No Sweat

I've finally accepted that it's just not going to happen.  It is the first Sunday evening that I have ceased to delude myself that I am arising at 5.30am to get my toxic arse to a 6am Bikram yoga class.  Gone is the denim bag stuffed with two towels and a change of clothes sitting pretty by my bedroom door.  Non-existent is the two litre water bottle waiting patiently in the fridge for me to grab it on the way out the door.  I've abandoned all efforts as I can't suffer the let down caused by my own slackness any longer.  It's OK to imagine you are a more motivated person than you really are.....surely?  To be honest, after thirty eight and a half years, I should know myself better.  The only thing that gets me out of bed before 7am, is a early morning flight, or a particularly crappy job I once had in Tokyo.  I never do it by real choice.  Never.  So it really does seem strange that I'm surprised I haven't been able to get morning Bikram sessions happening this trip.

The thing is, I really like Bikram.  Actually, I semi hate it, but I do like the way it makes me feel.  After the class that is.  During it I'm like "What the fuck am I doing in here???? This is bullshit, BULLSHIT".  Maybe it doesn't actually make me feel better.  It's just that the class is so shitful, that I'm bound to feel better, just by not being in it the other twenty two and a half hours of the day.
Before my first Bikram class, I had been entertaining the notion of starting it up for quite some time.  "What's it like?" I asked a friend of mine who had recently attended her first one.  "Like giving birth in a sauna" she replied.  Having given birth (which is a totally crap activity by the way), and having hated saunas all my life (I have a mortal terror the door will become permanently jammed, and I'll go undiscovered - slowly drying out, little by little, until I'm just a little flaky pile....like fishfood), surely that description was going to put me off.  Yet no.  Like some sort of sadomasochist I was determined to suffer.  And suffer I did.

I discovered that it was indeed like giving birth in a sauna.  In more ways than one.  There's the sweating, your body contorted in ways that just can't be natural.  There's the pain and discomfort of course.  There is also the hanging out practically (or totally for some) naked in front of strangers and not caring.  There's the annoying bitch screaming at you to push harder, and breath and RELAX for fucks sake.  You feel sick, furious and tortured, and then eventually, it's over.  And the relief is orgasmic.  Later, the strange thing is that no matter how much you've hated it and suffered, you come out, forget it was heinous and happily bounce back ready to do it all again....just like all of you with more than one child.  The only thing is, you don't get an actual baby at the end.  That is a huge result in itself.

When you've pushed through those first uncomfortable sessions, it does become addictive.  I don't know why, but it really does.  You ignore the smell of rank people around you, you pretend you didn't just slip in a puddle of stranger's sweat, and you learn to deal with people's almost naked arses in your face.  Or you don't.  When I attended Bikram yoga in Byron I inadvertently, without fail, ended up behind the same guy.  Even when I thought I'd scored and he was against the wall on the other side, the teacher would change around a few people, and hey presto!  I was looking back up his actual arsehole again.   Look I get it, it's hot in there.  Forty degrees is nothing to sneer at, and I don't expect people to dress in lycra leggings.  But saggy skin coloured jocks? Was it necessary?  And then, why did they have to be so old that holes had wore into the fabric?  It was rude.  Really rude.  Buddy, at least just wear some speedos, show some respect.....

At least these are white, not holey, and a fuller brief

I also did Bikram in Israel for a few weeks.  I liked it.  This was mainly because I couldn't understand a single word of what was being said.  The constant talking is my least favourite part about Bikram.  They definitely have a script that have to follow.  I understand, it's part of the whole package.  Yet, I do get sick of hearing "Be like a Japanese ham sandwich" during the forward bends....what the hell does that mean....cheap? completely processed yet strangely delicious???  

It was also fun to see the reactions of the first timers when you were "experienced" (or in other words, stopped fainting after the Camel pose).  One poor guy once spent the entire class (apart from the first 2 minutes) in the fetal position.  At the end he couldn't even get up, he just crawled out the door.  I held it open for him.  He couldn't even answer me if I asked him if was  OK.  I wonder if he really was alright.  I never saw him again.  Maybe he died.  Some people really got the shits up and stormed out.  The teacher would always follow them out and try and coax them back in.  Once there was a full blown fight between a first time leaver and the obnoxious American teacher outside the door and down the corridor.  We could hear it all back inside the studio because she left her headset going.  The teacher went on a permanent vacation after that incident.  I think they'd been a few complaints.  She also went mental at some hippy one morning when he complained that it didn't feel that hot in the room.  Scary.  I'd say thank you to her after class, and she'd be like "Yeah, whatever.....".  The other teacher was a minuscule hippy from Tasmania, who would reply to the same thanks with "No no no no no....thank YOU Emily, what an honour it is for me to teach you".  That could have been worse, I'm not sure.  Apparently Bikram himself is quite the "character".  That's if you like billionaires, who say that every other style of yoga is bullshit, and sometimes teach their classes in their undies from a throne.

