tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53973589238994489092024-03-13T18:38:28.695+11:00But I digress ...Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.comBlogger282125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-49782902723353920742018-10-18T16:56:00.000+11:002018-10-18T18:17:12.082+11:00Mighty shitey - our new canine house guest"I don't bloody well believe it!"<br />
<br />
I looked at the steaming pile of mustard-coloured runny dog poo on the carpet. The second Louie had done this morning, and he'd had a walk in between where he relieved himself of a similar squittery load. That made three. Three!<br />
<br />
Louie isn't ours. He belongs to my friend V and we're minding him while V and her husband and extended family take themselves off on a cruise for nearly two weeks. I say 'we' but it's mainly me this week as G is away.<br />
<br />
"He's a good dog," V said, "He won't poo in the house, he'll go to the door and tell you he wants to go out. Or he'll jump on the bed at night and lick you and ask you to take him out." (I winced at that last bit of news; Ellie has learned to sleep through the night and yawns and stretches herself awake at whatever time we do.)<br />
<br />
Yeah, right. Our house, with its new carpet, is starting to resemble a dog toilet. Thank God the carpet is pet proof and stains etc come out with cold water.<br />
<br />
Louie is a worry. He's been with us a week and didn't crap at all for the first two days, earning the nickname of No Shit Sherlock. Nerves, we thought. Now we can't bloody stop him, and I wouldn't mind if it were solid turds easily collected with toilet paper. Nope, it's runny. Nerves. Again. Even though he came to us with a bottle of Rescue Remedy to pop on his food to keep him calm.<br />
<br />
He did the first of the runny jobs yesterday, in the living room. I found it at breakfast. It was small enough and in the same sort of place that our toy poodle Ellie sometimes poos if we're out and not home in time. So I didn't know who to blame. Ellie looked guilty (which means nothing, she knows if I see a turd on the carpet I shout a bit in general) but I said nothing to either dog and simply swore under my breath as I cleaned it. When I took both dogs for a stroll yesterday afternoon it was clear that Louie was the one with the squits. The mustard yellow, pungent squits. Great.<br />
<br />
This morning's job was clearly Louie's. Our poodle girl couldn't have produced that massive mound and that mustard colour gave it away.<br />
<br />
The second of today's indoor turds lay steaming on the floor of our rumpus room, greeting me after I went out this morning for a mere hour. By then Louie had had a walk and cleaned himself out so I thought he was 'safe' in the house. Silly me.<br />
<br />
I had a big debate with myself - and the dogs - yesterday about what to do for the evening, aside from take Louie out last thing before bed.<br />
<br />
Louie sleeps indoors, you see. He's about the size of a large cocker spaniel, and suffers with separation anxiety if he's locked outside. I tried shutting him in the kitchen during the day as a means of containing him on a floor that would be easy to clean but that lasted five minutes. Even with a doorstop behind the sliding door he'd opened it quick as a flash and joyfully came into my office with a happily waving tail and a look of accomplishment on his face.<br />
<br />
I decided in the end I'd leave the door to the balcony open overnight. That way if he got caught short in the wee small hours he could wander out and lift a leg or squat. Every dog we've owned and every visiting dog has peed or worse out there and it's easy to hose off. The whole balcony probably smells beguilingly of <i>eau du chien</i> if you're a dog, so the temptation to add his own smell would encourage Louis to do it there.<br />
<br />
With a slight worry about burglars - but thinking the sight of Louie and possibly Ellie out on the balcony barking would put them off - I went to bed and couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned until 1am, with three storms between 9.30 and then, and Louie getting upset at each of them and occasionally racing onto the balcony to bark then coming back inside with wet, dirty paws (sob!! First the shit, now the mud!!!).<br />
<br />
So you can imagine my delight when I found the poo in the living room this morning, after leaving the door open for the bloody dog to use.<br />
<br />
I hope his bowels settle by tomorrow as he was still doing mustard on his walk after dinner tonight. We have him for another week. All I can do is feed him plain food and keep taking him outside, but oh dear, the nights worry me. I don't want another seven nights of shite. When I stumble to the loo myself barefoot at 3am, eyes mainly closed, I don't want to tread in anything squishy and smelly and probably warm (would cold be better? Probably not.).<br />
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />
Louie now has a new nickname. Bluey. Not just because he's chestnut coloured and we Aussies call redheads Blue to be contrary, but because he has a new last name: Zarzoff.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-70641031242817232932018-05-02T17:00:00.000+10:002018-05-02T17:00:21.266+10:00Hypnotherapy? My mother would have snorted. But that's why I went.I had a very loving Mum. Loving, sometimes, to the point of smothering. Of over controlling, particularly when I was younger. I was reading an article earlier this week about toxic parents (naturally, I can't find it now) and was sorta kinda surprised, but not much, to find a paragraph describing some of her behaviour to a T. She wasn't super toxic, but toxic enough to make me a secretive person who made my decisions behind her back rather than have her make them for me. Which she was very good at.<br />
<br />
I miss her. She mellowed when I got married and clearly realised I was finally a big girl and was capable. She's been gone four years.<br />
<br />
Since my teens I have played out conversations in my head with her. Conversations in which I finally get the upper hand. You'll understand this didn't happen often in real life. Mum was ALWAYS right. She'd just wear me down until I gave up.<br />
<br />
Even with Mum not here any more, I was still having those conversations, or remembering particularly hard ones that took place, and actual arguments. It was getting me down. I couldn't shift them. I couldn't move on.<br />
<br />
Coupled with doing work that no longer floats my boat (graphic and web design, managing a chamber of commerce) I was pretty well down in the dumps at the end of January when the work started to flow in again and I was trapped at the bloody computer.<br />
<br />
Ach, you say. Chuck it in and do something else. Easier said than done. I'm not qualified for anything else, but I've been doing a lot of professional cat sitting recently and that may well become my new earner.<br />
<br />
All through January I did cat sitting, and a more zen role I can't think of. Mid-February I felt like crying every time a new email came in. So a friend who'd also been in a terribly bad way (read: borderline suicidal) put me onto her hypnotherapist, a lovely woman who had helped my friend do a complete 180 in terms of mood. My friend is now rocking life and taking bad news in her stride; after a shocking start to the year she's coping well and being positive.<br />
<br />
Now Mum was scathing of therapists - after all, why would you want to talk to a stranger when you could nut your problems out with your family, your mother? Hmm, but what if your mother was your problem? Or part of your problem, along with low self-esteem and self-love and a lot of anger as I'm too passive/aggressive.<br />
<br />
So I saw the hypno. I had my first session six weeks ago and have felt subtle but positive changes. The Mum conversations have gone; if I feel one coming on I remember happy times, giggles with Mum, holidays and love instead. I'm calmer within myself. I'm calmer with inanimate objects such as my computer (and believe me, that's HUGE!).<br />
<br />
I'm wondering if the yoga has also contributed to the calmness. I no longer get irate with other motorists unless they do something really stupid which jeopardises my safety. In Sydney that's a daily occurrence but these days I ignore the dopes who don't indicate and those with other small misdemeanours. But I digress ...<br />
<br />
The hypno has tried to instil a self of strong self-worth, and I think it's happening. I saw her again today and she said she could see and feel a real change in me and my energy. We did another session which worked on me feeling more powerful and loving towards myself and my body conquering and getting rid of my psoriasis (let's hope that one works, it's shocking at the moment). I certainly went well under today, far deeper than the first session.<br />
<br />
The only snag is the recording on my phone stopped of its own accord 11 minutes in. I'm giggling at the thought that perhaps Mum was there and stopped it! Anyway the hypno is going to re-record it and Dropbox it to me.<br />
<br />
I'm hoping this is the year I can become the me I was always supposed to be, not the one I was told to be. Old habits die hard but I think my hypno is killing them softly.<br />
<br />
<br />Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-82142889446833244742018-04-12T21:06:00.000+10:002018-04-12T21:06:02.353+10:00When your hair defines you. Or shaving your head does.I was wandering around YouTube this week looking for hairstyles for fine hair, like mine. Mind is currently just longer than chin length and I'm contemplating going for a pixie again. But I digress. Somehow I wound up watching a video by a young woman who had gorgeous long hair (the kind of hair a saddo fine-haired person like me lusts over). YouTube can lead you in directions you had no original intent of following!<br />
<br />
This young woman lamented she was mainly known as The Girl With The Very Long Hair among her peers. It was as if nobody tried to find out more about her as a person; her hair defined her.<br />
<br />
So she shaved her head.<br />
<br />
Her hair had been down to her backside. Brave girl. And she rocked the stubble look when it was done, she was gorgeous. But one thing was missing from the video. What did people say about her afterwards? Did they mention her personality when talking about her? Her likes and dislikes? What she laughed at, what she despised? Was she still defined by her hair - or rather, lack of it?<br />
<br />
It led me to draw this little story. And no, her name is not Freya. I plucked that out of the ether.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3WcR37MnCsA0vMQT7mhjb4xTEqNDq7_Rpgpxg8h0KjIuYCkwftwb1Tk7feP3kWSXYmm2IkKKZ9DCHeidUTbhZ9CATaEtIKRBFnveSzTYULMkoepT-XcsDBfMQPp7M4plyBLmNp4oJh_nB/s1600/IMG_1525.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Freya shaved her head" border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1111" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3WcR37MnCsA0vMQT7mhjb4xTEqNDq7_Rpgpxg8h0KjIuYCkwftwb1Tk7feP3kWSXYmm2IkKKZ9DCHeidUTbhZ9CATaEtIKRBFnveSzTYULMkoepT-XcsDBfMQPp7M4plyBLmNp4oJh_nB/s640/IMG_1525.jpg" title="" width="444" /></a></div>
<br />Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-81745015632051190562018-03-06T17:25:00.001+11:002018-03-06T17:25:57.383+11:00Coffee and Yoga. Mind, body and spirit.When I order coffee at a cafe it's usually an espresso. That little cup of black gold, black magic, call it what you will. If I'm feeling particularly enamoured of the idea of darkness, I'll order a double short black.<br />
<br />
It's something that's been a treat from time to time as until recently we didn't have a coffee machine at home. We had a French press and I got rather sick of the mug with milk that was our typical morning tea.<br />
<br />
A friend gave me a coffee machine, new old stock, 8 years old and never used. I suspect some plastic pipes inside it had perished or died, as I persevered for a few days, cleaned it, followed all the instructions and never got anything better than dark sludge out of it.<br />
<br />
So I bit my lip, mentally apologised to the environment, and bought a wee Nespresso machine. Reader, I know I'm bad. Those pods take forever to decompose. You can't recycle them. But the bliss of popping one in, touching the button and watching an espresso materialise before my eyes, for one fifth of the cost of a cafe one! And I can have one EVERY DAY. I wouldn't walk to our local cafe every day and hand over $4.50 - my espresso was a weekend treat only.<br />
<br />
Thankfully there are several brands of compatible pods, and the Vittoria espresso is nicely dark and deep and strong. L'Or isn't bad, either.<br />
<br />
