tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25586959650131260692024-02-02T15:56:45.199+11:00Handmade Tears and TriumphsMother. Adventurer. Daydreamer. Business graduate. Psychology student. Lover of food and wine. Eternal optimist.Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.comBlogger229125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-59404348738050038252021-09-18T13:50:00.002+10:002021-09-18T13:50:15.987+10:00Imposter Syndrome<div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The demographic of the industry I work in is white males over 50 (evidenced by statistics produced by HR). Typically these men used to be tradies, many ran their own business, and now they wear suits or uniforms in their public sector management roles. They have worked longer than I have lived, with a variety of experience leading them to where they are today. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">In walked 30-something me, half the size of most of them, no trade qualification, new to the industry and, most importantly, without a penis. Not to say that I'm the first woman in the job, by no means, but other females in the industry have been around for some time. They've worked on the ground. They don't wear high heels or lipstick. They know what they're doing. But me? I really didn't at first. Sometimes I think I still don't.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Infiltrating the middle-aged mans club has been a fascinating social experiment. On arrival I thought there was no way I could fit in with these blokes. What would I even talk to them about? We had absolutely nothing in common. I avoided them and stuck to the women, relying on the fairer sex to help me settle into my new career. And within a couple of months, I wanted out.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The women called me stupid because I didn't know how to do a vlookup in Excel. I was lectured on the need to understand "professional writing" and given a writing guide to study. They made fun of the way I dressed, the way I spoke and said I was too young to be there. They didn't want to have lunch with me, would roll their eyes when I opened my mouth in meetings and disagreed with every contribution I made. (I want to add that they weren't all like this, but the nice ones were the exception to the rule.) I had never experienced anything like it. Past working relationships have blossomed into beautiful lifelong friendships, and here I felt like I had stumbled onto the set of Mean Girls. What. The. F#@k.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I developed a serious case of imposter symdrome, certain that I wasn't good enough to be there. I must have been an idiot if they all said so? Clearly I didn't belong. Fast forward 18 months and I was now managing those women, leading the statewide team. And how did I get there? The men.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The men are the ones who ate lunch with me, took me for walks, asked about my background, respected my opinions and cheered me on. The men made me feel comfortable enough to share my vulnerabilities, providing advice and guidance on how to navigate this new industry. The men didn't treat me like an idiot, in fact I don't even think they've ever treated me like a woman. I was just their colleague, a colleague they saw as gutsy, no-nonsense and who gets things done. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">If you asked the women, they would tell you I have smiled and agreed and pleased my way up. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">At a conference dinner where only four of the fifty attendees were female (and the other three were all uniformed staff who had proven their worth on the ground), a member of the middle-aged mans club came up to me and said:<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><blockquote>"I'm so proud of you, the way you walk into this crowd of men with your head held high knowing that you're one of us, so confident."</blockquote></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">But I'm not confident, I'm courageous. Confidence is believing in yourself, courage is turning up even though you're not sure you've got what it takes. </span></div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I had a work-related nightmare last night and it reminded me that negative interactions can have a stronger and longer lasting affect than positive ones. I still wonder if I'm really cut out for this. According to <a href="https://hbr.org/2008/05/overcoming-imposter-syndrome">Harvard Business Review</a> one of the ways to overcome imposter syndrome is to re-write your mental programs. So rather than question my intelligence or wonder how I got here, I've created a new narrative. I'm kind of a big deal. A shooting star. And now, when I'm in an online meeting consisting of 12 men over 50 and little old me, I take a screenshot and happily save it as evidence of success. Look at me, shattering that glass ceiling. What a legend.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">So today I wish you courage. Courage to step up even when you're not sure. Courage to face the nay-sayers, find your tribe and carve your own path. </span></div>Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-15482652910274430152021-09-17T22:16:00.000+10:002021-09-17T22:16:24.736+10:00I write for me.<p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Forgive me reader for I have sinned. It’s been three years since my last confession. The catharsis I once felt from writing was ripped from my soul like a wax strip from my bikini line and I forgot what the point of this was. I wondered if perhaps I was wrong to ever indulge…</span></span></p><div class="WordSection1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 19px; page: WordSection1;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I used to write for my Nan, my biggest fan. A mother of six children, she loved my tales of the demands of parenting and would share them with her friends at the club. But then she died, and life changed. The matriarch of my family wasn’t reading anymore, wasn’t leaving funny comments or wanting to talk about it at family gatherings. It wasn’t the same.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I used to write for my mother, who was always so proud of my way with words. She loved keeping up to date with the goings on in our lives in a manner akin to reading her favourite novel. She would read a post and then call me to ask questions about her favourite characters and explore their plot lines. But then she died, and with her departure something in me died too. My husband called it “unresolved grief”. Whatever you call it, it wasn’t the same.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I used to write for all the other women out there, struggling with the pressure to be the perfect partner, mother, employee, daughter, sister, friend. To relate and connect and bring joy. But one particular woman used my words against me, calling my husband to tell him that I was obviously damaged and incapable of love. Obsessively regurgitating every word I’d ever written in an attempt to assassinate my character. Although I knew very well that her hateful, greed-driven spite said far more about her than it did about me, I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to feed the drama. And so it wasn’t the same.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">For three long years I wrote nothing and in that time nothing changed. People were still dead. The narcissist was crazier than ever. Big things happened, the story was unfolding, but the story remained untold.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Now we find ourselves in what I believe is a humanitarian crisis. This is a different world to where we left off. Our children have been stripped of important components of their formative years; our freedom and power to make decisions a distant memory; traditional customs banished from society. We’ve lost more loved ones but we couldn’t mourn their deaths or celebrate their lives in the ways we’re accustomed to. I’m anxious, worried about the wellbeing of my family as they struggle with this new world while juggling the pressures of distant learning combined with a stressful career. I’m depressed, craving the social interactions with family and friends that fuel my soul and recharge my batteries. I’m bored, longing to go on an adventure with my loves, to see and experience something new. I’m tired, battling sleepless nights due to a lack of the psychological triggers that tell us when to switch from work to play to relax mode. This is COVID.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Through it all I remind myself that people are worse off. We may be bored but we’re not hungry, cold or uncomfortable. We may be trapped but we have a beautiful home and plenty of space. We may be sad but we’re not alone. It’s all relative isn’t it? Every day I remind my family to count their blessings, to live with a grateful heart.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Tonight I am grateful to my Nan and my Mum for encouraging my writing. I am grateful to my sister for telling me it’s time to get back to it. And tonight I write for me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 11pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Kel xx</span></p></div>Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-48068443815582499622018-12-06T22:30:00.000+11:002018-12-10T15:52:28.944+11:00Three YearsI'm a restless soul with an endless hunger for adventure, a longing for something else. It's human nature I guess, the constant search for fulfillment, the perpetual question "What next?"<br />