Well, all this talk about Bikram is making me want to go tomorrow.  I remember how I felt when I didn't drink wine every lunch and dinner and eat out three times a day on occasion.  But, let's be realistic, I just have to remember that I'm dealing with one of the slackest morning people on the face of the earth.  A person who wears earplugs so they don't have to hear their own alarm go off.
There's always next Monday......

Border Erection

I broke my own rules regarding appropriate wear for plane travel yesterday.  I not so much referring to plane attire here, as who cares when your flight is a one hour job from Hobart to Melbourne.   I'm referring here, to appropriate wear for passing through that charming collection of people known as "airport security".  Yesterday I totally fucked up, and wore boots, a belt, and an extra tight bracelet.  The thing is, when you have a kid or four, passing through security is even more of a major ordeal.  Actually, this is where you get your first proper dose of fellow traveller hatred.  Naturally you will hold up the line.  You will also have to pass through the screening several times because in the confusion to get bottles of breast milk out for show and tell, you will forget to remove jackets, prise dolls from sobbing children, and find it impossible to disassemble your stroller.  There are things you can do to make it easier for yourself.

Never forget to remove your piece from your back pocket - it makes your bum look big

1. Always pack your own liquids in a zip lock bag the night before, and check that none of them are over 100ml.  They will be confiscated.  Most regular sized tubes of toothpaste are 125ml.  If you are now claiming that you don't have any zip lock bags, get into your car now, drive to the supermarket and get some.  They are useful in everyday life, and absolutely essential for travel.  Have this liquids bag somewhere accessible - like an outside pocket.  Digging around in your bag takes time.  Same goes for bottles of breast milk and sterilised water.  (Don't forget that breast milk will last up to 10 hours outside the fridge, but formula only 1 hour, so make it up on the plane with exact amounts measured into zip lock bags and written on with a permanent marker in case you forget number of scoops).

* Remember here I am referring to overseas travel.  Domestically (in Australia NOT the US) take as many liquids of any volume that you like.  They are your heaviest items and it's all about making your checked in luggage under 23kg.

2.  Don't wear a belt.  They are really annoying to remove and even more annoying to get back on.  A lot of shit can go down while you're trying to re-loop that sucker.

It's always the grannies that fuck it up for the rest of us

3.  Try to avoid boots.  Unfortunate I know, as a heavy pair of boots will take up valuable space and weight in your suitcase so wearing them seems like a great plan.  However, taking them off to put through screening, and walking around in your socks waiting for them is irritating and often gross.  I once trod in something moist and squelchy in the waiting zone, and putting your shoe back on over something unidentified, yet unmistakably rank, is fucked up.  Furthermore, often your feet will swell a bit on long flight, and it hurts to squash them back on while preparing to disembark.  By that stage you will not need anything that will make you feel worse than you already do.  Slip on flats are the best.  Take socks for when your feet get cold.  Nobody cares about style in the air.  Just ask Qantas air hostesses.

As tempting as it sounds, packing babies is actually illegal

4.  Don't wear much jewelry.  Even if it doesn't set the machine off itself, something else might and then you'll have to take it all off anyway.  If you ever wear a small bracelet that takes skin off your thumb knuckle when you try and get it off,  leave it at home.  Or pack it with your other jewelry (in your hand luggage of course).

I wonder is they also have the body cavity search set?

5. Make sure your passports are also extremely accessible as you will have to show them possibly a couple of times after checking in.  Store the correct boarding pass inside each person's passport on the photo page.  You should have filled out your departure cards while your partner was checking in all the luggage.  If you are on your own, still make sure you do it well before clearing immigration.  And while we are on the topic, ALWAYS fill out each family member's entry card for the country you are travelling to, while you are in the air, and long before you touch down.  Even newborn babies need their own card, but one customs declaration per family should suffice. Keep them altogether, also stored on the photo page of each person's passport.  It makes clearing immigration upon arrival so much smoother.  Don't count on filling them out in the line - if you are with children, you will typically be ushered to the front of every queue (there's got to be some benefits).

I never recommend a stroller in the snow

6. Strollers are essential to keep your mini horrors contained at the airport.  You should have a particular type for air travel.  By this I mean, the type that collapses and fits through an airport security screening machine.  Even twin ones do this - such as the Baby Love Twin Stroller and the Maclaren Twin Techno.  They will try and tell you you need to check it in at the luggage desk sometimes.  Tell them they have shit for brains and you know for a fact that it fits through the screener.  Use different language though, otherwise your suitcase might end up being kicked around out the back and implanted with heroin.  These type of strollers usually have the type of handles that you can use to hang a million types of carry-on bags, and alcohol shopping you might do in duty free.  Plus you can usually drive it right to the plane door and sometimes even pick it up at the same spot once you get to your destination.  It's always a long shot though.  So don't expect it to be waiting for you.  There's nothing more depressing to cart everything 3 km to baggage collection, because they didn't pull it out and have it erected and waiting as soon as you stepped off (those 2 litre bottles of Bombay Sapphire weigh a ton).

