short.

At nine minutes Barbie and the Perkies start doing yoga poses for strength and this is where I come undone. Trying to balance and twist at the same time my outraged thigh muscles give one final spasm and then I go headlong into the coffee table. It’s at this point that I discover that you don’t even need to do the workout to feel virtuous – you can watch it while you sip your water and your brain will convince you that you’re losing weight and getting fit.

After a minute of recovery I become determined not to throw it all over on the first day and so I head to the orbital trainer and do 20 minutes of fat burning cardio. I feel horribly stiff and quite sore but I’m not a dead loss – I manage to breathe through it and last the whole 20 minutes. My heart rate monitor tells me I’ve done 30 minutes overall and burned 300 calories. Excellent. No doubt I will be crippled with muscle cramp tomorrow but I think this is a pretty good kick off point. The only downside is that I am now officially too knackered to face housework. Cest la vie – Rome wasn’t built in a day…blah, blah, blah.

Day two pretty much kills the enthusiasm. Not only can I not walk thanks to performing a million “thigh-toning” pliés, but I’ve had a horrible night with James. I stick to my diet but I don’t exercise as much as I probably should. Or at all. Whatever. The next week is pretty much a perfect example of how my good intentions always fall apart. Charles’ depression resurfaces, James starts teething (and stops sleeping) and here we are back in aisle six with the mint slice biscuits on special.

Okay, so I can’t completely overhaul my lifestyle Biggest Loser style in one week. But I can do some things to start heading down the right track. When we both crave hamburgers, we buy the ingredients and make the low fat version on the sandwich press. I double the amount of fruit I buy each week and snack on that. I try to up the level of water I drink and I go back to taking my vitamins (frankly a breastfeeding woman should never stop).

I’m a week in now and unsurprisingly, I haven’t lost much weight. Only 500g. But my body fat percentage has gone down and my percentage of water weight has increased. I feel better and I have a bit more energy. Today I’m going to get Charles to photograph me in my knickers for comparison purposes and I’m flirting with the idea of publicly confessing how much I weigh. I believe that true weight loss will take time and is best achieved through sustainable changes to diet and lifestyle so I need to be patient and start changing slowly. Anything too hard and fast and I’ll no doubt stop doing it.

Anyway – to this week’s mini-challenge. For one whole week Charles and I are going to eat from the Simply Too Good To Be True cookbooks. A gift from Pippa they are full of delicious, low fat recipes that seem to be relatively easy to make and somewhat inexpensive. Tonight is steak diane and vegetables. Tomorrow is Mexican burritos. I also plan to make myself some vegetable curry and freeze it for lunches. I’ll let you know how it goes…

Multiculturalism at its best

Every year Canberra celebrates the great melting pot with the Multicultural Festival. Apparently it goes for three days but our small family unit only ever attend for the first day - the food and dance spectacular. And I'm sure those of you who know us know which aspect we're mostly interested in!

Charles is adventurous beyond reason when it comes to food. Terrified of spiders he still seems to be fascinated with the concept of one day tasting deep fried tarantula. I would pay good money to see it - and since they really only serve it overseas I'll probably have to. As for me, I can usually pick what Charles is going to choose because it's almost always the very last thing you could persuade me to touch off the menu. Baby pigeon, lamb sweetbreads, roadkill platter...you get the idea.

The multicultural festival is Charles' spiritual home and, I have to admit, I too thoroughly enjoy the challenge of stepping outside my culinary comfort zones. We've been to the festival every year for as long as I can remember. After Charlotte was born we simply strapped her into a baby carrier and took her along with us. I have fond memories of her, aged four months old, blinking in bewilderment in her baby carrier as Daddy coated her in a fine layer of icing sugar as he consumed an olie bollen.