And my husband now makes his own flat whites for morning tea and is in heaven.<br />
<br />
So what a tasty start to the year we've had.<br />
<br />
Coffee cheers my spirit, in moderation is good for the body and gives my mind that little jolt to cheer it up when it doesn't feel like doing work at the computer.<br />
<br />
Which segueways nicely into yoga. Now yoga is arguably much better for the mind, body and spirit, and I've taken that up recently. Like, last week, officially. I had been teaching myself from magazines and YouTube and websites, but I bit the bullet and joined a fitness centre that teaches yoga, pilates and barre.<br />
<br />
I've decided I'll try and do 3 yoga classes a week, 1 pilates and 1 barre, as they are the only ones that fit in with my schedule - i.e., doing it during business hours. I have no desire to head out at 6am or fight peak hour traffic and overfull classes at 6pm when I'm getting hungry. I'm treating yoga as work - work on myself!<br />
<br />
So far I'm loving it; I'm doing yin yoga and hatha yoga. While I do a fitness class on Fridays (bodyweight, light weights and cardio) which makes me realise just what muscles I've used, I'm getting complaints from muscles on a daily basis, but only mildly. It's all good.<br />
<br />
I'm feeling a bit calmer - I think! The one bad thing about the yoga place is parking. It's in a shopping strip where the main car park is being redeveloped so parking is at a premium. Last Friday I was driving for 20 minutes around and around the other car park areas there desperate for a spot, almost screaming and my blood pressure going through the roof as I didn't want to be late for my class. I had allowed for 15 minutes to find a park. This rather negates all the good yoga does for my mind, body and spirit I suspect!<br />
<br />
My neighbour put me onto the yoga centre as she has recently joined it too, so at least she'll be coming to some of the same classes and urging me to go if I'm feeling lazy or depressed and don't want to leave the house.<br />
<br />
I've noticed another difference in my mental state - I want or NEED to do some sort of exercise every day now. Either yoga, pilates, barre or a good brisk walk. For this little sloth, that's a very good thing indeed.<br />
<br />
And if yoga doesn't perk me up, fresh espresso will!Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-14840950546834751362018-01-16T18:42:00.001+11:002018-01-16T19:47:01.776+11:00The joys of that first swim of summerOK, it's been summer here for a while but I've been busy cat sitting as well as being lazy on my annual break. But it's time to talk about swimming. Some people swim all year. Summer or winter, they disrobe and don the bathers and hop into the gym pool, or council pool, (always indoors and reeking disgustingly of chlorine) and laboriously do laps and laps of freestyle, backstroke, butterfly or whatever takes their fancy.<br />
<br />
That's hard work. Needless to say, that's not me.<br />
<br />
The laps are hard work but also disrobing when you know it's single figures outside, or at least well under 20 degrees. Eww. And the chlorine puts me off. Not only for olfactory reasons, but my psoriasis hates it.<br />
<br />
No, for me swimming is a purely summer pleasure concerning salt water only, and thus to be looked forward to immensely. It is, for me, the best part of summer, which is usually too hot for me to get decent sleep or exercise after 7am.<br />
<br />
I don't swim at a gym or council pool. I don't do laps. I do enjoyment at my local river baths or at one of Sydney's beaches, with or without surf.<br />
<br />
It's all about the sheer joy of being enveloped in, and moving in, cool water on a hot day.<br />
<br />
It was nearly two months ago when I slipped into the silken, calm, warm water at Balmoral beach for the first time this summer. It always surprises me, small-brained creature that I am, that immediately I'm in the water I become a mermaid or an otter, totally at home with the concept of propelling myself around with arms and legs, playing no-touch-the-ground with the sand. I don't even think about it.<br />
<br />
There's a joyous weightlessness about swimming. In the water, I'm my sylph-like 20-something again, rather than a 55 year old trying to kill off the last 5 kilos that will take me back to my 30 year old weight. I feel energised, young, and, cellulite or not, gorgeous.<br />
<br />
It's something to do with the sun on my skin, the salt water, the feel of sand beneath my feet (and at the unnetted part of Balmoral, the knowledge I'm shark bait. That sharpens you up).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLrF3kASXwzQDN8S1jVb1p_OBZvQ30Ac0lEBW-nAZvYE3AedX_vb6Xu_fEtz5xetwKt56Xpv_Uaze7kfF31lM-PcXfWEAUrTzQWqLInFfAEy-zuGfsRg_IlNEq7ZaxG-svdI6wWQkEj05d/s1600/2017-11-24+14.12.34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLrF3kASXwzQDN8S1jVb1p_OBZvQ30Ac0lEBW-nAZvYE3AedX_vb6Xu_fEtz5xetwKt56Xpv_Uaze7kfF31lM-PcXfWEAUrTzQWqLInFfAEy-zuGfsRg_IlNEq7ZaxG-svdI6wWQkEj05d/s320/2017-11-24+14.12.34.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Balmoral Beach, Mosman, Sydney. In November, few people were swimming during the week.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
That first swim was definitely the Ahhhhhh moment. The water, at low tide, was warmed by the sun but I didn't have to go out far for my feet to no longer touch the sand. I did some exercises using my limbs against the heaviness of the water, I swam back and forth, I lay on my back and drank in the sun, the salt, the happy shrieks of children on the beach, and I felt totally at peace.<br />
<br />
So during the summer I lazily swim in the river baths five minutes away or Balmoral, fifteen metres here or there of freestyle, or my own creations, sculling like a rower on my back or doing an underwater dog paddle sort of thing with my head out of the water. In the baths at high tide I dive or bomb from one of the platforms - bombing takes me back to my 11 year old self, the one who was unselfconscious.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1es2syaOxVMQxT6Fc88qeI8LnfcrPv_0RW7rZyWLzfWka-L_XiVzFsj2jn7KsW9tZz1gkgxpmlO3OpC9VqMfMsZcFg5D_9Haji0sSE9Q0DdmoWWT6AyoULnp8JgNKdU5zJPrX0R0cy6GM/s1600/2017-02-12+11.33.13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1es2syaOxVMQxT6Fc88qeI8LnfcrPv_0RW7rZyWLzfWka-L_XiVzFsj2jn7KsW9tZz1gkgxpmlO3OpC9VqMfMsZcFg5D_9Haji0sSE9Q0DdmoWWT6AyoULnp8JgNKdU5zJPrX0R0cy6GM/s320/2017-02-12+11.33.13.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our local river baths.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
One thing I don't like is putting my face in the water to swim; never have. My eyes hate it and I forget to breathe properly. When I dive or bomb my eyes are squeezed shut and don't open until my head pops up out of the water. I can manage very well with goggles and a snorkel however.<br />
<br />
In the surf I love to feel the waves pounding against me. The big ones, eyes firmly squeezed shut, I dive under. The lesser I jump up with, lifted high and often with my arms wide and a big grin on my face. Then there are those that I body surf, or surf with a boogie board. And of course I mistime it here and there and get dumped by the surf, rolled along the sand clamping my eyes and nose shut, trying not to breathe until I'm rolled unceremoniously onto the shore (to the delight of teenagers). An hour in the surf, pushing and pulling against the tide, is hard work. We usually take our surf beach days in two 30 minute swims in the morning. That's enough to work up a huge appetite for lunch at a local cafe. (We love North Narrabeen beach by the way. My grandparents lived there when I was a kid and it's always felt like home.) My skin feels amazing after an hour in the surf, and so does my mind.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmL5ASH1c2f7AEXXGBheJlo7PTbX-y8kvs0C7DfcY_wbKKMQQfLGKYohPiCOOktYDYWSc9xUVUo6wXpK3Ldw5OTsVqurOdb-1fu5BRAotrum7LG6wkOUmiE1y00Ec2G6PdDK67np_d7b_J/s1600/2016-12-29+08.48.41.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmL5ASH1c2f7AEXXGBheJlo7PTbX-y8kvs0C7DfcY_wbKKMQQfLGKYohPiCOOktYDYWSc9xUVUo6wXpK3Ldw5OTsVqurOdb-1fu5BRAotrum7LG6wkOUmiE1y00Ec2G6PdDK67np_d7b_J/s320/2016-12-29+08.48.41.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">North Narrabeen, 9am on a Sunday. Bring it on!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Summer, I love you. When I'm in the water.Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-75229642349571576192018-01-14T11:42:00.002+11:002018-01-14T11:42:56.915+11:00So she slept through my New Year's Eve party ...Every New Year's Eve we have a party. Not a huge one, typically between 12 - 20 people. Because we live reasonably near the harbour and rivers, we pile into cars at midnight and head down to the riverside to watch the famous Sydney fireworks, then pile back in again, come home and the party starts to wind down.<br />
<br />
Whingy, when she is in Sydney for NYE, expects (and gets) an invite to the party. The years she does come, she absents herself around 9.45 and goes inside to have a nap on our sofa until 11.30. This year was no different except that Mr Whingy also nicked off for a nap - into the spare bedroom.<br />
<br />
Their excuse? They'd been up since 7am. Me, I'd been up since 5.30am as I had 8 cat sit visits to do, plus make food for the party. Did I nap? Nope. Didn't have the opportunity in the afternoon and wasn't tired until after midnight.<br />
<br />
I do think it's the height of rudeness to leave a party and have a nap in the middle of it (unless you're over 75 and feeling it). One of my other guests joining us for the first time, Posh, was horrified. "Does she do that every year?" she gasped, looking at Whingy on the sofa.<br />
<br />
"Yup," I replied sadly.<br />
<br />
"How bloody rude!"<br />
<br />
My girlfriends Posh and Ms America felt that Whingy thought they were boring if she had to nick off for a sleep. They felt insulted. Old girlfriend Sushi has been to my NYE party for the last 20 years and knew what to expect from Whingy, though. She was amused rather than insulted, but surprised that Whingy hadn't asked for the music to be turned off so she could sleep in peace. Or rather, simply turn it off herself.<br />
<br />
The rudeness didn't stop there. In 2017 we finally replaced our 30 year old sofa. The new one is a couple of centimetres longer. However, Whingy didn't think so. She complained the new sofa wasn't as long as the last one and she couldn't stretch out as much to have a sleep.<br />
<br />
I hope the Whingies go interstate for this year's NYE. I can't NOT invite them to my party or there will be fireworks that put the Sydney NYE ones to shame. And I can't say to Whingy, "Do you mind not having a nap in the middle of my party as other guests feel insulted?" or she'll accuse ME of rudeness.<br />
<br />
If only narcissists could see their real selves when they look in the mirror.Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-7309337979741190122017-10-31T19:06:00.000+11:002017-10-31T19:06:15.815+11:00The everyday life of a cat sitterSo I haven't blogged here since July. Shame on me. But time flies when you're having fun.<br />
<br />
And having fun I have had. I've taken on a lot more cat sitting work, and boy, let me tell you, it's the most stress-free role I've ever had.<br />
<br />
Okay, so there's a lot of driving around, which, depending on the time of day, isn't exactly stress-free, especially when you encounter drivers who seem to have picked their driver's licence out of a cereal packet. But my feline clients for the most part are a joy.<br />
<br />
In the last few months I've only come close to being attacked once. By a cat I'll call Sybil. In fact I'll call her Syko Sybil. (Which looks better on paper than Psycho Sybil.) Here's a cat with personality plus. One personality is nice and normal. The other, the evil twin side, can take the lead in a second. Snarls, growls, hisses and threats. For no particular reason. She's healthy, before you ask. She gets regularly checked by the vet, but she's a rescue cat and who knows what went on in her life before her owner took her home and gave her unconditional love (and probably got scratched and bitten a lot since then).<br />
<br />
Some cats are ambivalent. "Oh, you've come to feed me. Good. Feed me and I'll bugger off and sleep somewhere. Cheers." They eat, ignore you patting them and encouraging them to come for a cuddle, and stalk off. Cats will be cats.<br />
<br />
Some are love bunnies, and it's these I enjoy the most. They miss their humans and want contact. Pats, strokes, cuddles, brushing. I have heard purrs in every key, and been climbed on and head butted by dozens of joyful furbabies who enjoy my company as much as I enjoy theirs.<br />
<br />