Without a stroller there's always improvisation

In almost every country of the world, including some US airports and Israel (which are two of the most security conscious places on the planet), if your babies are asleep, you will be allowed to wheel your stroller through security.  Then it will be checked by a chubby person wearing latex gloves and a smile.  But not in Australia.  I seriously think Australian airport security employees are some of the meanest bunch of arseholes in the world.  There is also a chance that they are all former employees of the prison system.  They literally treat you like you are committing a crime, by daring to take off to Fiji for ten days on your honeymoon.

Let me give you an example of meanness I once experienced at the hands of Sydney airport's security team.  To say it had been a long trip back from Spain would be an understatement.  It was 40 hours of non-stop driving, airport waiting, flights, three plane changes and tarmac stalling.  All this with six month old twins, who decided not to sleep for more than 45 mins at a time the entire return journey, added a further venture into dementia.  I was destroyed.  We finally touched down in the homeland, retrieved the Twin Techno, and the girls fell into a deep slumber all comfy and cosy.

How could anybody wake this up??!

Then..... we had to go through domestic security to take our final flight from Sydney to Hobart.  I begged and pleaded not to have to get the girls out and fold down the stroller.  In fact, I actually disgraced myself and cried.  A lot.  Plus I simply point blank refused to get the girls out of the stroller.  One of the men went over to get the boss, and I was signalled out as a troublemaker.  Then, the biggest, scariest women I'd ever seen came straight for me.  I think it was a woman. Could have been a man with earrings.  And a name tag that said "Jan".
"What the 'ell is goin' on ova 'ere?" bellowed Jan the Man.  I stated my case through sobs, 40 hours travel, no sleep for myself, precious little for the sanity-destroyers, begging that they give the stroller a latex pat down.
"Look 'ere you....I'm a Nan"  Wow! She really was a woman (unless I mistook "man" for "nan").  However, this declaration did not indicate she was about to be sympathetic to my case.  In fact, and of course, the opposite.
"You get them babies out NOW!!! You kinda people are....are..... a threat to our borders!!!".

She had a point, I was at that stage looking around for a weapon to stab into her eye.  Sleep deprivation really can instigate a murder.  I've envisaged a LOT of killing these last three years.  I didn't realise it was about Border Protection though, I thought it was about being a power tripping fuck-face.  I didn't say this of course - it was not the time for a body cavity search.  Instead I just sobbed, and said "You're mean, mean hearted" and took out both girls.  They both woke up and started crying (as predicted).  Everyone behind me in the line, who had been watching the whole shameful scene intently, went "Awwwwwww", and "That's awful", and maybe even a few "How could you's?"  I feel like, even though I had created the world's largest single queue of people - according the 2009 Guinness Book of Records - they actually felt sorry for me.  I let the girl's wails crescendo to screaming.  I'm sure I saw Jan the Nan flinch.  I held eye contact -"Where's your grandmotherly compassion now you asexual fatty?"

Jan in her younger days

And thus ends another (long) tale about how much I hate airports, and all people involved with them.  I swear if the real Border Protection ever reads this blog, I will be forever more be singled out as a suspicious person of interest every time I try to leave our lands.  All I can say is" bring it Jan".....

Native Sub Species of Tasmania

I'm in Tassie at the moment.  This simple fact goes along way to explain the recent slackness I've been exhibiting regarding this blog.  Currently I'm typing as quietly as I can on a noisy keyboard as my daughters sleep 2 feet away.  Then there's the slowness factor.  I swear I type a letter, and five whole seconds later it shows up on the screen.  Antiques.  Gotta love them.  Tassie does antiques really well.  In fact, I just turned on this computer screen, and an icepick and branding irons flashed up.  I began to seriously question my mother's possible new hobby, when I realised it was a display for an auction house specialising in antiquities.  I guess if some one's going to put an icepick through your skull, it would be nice if they did it using a valuable one with a pretty handle. 

Apart from antiques, there are other things Tassie does really well.  Cheese, beer, wine, pretty outdoor shit - like trees and that......and let's not forget bogans.  There are some quality bogans in Tassie.  We even have our own sub species down here - Chiggas.  Because Hobart is really a small city, a good many bogan confrontations happen on a daily basis.  Some of them are funny, as in the really drunk man in his 50s, my sister and I encountered at a restaurant yesterday.  We couldn't help but notice him eavesdropping on our conversation, and as soon as he got our attention, it was all on.  Then we got half of his life story, embarrassingly loud compliments about our "tits", and an offer to join him at his motel that night. He used the expression "ten past ten' - another bogan beauty meaning "legs spread"....  My sister was impressed I don't think she's heard that one before. We also got him napkins when he got carried away and smashed his hand on the table absolutely lacerating the top of it.  He didn't notice until the blood started pissing out everywhere.  Luckily that signalled his departure, although he had a parting gift for us.  This was a pelvic thrust outside the window, with his hands on his hips making kissy faces....niiiiiceeeee. Look, any knocker on the door is a compliment as far as I'm concerned.  Even if they are so drunk, that they cut their whole hand open without realising it, and continue to skull wine from the bottle at 1pm on a Wednesday afternoon.