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Rather than stifle that inner voice or suppress my appetite, my husband feeds it. He inspires me. I'm not sure anyone has ever believed in me as much as he does. When I say I'm going to jump, he says <i>"I'll just get some shoes."</i> I love that about him. He's all in.<br />
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I'm a little more anxious than he is. When he's about to jump, I usually respond with:<br />
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<i>"From where? Do you have a parachute? Where will you land? Do you think you should grab a jacket? Have you eaten? How about a water bottle?"</i><br />
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It's just the way I love.<br />
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I used to worry about my dad and step mum, they had a tendency to isolate themselves, content with nothing more than each other. I didn't understand it, I thought it meant that they were unhappy. Since I met my husband, I've come to understand that feeling of choosing the company of one person over all others. Now, I prefer nothing more than to just be with him. How lucky we are to have stumbled upon that kind of love.<br />
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I never imagined that my children would have a step dad. When I was a single mum, I wasn't comfortable with the idea of sharing them with someone else. Then he came along and I knew he was the one I'd been waiting for, that I wanted them to share in his magic. And if he were to know me completely, he had to know them too. They're not only a testament to the woman that I am, they are my favourite people in the world. They had no need for another male role model, they have an infallible relationship with their dad, and wonderful grandfathers and uncles. But our family was changing, and they have been raised with the virtues of acceptance, kindness and love. It's in their nature to welcome him wholeheartedly. To love him, not just because I do, but because he's a great man. And because there's more than enough love to go around.<br />
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Their relationship is crafted by his own workmanship, I don't interfere. I don't always agree with what he says or does, but it's not my place to control his interactions with any of our children. He is intelligent, kind, hilarious and giving, and I have complete faith in his parental ability. I respect it.<br />
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His relationship with them is mutually beneficial. My children love having such a fun and adventurous man around, another man to teach them, guide them and make them laugh. And they have given him the chance to experience the joys of parenting, all of the things he's missed out on. He loves annoying them first thing in the morning. He loves having little helpers to take the bins out, collect the eggs, empty the dishwasher, set the dinner table and feed the dog. He loves that they ask nothing of him. He knows that Ava will be cranky in the morning if she goes to bed later than 8pm, that Hunter will feign injury to get others in trouble. He tells me when to go easy on Jordan or give him some space. He gets us.<br />
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It's been three years since our first date. I was (and still am) in awe of him. That feeling of being out of my league, like there was no way this gorgeous man was going to choose me. A second date turned into a third, and before we knew it we were a family, united as one. It's as one that we've withered the storms of life, side by side, hand in hand... I've faced some of the most trying times with him and during the weak and fragile moments, he's seen nothing but strength and love. He gets me.<br />
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Is it luck? Is it fate? Does it come down to experience? I don't know. But I do know that we're so thankful he chose us, and he's pretty thankful we chose him too.<br />
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Three years down, eternity to go xxx<br />
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<br />Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-28588795713303937342018-09-04T14:05:00.000+10:002018-09-04T14:14:16.618+10:00Mother, motherWhen I was 6 or 7, my mum and brother were throwing a tennis ball in the backyard. I was sitting between them, watching, when suddenly I shot out my hand and caught the ball. I remember mum gasping in absolute shock, asking how someone as uncoordinated as myself could spontaneously catch a ball. I remember feeling hurt, that rather than praise my awesome catch, she ridiculed me.<br />
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It's not a fond memory, but unfortunately not many of them are. My mother died this year, and in attempt to understand why that hurts so much, I've been wracking my brain to remember why I loved her. Like I need a reason or explanation for my unanticipated grief.<br />
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I don't remember her making breakfast or eating breakfast with her, but I do remember having to be <br />
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deathly quiet so we didn't wake her. I remember tip-toeing over sleeping bodies, empty beer bottles and cigarette butts, stopping for the occasional sip or puff to see what all the fuss was about. I thought that was perfectly normal, it was the 80s after all.<br />
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I don't remember mum making my school lunch. I remember on occasion having no lunch and asking the canteen ladies if they could hook me up and get mum to pay them back. I remember making my own lunch as soon as I could, and my brothers lunch as well, occasionally pranking him with a hair in his sandwich.<br />
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I don't remember doing homework or assignments with mum after school. I remember either playing outside or sitting quietly in front of the TV so that we wouldn't disturb her nap. I remember being banished to the yard or the street during shows like 'Days of Our Lives' because she couldn't handle any noise while it was on.<br />
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I don't remember her ever doing any housework, but I do remember standing on a chair and washing dishes as early as 5 years old. I do remember dust as thick as husky fur lining the skirting boards and furniture. I remember mould and soap scum covering the bathroom. Dead bugs, always so many dead bugs. I remember an overgrown backyard in a public housing townhouse with so much dog shit that I couldn't hang washing on the line for fear it would absorb the smell. I remember developing an obsessive cleaning habit from a young age, coming home from school and vacuuming, mopping, scrubbing, trying to make our house look like the places other kids lived in.<br />
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I have no fond memories of family dinners. I remember eating quietly in front of the TV, not allowed to talk because something important was on. The only times I can recall eating at the dinner table, I remember catching my plate as it flew off the table, terrified, wondering why her "friend" was yelling and flipping the table around. I remember her making us have dinner with him again and again, wondering what we'd done wrong.<br />
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I don't remember having any family movie nights or family down time. I remember having to go to bed at 7:30 on a Saturday night, right when 'Red Faces' was on 'Hey Hey it's Saturday'. I remember watching movies and eating chocolate with the babysitter, and nights spent at my grandparents house, my grandmother lovingly tucking me in and saying "God bless you" as she turned off the light.<br />