Olie bollen (literally translated to "oil ball") are a Dutch Christmas treat...think the contents of a Christmas cake in a batter instead of dough and then deep fried into a rough ball shape. They're so dense light occasionally has trouble escaping them and, for good measure, we Dutchies like to coat them liberally in icing sugar. After all, if you're going to stroll on the dietary dark side by flirting with liberal amounts of saturated fat, you may as well test the resilience of your pancreas while you're at it.

This year I tried explaining the allure of the multicultural festival to my favourite clog wog, my Dad. I explained how we stroll the rows of stands, looking for anything we've never tried before. I told him how almost every people on the planet have a stall...even the clog wogs. He brightened considerably at this.

"So you'll be getting some poffertjes?"

Er...no. The point is to eat something you've never tried before. Not something that was on the menu every Tuesday night while you grew up.

"How about olie bollen?"

Um...same thing Dad only it was once a year instead of weekly.

"So what's the point?"

To try something new.

Dad, while I wouldn't dare use the terms "elderly", "aged" or "getting on in years" does bring to mind other useful descriptive terms like, "curmudgeonly", "set in his ways" and "change-resistant". More on Dad later because just like Pip, he warrants a post all his own complete with a photo for identification and avoidance purposes. Suffice to say that this year I had been wavering over whether I'd attend (because I now have two little critters to monitor) but my little chat with Dad reminded me about how much I love going and I decided that I'd keep the tradition alive and go again this year.

So here we are Saturday morning gearing up for the festival. The kids are liberally coated in sunscreen, hats are donned and James sets up his caterwauling just as we get to the lift in the car park. Normally so relaxed, happy and contented, I can't figure out why he's suddenly decided that screaming as though I spent the morning bathing him in paint stripper is the order of the day. About twenty people waiting for the lift turn to stare at us and none of them look away. Fine, we'll take the escalators.

James does not stop the whole way down. We pause to buy him a bread roll and he sucks at it in between screaming and hiccuping. I can only think that some of the sun cream got into his eyes but Charles points out that when he can see me, he stops complaining. Great. I take Charlotte's stroller so Charles can push James and James can see me. Despite this, he keeps up the grumpy mini tantrums throughout the whole affair.

It's only 11 o'clock - which is the official start of the festival, but things are already in full swing. The stage features bagpipes and highland dancers - the food stalls indicate that we're in the Middle East. Knowing that the best food won't last long we quickly start our stroll around the globe. We're quickly enticed by Himalayan Momos - mince for Charles, spinach for me. Charlotte refuses to taste either and when we tell her she has to try something, she homes in instantly on what must be the only vanilla cupcakes in a 500 metre radius. We let her have one but tell her she will need to eat real food too.

To me the Multicultural Festival is proof of two things;

1.) The far-reaching influence of the Poms - demonstrated through the liberal use of mince and spinach in the fare on offer. A vast majority of the fare on offer seems to be a variation on parcelling up these two ingredients. Indian Samosas, Himalayan Momos, Turkish Golzeme...all are available in either mince or spinach and cheese.

2.) Almost every culture on the planet has figured out how to pulverise bits of an animal, stuff it into its intestine, fry it up and shove it into a piece of bread. I personally think the Germans do it best, although I usually forgo the sauerkraut and accompanying beer.

After watching the people around her for a bit and refusing to even look at what we're eating, Charlotte announces that she wants some "food on a stick". Thrilled that she's chosen something non-sugarey, Charles immediately hurls himself into the crowd and comes back triumphant with a chicken satay stick and some plain rice. Madam wolfs it down while Daddy experiments with a Salvadorian chicken tamale and Mama tries a pupusa. Madam announces she wants more. More it is. She then refuses to try anything that's not on a stick and I inwardly resolve to bring a bamboo skewer next year to thread absolutely everything onto. And then we continue on through the throngs that have shown up.