Sometimes the confrontations are less amusing.  A particular example I shall go into now, occurred last summer on the first day of the Sunday markets held at Moorilla/MONA.  Now as hip as that place is, it is located smack bang in the heartland of the Chigga.  Contact with the locals cannot be avoided.  In this particular instance the contact was up close and confrontational.  It all started when a scrawny thing....shall we call her Chantal?.... slid up beside my friend, and got sprung by a woman on the grass opposite, with her fingers in my mate's bag.  Now old Chantal covered herself well by pretending she was looking for her lighter.  But my cluey friend wasn't fooled.  She abandoned her position, and came and told me all about it.  Naturally I spread the word - initially to a friend's mother.  However, unfortunately, I got sprung mid finger point.  Well, Chantal was immediately out of her seat, and coming straight for me faster than you can say "meat lovers pizza".  My friend's mother quickly split the scene, but I was rooted to the spot wishing I had a bundy and coke to ward her off with.  Before I knew it she was right in my face, and started yelling in it so close and loud, that her spittle was really connecting.  She smelt of cigarettes and that unmistakable tang of Rexona Sport. 

Much, much better teeth

She began her little tirade like this....... (sorry all mothers of my friends, bad swearing on the approach)......... "You fuckun cunt, you fuckun pointing at me you fuckun cunt.  I'll smash your fuckun face in".....I had no doubt she intended to do just that.  What's brazen public robbery when some bitch has the nerve to point at you?  Me, being the cowardy custard type, responded like this..."Weeeeelllllll, pointing?  Noooo, I wouldn't say I was exactly pointing.  It was more like a sort of indication towards that general area really...."  I don't think she understood what I said anyway, as there was a whole lot more swearing in a similar vein as before.  At this stage, my beloved stepped it.  I was relieved to realise he'd been watching.  Although, he'd probably been hoping for a bitch fight before eventually realising that I'd definitely lose. Then he copped it as well.  The spittle, more "cunts", threats of smashing in faces, etc.  However she ended with "I'm gunna call me fuckun boyfriend to come and get youse and he's a.....a......a cop!!!"  I don't think she realised that we didn't share her fear of police, and Chalky was like "Go on then, get him over here".  At that point she left and started frantically punching buttons on her phone.  By this stage I was hiding on the grass behind a fat woman eating chips, and trying to fashion a disguise from a cardigan, sunglasses and a scarf.....As I said - no medals for bravery here.  Anyway she was finally hunted down by security and escorted out - yet not before she made the sign of a gun, and finger-blew our heads off.  Her boyfriend was found hiding in the vines.  And surprise, surprise, he wasn't really a cop.

Officer Gary wondering what happened to Chantal

So, basically don't piss off a Tasmanian bogan.  And definitely don't point at them.  Once a friend asked me a while ago if I had any tips for her upcoming holiday to Tasmania.  I told her that if she was walking through Elizabeth St Mall in Hobart, and any 14 year old pregnant bogans ask her what she's looking at, she should put her eyes to the ground and power walk away as fast as possible.  She later replied that she just wanted to know some good places to eat.  Perhaps I should have saved this advice for a Swiss friend of my mine a few years ago.  "Emily, I don't understand" said poor Bernie, nursing a swollen jaw and black eye with a bag of ice.  "I have been to some of the most dangerous places in the world.  Yet I just take a little stroll through your small city on a Saturday night and look at me".  Sorry dude, what can I say?  Thanks for coming to visit me.....sorry I stood you up at Knopwoods......

I'm leaving again tomorrow.  It was short and sweet.  Absolutely not enough time to piss of any locals.  I'll be back next summer. Six weeks is surely enough time to fit in a bogan bashing or two......Especially considering I decided to have my wedding at the scene of the crime - MONA. I'm in the process of doing my invitations......Now, if I only knew Chantal's address.....

Wanna come to me wedding Chant?

Crappy Mother's Day

Where's my french toast scumbags?

Seeing all the Mother's Day posts on Facebook about everyone having a great day and being made breakfast in bed - I'm like "So what?", or the more bitter "good on you", or the downright mean "fuck you, show off".  I got squat for breakfast.  Today was crap.  In fact, it was worse than an usual day because I had to deal with the same shit, only today, I felt like I was entitled to sit 'round eating cream buns (and didn't get to).  Plus I had a hangover. That really changes everything.  When this unfortunate occurrence happens while you're trying to look after two half-insane dwarfs  - you say "never again", and you almost truly mean it.  And it can be more than 2 months before you do it again....rather than two weeks, and in even earlier years, two days.