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I don't remember having bad dreams and climbing into her bed for comfort, but I do remember not being able to sleep because of blaring music and yelling voices. I do remember walking into her bedroom to see a naked man and walking right back out again. I remember wanting to sleep in my brothers room because I didn't feel safe, but afraid if I slept in there I would put him in danger. I remember packing our bags and sneaking out to a phone booth in the middle of the night.<br />
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I don't remember feeling loved, but I remember the men she showed love to. Some guy with long blonde hair and a long black coat. The one who snored like a chainsaw. The drunk who I once heard tell my grandmother that mum had stabbed him in the back and I thought that she must have literally shoved a knife into his kidneys. The guy who punched her in the face. The guy from the central coast who was around for like 5 minutes. The drug addict who liked to punch holes in the wall and yell about how much of a "f***ing little b**ch" I was... who she went on to have a child with and condemned me to suffer him for the rest of my life.<br />
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I remember feeling needed. Needed for comfort. For strength. To keep the place clean. To care for my sister as my brother had cared for me. I'm sure it can't have been all that bad, there's likely some happy times that have been lost among the more prominent painful ones. But unfortunately my memories from adulthood are much the same. She needed money. She needed me to care for my sister. To clean her house. I know that she loved me in her own way, but as a result I've become an adult who resents being needed. I just want to feel wanted.<br />
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I thought that I would feel relieved when she died. That I had mourned the loss of my mother a long time ago (around about the time when 'Packed to the Rafters' was on air and I longed for Rebecca Gibney to be my mother). But then she died, and it hurt. It hurt because while she was still alive, there was a chance (ever-so-slight, admittedly) that she could become Rebecca Gibney... there was still time. Now that chance is lost and I'm left with a longing for the mother that I never had. I'm left with a weird sort of stockholm syndrome, loving the woman who insisted on keeping me close but put everyone else first.<br />
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I've come to realise that I'm thankful for the lessons from my childhood. I've learned to be very protective of my children, cautious of who I allow into their lives. I've learned to be fussy when it comes to men, to recognise my value. I've learned that the unconditional love of my babies isn't something to take for granted, but something to treasure. I've learned to question why I want to say 'No' before I say it. I've learned that sometimes just listening to them ramble is enough to make them feel valued. I've learned that simple things like Pancake Sunday, dinners around the table and watching a DVD together will result in fond childhood memories and make up for that one time I got drunk and fell asleep in Jordan's bed.<br />
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Most importantly, I've learned that although it's important that they know that I'm human, it's also important that they think I'm unbreakable. That they know they can count on me.<br />
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I couldn't be the mother I am today without my mother.<br />
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I love you Mum, warts and all.Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-74036402047792309212017-07-27T11:59:00.001+10:002017-07-27T11:59:22.981+10:00Planning for foreverI've had a hard time writing lately, my thoughts spill onto the page in a pile of convoluted ramblings, the frustration at not producing something that reads as easy as a Dorothea Mackellar masterpiece has me wanting to throw the laptop off the balcony. I thought back to the early days of this blog when I could write every day, the words effortlessly flowing, and I wondered what changed. It's pretty obvious actually, I used to be a story teller and now I'm trying to be a philosopher. Why? Because telling the story was raw and exposing, and while I was comfortable with that at the time, I'm not any more. Instead I'm trying to write in hypotheticals and metaphors and not even my proofreader (boyfriend) has any idea what I'm trying to say. So let me see if I can bridge the gap between story and philosophy.<br />
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For a long time I was a planner, highly organised, three steps ahead, always knew my path. Then the path dramatically shifted and it really threw me, so many concurrent changes coming at me like bullets from a semi-automatic and my focus had to shift from the future to the present. Family, work, study, health, it all changed and I found myself caught up, not on the every day juggling act but on the difference between <i>then </i>and <i>now..</i>. Between the future that was mapped out and where I am today, and the stark difference between the two. None of this was in the plan, and that consumed me.<br />
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It got me thinking about the notion of 'forever'. Humans tend to simplify 'forever' because we're only around for a relatively short period of time. If the average human lives for 79 years, and some plastics can take up to 10,000 years to corrode, in perspective we might say that plastic lasts forever. We'd be wrong. Some would say that death lasts forever but we can't be sure, there's no definitive evidence. A seemingly dead plant can be revived, a human can be resuscitated. Reincarnation? Resurrection? Don't even get me started on Jesus. In a nutshell, nothing lasts forever, <i>change is the only constant</i>.<br />
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Social customs lead us to believe that a promise of forever is the foundation on which a solid relationship is built. The idea that a relationship must be permanent in order to be fulfilling or valid now seems ridiculously narrow minded. Unrealistic. I viewed my divorce as a sign of failure. I made a promise that it would last forever, that was the plan, happily ever after, but it ended. I realise now my issue is twofold; firstly my obsession with having a plan, and secondly my integrity. If I said 'forever' and it didn't happen, I'm left questioning the integrity that I value so much. The abortion of plan A leaves me wondering what plan B is and doubting my ability to plan at all. Who even am I anymore?<br />
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Firstly, I had to address my own perception of failure. As an overachiever it kills me to think that I didn't get it right. If the marriage were a project or a business, and we looked at the output rather than the end date: many good years, three great children and two independent parents who work together cooperatively, how is that not a success? I've been looking at it all wrong. My ex, my boyfriend and I can socialise together in harmony. We go to football games together, we celebrate the kids birthdays together, we're the fucking poster couple for conscious uncoupling. Just call me Gwyneth Paltrow. Apart, we're happy. Apart, our kids are thriving. What more could we want?<br />
<br />
Secondly, I had to refocus my planning nature. I thought back to when I was 18, I went to university purely because I had the brains to do it. I didn't have a long term plan, I had a 3 year plan - get a degree. I had no idea what was next. Life was good. This conflict with 'forever' is completely unnecessary, all that's guaranteed is today. So rather than throw myself into another tailspin worrying about what my life will look like in 10 years time, I'm reverting to short term goals. Spend the rest of the year at home. Make the most of it. Start planning our next trip. Keep renovating the house. Focus on the present, come what may.<br />
<br />
Addressing these points has helped to restore my faith in my integrity and remind me who I really am. I remembered my trip to Cairns, when I wandered into a tattoo studio and came out with a dragonfly, symbolising transformation and adaptability. I thought about the cherry blossoms that adorn my back to remind me of the fragility and beauty of life. The fallen angel on my side, representing strength through turmoil. These are the characteristics that define who I am, a person who deals with change and comes out on top. If I can remember that then everything else is a walk in the park.<br />
<br />
Kel xx</div>
Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-71258336642626176182017-06-28T23:06:00.000+10:002017-06-29T08:13:13.052+10:00The NarrativeMy life is narrated by a sarcastic, opinionated analyst. Day in, day out, there's a running commentary of events, accompanied by a detailed breakdown, back stories and prophecies. For the most part, she keeps things interesting... she challenges and inspires me. Quite often, she's scarily accurate, a result of her thorough analysis. Unfortunately though, my narrator also has an overactive imagination. A conspiracy theorist, if you will.<br />
<br />
I remember sitting in the tea room at work one day when I noticed someone through the window. A colleague pulled up to the back door of the kitchen, opened a bin, rummaged inside, pulled out a plastic bag that was obviously full and tied at the top, tossed it into his car and drove away. Rather than objectively accept the facts of the event as they were presented, my narrator convinced me that I had just witnessed a drug deal and uncovered a workplace scandal. Yeah, she's loads of fun... Harmless fun, because I'd never throw such accusations around publicly... Not without a little fact checking anyway (turns out it was scraps for his dogs).<br />
<br />
There are times though when I find my own narrative to be dangerous. You see, I'm a big fan of self deprecation and I'm not very trusting. I've come to realise that the most harmful stories I hear are the ones I tell myself. It's all about the narrative.<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago I made mexican for dinner completely from scratch. I'd spent the entire afternoon making grain free wraps and was quite impressed with my efforts. My boyfriend barely touched it. If I'd have listened to my narrator I would have believed that he was an ungrateful bastard and slapped him across the face with my home made grain free wraps. In reality though, he doesn't like Mexican, I know this, and it reminded me of the number of times I've tried to serve my 7yr old pumpkin, knowing full well he's hated it since his first taste. It occurred to me that sometimes when I really like something, I'll continually dish it up in the hopes that everyone else will like it as much as I do, and then feel let down when they don't. It's basic social psychology, <i>we like people who are like us.</i><br />
<br />
In the heat of the moment we don't always hear that rational thought, we're too busy drowning in the narrative. I began to wonder how I might learn to objectively narrate my own life and then I realised that's where I'm going wrong, the focus on a need for narration.<br />
<br />
As women, our minds tend to constantly tick over (as opposed to the mental silence often enjoyed by men). So rather than seek objectivity or rational thought, I think I need to hunt for silence. Meditation? Mindfulness? A trip to Tibet? Conversion to Buddhism? I'm open to ideas!<br />
<br />
Kel xxKelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-11148295162442524512017-05-03T11:03:00.000+10:002017-05-03T22:46:12.892+10:00Reinvent or rediscover? My gap yearI've always lived in highly accessible cities. Corner shops, bus stops, train stations... everything in walking distance. From a young age I got myself to school (under guidance of my brother) whether it was by foot, pushbike or bus. I liked it like that, the independence, the adventure, there was always something to do.<br />
<br />
Things have really changed around here. There's no walking to the shop now, it would take me about an hour and a half to walk to the closest one. The nearest bus stop is around 6km away. I can't get internet at my place because there are no "ports" or "patches" or something like that. I drive down a dirt road to get the boys to school. I don't have to take the dirt road, but it's 2km shorter, and a bit more fun.<br />
<br />
I no longer work or study. Call it a belated gap year, an offer of redundancy gave me the opportunity to take a break, be a mother, and reinvent myself. Reinvent or rediscover? Evolution would suggest the former.<br />
<br />
I recently took part in a '30 day embodiment challenge' and very quickly veered off the intended path. The first prompts asked that I think about the things I used to love doing and then spend some time each day doing that. I considered yoga, pilates, walking... but couldn't bring myself to do them everyday, my arthritic hips quiver at the thought. I thought about psychology, a lifelong love of learning, my success in my studies, but then my man asked<br />
"What would you do with it?"<br />
<br />
I don't know, be smarter than everyone else? I definitely don't want to be a clinical psych that's for sure. I don't have the tolerance.<br />
<br />
Eventually I found myself in the kitchen, going right back to basics and cooking the way my grandmother and those before her would have cooked. Everything from scratch. But I took it a step further, delving into wheat and dairy substitutes to help Hunter's sensitive guts. Cooking, inventing, making people happy with food, this is what brings me joy.<br />
<br />
I thought about my career up until now. I'm a restless soul, always looking for the next thing to do, constantly seeking progression... improvement... growth. For a long time I told myself that nothing was ever enough. I needed to BE better, to DO better, and although I enjoyed it I felt like it was groundhog day, the same shit, day in, day out. And I thought about my babies, how I had worked full time most of their lives, how they are only young once and I won't get a second shot at being their mum.<br />
<br />
Maybe I don't need to have three degrees and a six figure salary to live a fulfilling life. I've always had a problem with authority and working towards other peoples agendas... but I do like routine, especially the routine of someone popping a nice sum of money into my bank account on a fortnightly basis. It's quite the conundrum.<br />
<br />
Can I turn my love of cooking into a career? I'm not sure. Fortunately I've got the rest of this year to strategise. I have my redundancy money, the support of a wonderful man and three thankful children who love having their mum around. This is my babygirls last year before school and quality time with her is worth more than any career.<br />
<br />
By the way, I'm open to all suggestions on what my next steps should be 😉<br />
<br />
Kel xx<br />
<br />Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-52104567004901326112016-11-06T23:54:00.001+11:002016-11-07T13:27:29.814+11:00Of walls and weepingI should have been a brick layer... I spend so much time building impenetrable walls that I may as well get paid for it. What a waste of talent. Before finishing up at my workplace of 9 years, we were discussing whether or not I should have a farewell. My stance was "No, I hate goodbyes!" to which my colleague replied sarcastically "Of course, anything to avoid any kind of emotion!"<br />
<br />
I thought long and hard about that remark... the fucker was right. I hate RomComs, sad movies, horror movies... I'm only interested in action or comedy because I don't want to FEEL, I want to ESCAPE. Houdini style. Poof. Smoke clouds. Anything but tears. When my kids are sad I don't dive in for a hug, I sit back and talk logic, rationalising away their emotion like a stone cold, heartless boss. Mary Poppins is my idol. Mary Poppins isn't all kittens and cuddles now is she? Mary Poppins doesn't cry but she gets shit done and she makes shit happen and she's a BOSS. A fun, organised, smoking hot boss.<br />
<br />
Where is all this coming from, I hear you ask? Well tonight, my dearly beloved went all Miley Cyrus on me. <i>He came in like a wrecking baaaaallllllllllllll... </i>You see, its been a really rough couple of weeks. I've given it my all. I've bossed the bejesus out of it. And my cup? Well, my cup was well and truly empty. So I sat on the couch and requested that my cup be replenished with some green tea as I stared blankly at the TV.<br />
<br />
"What's wrong?" He asked.<br />
"Nothing." Came my reply.<br />
"Are you ok?" He tried a different angle.<br />
"Yep." I answered, robotically.<br />
<br />
So he held me tight. He held me until I couldn't fight it anymore and I wept. I wept because I'm tired and I'm sore and I just want to be back to normal. I wept because my first born had his first surgery and he's sad and scared and in pain and it breaks my heart to see it. I wept because I just don't feel that I'm doing enough for him, to ease his pain, to comfort and reassure him. I wept because I get angry when he fights me as I'm trying to put ointment in his sore, swollen eyes. I wept because I feel like my other kids have had no attention from me for several days.<br />
<br />
I wept because my wrecking ball boyfriend has mastered the art of penetrating my impenetrable walls. <i>So long, brick laying career. </i>And I love him for it. I love him for seeing right through me when I need him to. I love him for slapping some sense into me, reminding me of all the things I'm doing right and for putting his foot down to battle my stubborn independence.<br />