The most rewarding in the last few months has been a pair of Sphynx brothers. I'll call them Da Boyz. I've never really been excited by the idea of a basically hairless cat. Photos show them wrinkled and often, it seems, with a frown on their face. I thought touching them would be weird. It is, in a nice kind of way. They are covered in peach fuzz. Their feet, bony and prehensile, are strangely enchanting. They are agile and very smart; think of a cat who thinks it's a monkey. Their tails are like whips; thin and tapered, and they curl them up elegantly against their flanks when they sit. Waiting for their food, standing up and yelling at me, their tails quiver expectantly.<br />
<br />
I've minded Da Boyz twice. The first time was only for a few days and they were keen to tell me they wanted food, and didn't mind the odd pat. But no cuddles thanks. Feed us, clean up after us and we'll watch you and get a bit closer each day.<br />
<br />
This month I've had them again, for two and a half weeks on and off. And things have changed between us. Firstly Smaller Boy decided he'd hop up on my knee for a cuddle after food, and he did, nestling his very warm body against mine and purring furiously. His bigger brother watched from on top of a cupboard for a couple of days and then decided it was his turn.<br />
<br />
Well. Big Brother has been the most affectionate cat I've ever minded. After feeding (and settling himself for a pee on the toilet - they are both trained to pee over a human loo) he would run to the sofa and jump up, yelling at me to get my butt over there too. Then he'd settle on my knee, firstly kneading me, then marking me by rubbing his head all over the front of my clothing. I'll never wear a white t-shirt to his place again! He would gently touch my cheeks with a soft paw, and lie in my arms like a baby, purring furiously and gazing lovingly into my eyes.<br />
<br />
I found I was really looking forward to visiting Da Boyz each day as they were so engaging and loving. After a bit you don't miss the fur; you just cuddle the warm feline body and get smooched and adored in return.<br />
<br />
Their owner is a lovely person too; I contact all owners with updates and pics daily, and some respond at length and others don't. Da Boyz's owner is as outgoing and delightful as the cats.<br />
<br />
Then there's Chubby Girl The Food Obsessed, who has to have her food measured out in timer bowls which go off at intervals so she doesn't binge eat. She's a butterball and on a strict diet but somehow doesn't seem to lose weight. She's quite affectionate and playful. Her friend Timid Tom on the other hand hides in a cupboard and has his food in a special bowl than will only open to the chip embedded in his collar so Chubby Girl can't steal it. My role with him is to leave the food out and just check he's okay; Chubby likes a brushing and for me to throw balls for her, or some kibble, so she gets exercise by chasing it, preferably up the stairs.<br />
<br />
I have, for my sins, agreed to work for four hours on Christmas Day doing cat sitting. The owner of the cat sitting biz has mobility issues and can't handle places with stairs, whereas I look on stairs as fitness aids. My husband G is ok with this, as we're having seafood for lunch rather than the whole baked turkey thing, but it's going to feel weird heading out to work on the country's Big Day Off. But if I don't feed these little sweeties, who will? It's not as if cats celebrate Christmas.Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-80065116411132229792017-07-20T15:28:00.001+10:002017-07-20T15:28:28.795+10:00Dog daysIt's winter in Sydney, and what a winter! Bright, sparkling sunny days, warm and delicious in the sun, cold at night so you can snuggle under a duvet without getting too hot.<br />
<br />
Because it's still getting dark early, I have moved into my winter routine. I stop work around 3.30, gather our two dogs and take them to an off-leash area five minutes' drive from home. I can work then when it's dark until it's time to cook dinner.<br />
<br />
I could walk there, but our older dog Rose the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel is twelve now, arthritic and easily tired. She's delighted to go in the car to her favourite spot, but doesn't run around with other dogs any more; she simply stays at my side or toddles at my heels and has the odd trot around.<br />
<br />
Ellie our toy poodle is eleven months old and is delirious with excitement when I let her out of the car.<br />
<br />
Because the parking lot is usually pretty empty on weekdays I park at the same spot, near the entrance and she's down the path and onto the grass before I've even shut the car door.<br />
<br />
My, my, she's fast. Our little racehorse, chasing anything that moves. Pestering pigeons in the park, I paraphrase, after the song Poisoning Pigeons In The Park.<br />
<br />
A happy soul, she easily makes friends with dogs of all sizes and ages. She has rumbled with a Briard sheepdog four times her size, and has endless fun with Cavoodles, who are apparently the dog du jour around here. I know at least five different regular Cavoodles who frequent the park.<br />
<br />
It lifts my heart to see her have such fun, to watch her lithe body transform from a black ball of fluff into a lean, mean, galloping machine, tail used as a rudder, ears flying back behind her head.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwzalkz-5d0SxJcDBFk04KWvKJxDBHvxVRttzGfuzhgCMOVJ5QdcJoXac6199FHKtCITzfpbMVzB6RyItTEOA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
After the first minute or two she'll gallop back to me, do a circle and around me, and be off again. She's always clocking where I am, and always comes back to me for reassurance, pats, the odd treat.<br />
<br />
I love doing this in winter as the days are cool and she can run like fury without getting too hot. There are fewer people there in winter and most of them have dogs; the serious dog people. Unlike summer, when you get picnickers, fisher folk, teenage lovers, sailors and heaps of kids.<br />
<br />
Summer is a different story; muggy and hot unless the breeze is blowing from the right direction. The dogs pant and I get sweaty when we go for our walk around the point. I love the winter dog days. The coolth. The warm coat, and perhaps a scarf. And most of all the energy of Ellie.Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-80847838508732286692017-07-12T16:46:00.002+10:002017-07-12T16:46:32.918+10:00The forgotten women - over 60, single and brokeI was thinking earlier today about three women friends who are all in the same boat: over sixty, single/divorced, childless, and with not much money or income to their name despite running their own businesses. One in particular, who doesn't own her own place, is looking down the barrel of a pretty dismal retirement, assuming she can ever afford to.<br />
<br />
There's a theory by <a href="https://barefootinvestor.com/" target="_blank">The Barefoot Investor </a>that one can retire quite happily with $250K in superannuation, get the aged pension (part or full depending on your savings) and work maybe one or two days a week (both for a bit of extra cash and to keep your mind active).<br />
<br />
That's fine but my three friends don't have $250K in super. Luckily one owns her own apartment. She also has more in super than the others, so I think she'll be better off. Let's call her Sherry. Sherry started her biz eight years ago after taking redundancy from her employer. Sherry now has a disability so will be getting financial assistance from the National Disability Insurance Scheme. Her quality of life is going to get worse as time goes on, however, so Sherry needs to assess where she is going to live as she is likely to be in a wheelchair sometime in the next couple of years.<br />
<br />
Friend number two, who we'll call Shona, hasn't paid off her house. Her partner left her two years ago after 20 years and Shona apparently doesn't have access to her partner's super. She doesn't have enough super of her own to survive on, so she's keeping on with her struggling biz and hoping that when she reaches pension age in about two years' time she'll own her house. She's renting the house out at the moment to pay it off, and living in the granny flat.<br />
<br />
Friend number three, we'll call her Sue, is the worst off of the lot. She had to dig into her super early to pay for major surgery. Divorced many years ago, she got a rough deal out of the marriage and has never owned her own house. Her beautician business is struggling but at 65 she's applied for the pension to make ends meet. I worry how she's going to survive in Sydney with rental prices skyrocketing. At the moment Sue is doing a long term house sit and not paying any rent. She is considering house sitting as a way of life or becoming a companion to an elderly woman. She doesn't want to move from Sydney.<br />
<br />
If I have three friends in my relatively small group of friends who are in this position, I wonder and worry how many more women are in the same boat? How many have been ditched by their partners for someone younger (poor Shona!)? How many are worrying that when they retire they won't be able to pay the rent? How many will have to consider moving out of a major city such as Sydney and Melbourne, leaving their friends and maybe family, and moving to a country town where rents are cheaper but where they may miss the city life and culture?<br />
<br />
Women's wages have always been less than that of males so women have a rough deal to begin with when it comes to saving for their retirement, on the whole.<br />
<br />
Well, you may say, why do these women continue persisting with struggling businesses? Can't they get a job? Huh!!! Despite the government urging employers to take on the over-50s, it's VERY hard for women over sixty to get a job unless they are highly qualified. These days qualifications are everything; a single degree hardly counts any more. To be in the running for a white collar management job you need a double degree at least. Shona has part time work in addition to running her business but can't find a full-time job in the region where she lives.<br />
<br />
This is a generation of single women who are going to find their retirement years extremely tough - particularly if they haven't paid their home off. When these women started in the workforce, superannuation contributions from employers weren't compulsory. It's likely many women will have started a super contribution late in their working life. For those entrepreneurs who have their own small and struggling business, you can bet the contributions will be lower than that paid by an employer.<br />
<br />
I think we are going to hear a lot more about the plight of 'forgotten women' in the next ten years as they hit pension age and rents continue to rise. It breaks my heart.Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-32353516762654341452017-07-11T09:54:00.000+10:002017-07-11T18:04:45.499+10:00Buying into Buy Nothing - confessions of a shopping addictSo Buy Nothing is a thing. I get it. We live in a very consumerist society. Advertising is everywhere; on the tv, radio, print media, social media and websites and of course emails. It's overwhelming.<br />
<br />
Use Facebook and ads will pop up for anything and everything, usually targetted to your age and gender. Visit any number of websites and you'll find an ad for something you searched for on Google recently (I'm sure there's a way to stop my search data being used like that but I can't be arsed finding it out). <i>Click me,</i> they urge, <i>go on - click!</i><br />
<br />
As I have a bulging wardrobe and every kitchen utensil known to man, I committed to stop shopping on 1 July 2017 for a minimum of three months with the aim of stretching it to twelve months.<br />
<br />
I confess to being somewhat of a shopping addict. In addition to food and toiletries, I buy clothes, shoes, makeup, books, music and sometimes household goods on a regular basis. The woman at my local dress shop calls me her best customer, although I've been 'good' lately and haven't bought anything from her for six weeks, and that was only the second thing I'd bought from her all year.<br />
<br />
But I digress. If I can make it to three months, I can increase my Buy Nothing week by week, month by month. Little steps, regular milestones, will make it easier. Rather like someone in AA taking it one day at a time.<br />
<br />
I can see why Buy Nothing is taking off, however. Firstly minimalism is back in vogue, so to achieve it, you need less. Then there's the problem of rubbish and landfill we in the west create.<br />
<br />