No two ways about it.  Hangovers are fucking hell.  Luckily this time  round I avoided my usual dose of alcohol poisoning.  But it's touch and go.  Drinking for me these days is like playing Russian Roulette.  For example, I typically wake up feeling blurry and dry in the mouth and I can't concentrate on what I'm doing, and often fall out of bed.  It can go two ways, and it's always a surprise.  Will I make a fast recovery and ten minutes later be sipping on a latte, laughing over who said what, while reminiscing how nice those cocktails were?  Or will I have to make a bolt for the toilet, and half spray the wall with chunder after I spot the dregs of a gin and tonic on the bench, and then not speak a word to anyone all day.  Painful moaning does not count as conversation.   It's always an unpredictable outcome, and does not always correlate with amount drunk.  Odds would be 50:50 if bets were taken.  But as I said, I could instead enjoy chatting with my delightful houseguest about how much fun we had last night.  And yes, the cocktails were yummy.

Cocktails make me happy

A little messier but not so unmanageable

For this very reason, I managed to get a prescription for anti nausea tablets from my doctor.  The only issue is, that when I'm in the state where it seems necessary to get one into me quickly, I inevitably end up puking it up almost immediately.  How long it manages to swim around in my stomach bile before making a hasty exit, has a direct relationship to how much better I feel.  As you would imagine.  Those babies can absorb fast when there's not a lot inside to slow down proceedings.
I had a nurse-friend who, upon waking and feeling like she was going to actually die from over consumption, used to inject herself in the thigh with the liquid form of those magic tablets.  Brilliant strategy really, even if it does make you feel a little squeamish to imagine carrying out the dastardly task.  It works though.  Really well.  At times like those, how bad does self administration of prescriptions intravenously really seem?......Don't answer that, you will only incriminate yourself.

For someone with as low a tolerance to alcohol as me, it's pretty shameful that I have continued to hammer myself as long as I have.  There's been a few memorable hangovers - like the time I actually  had to check myself into the Byron bay hospital to get an injection so I could stop vomiting.  This was particularly shameful at staff changeover time.  The departing nurse walked down the line of beds explaining each case to the newcomer; "This young man here, copped a surfboard in the eye this morning while taking underprivileged kids surfing.  This man hammered his hand while building a house for his grandmother.....and THIS young lady had a few too many drinks at the Great Northern last night".  That was a low point.  Perhaps almost as low as when I tried to struggle through my Parisian hangover and go sight seeing, and was overtaken by violent convulsions and was on my hands and knees heaving in the gutter of the Champs-Élysées - the fanciest street in Paris - and arguably the world...... It happened outside Prada.  I'm all class, what can I say.

How do you say - "I shouldn't have had absinthe" in French?

In Israel, getting really retarded on alcohol is typically looked at as bit pathetic.  There is barely any issues with under age drinking, and very few displays of public drunkenness.  You are looked on like that embarrassing relative who gets inappropriately inhiliated at every family function, and people feel sorry for him because he's such a dickhead.  Yep.  I have been that dickhead. In fact I am that relative.  I just had that revelation right now, and it's horrible.  The last time I inflicted the wider public with my horrendous drunken antics, was last New Years Eve. This was in Israel, and it's not called New Years Eve, instead "Sylvester".  Slyvester refers to the anti-Semitic pope who's saints day happens to fall on NYE.  Unsurprisingly, "Slyvester" is no giant piss up in Israel, as it is the the rest of the Western World.  But let's not let a trifling detail like that stop one from drinking dozens of shots from two bottles of moonshine.   Luckily, all my partner's grown up nieces and nephews were drunk enough to semi join in, or I may have looked downright foolish singing every song from the Sound of Music at the top of my voice in the streets, rolling all over car bonnets, scruffing strangers, biting a hippy's dreadlocks and running away (seriously, I wish I was joking there), not to mention yelling and carrying on like a knob.  While I might have almost got away with it twenty years ago - at nearly 40 it's pretty shameful.  Apparently there is video evidence.  Apparently it's damming.

It seems like fun.....

All Yasmin's fault

Yep, getting uglier

The question remains - how can I release this to the general public?

The aftermath of that stupidity has scarred me.  And come to think of it, probably my children.  After all, it's not everyday you see your mother huddled naked over a toilet at 6pm, making the scariest noises you have ever heard, because her stomach is completely empty, yet she cannot stop heaving.  The last thing you, yourself, want to hear coming from behind you at that very moment, is a little voice saying "Mummy?".  You then turn around to see your curly-haired cherub standing there holding a teddy with her blue eyes full of tears.  Yep, that one's going to cost a lot to get resolved on the therapist's couch......