<br />
That's the thing about walls. We build them for good reason, to protect ourselves, and often, they're imperative. They're not permanent though, and just as it's important that we build them, it's also important that we learn when to let them down. How to let them down. And who's worth letting them down for.<br />
<br />
Kel xxKelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-25201050977633815632016-08-02T11:25:00.001+10:002016-08-02T11:33:27.099+10:00A tribute to number 3Three and a half years ago I pulled up to the big green gates, confused, alone, heartbroken... Pressing the button on the small grey remote attached to the set of keys the real estate agent had given me, I watched as they slowly swung open and rolled my car through, anxious about what was waiting for me. I found my villa and left my car blocking the driveway, unsure of where else I could put it. Fumbling the keys with my shaking hands, I managed to get the door open, and there I stood in the doorway, breathless, teary eyed, and instantly certain... this was it. It was <b>my home</b>.<br />
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<br />
I'd seen some horrible houses, dirty, dark and depressing, and I remember feeling like my life was over. Like I was in a parallel universe where everything had turned to complete and utter shit. But standing in this empty villa I felt a spark of hope, maybe things weren't so bad, maybe I would be ok.<br />
<br />
I wrote the owner a letter, explaining the situation, assuring that I could pay the rent on my part time income with three dependents and pleading for him to give me a chance. It worked, and when I received the call to say the villa was mine, I burst into tears. This was really happening, I was moving out. I wasn't even sure it was what I wanted but if he didn't want to fight for our marriage then what choice did I have?<br />
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<br />
<br />
Little did I know how much that villa would mean to the kids and I. Within its four walls I shed more tears than I ever thought possible. When I thought the world was falling apart, we grew closer together in our little bubble of love and independence. It was just us, and we were doing it, all on our own. When shit hit the fan we banded together and conquered our fears. We battled spiders, tackled a cockroach infested shed, fixed broken towel rails, disposed of dead birds, stood up to garage door bullies and juggled daily life of work, school and home... and we did it well.<br />
<br />
The downside of such fierce independence is the tendency to focus so much on <i>us</i> that I would withdraw and forget to stay in touch with the world. During this time I was fortunate enough to experience varying levels of support... those who would recognise that I had become a hermit and leave me alone, patiently waiting for me to resurface... those who quietly crawled into my bubble with bottles of wine and bags of chips and sat beside me.... and those who marched in and grabbed me by the ankles, dragging me out of the bubble and back into the world. Each was as important as the next and I'm so thankful to have felt so loved.<br />
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Now we're at the point of saying goodbye to the villa and hello to the next chapter of our lives, and although I'm thrilled to be moving in with my love, it's a bittersweet farewell. The villa was transformative. It was where my babies learned how to ride bikes, where the boys started kindergarten and Ava preschool. It was where they learned how to read, to mow the lawn and where we introduced 'movie nights'. I had to learn to live without them for a few days each week, to be alone and importantly, to love myself. I feel that their love and respect for me has evolved as a result of our time in this house. To them I am the most amazing person in this world and I owe that to the past three years.<br />
<br />
From the gates of this very villa I set off to experience the world. I achieved things I never would have thought possible, like returning to study, taking a solo international trip, adopting a teenager and finally, learning how to love again. I never predicted those three and a half years but in hindsight I see how important they were, I'm leaving a different woman than the one who walked in.<br />
<br />
Farewell my sweet number 3, thank you for being a source of solace. I hope the next family treats you well. You will always have a place in our hearts.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Kel xx</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>It's Tuesday! It's been forever since I joined IBOT so I'm linking up with the lovely <a href="http://www.kyliepurtell.com/2016/08/happy-anniversary-boofhead.html#more" target="_blank">kyliepurtell.com</a> to share the linky love!</i></span>Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-73470684832759754622016-06-26T21:24:00.002+10:002016-06-26T21:24:54.910+10:00Four years laterI wrote my first blog post on 26 June 2012, four years ago today. Kylie had encouraged me to get writing and I wasn't sure where to start so thought I would tell the world what we were eating. Riveting stuff.<br />
<br />
Four years later and I can only write about the things that penetrate my soul. It's both the easiest and the hardest task all at once.<br />
<br />
Right now I'm stuck in a 'victim' mentality. Adulting sucks. I want a blanket fort, some fairy bread, chocolate milk and some books because it's all too hard. The yarn of my life has been unravelling slowly, bit by bit, and then the string got caught whilst I was running, and I suddenly find myself cold and bare, wondering if I have anything left.<br />
<br />
I've spent the entire weekend trying to remind myself that I'm not a quitter. I'm a fucking champion.<br />
<br />
Focus on the positives. And there are so many positives.<br />
<br />
I'll ackowledge this feeling of sadness but I will give it an end date. Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow I will hit home runs. Tomorrow I will yell "Come at me bro!" to the demons lurking in the shadows. But not today. Today I will allow myself to be sad.<br />
<br />
Also, I had an anti pasto platter for dinner... the kind where you crack open a couple of jars from Coles.Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-18193585551504563612016-06-11T09:32:00.002+10:002016-06-11T09:32:59.564+10:00Love, gratitude, kindness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
"Don't get out of bed!" He orders. "The kitchen is a mess and I don't want you cleaning it."<br />
When I became a mum I was given a book called 'Porn for new mums' depicting men doing all the things women REALLY want them to do. Tidying up. Making some food. Looking after the baby. Today, as I'm served breakfast in bed and told not to move, I'm reminded of that book and how accurate it is. We should perhaps be giving it to the men in our lives rather than our girlfriends.<br />
<br />
The notion of being 'spoiled' makes me rather uncomfortable. But why? As I contemplate it this morning I realise I've been looking at it all wrong. My boyfriend doesn't like to cook, but this morning he cooked me breakfast in bed. Why? The answer is simple, he loves me, and when you love someone, you want to do things to bring them joy. We all do it. It's not spoiling per se, it's expression, it's gratitude, it's kindness. And those are all wonderful things that we all should be doing more of.<br />
<br />
So from today my promise to myself is this: No longer will I tell myself I'm not worthy of kindness. No longer will I feel shame about putting my feet up. I will lap up expressions of love and gratitude. I will eat breakfast in bed and I won't wash the dishes and I won't feel guilty for any of it!Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-75550033762964729292016-06-09T11:31:00.000+10:002016-06-09T11:42:40.092+10:00A shift in prioritiesYou'd be forgiven for wondering if my children still exist. I used to write about them on the daily, and now there's barely a mention. It's not that they're any less present or any less important, just that my mind has been plagued by everything else going on. Plagued by the days that I don't have them, by this whole new chapter of my life.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTYnTS9154YpgJeWNHTYQfwWsgiUXQmc6GquxB3aWOSpahStCaJsjgPEjd8dUoh9hxts3GBCUUwjZLWBUv1YePWrUkY0BE4yF8tlpERE1Iqj0WzAH6MUJwgI_uSFBzUsG8wr2phlJ_U7VM/s1600/20160506_152806.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="mother daughter" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTYnTS9154YpgJeWNHTYQfwWsgiUXQmc6GquxB3aWOSpahStCaJsjgPEjd8dUoh9hxts3GBCUUwjZLWBUv1YePWrUkY0BE4yF8tlpERE1Iqj0WzAH6MUJwgI_uSFBzUsG8wr2phlJ_U7VM/s200/20160506_152806.jpg" title="mother daughter" width="192" /></a>My daughter is four years old. It feels like just yesterday that my rotund little self sat in the corner of her bedroom, stroking her through the marbled, stretched skin of my abdomen, wondering what she'd look like, what she'd be like. I wondered if she'd be blonde like I was, if she'd be quiet and reserved, if she'd be laid back or neurotic. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined that I would have a rough-and-tumble firecracker of a daughter, with long, flowing brunette locks, a penchant for lipstick and nail polish, a love of carbs and obsession with chewing gum, a burning desire to climb and jump and sing... She is a warm combination of bossy and nurturing and loves nothing more than a good cuddle. I don't really see any physical resemblance when I look at her, but in personality, I feel like I'm dealing with a miniature version of myself.<br />