Navigating through the crowds would be a lot easier if it wasn't for the Sheeple (people sheep). Just like their ovine namesakes, the sheeple are gloriously vapid, totally oblivious to anyone but themselves and clad in snowy drifts of ignorance. They are the bane of my existence whenever I go anywhere with the kids in the stroller. It's hard enough in a mall but in a packed space like Garema Place during the festival, the people/sheeple ratio is worse and I begin to think of dark uses for bamboo skewers.

They stop suddenly. They veer 90 degrees without any warning and without looking. They stand in the middle of the flow of traffic mulling over decisions, chatting about where they'll go next, oblivious to everyone else trying their level best to get around them. They rarely make eye contact and they never apologise, even when their sudden veering plants their $4.50 gelato right between your breasts. In fact, the alpha sheeple are able to stare you down when this happens as though you're the one at fault. Life as a people sheep is never about anyone other than yourself and where you need to go and what you're going to do next.

Two hours into the experience and I've decided that what's required is a two-pronged approach. First, a row of spikes on the front of the stroller (and I'm still debating whether these should be subtle or obvious...I kind of like the idea of taking the sheeple by surprise). Second, a strong campaign for sheeple holding pens in all major shopping centres and at any large community event. Not to mention the herders to control them. "I'm sorry sir but you came to an abrupt halt in a clearly marked high traffic area. Please step inside the pen and remain here until you've decided where you'd like to go next." Either that or a short, sharp zap with a cattle prod to keep them moving in the right direction.

As the day heats up and the crowd thickens, James decides he's had enough and he abandons his small protestations in favour of a full on "look-at-what-my-awful-Mum's-doing-to-me" wail. I quickly steer out of the crowds and sit under the awning, nursing him, while Charles goes back for something sweet to cap the day off. He comes back with some deep-fried Greek tasties, hot and crisp in a layer of honey and sprinkled with crushed walnuts. Yum. It's the perfect end to our annual pilgrimage. As we leave and I look for the last time at all the smiling stall holders, the crowds sampling everything on offer, I can't help but think that cultural tolerance is something we should all be striving for. It's time to leave our ignorance behind us.

Introducing Pippa

Having introduced my small family unit, it’s probably time to introduce one of the next closest people in my life – Pippa. Pippa is my best friend.

Pippa is not her real name. We had a brief and very intense discussion tonight over dinner regarding whether or not she is allowed a pseudonym in my writings. I maintain that my journalistic integrity is all about protecting the innocent. Which doesn’t include Pippa even on her most virtuous day.

Pippa is probably the closest person to me after my husband. She is my best friend – I tell her absolutely everything and I never, ever lie to her. Not even the little white lies that serve as social grease making our lives easier, happier places to be. I respect her far too much for that. She thinks, because I tease her a lot, that I don’t respect her or that I find her to be a weak sort of person. The opposite is true. Apart from being one of the strongest women I know, I tease her because she is a super-woman and if I don’t do it, no one will and she’ll get a big fat head and become unbearable. Plus, despite some ten years of being friends, she still bites every single time.

I tease Pippa about her minor weaknesses and she teases me about my major ones and because we are both nasty, stubborn cows, the end result of these unflattering insights into each other is not a derailed ego for either of us. Instead these subtle jibes and honest discussions have helped us both work at being better people. She has learned to relinquish some of her potent control freakiness and I have had to learn to be softer – not just with the feelings of others but in more practical ways. Pippa is the only reason I own (and wear) dresses.

If I tell you how we met, you might understand why I think Pippa needs her very own Current Affair-style exposé. Picture it;

It’s my first day in a new job. Like all new jobs I’m nervous and desperate to be liked. So far I haven’t managed to stuff anything up or offend anyone. Right as I’m congratulating myself on finding a workplace I might enjoy, a chick that looks like a blonde version of me walks past and I notice that her tag is hanging out of her jeans. Thinking that I hate having my size broadcasted in this fashion to the masses, I unthinkingly tuck it back in. Ramrod straight and stiff she spins on the spot, glares at me and in the loudest “pay attention all ye who dwell within the nearest 50 cubicles” I’ve ever heard she shouts, “Dude! Did you just touch my ARSE???”