But whereas Israel finds public drunkenness silly, Australia finds it annoying, and America finds it criminal; Japan instead tolerates drunk idiots with compassion.  What other country can you imagine the cops giving a collapsed drunk a lift home after checking his license for his address.  My first week there, I was shocked to see an old man passed out on the top step of a flight of stairs at a train platform.  People were just stepping over him.  I thought he'd had a heart attack until I spotted his work colleagues pointing and laughing.  I then realised that no one (no matter what happened in WW2, Granny), could be that cold hearted.  Then, there was the young man I saw at 3am, still in his suit and holding his brief case, trying to walk through Shibuya train station.  All he could do was walk up and down on the spot with his eyes closed.  At that rate it could have taken him two weeks to get to platform 11, and I wanted to give him a little push just to help him along.  But it's better not to get involved.  I found this out the more unpleasant way, when my sister and I spotted yet another collapsed drunken businessman lying face-first on the footpath.  His hand was outstretched, and just beyond his open palm lay his mobile phone.  We lent over to pop it back into his hand, and that's when the smell hit the crowd.  Let me tell you, waking up in the morning in a crowded street, in your suit, with no phone, and pants full of poo is no way to start the day.....I often wonder how the poor bastard negotiated his way out of that one.....

But luckily I was not struck down by a nasty case of the chucks this morning, and was free to clean up play dough all day....Perhaps I should have faked it,  just to get a few precious minutes longer in bed....Next time I'll know better. I guess there's nothing left to do, except finally go to bed and pray, as I do every night, that my children don't end up like me.....

It's not looking good......

 

Lowlife Trash

Monday means a lot of varying things to a lot of different people - the start of the working week, day 1 of another failed diet,  or perhaps the second last day of that now regretted bender comedown after a large Saturday.  For myself, it means the day on which all the new trash mags hit the shelves.  Don't berate me, I'm already deeply ashamed of myself.  After all, it's me that had to suffer the recent humiliation of being sprung reading "Size 14 and Proud of It" - with pictures of celebrities arses all over the cover - by my partner's intellectual sister.  She's written a book on international law that is on the reading list for Harvard.  I, on the other hand, sometimes write a blog about poo and how much I hate airline staff......(plus I just spelt Harvard wrong and had to correct it on spell check)......

Speaking of Harvard.....the dux of her class makes a rare public appearance

Buying and reading trashy magazines is like a one night stand.  They seem so inviting when you're out staring at them from across the room (or supermarket).  But after you get them home and go through them like the cheap slut you are, you feel dirty and betrayed, and wish you had never gone there.  I've been hiding them under my bed lately due to my little guilty midnight indulgence when everyone has gone to bed.  Exactly like a shamefully regretted shag on the side.  Sometimes I try and move to a classier type....start something up with a Frankie or a Nylon.  But although much cooler and better looking, plus you don't have to try and smuggle it past your flatmates on the way in and out of your bedroom, it doesn't give you that same thrill - knowing you are doing something dirty.... and inexcusable in polite company.

And now speaking of someone dirty and inexcusable

The thing is, like a one nighter with some worthless dickwad, I know crapy magazines are shit.  They are bad for me, my finances and my mental and emotional development.  But I just can't help myself.  I have to come clean.  I LOVE the way those cheap fucks make me feel.......How can I resist the latest issue of "Stars Without Makeup" and scoffing over just how shit Rosie Huntington-Whatever looks like on her way to the gym.  I also know they tell lies to get me into the sack....."Brad and Ange to Wed in Secret Bisexual Den...not to mention the intimate details from the "insider" who gives exact details of the actual fight Brangelina had in the bedroom of their French Chateau about Maddox seeing a picture of Angie's lesbian lover on the Internet.

The love triangle that refuses to die

It's total bullshit of course.  But I (among others) am hypnotised by their charms, their shiny glossiness and their revealing promises.  When you do it with your other slutty friends, it's even better. You can discuss the sleaze together, and it makes you feel less shamed if you know other people have been seduced as well.  But where as trashy mags can be pathetic in their sincerity and compliments relating to worthless people, I more often enjoy the celebrity bashing offered by such sites as dlisted.com, and shows like Fashion Police.  This is where there is no mercy shown.  It may be mean, but by god is it funny.....


I once read an interesting article on why people indulge in this type of sordid celebrity voyeurism.  There were the assertions that we all feel disconnected from other people in our society, so we treat these people like acquaintances, and talk about them with familiarity like we're discussing mutual friends.  
"Oh my god, can you believe she is with him....he's such a knob, he was with that other chick at that premiere just last week"  
"I know and did you see what she was wearing.  She thinks she's so fricken hot since she went on that detox diet....scrag".  
There's also the theory, that because America has never had a royal family they have to elevate entertainers to some god-like status and photograph their every move and outfit.  Perhaps, but the celebrity obsession is no less in the UK.  It could be even more pronounced......There is even a disorder called Celebrity Worship Syndrome, and surprise surprise, this affliction is associated with poor mental health.  Then there are the people that refer to this celebrity fascination as schladenfreude - taking pleasure in the miseries of other people....trust the Germans to be the only people in the world to have one word for this.  We enjoy watching people sink lower and lower - getting dumped, crashing and burning, another trip to rehab.....or simply bad, bad hair.