As well as being a consumerist society, we are a throwaway society. Globalisation has seen fashion become an entity which churns out new designs on an apparently weekly basis. (In fact there is a shop at Kingsford Smith Airport in Sydney which promises new stock EVERY WEEK. Ye Gods.) With low labour costs in third world countries it's easy to spend $30-$50 for a new jumper or dress, or $10 on a t-shirt. I'm guilty. When H and M came to Australia I snapped up a handful of $7 t-shirts with absolute glee. After all, white t-shirts usually only last a year or two before they go grey or attract stains even Napisan can't remove. Then into the rubbish they go, too awful to even give to a charity shop.<br />
<br />
My goodness, the amount of clothing that goes into landfill is terrifying. How wasteful we are as a society. How greedy. How eager to flash the plastic and buy more, more, more. I feel sorry for the fashionistas who are compelled to buy the latest look, racking up their credit cards to indecent levels, wearing items only a few times before chucking or donating. Because clothing IS so cheap these days, it is very much seen as throwaway after one season.<br />
<br />
Granted, little of my clothing gets actually chucked out. Anything still decent goes to charity, damaged clothing gets used by me as cleaning rags before finally hitting the bin. I get many years out of my clothes as most of what I buy is either fairly classic or interesting enough not to date. I have overcoats I've had for 20+ years and they're still fine.<br />
<br />
The human cost behind producing cheap clothes for the western world is heartbreaking. Sweatshops, dangerous conditions, working hours which would cause strikes in Australia. Look at your clothing. Where is it made? Bangladesh? India? Turkey? China? Would you be prepared to pay, say, four times more for each item if it was made in your own country under decent working conditions?<br />
<br />
And as for 'the middle aisle' in ALDI - oh, oh, oh! What a joy! The bits and pieces I have bought cheaply, such as weights and gym clothes, or a warm throw for the living room for a tiny $15, fill me with acquisitive delight. For I AM acquisitive, and it's something I'll have to overcome. I don't need more stuff. The majority of us don't need more stuff.<br />
<br />
But.<br />
<br />
It's not as if I'm in my 20s and have just moved out of home and have to buy or acquire household goods on which to sit, or kitchen utensils and pots. I have it all. Mum left a house full of 'stuff' when she died and I'm still selling or giving away things in an effort to make the place less cluttered.<br />
<br />
I'm going to find this Buy Nothing lark hard work I think. I have unsubscribed from various shoe and clothing email lists so I don't get tempted.<br />
<br />
So if I'm buying nothing, what are the exceptions for me? Which non-nothings will sneak into the house aside from food etc for us and the animals?<br />
<ul>
<li>Toiletries and cosmetics. I don't buy many cosmetics but I'm not going to go without an eyebrow pencil when my current one dies (local supermarket, $14, and seriously good). And I don't go mad on toiletries like I used to 20 years ago. I estimate in the next 3 months I will have to buy toothpaste, soap, 1 bottle each of shampoo, conditioner, Nuxe Huile Prodiguese and Nutrimetics Nutri-Rich Oil as these are my staples and I'm running low on them. </li>
<li>Nails. I like having nice nails. It's a pick me up luxury that costs me about $40/month.</li>
<li>Hair. Yes, my foils cost money but damned if I'm going to go grey.</li>
<li>Books. But only e-books as they are cheaper and don't take up physical space, or I'll rejoin the local library and borrow.</li>
<li>I may have to get supplies for my business such as paper and ink for the printer, but then I've always been frugal with my business.</li>
<li>Gifts for others' birthdays. Unless I have something I can make or something new I can regift. There are 3 birthdays I have to cater for so I'll have to be canny.</li>
</ul>
<br />
And that's it. For the next two and a half months at least. Wish me luck. Hope I can conquer this shopping addiction and be a Buy Nothing person.Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-77943746712864122282017-07-09T18:01:00.001+10:002017-07-09T18:01:13.106+10:00When good cats turn badI mentioned <a href="https://lifetheuniverseandnotquiteeverything.blogspot.com.au/2017/07/today-i-got-smacked-by-cat.html" target="_blank">in a recent post</a> my cat friend Fred. Fred has been an angel to look after in my fill-in-for-a-friend cat sitting business. He has a reputation for turning aggressive at the click of a finger, but I haven't seen it.<br />
<br />
Until today.<br />
<br />
Poor Fred. His owner is away for another 9 days, and he's feeling lonely and starved of his owner's affection. I walk inside and he immediately head butts my legs. I talk to him, stroke him, pick him up and cuddle him.<br />
<br />
Marion the cat sitter told me not to trust him. I haven't ignored her; I've simply come to my own conclusions and watched him carefully. I thought I had his measure. Thought I had the balance of affection just right.<br />
<br />
Today I sat on the sofa as soon as I got there (my third day doing this as I've become more confident with this tricky boy) and Fred happily jumped on my knees, purring ecstatically. He purred so hard saliva dripped from his mouth onto my jeans, and I held him and stroked him and talked to him, and importantly, gave him the 'cat kiss'; that slow blink that tells him I'm not a threat. I thought we understood each other perfectly as he slow-blinked back at me and we stayed happily together for five minutes, until he turned and bit my hand.<br />
<br />
Not hard, you understand. It was a gentle bite, the sort cats give you when they can't decide whether they want to sit on your knee or not.<br />
<br />
So I took my hands off him and still kept talking to him in a quiet voice, soothing and calming, mentioning his name every five seconds and putting in "good boy" all the time, too.<br />
<br />
Fred got off my legs and I could finally get around to fixing his food for the day. He followed me into the kitchen, head-butting and happy.<br />
<br />
I decided to do a visual check of the flat for furballs and vomits - you know what cats can be like. Fred followed me, chatting happily and meowing me details of his life. Clearly he slept in the main bedroom with his owner, as the duvet was cat-rucked and he jumped onto it demonstratively.<br />
<br />
I checked the room and turned to walk out. And Fred pounced.<br />
<br />
Gawd, my left leg has copped it from cats this week!<br />
<br />
He grabbed it with both front legs and tried to sink his teeth in. Bless demin. Good old jeans. I felt his claws and teeth but he didn't break any skin.<br />
<br />
I turned and shook my finger at him and snapped, "No!" and he immediately backed off. I suspect I was heading into "his" territory, his sleeping room, and made a note not to do that again.<br />
<br />
He was still a bit swishy-tail while I cleaned his litter tray, but was back to smooching against me before grabbing my leg again in the living room. This time no claws or teeth, just a firm grip from his strong little legs, and I had the "No!" going at him before his legs were all the way around mine.<br />
<br />
His owner has since told me he gets over-stimulated with too much affection; he does it with her too!<br />
<br />
So it's a hard call. I want to give Fred the affection he needs while his owner is away, but not to the point that he attacks me. He looks for me now every day and cries when he hears my step, as I go to his elegant flat at much the same time each day. He engages with me, makes lots of eye contact, and is desperate for a cuddle and snuggle.<br />
<br />
There are pills marked 'for emergency only' if Fred has a real conniption and goes truly violent with me, but I have left them on the bench for today. I'll see how he is tomorrow.<br />
<br />
In a way he reminds me of a Siamese who shared my life for 13 years; another boy who loved a cuddle but would use his teeth. Maybe so much ecstasy is too much?<br />
<br />
Does your cat turn aggro after a cuddle?<br />
<br />
<br />Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-50974687084156114522017-07-04T18:11:00.000+10:002017-07-04T18:24:49.540+10:00Today I got smacked by a catI'm helping a friend out at the moment. She has a cat sitting business; she goes into people's houses and feeds their cat/s while they're away, cleans litter trays, plays with said felines etc. My friend - let's call her Marion - is finally having a holiday after seven years of running her business and building it up from scratch.<br />
<br />
Today I had two visits to make. One was for a cat I'll call Fred. Marion warned me he can turn aggro for no reason. "Never turn your back on him," she warned, but Fred so far has been a snuggly, purry angel of a cat. I've got him for the whole two weeks and hope I don't need to resort to the emergency pills on the kitchen counter. Fred lives in a posh suburb in a flat right on the water. He has views to die for (not that he appreciates them I suspect but I'm sure his owner does). He greets me at the door and flops at my feet, rolling back and forth in delight. I have long conversations with him as I clean his bowls and other paraphernalia, and there's never a hint of aggro. I do watch his eyes. If a cat's pupils suddenly turn big and round - watch out and take cover!<br />
<br />
My second visit was one closer to home for two Ragdoll cats, Sunny and Shadow. Marion had a warning about Sunny. "He may rush at the door when you arrive and he can be territorial." Another Fred! Anyhow, Sunny was very pleasant to me and I was happily patting him and talking to him. Shadow was hiding as he apparently does. So I put food down while Sunny purred at my feet. I cleaned the litter tray. I went to find Shadow upstairs and Sunny trotted at my heels.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately he was TOO close to my heels. I checked the upstairs rooms (no sign of the little bugger but apparently he can hide only too well) and turned around.<br />
<br />
Only to stand on Sunny's foot.<br />
<br />
He screamed.<br />
<br />
I screamed.<br />
<br />
He pounced on my ankle and gave it his best shot with teeth and claws. Luckily I was wearing boots, it being winter here after all, and I only have a small scratch to show for it.<br />
<br />
I apologised, in the softest, warmest voice I could. I sat on the steps in front of him and held out a hand, offering a gentle pat.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvvwO25fQWKasseu4VIjZgXe3WqsWfmheGxK7JWEyyduYaLXXr6-aWCD2xxIZtjV1J1KY7yz_4XY8owFEESIk5zP9hKazPN0xIFyJUrSt_CExi6pi331sAr_H8JH3FKFUu8W6V-ccbes5N/s1600/Angry+cat.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Angry cat Sunny" border="0" data-original-height="402" data-original-width="394" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvvwO25fQWKasseu4VIjZgXe3WqsWfmheGxK7JWEyyduYaLXXr6-aWCD2xxIZtjV1J1KY7yz_4XY8owFEESIk5zP9hKazPN0xIFyJUrSt_CExi6pi331sAr_H8JH3FKFUu8W6V-ccbes5N/s200/Angry+cat.jpeg" title="" width="196" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Sunny narrowed his big baby blues and hit my hand with a front paw. No claws, but his body language said it all: Fuck off, lady. You hurt me.<br />
<br />
Tail swishing furiously, he followed me down the stairs. Not a limp in sight, thankfully. But no, just slapping my hand wasn't enough.<br />
<br />
With every step I took with my left foot (the one that landed on his paw), he grabbed my ankle and bit my boot. His tail was swishing like a metronome. This was one seriously pissed off cat. I don't blame the poor little thing; I felt dreadful for stepping on him.<br />
<br />
As I was inching my way across the living room Shadow flew down the stairs, through the kitchen and into the hall, disappearing into a front room.<br />
<br />
Well, at least I could SMS the owner that I had visual sighting of the elusive Shadow!<br />
<br />
Sunny wasn't letting up. I shuffled, cat attached, to the scratching post trees with toys attached to them. Thankfully one had elastic and I pinged it and pinged it and bounced it until his attention went from my foot to the toy.<br />
<br />
With one bound, I was free!<br />
<br />
With two bounds I was out the door with a huge sigh, still feeling awful for poor Sunny.<br />
<br />
I have two more days feeding the pair of them. I hope Sunny has forgiven and forgotten by tomorrow. But I'll wear different shoes just in case.Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-4904158212452335572017-06-30T15:23:00.000+10:002017-06-30T15:23:37.664+10:00French Women Don't Wear Active WearI went to my open air resistance class this morning, rugged up against a rather chilly early winter's morning here in Oz. I had my full length black leggings on, topped with a short sleeved hot pink top, a pale blue sweatshirt and a lilac zip up fleece. It was so chilly that even in the most hectic part of the workout I only ditched the fleece. In short, I looked rather a dag, as we say over here. (Think 'slob'.)<br />