Why we ever became friends after this is a complete mystery to me. It’s surely not natural to bond with people who publicly humiliate you when you’re at your most vulnerable (unless you like that sort of thing in which case you probably have a much more popular blog than me on a bondage website somewhere). But become friends we did. Pippa is the only worthwhile thing that came out of that job (apart from the fake Monet my co-workers stole as a farewell present out of the atrium for me and the realisation that you don’t have to stay in a crap job you can always quit).

We look a little bit alike and people always ask if we’re sisters. We finish each other’s sentences a lot – we lunch a lot, we talk a lot and as time goes by we’ve both noticed how similar we’re becoming. I’ve taught her how to be a bit more practical and have a go at whatever comes her way – she’s taught me how to be girly and elegant. We’re gradually assimilating ourselves. Clonedom is surely not far off.

When I was pregnant with my children I wrote a diary and it was distributed to friends and family. Thanks to the pregnancy diaries, Pippa knows what sort of fodder she might provide for the blog. Hence her request for a pseudonym. She claims she doesn’t remember how we met but whenever I remind her she at least has the grace to blush. It’s not that she’s ashamed of the things she does, necessarily; it’s that she doesn’t want my particular slant on those activities distributed globally.

So I cave and offer her the opportunity to select a pseudonym (plus, I’m using one, so it’s probably only fair). She offers up “Isabelle”. This makes me laugh because it is the kind of name we choose because it sounds like the person we wish we were. Forget it kid, I tell her, it has to be something I can use on a daily basis that actually reminds me a little of her. I tell her that if the name is going to be fluffy I’ll insist on spelling it differently to make it more earthy and more Pippa-like. “Yzubel” for example.

“You suck,” she tells me.

“What about ‘precious’,” she asks. Well when you put that name in a LOTR context, it does convey the hidden evil behind the shiny gold exterior which is my Pippa…but would everyone understand that? In the end I suggest Pippy – an extended version of PP standing for Princess Perfect. Which is how Pippa would like to be. While she liked this name, when I thought more about it Pippy seemed a bit small and cute and quite inappropriate for a woman of Pippa’s magnitude. So (without Modom’s permission) I’ve gone with the stronger “Pippa”. I can tolerate this name and, if it keeps her safe from being identified by the broader public, I think Pippa will go with it too…

Pippa is probably going to be my first blog follower, if only so she can know what I’m writing about her. At first I wasn’t going to tell her what the blog was called. I briefly flirted with calling it “Don’t Tell Pippa” and letting everyone who knows who she is enjoy reading about her exploits. But this seemed a bit mean, even for me and no doubt it would drive her mad and she would eventually stab me to death with my hot rollers. As it is I bet she checks my blog five times a day to see what I’ve written about her so that she can write an instant rebuttal in the comments section.

Despite her dread over what I might write, because she is Pippa, she is of course in for the whole journey. She’ll probably forward my blog to people she knows, advertise and edit it endlessly and then, two years from now, quietly negotiate a book or movie deal I never even thought of. Either that or she’ll start a rival blog for rebuttal purposes, negotiate her own book and movie deal and have the last laugh from her mansion. That’s the sort of woman she is and that’s why I love her.

Tonight I informed Pippa that she had better start getting a bit fit because she will be coming along to all of the activities I have to try for Let’s Get Physical month. She didn’t even bother putting up a fight because she knows she’ll do it just because I said so. Make no mistake, this is not because Pippa is a pushover. Oh no. This is so when she comes up with something she wants me to do with her, I will meekly fall into line and just do it. That’s how it works. Plus, she has inflicted waaaay worse things on me over the course of our relationship (more on that later). Pippa has also suggested a monthly challenge that she would join me for…a whole month of being vegan. So no doubt you’ll be hearing a lot more about her. And now you know who she is.