<br />
"I luz you ma-ma." She says, climbing up on to the kitchen bench to help me cook.<br />
<br />
My greatest fear is that we won't always be as close as we are now. What I wouldn't do to keep her little.<br />
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Hunter is six years old. A far cry from the screaming baby who refused to sleep or allow anything but my breast to enter his mouth, he's now this charismatic little guy with a cheeky grin and a sparkle in his eyes. Filled with so much love, and such a strong desire and remarkable ability to express it, he leaves hand made cards daily just to tell us how much we mean to him.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"Dear Steve, I love you and I love bee sting. From Hunter."</i></blockquote>
He craves one-on-one time with myself and his dad, relishing in undivided attention. He's blown me away by taking to kindergarten like a fish to water. He sneaks money from home to try and order something sweet from the canteen... And then he asked to play football, so we found him a team, signed him up, and suddenly he's a star. He just seems to pick up things so naturally. He's grown from a challenging baby to an absolute joy of a kid. I want to freeze time to cherish this age of discovery.<br />
<br />
His favourite thing to do is bait his brother... get him all worked up and sit and laugh while Jordan breaks down. There's a strong sense of sibling rivalry coupled with an equally strong companionship.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHHprAkUJv05cnxJjt8RE_caD8RSCvOcBn4fZ1naW5H93tYBDSCG3a9C13p38I_sC1UGso5a0FtHSY8gj7mljWv7hACZMiuJJtbGeOhuo65T28XC9zDOpQPPwz1K9pUpb1kBCfzh4AwiSN/s1600/20160317_151121.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHHprAkUJv05cnxJjt8RE_caD8RSCvOcBn4fZ1naW5H93tYBDSCG3a9C13p38I_sC1UGso5a0FtHSY8gj7mljWv7hACZMiuJJtbGeOhuo65T28XC9zDOpQPPwz1K9pUpb1kBCfzh4AwiSN/s320/20160317_151121.jpg" width="236" /></a>And Jordan. Is it just me, or is there something about your first born child? The one who teaches you how to parent, who goes through all of the "firsts" with you. He likes to try and lead his siblings but struggles with his alpha male brother and wild sister. He has such a strong sense of self, never wanting to follow the crowd but far more eager to seek individualism. He wants to grow his hair, learn guitar, play basketball and make "stuff". My house is covered in things he's made out of paper, sticky tape and anything he can find in the recycle bin. He's crafty and creative. Although he openly expresses a preference for me, he also likes to point out how much he has in common with his dad, they love to draw, build Lego and play video games, and I'm thankful that he recognises that bond.<br />
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I often think back to when he was a baby. How hard I fought to raise him my way. How he smiled and giggled from such an early age. How he ate just about anything I would make him. How he was obsessed with blueberry smoothies and would follow me around asking "Moooovie crease Mummy?" (smoothie please mummy) with his big blue eyes and chubby cheeks. I'd give anything to spend just one more day with baby Jordan. Just one more day.<br />
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Lately I've been feeling like my priorities are all wrong. I've been stuck in the habit of working and learning, learning and working. I would put them to bed and pull out a paper, a text book, or work through emails. I won't get this time with them again. They will never be 8, 6 and 4 again. I've had a total of 2 1/2 years maternity leave, but that was 2 1/2 years of sleepless nights, adjustment periods, breastfeeding... they won't remember that. I trust that they'll remember the fun that we have, the food that we share, the adventures we go on, but they'll also remember the long days in care, the nights when I've been busy and stressed and tired and sore.<br />
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More importantly, my employer won't reflect on the specialist appointments I missed. They won't appreciate that I chose a meeting over a school assembly. To them I am but a number, that number being the salary coming out of their yearly budget. An investment, for which they expect a return. A pawn on a chess board.<br />
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I can't do it all, and that's ok, but I need to make a choice. Right now, in this moment, what do I want to do? When I'm 50 and looking back on this time, what would I like to reflect on?<br />
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Kel xxKelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-2298871038289132892016-04-15T12:31:00.002+10:002016-04-15T13:03:04.023+10:00A teenager broke my resilience<div>
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Let's face it, teenagers are tough. For most parents, by the time you reach those challenging years of battling with a hormone-driven alien, you've experienced the build up... the joys AND the challenges. That's not to say you're fully prepared and well equipped to deal with what's coming, but you've at least had a warning.<br />
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Me? Not so much. Instant teenager. </div>
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Fair enough, I invited the teenager. Admittedly, I too was once a teenage girl and I knew what I was getting myself into. And still, I was not prepared.</div>
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During the adjustment period I sent out a series of snapchats to my friends, whining about my new life with a teenager. The teenager went through my phone and watched the series of snapchats. <i>Cue emotional guilt trip about how I should be a much more supportive sister and NOT make fun of her. </i></div>
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Yet here I am writing this post. <i>I'll never learn.</i></div>
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In all fairness, not one viewer of the snapchats took it as a negative backlash at my sister, but rather a humorous recount of my own personal struggle - which it was. You see, thanks to the teenager moving in, I've learned something about myself. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgayDVodNL8JoHrFtN3b6csnC3Vuxdn5YbMO9wCSC3_Angi31zXPqQ_qkGDkFQWy3b0xZFDPyeyg4jt_7kvbojOGDN-wQtPOsjXgUM1BEtmIicxwXc1lNxlxxVKEXa0uDx_jhHYTom_Y5vR/s1600/12295408_10153761890041810_1941853779312399712_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgayDVodNL8JoHrFtN3b6csnC3Vuxdn5YbMO9wCSC3_Angi31zXPqQ_qkGDkFQWy3b0xZFDPyeyg4jt_7kvbojOGDN-wQtPOsjXgUM1BEtmIicxwXc1lNxlxxVKEXa0uDx_jhHYTom_Y5vR/s200/12295408_10153761890041810_1941853779312399712_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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I don't like to share.</div>
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Not my space, not my time, not my makeup, and not the control of MY CAR RADIO. </div>
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I'll gladly share my food, I love feeding people. I'll happily share my clothes, because that's what girls do! Money? Sure, no problem, how much do you need? But my god if you keep changing it to 96.1 and turning it up while you pop your sunnies on, slouch and wind down the window like you're cruising down George St in a WRX I WILL HURT YOU. </div>
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There's an added element that makes our relationship a little more difficult to navigate than the standard parent/teen situation. I'm not her parent, I'm her sister, and although I'm certainly able to discipline and guide her, I too can be an immature brat. So when my tweezers kept going missing and she used all of my eyebrow pencil (in like a week, HELLO GROUCHO MARX) I decided I needed to step it up a notch. </div>
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When StairMan opened his bedside drawer to find my makeup bag, I calmly stated </div>