How could you George?

Many people are sick of the "C" word, and I'm not talking about the big one in this case.  "Celebrity" has become such an overused word in our society.  Perhaps it has ceased to have meaning, to the point where it is suggested  that "Supercelebrity" should be employed.  This then could describe people that are actually interesting enough to warrant so much of society's attention.  It is a warped and fascinating thing, that people can be so admired and made wealthy, by releasing footage of themselves humping some other vaporous individual. Whereas, most of us could not name the last person who won the Nobel Peace Prize.  For everyone's knowledge (see, I can attempt to educate, as well as amuse and repulse....plus I just did a google search), it was  was awarded jointly to Tawakkol Karman, Leymah Gbowee and Ellen Johnson Sirleaf "for their non-violent struggle for the safety of women and for women’s rights to full participation in peace-building work" (whoever they are....put a sex tape out bitches and then you'll get some respect).

Do something with your hair love

One word...make-up

That head scarf is so 2011

Look, I know I'm leaving myself wide open to all of you Lateline, Media Watch-ing types that read The Economist.  I am impressed by the way....but I have one important question for you......have you seen the latest shots of Rianna doing coke off a bald guy's head? And, if so, do you think she's become a total tramp of late? Anyway, so what.....enjoy whatever you get up to in your free time.  Meanwhile, I'll go back to being a shameless trashy slut.  Why stop when it feels so good?

She still loves him!  It explains everything.....

Keeping abreast of it

As I was boarding my fight from Sydney to Melbourne a month or so ago, I was shocked to see a woman sitting in the aisle seat with her top off.  She looked exotic, so I was about to advise her that that just wasn't done in Australia, when I spotted the two little monkeys snuggling on her chest.  I say monkeys, because they actually did look like monkeys.  It's not uncommon.  Valli once resembled a baby orangutan, and my friends niece's nickname is "Chimpy".   Well hats off to her I guess.  I never really got into the double feed job in public.  I always thought it would involved taking your top completely off.  And apparently, it does.
I think I was so surprised at Tits Out Tuesday on the plane because I realised that in the last five weeks, and, once I came to think about it, in all my years in Japan, I had never seen a women breastfeeding in  public.  Never.  And it's not like there are no babies there.  That country has a population of 126 million.  I decided to investigate.

Apparently it's just not culturally acceptable (that lame excuse).  Japanese women rarely breastfeed in the ever watchful public eye, so there are a lot of "special rooms" provided in department stores and train stations for feeding. I was interested to read some of the responses on a forum discussing public breastfeeding in Japan.

 "its not... right. If you wouldn't expose yourself without out a baby, you shouldn't expose your self with one"

"i think you'll get discusted looks ANYWHERE no offense, but it's just not something you should do in public anywhere" (you also get "discusted" looks when you can't spell "discusted" Kate).

" i don't like babys crying in public, i dont like babys that much (see, it's not a stereotype, ignorant fucks can't spell and are therefore stupid, and apparently also mean) i think a mother should know it's rude not to keep her child calm." (however, according to this sensitive soul, breastfeeding should be done at home....so, I don't know how you keep a hungry baby calm....suffocation?).

Times sure have changed though.  According to good old Wikipedia, traditionally in Japan, weaning was often late, with breastfeeding in some cases continuing until early adolescence.  Hmmm, I wonder how that would go down on a train platform in peak hour.

This photo was removed from Facebook for being offensive

However, I knew the Americans were completely fucked up over this issue.  A friend of mine was harassed by a women when she breastfed her baby in a US restaurant.  Apparently the sight of a woman's breast was something so horrific, that  my friend was psychologically damaging the mental case's twelve year old son.  A scuffle broke out and my friend and her family were asked to leave the restaurant.  While trying to get out in a hurry, her husband accidentally upended the table.  That didn't go down well. I think they were lucky to get out without an arrest.  They're pretty trigger happy on the arrest over there.  Particularly for public disturbance.    However, on further investigation, it appears that breastfeeding in public is legal in all fifty states.  Yet, it still seems to be frowned upon publicly, and covering up is often expected.  According to many people this uncomfortable attitude to breastfeeding is due to the highly sexualised nature of the female breast.  Let me assure those people though, there is nothing sexy about your knockers when you're feeding a baby with them.  That actually could be the heart of the problem.  Those bloody babies even ruin boob imagery forever.