<br />
After the class I was faced with a dilemma. I had to go to the bank and supermarket. Should I go home and change first?<br />
<br />
Huh, you're thinking. What a snob. Just go as you are, girl, who will notice or care?<br />
<br />
Well, I notice and I care. There is active wear and active wear. Do the full Lorna Jane or Sweaty Betty, all nicely coordinated, and you can probably get away with it. Thin, fit middle-class women do. They strut around the shopping centre with great hair, sweetly scented (you can tell they haven't been to the gym first and probably won't go ... they just dress like that) and nary a roll of fat is visible on their leggings. In winter they wear sleeveless puffa tops over their technical merino long sleeves. They have several pairs of trainers which coordinate with the accent colours in their outfits.<br />
<br />
Active wear favours the slim. I've seen some pretty horrifying sights in leggings and skimpy gym wear and fear I'm more like them than the sleek women I see around shops in our area (which is middle-class and quite decent on the socio-economic scale). I do wear leggings, quite often in fact, but plain, non-gym ones teamed with tunic tops that cover my backside and let the best of my legs be on show. And I pair them with ballet flats or boots, not trainers. I don't own a sleeveless puffa jacket as it would make me look like an elephant.<br />
<br />
So I felt rather ashamed of myself when I decided to hit the shops on my way home after all, bum looking big with the fleece barely covering half of it. No makeup, not even lip gloss. Hair that looked a fright after an hour's workout in a breeze.<br />
<br />
There's a bit of me that's French. Not just in attitude, but genetically too.<br />
<br />
You see, French women don't wear active wear outside of the gym. If they go to a gym, that is - more likely they'll go to a yoga class. I have been fortunate enough to visit France three times in the last six years and the only Parisienne I saw in a full active wear outfit was carrying a yoga mat. She had reason to be dressed as she was. Even in rural France and French towns, nobody wore active wear on the street. I felt at home. It was easy to spot the tourists - they spoke English and wore active wear.<br />
<br />
It's a tongue in cheek observation from several authors that a French woman will put on her lipstick to check her letterbox - a) because she has standards, b) she never knows who she may meet there and importantly, c) she doesn't want to cause offence to anyone who sets eyes on her; the French do not like to be perceived as badly turned out.<br />
<br />
Even working from home, as I do, I aim to dress nicely. That nicely may only be jeans and a top, but I'll have decent shoes on (no ugg boots in winter or rubber flip flops in summer). When I go to the shops I will put on lipstick at least, maybe a little bit of eye makeup if I feel I look washed out. My jacket will coordinate with what I'm wearing and I may even put a scarf on. Because why not. I like to feel nice and not slobby.<br />
<br />
I can't rock the active wear look - I'm overweight but not obese, but I have curves that become bulges in active wear clothing and it ain't a pretty sight - so I choose the French option instead.<br />
<br />
<i>C'est la vie pour moi</i>. <i>Et vous?</i><br />
<br />Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-60888160849202685472017-06-28T15:56:00.004+10:002017-06-28T15:56:58.288+10:00When Super isn't superSuperannuation. The joy of my existence. Not.<br />
<br />
Eight years ago my husband and I formed a Self-Managed Super Fund (SMSF) on the advice of a financial planner. Let's call this financial planner Knobhead. That means you have an idea of how wrong it all went from this sentence onwards.<br />
<br />
I had about $70K and my husband had about $35 in our respective industry super funds. Both of us had taken a hammering with the GFC - three years before my fund had in excess of $100K in it. We both wanted our super to perform better.<br />
<br />
We really didn't have enough in our existing super to form a SMSF but Knobhead said, "You've just got enough. Form the fund, buy a investment property within the fund. Property is booming, you can't lose." And Knobhead duly produced a colleague - Arsebuckets - who specialised in finding properties for mugs like us to buy.<br />
<br />
Because setting up the fund cost a bomb including using Knobhead's lawyer who specialised in setting up super funds - let's call him Rich Bastard because why not - we only had enough money for a 10% deposit on a house and land package in Tarneit, a commuter-belt suburb an hour out of Melbourne. We could afford the smallest property in the development. Just.<br />
<br />
Knobhead found us insurance, too. Can you believe that? Life insurance and Trauma Insurance we would pay premiums on from within the fund, so it would be a tax deduction. We thought it was a bit pricey but he assured us the insurance company was one of the best around. And hey, it was a tax deduction. What's not to love?<br />
<br />
While Knobhead and Arsebuckets got commissions and kickbacks, we gamely wrote cheques for the builders and watched, from 1000km away, our house go up.<br />
<br />
Finally it was finished and it rented very quickly.<br />
<br />
Here's what happened over the years. The rent didn't really cover the mortgage and outgoings such as the strata fees (as the house was in a managed estate), and as insurance premiums rose each year it certainly didn't cover them.<br />
<br />
We had a specialist SMSF accountant that we found ourselves (didn't want Knobhead recommending one) who worried that the fund was losing money.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile the house wasn't gaining in capital value. More development estates had grown around it, and most of the houses were bigger - four or more bedrooms compared to our little three. The bloody thing was worth less than what we'd paid for it after a couple of years. Given the buoyant Australian property market, that was insane.<br />
<br />
We told our accountant we'd wait until the property gained in value before we sold it or else we'd lose too much money.<br />
<br />
Finally it boomed last year as a railway station had been built in Tarneit the year before. We sold the house for a $30K profit after having made a loss on the fund every single year. We settled up in February and put the money into our SMSF bank account. Our accountant told us a month ago to try and wind the fund up this financial year.<br />
<br />
So it was time to wind up the fund and - sigh - put our money back in industry super funds. The SMSF was going to die. It was costing us a couple of grand each year in accountant and auditor fees.<br />
<br />
So we had a bit more in the fund that what we started with. I was looking forward to getting my $70K back.<br />
<br />
But here's the shitty, shitty bit. The bit Knobhead didn't tell us about eight years ago. The bit our SMSF accountant SHOULD have told us earlier. When both husband and wife - or whomever - start a SMSF, and each puts in a different amount, the government deems that profit or loss is appointed percentage wise for the life of the SMSF.<br />
<br />
So my percentage of the fund was much bigger than my husband's when the fund started. I copped a higher percentage of the loss EVERY SINGLE YEAR.<br />
<br />
Reader, my $71K is now $28K. Ironically, as my husband suffered less of the loss and has held a paid job with a generous employer for the last six years, he has nearly $100K to put into an industry super fund.<br />
<br />
And now this week with the financial year drawing to an end I'm frantically organising the demise of the SMSF, starting up industry super fund accounts for us both, cancelling the expensive insurance and taking cheaper policies out within the industry funds, and having a cow as the Tax Office gave me a rebate into the SMSF AFTER I'd drawn cheques and got it at zero balance. I'm now panicking to move that out of the account into the industry fund by 30 June or else, by law, I will have to keep the SMSF open for another year and pay $1000 auditor fees on a sum that's around $27.<br />
<br />
I've been feeling sick and stressed all day trying to get everything done, and furious at Knobhead - and myself - about the SMSF and how it's sucked my money. At this rate I can never afford to stop work unless we sell our house - which I love as I grew up here - and move somewhere else.<br />
<br />
This week has not been super at all.Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-1722573586528739462017-06-23T19:35:00.000+10:002017-06-23T19:35:00.159+10:00A goddess called ... Elizabeth?A couple of nights ago I had a very vivid dream.<br />
<br />
I was standing on a hilltop, but it wasn't the sort of romantic wilderness hilltop you'd expect in a dream, it was somewhere in suburban Australia. On either side of my hilltop, and up and down the hill, Colorbond fences hemmed in a development of brick veneer houses, and people walked up and down the hill, which must have been a park or reserve in the heart of suburbia.<br />
<br />
Clouds hung overhead; not menacing, just grey and some lighter, almost white; not quite covering all the sky but about 5/8 of it. The sort of clouds that you don't want on a winter's day as they don't bring rain, they just hide the sun and make it colder.<br />
<br />
In my right hand I held a clear quartz crystal; it was about 15 cm long, with a knobbly top and the shaft bright and sharp with a pointed end.<br />
<br />
In my left I held a milky white crystal, more rounded on each end and not as long.<br />
<br />
I held my arms up over my head and a flow of power streamed to me from the clouds into the crystal in my right hand. It wasn't like lightning, or golden flakes, just ... power. Visible, but rather like rain, almost transparent.<br />
<br />
I felt the power run through me from my right hand to my left, and it seemed to stop at the left and go back to the crystal in my right hand.<br />
<br />
I discovered that I could bounce rainbows at people and objects from my clear quartz crystal. I bounced them onto passers by, onto the fences. I simply held my hand out and a rainbow jumped out.<br />
<br />
A voice in my head said, "This power is from the Goddess Elizabeth."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fCDCKlUYgdy92ggkN0TwROAYqr-HXex3XqhqGUrcydN8As8VqsVG23VseWVZZADevN80Nu-CBPKSnApm-UX3IbZ2OI0oFu7kPFWJ8Qt6bCwzmIYw156QLRKlLV4U7y28AyQ2qJurvPQp/s1600/IMG_5099.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1293" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fCDCKlUYgdy92ggkN0TwROAYqr-HXex3XqhqGUrcydN8As8VqsVG23VseWVZZADevN80Nu-CBPKSnApm-UX3IbZ2OI0oFu7kPFWJ8Qt6bCwzmIYw156QLRKlLV4U7y28AyQ2qJurvPQp/s320/IMG_5099.jpg" width="258" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
And soon after that, I woke up. For once I remembered my dream in utter detail; the fences, the winter jackets on the people, and the rainbows, which were quite small when they landed; only a few centimetres across but very colourful. And the Goddess Elizabeth.<br />
<br />
Well, of course I went onto Google and discovered the only Goddess Elizabeth to be found is a manga character, and as I don't read manga that made no sense. I had, that night, been reading Death Comes to Pemberley (a follow on to Pride and Prejudice by P D James, and of course we have the lovely Elizabeth Darcy playing a leading role), so that may have explained the Elizabeth.<br />
<br />
But I really think I had been visited by something or someone. A goddess? It's not often I get dreams so vivid I can FEEL them, and I FELT the power, I was there, really there, with a crystal in each hand.<br />
<br />
So I jumped onto eBay and sourced a crystal - a Tibetan Quartz - which is as similar as I can find to the one in my dream. I suspect the dream crystal was a luxury item costing several hundred dollars as it was quite large, and I paid $60 for one that's about 9cm long. Tibetan Quartz crystals are apparently used for conversing with angels and spirit guides. They are powerful healing crystals.<br />
<br />
As I now live in a house I consider to be haunted, having a crystal which chats with spirits could be a good or bad thing. But the dream was so positive I was certain I had to buy one and it will be a good thing. When I looked into clear quartz crystals the powers and characteristics of Tibetan Quartz made total sense. Not all clear crystals are created equal it seems.<br />
<br />