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"Oh I'm hiding it from lilsis, she won't look there."<br />
StairMan: "Why are you hiding it from her?"<br />
Me: "So she doesn't use it..." (derrrr)<br />
StairMan: "Why don't you just ask her not to?"</blockquote>
Interestingly, post-hiding of the makeup bag she's been wearing much less makeup. Coincidence? I think not.<br />
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Jokes aside, we've run full pelt into some hurdles and the adjustment has been challenging, for both of us. So I had a little breakdown, <i>it's all too hard, I can't do this</i>, etc. etc. and just last week my doctor said to me "Stop looking at the negative, try listing all the positives."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivfDe411eOoNuLbIzlfE3_E7EWtpyBxDhEQ__3k5C8Gx3TxscK3ZadNjq1CEx8arFfMZMRmnSyMVKXJSMEv7i8BQfWQ_bKFqtvhizaIPtiz3vOSaV0rP2x3YYrXWyvLfodvchR5vgwg5Vv/s1600/12301573_10153776131921810_1507329013325014018_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivfDe411eOoNuLbIzlfE3_E7EWtpyBxDhEQ__3k5C8Gx3TxscK3ZadNjq1CEx8arFfMZMRmnSyMVKXJSMEv7i8BQfWQ_bKFqtvhizaIPtiz3vOSaV0rP2x3YYrXWyvLfodvchR5vgwg5Vv/s200/12301573_10153776131921810_1507329013325014018_n.jpg" width="200" /></a>So, here goes:<br />
<ol>
<li>I now have a protege</li>
<li>Live-in babysitter FTW!</li>
<li>The kids love her</li>
<li>She finally feels connected to her family</li>
<li>She's learning how to "keep house"</li>
<li>Which in turn makes her more useful</li>
<li>She's pretty funny - good for a laugh</li>
<li>She's very sweet </li>
<li>She's tall and that comes in handy</li>
<li>I have a wonderful opportunity to do something meaningful for someone else</li>
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Love you lilsis.<br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>Kel xo</i></span><br />
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Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-68082818680405399602016-04-11T16:30:00.003+10:002016-04-11T16:30:49.527+10:00Four months in...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I don't love easily. Like a deep, dark secret, I keep it close to my chest... I don't readily give it out, and I can't effortlessly receive it. It takes work. It's an investment. And like any good business graduate, I'll conduct a feasibility study, project the return on investment, and usually decide it's not worth my energy. The stakes are too high.</div>
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One of my best friends gave my number to StairMan because she thought we would get along. I didn't really have any expectations the first time he called me. I thought it was nice that he wanted to chat rather than text. I liked the way he could carry on a conversation, he was curious, open and funny. And talking to him was effortless. It was a welcome distraction from the stress of juggling work, study, 3 children and my teenage sister. So naturally, when he asked if we could meet, I said yes. </div>
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<a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/86/6c/cf/866ccf1e6fc0fc516734d0bc3bf85f4b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="The way I love you " border="0" height="320" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/86/6c/cf/866ccf1e6fc0fc516734d0bc3bf85f4b.jpg" title="The way I love you" width="320" /></a>It only took 3 dates to know. After the first date, I couldn't even pinpoint something I liked about him, because I liked everything about him... I really enjoyed his company. On our third date, we had the kind of conversations I've never had before. I didn't want to have them until I met him. We just connected, organically. There was no forcing it and no denying it, he was exactly who I'd been waiting for.</div>
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A mere four months later we're inseparable, living together, and our boys are calling themselves "step-brother". Our family is huge and it's crazy and I often lose my marbles. But he calmly picks up the marbles, giving them back to me one by one, gently pointing out that perhaps a few of them were unnecessarily dropped. And I frantically try to justify my insanity, while a little voice in my head panics "Shit! He's right!". It's a learning curve really.</div>
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I forgot what it's like, those early days of getting to know someone... what drives them mad... what makes them tick... it's trial and error, but I'm discovering as much about myself as I am about him. And on those rough days when life seems all too hard, he holds me close and listens, offering advice and gentle kisses, I turn to him and say "I don't know what I'd do without you..." to which he laughs, "Yes you do, you'd be fine! You're Superwoman!" And my insecurities melt away, my self-criticisms become frivolous, because the most amazing man in the world chose me to love. </div>
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Kel x</div>
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Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-27522602538078669092016-04-06T16:21:00.003+10:002016-04-06T16:21:47.987+10:00Inevitable changeWe often refer to change as a negative thing. We call people change resistant, change averse... we criticise our friends and family with statements such as "You've changed". We fear and fight change on a daily basis by doing things as simple as sticking to a routine, ordering the same coffee or the usual sandwich from the familiar cafe, cooking the same meals, driving the same route... to things as complicated as staying in a job or a relationship that we don't enjoy simply because the thought of leaving is too daunting.<br />
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We're forgetting something pivotal to the existence of human beings. Since the dawn of time, in order to survive as a race we've had to adapt. We've had to change. And our survival and growth alone is irrefutable proof that change is good for us. Yes, sometimes it's dangerous, but on the most part, that border between "same old" and "new" is where we flourish. It's where we discover things that we would never have known if not for stepping out of the comfort zone.<br />
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It feels like my life has been a series of rapid changes, big, life-altering changes. I'm a pragmatist so I tend to jump in both feet first taking no notice of the emotion attached to it. The problem with that is that the emotion eventually catches up to you, no matter how hard you fight it, and before you know it you're hiding in a corner eating cake and ice cream hoping no one finds you because you just need 5 minutes alone with something that brings you joy... quiet, selfish joy.<br />
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<i>How good is cake and ice cream? Or a hot, candle-lit bubble bath? Or a sunset stroll through the trees?</i><br />
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It was then that I realised that I'm yet to find a balance between the old and the new. I had slipped back into familiar, unhealthy patterns, so focused on jumping that I hadn't stopped to remember the things that recharge my batteries. The things that I do out of pure selfishness, just for me. Some things you do just to pass the time, but others you do because they're good for the soul. I only discovered these things when I had a few nights a week to myself and no idea what to do.<br />
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When I began to feel burnt out, exhausted and resentful, I had to stop and ask myself where it was coming from. The answer wasn't my environment, it wasn't other people, it was coming from within. The only thing stopping me from doing the things that bring me joy was ME. It was a revelation when I told myself that I can still do those things, regardless of how much my life has changed. I'm allowed a time-out. I don't need to be everything to everyone all of the time. Sometimes I need to be my own supporter, rather than my own worst enemy.<br />
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Some change is thrown at us like a curve ball and we just have to do the best we can, but sometimes we have to choose to change, and that's the kind that takes more work.<br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Kel x</span></i>Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-80737487020225497252015-10-04T20:51:00.003+11:002015-10-04T20:51:43.854+11:00Marvelous Massachusets<div>