Cow and Gate are a baby milk and food company

A UK Department of Health survey found that 84% find breastfeeding in public acceptable if done discreetly; however, 67% mothers are worried about general opinion being against public breastfeeding.  This is surprising to me.  I honestly thought it was "get them out day or night", after I once saw a woman strolling in the streets of London feeding her baby.  I was impressed at her co-ordination.  Who knew you could shop, talk on your mobile, and feed your baby simultaneously.  Something to aspire to.

How beautiful...now where's the curdled puke all over her yellow frock?

I must admit though, as my first overseas breastfeeding experience was to be in a Muslim country,  I was uneasy.  Terrified a flash of my nipple might result in a public shaming (or worse), I carried a huge cotton scarf at all times and would make a kind of tent, while practicing my good old trusty "no eye contact" rule.  I had to bring this into play as soon as we arrived at the Marrakesh airport.  Chalks was on his way into the city to deal with car rental issues, and my sister and I sat in an open cafe at the airport, trying to act casual, while I was completely encased in a scarf, and surrounded by staring men.  Little did I know that breastfeeding is celebrated there, and the starers were patiently waiting for me to finish so that they could say "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" and snap their fingers in the girl's faces.  Moroccans love a baby.  Also, according to the Koran, any breast feeder is headed straight for paradise, so they probably wanted to congratulate me on the good news.

My dear scarfy 

I did love that scarf though.  It was my best friend for months.  Even on the plane I could actually use my battery powered breast pump under old cotton stripy.  The noise of the engines meant I could go undetected as long as I sat in a window seat.  The most unusual place I pumped, was in the toilets on the Jordon/Israeli border.  It was a 'pump and dump' effort though, as the girls were sitting pretty in Tel Aviv with their Daddy.  My sister and I had taken a day trip to Petra, there was no way I could wait until midnight to relieve that kind of pressure..  When I came out of the toilet there was an old Jordanian woman staring at me in confusion.  I tried to do a little mime of what that strange noise coming from the toilet stall had been.  I've never seen anyone look more disturbed before.  She actually ran out when I produced the apparatus.  I was scared she'd gone for the police, and as I crossed into Jordon and saw a truck with a giant machine gun mounted on the roof pointed directly at me, I wished I'd checked the rule book.

The Kormans and the Corn Man in Marrakesh

If you're travelling to countries with young babies where you can't trust the water, and therefore can't make any formula as back up, things can be a little stressful.  Especially if you struggle with supply.....and have two babies.  Then, the actual stress of worrying you can't feed your children affects your supply.  It' s a self-fulfilling prophecy of worry.  However, if you don't mind being awake most of the night and feeding the poor starving little buggers you'll be just fine.  I did mind.  But I coped. As you do.

Morocco was amazing.  However, I have bad memories associated with the place (and I'm not just referring to the almost near canyon plummet I discussed last week).  I'd like to go back there when I'm not dealing with early motherhood.  I think three months old, was just too young for a Moroccan Twin Travelling adventure in retrospect.  But, as we were leaving the country I saw a young dreadlocked mother in front of me with a baby that looked less than a month old.  "How was it I" asked (all pale, eye-bagged, grey-haired, and dehydrated).  "Such an incredibly spiritual adventure" she replied, all happy and fresh.  I decked her........I hate those happy, well rested types that cope with ease.

Stressful...just so stressful....help me

Carrying either breast milk or sterilised water (for formula mixing) through airports differs in various counties.  In the States they test each bottle carefully with little strips.  In Japan they unscrew the lid and then kind of waft it many times into their faces.  But, in the UK, I was actually made to sip my own breast milk at security.  This is how the cockney security guard explained it to me....
"Alright luv?  Now we make you sip it, not your littlel'n, because if that stuff in there, is for blowing up the plane right, then you won't mind poisoning 'em now yeah.  Know what I'm saying luv yeah?...If you're goin' to blow your kiddies into a million bloody pieces anyway, who cares if they drink poison now right, yeah? But you're not going to want to poison yourself now, because you need to stay alive get the job done right?  Nuff said yeah? Know what I'm saying?"
Not in any way mate, just give me the bloody bottle....ahhhh, nothing like sipping your own warm bosom juices in a crowded airport when you're running late for aircraft boarding.

So there we go.  Breastfeeding is universally accepted activity, so get with the program and shun the non believer.  If you want to stand firm, and can be bothered defending yourself against a few ridiculous people, then get those boobs out, right out.  However, if you want to fly under the radar - and are prepared to sacrifice your true belief that boobs on display rule, just be a gutless wimp like me, and employ a large soft scarf.  It can double as a sling, a stroller cover against light or sun, a warm blanket, a rug, a hijab - in case you wander into a ultra religious area and are facing a stoning, or a temporary vessel for slagging a mouthful of your own breast milk into.....Lets celebrate! It's Tits Out Tuesday everyday of the week....

Those chubby cheeks didn't come from nowhere....