I'm debating whether to try and find a milky crystal too, even though the clear one in my dream was the one with the power.<br />
<br />
Maybe there is truly a Goddess Elizabeth. Who knows? Maybe me. Maybe I can tell you more in a future post.Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-64772472625242519492017-06-21T19:03:00.002+10:002017-06-21T19:41:54.481+10:00Crunch time with the pappadumsSo is it really bad of me to finish off a half-empty packet of Patak's Mini Pappadums (Ready To Eat!) this afternoon so I don't have to share them with my husband when he gets home?<br />
<br />
These are lovely, crunchy treats. Relatively low in the old kilojoules etc. I only meant to have a handful for morning tea, and I did.<br />
<br />
Then at around 5 I got peckish (I'd only had plain steamed fish and broccolini for lunch as I'd been away for a long weekend and mysteriously managed to put on 3 kilos in 5 days. Bloody carbohydrates. But I digress.) and finished off the remainder of the pack.<br />
<br />
My housesitter had left the pack for me; she's nice like that. We are neighbours and she kindly moved across the road from her place for five days to look after our animals. She also left home made chocolate mousse - which included avocado rather than cream; interesting and not too sweet - and I confess to scarfing that down last night after a bowl of chicken and veggie soup. Huh - and I wonder why my weight hasn't started to drop back!<br />
<br />
I look at it this way: if I hadn't eaten the pappadums it would have been a handful or two of nuts, anyway. Probably just as many kilojoules. In retrospect the nuts would have been better as they are protein, rather than carbs. But oh, oh, oh! I haven't had pappadums in AGES! I'd forgotten how crunchy and addictive they are. Mmm, that flavour!<br />
<br />
I had to head up to the shops earlier in the day to get kale, cat litter and dog food, and I put mini pappadums on the list. Having managed to leave the list at home I realised I'd forgotten to get them when I returned and unpacked my bag (but I did get 30% off on frozen fillets of Hake ... not crumbed, just plain. Great for steaming or frying in a non-stick pan. Or currying. With pappadums on the side.).<br />
<br />
So do I tell G the pappadums actually existed or not? I've hidden the packet in the bin under other stuff, so he won't see it and be jealous, for he loves his pappadums as much as I do. On the other hand, he DOES get into the chocolate digestives at the interstate office when he goes away for work, as he did earlier this week.<br />
<br />
He might never know about the pappadums but I'm sure he'll sigh when I dish kale up for breakfast. Seriously, we breakfast on kale and it's taken him - an old-fashioned unreconstructed male - a while to get used to the idea. I slice it and chuck it in a non-stick pan with eggs, turkey breast, spinach and sometimes a slice of haloumi. On the odd occasion we have bacon rather than turkey breast, but I'm trying to cut processed meat down for both of us, and turkey meat is very good for you. Kale, stir fried and still crunchy, is delicious with a spray of olive oil and a sprinkle of Himalayan pink salt. I think he likes it, deep down. He'll never admit it though. As you can imagine we didn't have kale for breakfast while we were away; I missed it but I'm sure he didn't.<br />
<br />
I think I'll shut up about the pappadums and rave about the Hake and broccolini for lunch, and the salmon and broccolini I'm about to cook for dinner. Broccolini's up there with kale for my bloke. What he doesn't know won't hurt him, and I bet he won't mention the biscuits he had on the flight home.<br />
<br />Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-59581821414218155952017-06-07T16:20:00.001+10:002017-06-07T16:20:27.621+10:00Just when I was having a peaceful day - the hell of broken websitesIt's raining hard here today. A perfect day to be inside. Wednesdays are a bit of a day off for me as my colleague at my main client's workplaces has the day off, so doesn't chase me with emails and phone calls.<br />
<br />
I decided I would devote this afternoon to self-improvement and relaxation.<br />
<br />
I attempted a twenty minute yoga session. I say attempted because every time I did the Downward Dog our puppy raced up and licked my nose. I should, on reflection, have shut her in the kitchen but her whimpering would have been too distracting.<br />
<br />
After that I lit a candle and did a twenty minute guided meditation, and felt peace flowing through me. I was relaxed, so beautifully relaxed.<br />
<br />
Then I made the mistake of checking my email. Another client had written saying she wanted a change on her website, which is one where people can buy tickets for a charity sleepout. She wanted an extra, cheaper, ticket for school students. I checked the back end of the website. Looked easy.<br />
<br />
My second mistake was updating the core software and all the plugins including the event plugin. Suddenly there were no tickets any more - none on the front end and none on the back!<br />
<br />
All my peacefulness vanished. I had a headache almost instantly.<br />
<br />
Of all the clients, it had to be her site. I swear, this woman is a jinx. She has two websites and every time I touch them they misbehave. Something goes wrong. Now these are simple WordPress sites. There shouldn't be the issues I have with them; when I've fixed one thing another pops up. I don't have any other clients with the problems she has. <br />
<br />
So I've given up and posted a question on a support forum for the event software. I've decided if it's all too hard I'm going to pay a contractor to fix it and bill my client for their time. I am OVER fixing websites, I find it all too stressful these days.<br />
<br />
I'm now going to find a quiet corner and try and meditate again. I feel sick to my stomach with this website issue. If only I could afford to retire and give this website bullsh*t up!Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-57194388104825560882017-05-19T16:33:00.000+10:002017-05-19T16:33:17.716+10:00I sacked my hairdresserI've been going to Hairy Mary for about three years now. Despite the fact that having a conversation with her does my head in (she's scatty, very scatty, but lovable), her work on my hair was usually pretty good.<br />
<br />
Usually.<br />
<br />
Over the last year I've come to have a few reservations about her, however. When she put foils in, she didn't really do them close enough to the scalp. Of course I wouldn't expect her to get too close - nobody wants to be burned by bleach - but some of them looked a little grown out when she'd put them in.<br />
<br />
Then let's talk style. 18 months ago I went from a bob to a funky shorter bedhead cut, done with a razor. All was good for about a year, although it did look a bit too wispy on the ends from time to time. My hair is fine and I don't have a great deal of it, so I loathe the wispy look.<br />
<br />
For the last two visits I asked her specifically not to thin out the ends too much, to make them chunkier and less wispy.<br />
<br />
Sadly, she ignored me. Too busy talking about sixteen things at once to remember what I'd asked. When the sun is behind me you can see through the ends, and I hate that.<br />
<br />
So a month ago I took my head to a hairdresser a short walk from where I live. More expensive, which is a shame, but the foils look sharp and she's helping me thicken the ends up and grow the layers out somewhat. I quite like a few freehand-cut layers for movement, but at the moment my hair has been so heavily layered by Hairy Mary I feel as if I should be wearing hats 24/7 until it grows out.<br />
<br />
I don't know how to tell Hairy Mary she's been dumped. I suppose I simply don't. She'll figure out I'm just not going to her place any more. I can't rave about my new hairdresser on Facebook as Hairy Mary is a Facebook friend of mine. I don't want to hurt her feelings.<br />
<br />
How many of you have told your hairdresser you're quitting them? Or have you simply jumped ship and gone somewhere else?Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-10071558326889033672017-04-06T10:43:00.001+10:002017-04-06T10:43:34.561+10:00Stuff ItThis morning while I was making the bed I noticed the drawer on my husband's bedside table was open slightly. I hate that. Drawers which are capable of shutting (which is most but not all the drawers in our house) should be shut or they look untidy. But I digress. This post is not about my OCD-ness regarding drawers.<br />
<br />
No, it's about the remembrance day fake poppy that was in the drawer. And other Stuff.<br />
<br />
I pondered why he'd kept the poppy. I know he's a Scot but he usually does put his hand in his pocket and buy a new one each year. It's not as if I bought the poppy for him and it has sentimental value (hmm, a $2 poppy). I think this is what's happened (but I haven't asked him):<br />
<br />
<i>He's worn the poppy at the appropriate time, taken it off his suit and put in the drawer. Then he's forgotten about it. Now he doesn't even notice it's there, despite it being bright red.</i><br />
<br />
I used to keep remembrance day poppies too. But not any more. I'd stick them in a potplant with something else such as a violet, just for effect. After several months of them gathering dust there (literally) I'd chuck them out. I mean, they ARE pretty. Too good to simply go in the bin after wearing. I should put them in a box to use for decorating gifts but frankly I'm a lousy gift decorator and I'd forget I had them anyway. So now, into the bin they go. I do it with gritted teeth as it makes me feel guilty.<br />
<br />
And there's my problem. I was brought up by a Mum who didn't throw such things out. In fact she threw out very little in case it came in handy or in case there was another Great Depression or because it cost something to buy in the first place or because it was a gift from a friend or family member or ...<br />
<br />
You get the picture. I was brought up to be a hoarder, to feel sentimental about things given to me, to not move things on if they were still 'good'.<br />
<br />
But now I'm toughening up. I have to. I have a house full of Stuff, some of which I've sold or given away, and still more which I'm selling and which I intend to sell. I do a run to the charity shops with Stuff every couple of months. I bin Stuff. I give Stuff to friends.<br />
<br />
I have had to become unsentimental to a degree. And I'm a horribly sentimental person. It pulls me in two.<br />
<br />
But I look around me and see clutter. I need to become more minimalist in order to feel less dragged down by all this Stuff.<br />
<br />
As I've mentioned in previous posts Mum left me everything she had. And she had cupboards bulging with Stuff most of which she never used and as I haven't either, a lot of it has been moved on in some way, shape or form. But there's still too much Stuff. <br />
<br />
Apparently we only use 20% of everything we own on a regular basis. 20%. That's not much. But when I think about it, that figure seems correct. For example when I'm cooking I usually use the same pots and pans each time. The tagine cooker gets one outing a year and I suspect that sooner or later I'll move it on too, even though I love its bright red colour. I probably don't need all the ramekins I have (two sets) but if I have a dinner party with more than 4 people I'll put them into use for individual puddings.<br />
<br />
I plan to go through cupboards again over Easter and see what else I can move on either on eBay, Gumtree, Facebook buy swap and sell or simply give to charity. Although the charity shops are getting fussy now. I tried giving some oldish books to them this week and they refused them as they were foxed, and stated that no charity shop would take foxed or old books any more in case they had dust mites or similar. So bugger, I had to bin the books. Bin them! I nearly cried. I love books but wasn't going to read these again and it made me grit my teeth when I put them in the recycle bin. They weren't interesting enough to try and sell on eBay, either. :-(<br />
<br />
My new hardline attitude towards Stuff is saving me money though. No more impulse buys at homewares shops or online. Department stores no longer hold any thrill for me. If I buy something it's to replace something useful which has broken. My rule now is that if I buy something new, something old has to go. (This doesn't apply to animals. Despite bringing a new puppy into our lives last year we have kept our elderly spaniel LOL!)<br />
<br />
How I'd love to have a neat house without crap everywhere; like walking into one of IKEA's fake rooms. I'm working on it. The living room is looking more '50s minimalist these days which is a start.<br />
<br />
But I can only achieve this if I stop feeling guilty and become unsentimental about getting rid of Stuff I don't use. For me, it's very hard to do but I do feel a mix of exultation, lightness and some guilt when I achieve a purge of Stuff.<br />
<br />
Do you get the guilts when you move Stuff on out of your place?Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-65686226593160717212017-03-16T10:36:00.002+11:002017-03-16T10:45:34.636+11:00Throw me a throwJust because I haven't been on here for a bit doesn't mean I haven't thought about it. I still can't use this particular Google account on Safari for a myriad of reasons, even though I'm running the most current software on my Mac and there shouldn't be a security issue. So can I be bothered to open another browser - Chrome - to update my blog? Not often.<br />
<br />
One of the things I'd considered posting about earlier this year was last Christmas. We received a rather hilarious present from The Whingies. It was a fleece throw, which is a good thought as our house gets quite chilly in winter. But it wasn't a throw that in any way matched our decor. It was a throw from Guide Dogs of Australia, and featured a chocolate labrador, much larger than life, as the main element. Our living room is not neutral-coloured where the throw, which is chocolate dog on pale blue background, would look good. It's bright late 1950s pale greens and teals with orange/tangerine accents. Sounds loud but it works. But not with blue and chocolate.<br />
<br />
OK, so we have dogs. Two, now, as it turns out, as we brought a beautiful toy Poodle girl into our lives last October. So The Whingies clearly know we love dogs as well as cats.<br />
<br />
We pondered about why they would buy us that particular throw. If they donate to a charity it's usually a cancer one, not Guide Dogs.<br />
<br />
Then it hit us. They didn't buy it at all. They won it as a prize in a cat show, where a non-dog person must have donated it, presumably as an unwanted gift.<br />
<br />
We sat on the floor in the living room on Christmas morning, sipping Champagne and contemplating this thought while peering into the giant-sized eyes of the chocolate lab, and both of us burst out laughing.<br />
<br />
Now I'm pretty good at rehoming gifts too, and if I don't have a suitable recipient for something I've been given but don't want, I give it to charity or sell it online. I take into account the person's taste and decor before deciding what to give them. I can't keep things people give me that I don't like or don't work in my house, not any more. I have too much STUFF. Too much clutter. I need to move things on if they're not suitable, rather than, as Mum encouraged me to do, keep This gift or That gift because That person gave it to you, even if you hate it.<br />
<br />
We have a tacit agreement with the Whingies that while we give gifts to each other, they will be under $30. It's the thought that counts, it's a token thing, and I usually rack my brains to find something they'll appreciate as they consider themselves persons of high taste. Often it's a plant cutting I've been cultivating (this is acceptable as I receive plant cuttings in return) and this year I gave them a beautiful candle from the stock I sell and a bottle of wine.<br />
<br />
So what to do with the throw? We opened it, as we didn't know what the design was, and having opened it and damaged the packaging in the process, can't rehome it as a brand new gift to a dog person. We may be able to use it on our bed as the dogs are - now the Poodle puppy is 7 months old and can hang on all night - sleeping on our bed, to the delight of our Spaniel, who I think has missed it. We certainly didn't miss the heat of them in summer!<br />
<br />
It must have been the Christmas for throws. Another couple gave us a throw (clearly these friends all visit in winter where their teeth chatter if they move more then three metres away from the log fire) and the colours are pretty wrong in that one too. White background with orange (nice) and sky blue (doesn't work). That one is still in its packaging. It has gift potential. Not for the Whingies though as it wouldn't match their decor.<br />
<br />
In the meantime I found a very cool orange and sage green 60s-inspired throw at ALDI for $16, which I've put on the sofa for the dogs to sleep on should they wish.Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-5099032695355150442016-04-27T13:42:00.001+10:002016-04-27T13:42:29.937+10:00People who don't...um...finish their sentencesI've always been an impatient git and these days find myself increasingly irked when people don't finish the sentence they are speaking.<br />
<br />
You know what I mean. Someone's talking and then they um and err and suddenly the sentence is left dangling, waving its nouns, verbs and participles in thin air.<br />
<br />
I have an image of unfinished sentences floating aimlessly around our house just under the ceiling in a cloud of words and letters, as my husband G is a chronic non-finisher of sentences.<br />
<br />
I wonder sometimes whether he's getting early onset Alzheimers or whether there's just too much going around in his head, as he's under a lot of pressure with his job. I'm sure he completed his sentences most of the time when I first met him.<br />
<br />
I do have the odd problem myself. I lose nouns. I can't think of the exact noun I want to say or write; usually the name of a flower or something. Then I'll um or err. But I'm nothing like G.<br />
<br />
He'll be lounging against the kitchen cupboards while I'm making dinner - and why he has to lounge against the exact bloody cupboards I'm always opening to get pots, pans and plates out I don't know - and chatting away to me, then a sentence will drift, incomplete, into the ether.<br />
<br />
I wait for it to resume, but it doesn't. I wait and wait. I feel like snapping, "Oh, finish the bloody sentence!" I try not to show my impatience; I keep the same expression on my face, but inside I'm gritting my teeth.<br />
<br />
It's easy for sentences to drift into nothing in English. In German, you have to think about your sentence before you utter it, as the verb at the end of the sentence you will put.<br />
<br />
G's a great one for umming and erring too. That's not quite as irritating as not finishing a sentence, or listening to someone pepper their speech with 'like' every few words, however.<br />
<br />
Am I the only one annoyed when people don't finish what they are saying? Or do you also find it um....er... um... ?Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-31042260934690410232016-04-20T10:10:00.001+10:002016-04-20T10:10:38.788+10:00Oh, sugar!The Australian government is seriously concerned about the collective weight of its citizens. Tackling obesity is now a priority, with a suggested Sugar Tax to be applied to soft drinks. I think this is a good thing. We all eat far too much sugar, and sugar is an addictive substance.<br />
<br />
I'm not one for soft drinks anyway - never have been. Sydney tap water was good enough for me when I was a kid (and Mum didn't want to spend money on soft drinks; we didn't have that sort of budget) and it's good enough for me now. Except when I drink wine ;-)<br />
<br />
I live in Sydney's north, in an area where people tend to eat well and spend their grocery budget on fresh food rather than packaged meals and sugary snacks. The majority of the population here is a healthy weight for their height. I, at 5kg above the ideal weight for my height, feel like a right fatty beside many of them. I've largely cut out sugar, except for wine with dinner and the odd birthday cake etc when someone is celebrating. I have a handful of nuts if I'm peckish rather than a biscuit. I don't even crave chocolate any more.<br />
<br />
In short, you don't see that many truly obese people around here. Maybe 2% of the population.<br />
<br />
Last weekend I worked at a three day show on the outskirts of Sydney's west. And the obesity problem hit me in the face.<br />
<br />
I have several friends who can be classed as 'big girls', but they paled into insignificance besides the people I saw at the show.<br />
<br />
Huge women. Huge men. Legs like tree trunks. Bellies spilling over belts and fat spilling over the tops of shoes. Arms like hams. Bigger than any of my friends by far. And these people made up around 30-40% of the people wandering through the pavilion I had a stall in.<br />
<br />
What made me sad was the children. I saw so many little kids under 12 already overweight or obese, with double chins and shapeless legs. The majority of them were feeding their faces with junk food or sugar-laden treats mindlessly as they waddled behind their obese parents. A lot of them had a bottle of soft drink in the other hand. Seriously, that's child abuse. Fine, parents, feed yourself whatever you want but that poor little kid is going to grow up with serious health issues including Type 2 Diabetes and have a shortened life span.<br />
<br />
My boss, who owns the products I was selling, told me that she's seen babies in prams sucking Coke out of bottles. And plenty of children and teens with missing teeth due to the sugar they've eaten in their short lives.<br />
<br />
I was sad too to see the teenaged girls. So many of them grossly obese, with their pretty, expertly made up faces hidden in fat that bypassed any semblance of neck and simply joined the body. Several of them were wearing short shorts and it wasn't a nice sight.<br />
<br />
G and I used to go to this show every year when we lived in western Sydney but we hadn't been for about four years. I was stunned to notice such a large percentage of the people there were so big; a real change from when we'd last visited.<br />
<br />
I know you're not supposed to 'fat shame' people, but really! Most of these people aren't fat because of genetics or medication. They're fat because they eat the wrong food and don't move enough, and it's killing them. And they apparently don't give a flying fuck because they're hooked on sugar and crap food.<br />
<br />
Oh, you might say, they are from the low end of the socio-economic scale and can't afford to buy expensive cuts of meat etc. No excuse. When we lived in a lower socio-economic area we saw what went into the shopping trolleys of the obese people at the local supermarket. They were loaded to the top with snack foods and soft drinks, packaged foods and chocolate, and plenty of ice cream. Barely a vegetable in sight. More than $120 worth of junk. Swap that crap for fresh veggies - which are relatively cheap - and start drinking tap water as it's cheaper than soft drinks. Cut out the trips to McDonald's and KFC, and buy bulk chicken legs and roast them in the oven, or make a big spag bol with plenty of carrots, celery and other veg as well as mince, to make the mince last longer; you'll get a couple of days out of that as a family and save money.<br />
<br />
I know what it's like having a limited food budget; when my husband's away I tend to live on veggie meals as it's cheaper than meat. When we were both on low money living in western Sydney we ate a lot of veggies and I made stews and soups out of cheap cuts of meat.<br />
<br />
But I digress... back to that show. I was working there for three days and brought in tins of tuna and corn thins to munch on. However. However. By day two the lure of the wonderful hot chips the Rotary crowd makes was too much for me. I bought. I ate. And the next day too. And the place selling nougat - well, they got my money and the nougat passed the time when things got a bit slow. The Rotary gang were also doing bacon and egg rolls so that was Sunday lunch sorted. My husband bought me an ice cream with a chocolate coating as they looked so good.<br />
<br />
Reader, in those three days I gained 2kg. 2kg, just from heading west of my usual diet and snacking on crap. I've lost one of those and will get the rest off by Friday. But that tells you what crap, sugary food does.<br />
<br />
At the show I wasn't sitting down - this was a standing up job, with me moving constantly to relieve the pain in my feet and knees, and on the day when G came in to help me I was able to go for a decent walk around the show. But still. 2kg.<br />
<br />
Bring on that Sugar Tax. Save those poor bloody kids from a life of illness. Let Coca-Coca Amatil cop it, because they are purveyors of addictive substances and they are making a fortune out of making people sick.<br />
<br />
The image of the lean bronzed Aussie is fading fast. We are turning into a nation of fat white slugs.<br />
<br />
<br />Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-74332130908015622222015-09-22T09:15:00.000+10:002015-09-22T09:15:10.849+10:00...Not just for ChristmasI'm sitting here in a lounge chair in the living room, and lying at my feet, her head on her front paws and her eyes (but not ears) closed, is our dog, Rosie. Known as Dog Rose, Rosalinda, Rosalita, Rosalie and other variants of her name.<br />
<br />
She's a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and unlike most of 'em has managed to get to ten and a bit years without a bad heart murmur. The vet was astonished to listen to Rosie's heart and admit there was a murmur there but barely discernible.<br />
<br />
Her arthritis is getting her down, though. She has it in her offside shoulder, and now she's on daily anti-inflammatories for it. The vet recommended fish oil and glucosamine as well, so Rosie's nightly dinner now includes a cocktail of goodies to stop her stiffening up and being in pain.<br />
<br />
That aside, she has aged. When I walk her she no longer pulls on the leash but lags behind. From the dog she was two years ago who could keep up a pace of more than six kilometres an hour for up to an hour, I now have to take her for her own slow walk and then guiltily leave her at home while I do my power walk.<br />
<br />
There's a golden period in a dog's life for going for walks, I think. It's not when they're very young as they pull like mad and don't always want to come back to you when they're off the leash.<br />
<br />
But somewhere around four or five years old they are the best walking companions you'll ever have. They don't pull insanely; they keep up with you and trot at your heels, looking up with a happy grin. At eight they are still happy to chase a ball again and again and again.<br />
<br />
That's the experience I've had with the three dogs I've been lucky to share my life with. But at nine, they start to slow. Rosie's interest in chasing balls dwindled. She'd do it once or twice, then give me the 'can't be arsed' look. These days I don't throw balls for her because I don't want her overworking her arthritic shoulder by galloping flat out and twisting and turning. She can do it - but she'll pay for it later and be in pain.<br />
<br />
I'm aware that my lovely companion is, in human terms, in her seventies. She may live to a hundred. When I look at her, sleeping a little noisily, there's more white around her eyes than there was last year.<br />
<br />
My previous dogs have made it to 13 and a half. I'm hoping Rose does too, or, health permitting, makes it to 14 or more.<br />
<br />
Everyone loves puppies; some people forget that puppies grow to be dogs. Even then, they forget that - with luck - one day that puppy will be an old dog.<br />
<br />
<i>Dogs are for life, not just for Christmas,</i> as the saying goes. I treasure my old dog. I love her to bits. I hate it that one day she won't be there any more. She's as dear to me now as she was when she was a puppy straight out of a Disney movie.<br />
<br />
She'll need care with her arthritis. She's rather deaf (a Cavalier mystery as a lot of them go deaf for no discernible reason). She's precious beyond belief.Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-15159289721085399742015-07-27T16:18:00.002+10:002015-07-27T16:26:07.413+10:00The things I do for Psoriasis. Now it's Dandelion TeaI've suffered from Psoriasis for about 15 years. It started off as a little spot on my right leg when I was camping with friends by the sea. I thought something in the sea had bitten me and my doctor gave me cortisone cream, which seemed to fix it.<br />
<br />
It came back after a few months, with a friend. Cortisone cream sorta kinda kept it in check. Fast forward to 2015 and my lower legs are spattered with plaque Psoriasis. I am on a steroid ointment for four weeks, then I switch to a non-steroid cream. The ointment keeps it in check and my legs (and now, elbows and one wrist) look pretty normal for the weeks I'm on it. Once I'm back on the cream for a couple of days it flares up like you wouldn't believe and spreads. So I'm fighting a losing battle. Roll on 1 August so I can have my four weeks of ointment.<br />
<br />
It's not painful, it's not itchy. It's just ugly. While I can cover up in winter (and it's usually worse in winter as there is less humidity and you don't get much opportunity for Dr Sunshine to do his stuff) summer is buggery for me. I still have to wear long trousers or tights with skirts.<br />
<br />
So every so often I head to the interwebs and research more about this pesky auto-immune disease, which is incurable. It can be brought on by stress and is often inherited.<br />
<br />
I'm deliberately trying to minimise the stress in my life by cutting back my work hours and spending time outdoors - working in the garden, going for a walk. As for the inherited bit, well, I'm adopted so I have no idea what my genetic cocktail is.<br />
<br />
These are some of the ideas I've tried in the past couple of years:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Using olive oil, coconut oil or sesame oil on my plaques. All that did was make my jeans oily unless I then wrapped the offending area in cling wrap.</li>
<li>Using Vaseline on the plaques to keep them moist. See that bit about oily jeans above.</li>
<li>Drinking Organic Apple Cider Vinegar. I didn't notice any improvement. And let it be said that the smell of any vinegar makes me gag.</li>
<li>Taking Vitamin D capsules. I'm doing this at the moment as I don't get to strip off in the sun much in winter. Sunshine in small doses is the best way to let Psoriasis have its necessary dose of Vitamin D.</li>
<li>Smearing Aloe Vera on the plaques. I have an Aloe Vera bush so this is one is a nice free of charge idea. I've been doing that for about a week. No difference.</li>
<li>Cutting down on just about every food I love. This has been a real bummer. Spicy foods are a no-no apparently (and nobody enjoys a seriously good curry like I do). Gluten? Out! (Nooooo... I love my sourdough!) Dairy? Out aside from yoghurt. Tomatoes and potatoes and other members of the Solanaceae family shouldn't be eaten. Nor should my winter joy Ruby Red Grapefruit (but apparently lemons are OK). Mangoes -! Mangoes -! Why, why, why? My favourite fruit ever. Oats are out - and porridge is one of our breakfast staples. Wahhhhh!!! Seafood - I don't want to live if I can't have the occasional seafood treat. And I shouldn't drink alcohol. Humph. >:-((((( I do love my glass of wine with dinner and have no intention of becoming teetotaller. Fags are out too. So I have failed on the Food To Cut Out front. Totally. If I have to give up all the food I love I won't get much enjoyment out of life. I might not have plaques but I'll be utterly miserable. I'll be suffering from depression!</li>
</ul>
<br />
These last few days I have been reading up on both the Mediterranean diet and the findings of <a href="http://www.ireneprantalos.com/" target="_blank">Dr Irene Prantalos</a>, who is based in Melbourne. She has been a lifelong and very serious sufferer of Psoriasis and through diet is now plaque free.<br />
<br />
In general it seems a Mediterranean diet is a pretty good match for Psoriasis. Dr Prantalos has taken it one step further and created a <a href="http://www.ireneprantalos.com/healing-psoriasis-with-mediterranean-cooking/" target="_blank">Mediterranean Diet for Psoriasis</a>, and today I bought the e-book of this on Amazon, together with her book <a href="http://www.ireneprantalos.com/feel-great-in-your-skin-7-simple-ways-to-heal-your-psoriasis/" target="_blank">Feel Great in Your Skin, 7 Simple Ways to Heal Psoriasis</a>. (Note the word Heal... it can't be healed truly but it can be controlled so it goes into hiding. But most people will respond to the word Heal).<br />
<br />
Both these books sound the knell of doom as far as my favourite foods go. Whether I can stick strictly to these recipes for any length of time I don't know. There will come a day when I will scream, "I hate bloody cabbage - and dammit, I want garlic on my chicken tonight! Or chilli! I need curry - now!" <br />
<br />
I think if I can incorporate a few of them into my daily diet and be mindful of all the naughties and cut down on them I may see a difference. Some of the recipes just don't appeal to me, especially anything with cabbage. And while Dr Prantalos stresses it's important to use organic when you can, I don't have the budget. I can grow some leafy greens organically but our local organic grocer charges an arm and a leg. Oh, and eat lots of fish. I love fish but it's bloody expensive. Having a chronic illness is not a cheap business.<br />
<br />
I'm sure G won't like some of the recipes much either, and he'll have to eat them as I'm not cooking two different meals at any time of the day.<br />
<br />
One of the things Dr Prantalos suggests is Dandelion Tea. It's apparently a real goody for Psoriasis. So I bought a box of Dandelion and Chicory Tea at the supermarket today, in the absence of a simple Dandelion Tea. I can't say I'm hooked on the taste. It didn't exactly make me gag but it's not something I'd choose if I didn't think it would do my skin some good.<br />
<br />
G is away for two nights from tomorrow so I'll have the opportunity to test drive some of the recipes in the book and read more about the 7 Simple Ways. And drink a lot of Dandelion Tea.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5397358923899448909.post-82862076780485457472015-07-20T16:51:00.001+10:002015-07-21T10:06:35.253+10:00The land of the long goodbyeWe all have them. Friends and family who have trouble hanging up the phone or walking out the door. They like saying the long goodbye.<br />
<br />
Most of the time I have no trouble with this but then there are situations such as when I'm on the phone to long-winded friend Val on a work day.<br />
<br />
Val: "Is that call waiting beeping for you or me?"<br />
Me: "Me."<br />
Val: "Do you want to get it?"<br />
Me: "I should. I'm expecting a call from XYZ. Call you back in a minute."<br />
Val: "OK, then, lovely to talk to you and I'll be waiting for your call. Love to G, and say hi to all the animals for me and..."<br />
Me: "Ok." Nervously. "I'd better get that."<br />
Val: "Okeydokey, I'll let you go, love you lots, talk to you later. Bye."<br />
Me: "Love you too. Bye."<br />
Val: "Bye."<br />
Call waiting: not there any more<br />
<br />
Seriously, that is a woman who can take five minutes to get her goodbyes done with on the telephone. It's fifteen minutes in person.<br />
<br />
I have another friend called Phil who understands what it's like taking a personal call at work. If either of us say, "Gotta go!" we understand. It's a quick, "Bye!" and we both hang up. No offence taken on either side. Some people understand that when you've gotta go, you've gotta go.<br />
<br />
Another friend The Wildlife Photographer was most upset when I had to ring off quickly one day several years ago. A shelf on my desk had given way, with heavy reference books tumbling down onto my computer. Yikes! I explained what had happened, and said I really should go and check the computer. I attempted a quick goodbye, but TWP believes in long goodbyes, and considered my rather urgent, "Very sorry, but really, I should go and check that nothing's broken. Can I call you back? Bye." the height of rudeness. When I did call back he was nearly in tears. I learned: there could be no short goodbye with TWP. Your goodbyes have to be long and polite.<br />
<br />
G is the same on the phone. Long goodbyes. Love to the animals, love to me, and he HAS to be the last person to say goodbye. I've tried teasing and tricking him by saying one last goodbye at the last second but he manages to get one more in, every time. He travels quite a bit for work and insists on ringing every night he's away, often staying on the phone for nearly an hour driving from one place to the other before a long goodbye (at which time I'm usually busting to go to the loo and hopping from foot to foot); I think he gets a bit lonely on his drives.<br />
<br />
I hated saying goodbye to Mum on the phone when she was getting older. I worried about her a lot, and had the awful knowledge that one day she wouldn't answer the phone. With Mum, I loved a long goodbye.<br />
<br />
I suspect I am more a short goodbye person than a long goodbye one overall, however. Short goodbyes don't have to be brusque; nor do they have to be impolite. With close friends, a "Love you, bye!" is to my mind perfectly acceptable on the phone and a hug and kiss in person; just the one, not multiple over several minutes.<br />
<br />
What about you? Are you a short goodbye or long goodbye person?<br />
<br />
Or are you the type who hangs up the phone without saying goodbye? I can't bring myself to do this; it seems horribly rude. I have only done it once, to a boyfriend who was soon to become ex, and I was furious at the time.<br />
<br />Carinthiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09490217708697574505noreply@blogger.com0