I arrived in Boston shortly after 6pm on a warm, wet evening. I'd been so worked up about travelling to a foreign city on my own and was surprised by how calm I felt waiting for my (very late) transfer in the rain. Boston will do that to you, the city has such a warm and inviting feel to it and I don't think you can really comprehend it until you get there. It felt like fate, this trip was an important step on the path to individualism, stepping outside of my comfort zone and taking the plunge alone, and to arrive in Boston feeling safe and confident, it was like the stars had aligned. </div>
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I wanted the trip to be authentic so rather than book a hotel, I had booked a private apartment with no on-site staff. Access codes in hand, I entered the gorgeous three-storey brownstone and dragged my suitcase up two flights to my apartment. It was a cute little studio with an exposed brick wall, several windows with shutters opening out onto a rusty fire escape and a nice, compact kitchen and bathroom. It was perfect. </div>
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My body clock took a little while to catch up, so at 3am I was wide awake, a great inconvenience considering that most things I wanted to see didn't open until 10am. I called the kids, did a few exercises, took a bath, had a little power nap, until I could no longer take it, threw on some clothes and headed out.<br />
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Strolling down Back Bay's Commonwealth Avenue was like a scene from a movie. The wide, grassy mall running through the centre of the avenue was home to statues and people walking their dogs, plastic bags in hand *shudders*. Either side were rows of three and four storey brownstones in perfectly neutral tones with their window boxes providing splashes of colour in an almost rebellious gesture. The end of the avenue marks the beginning of the Boston Public Garden with bright bursts of pink and red nestled comfortably amongst the luscious green. As I strolled through the garden, marvelling at the flora that consumed my senses, a little flash of brown caught my eye. I paused, searching for the brown flash, wondering what on earth it was. I absolutely squealed with delight when I realised I was surrounded by squirrels, tiny comical creatures with their bushy tails, dashing around on the hunt for nuts.<br />
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From there I headed to the historic Quincy Market and Faneuil Hall, neighbouring buildings full of tourist shops and food outlets, exploring until I was absolutely starving. I decided on the Boston and Maine Fish Co that I'd read a little about, ordered a swordfish kebab and scallops wrapped in bacon, and perched myself up on a stool.<br />
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"Would you like something to drink with that?" The guy asked me in an Italian American accent.<br />
"Sure, what do you recommend?" I replied.<br />
"Well, you got some swordfish there, I'd have a Chardonnay. The bottle says California but they ship it from Australia. You like Australian wine?"<br />
"Just so happens I love Australian wine" I smiled, "Yes please."<br />
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I started shoveling in morsels of fish and swigging my Chardonnay with gusto, it all tasted amazing. He asked where I was from and what time it was there. I pulled out my phone to check and noticed that in Boston it was in fact 10:30am, hardly fish and wine time. Slightly embarrassed, I explained that I'd only arrived the night prior and was still on Sydney time.<br />
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The rest of the day was much of the same, exploring and shopping, and an accidental nap when jetlag got the better of me and I crashed like a narcoleptic. The following day I boarded a Duck Tour, an amphibious World War II vehicle providing an historic tour of Boston both by land and by water. Our tour guide, Flo, was a single mother of several children with an accent worth of a role in Good Will Hunting and wit so fast that I'm sure she missed her calling as a stand up comedian. I learned that Boston is one of the oldest cities in America, founded in 1630. It was hard to separate fact from fiction but I enjoyed the history lesson with a side of hilarity. <br />
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I'd had a look on TripAdvisor for Boston's best eats, keen to tackle another personal hurdle and sit down in public for a meal alone (eating at the market gave me a little courage). As I walked into Kings Bowling Bar I felt overwhelmed by the dim lighting, energetic crowd and blaring NFL game. Not one to shy away from a challenge (or turn around and walk back out of a room while everyone is looking) I climbed up onto a bar stool (really, it was quite a climb) and smiled at the cute bar attendant. He introduced himself, to which I replied,<br />
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"I don't even know what you just said."<br />
He repeated himself explaining that his name was Polish, as I stared blankly at him... abruptly saying,<br />
"Nope, I still have no idea."<br />
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He gave up, handed me a menu outlining the specials with such enthusiasm you'd think he made a commission on them. I let him talk me into the Nacho's and Bud Light special and was handed a beer as big as my head. At least it was after 12pm this time. The rest of the afternoon was spent stumbling along the iconic Newbury St, lined with brownstones containing high end boutiques and restaurants. Ending up in the theatre district with it's narrower streets and more modern buildings including high rises, I found myself in Macy's trying on designer dresses... as you do...<br />
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Day 3's mission was to catch a train to Worcester to visit one of my favourite people. He assured me that it was simple, that I would be fine, and that he would be waiting for me at the other end. He lied. On entry to the station I attempted to purchase a ticket but the machine wouldn't accept my card. An attendant directed me to the ticket booths, and at the ticket booths a woman directed me to a queue, and as I got to the front of the queue and proudly declared "Can I have a round trip to zone 8 please?" the man replied,<br />
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"Ma'am, I only sell Amtrak, you need to line up over there" pointing to the other side of the room. Awesome.<br />
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So I joined the second line, bought my ticket, and then stood there, confused.<br />
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"Ah, excuse me, sorry, where do I catch the train from?" I asked the seller of the ticket.<br />
"I don't know, wait for the announcement!" he yelled in frustration.<br />
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Ohhhhkaayyyyyy.</div>
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Confused and disoriented, I decided a donut and coffee might pass some time before I had to find my train. I'd seen seven billion Dunkin Donuts and figured it was time I learned what the fuss was about.<br />
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"Can I please have a flat white?"<br />
"No. I don't know what that is. What is that? Is it hot? Is it cold?" the poor Dunkin Donuts guy was more confused than I was.<br />
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Latte and coffee roll in hand (a glorified cinnamon scroll, Dunkin Donuts pretty much = Donut King), I took a seat and began to look around, observing the crowd and seeking a platform of some sort where one might, I dunno, board a train. Suddenly it stood out like dogs balls, a huge exit to my left through large glass doors, 8 platforms lined up behind them, a few trains waiting, and not a single person out there. Such a strange sight to see trains waiting and everyone quietly seated indoors.<br />
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Suddenly one of the signs changed, a voice over a loudspeaker said something I couldn't understand, and a group of people rushed off towards the train on platform 8. The sign indicated it wasn't my train, and I turned around to see a group of people walking over to stand in front of a different sign and wait again. When this sign changed it revealed that I'd won the train behind door number 2, so I followed the crowd as they rushed off to the platform. But rather than board whichever carriage you like, everyone headed to the same carriage, and I realised it was because there was only one carriage open.<br />
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South Station Boston, you are a control freak.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">An hour and a half later I arrived in Worcester, still annoyed that it's pronounced "Wooster" and almost afraid to say it out loud. My friend was waiting as promised, and I requested that he take me somewhere authentically Wooster for lunch. He chose a tiny diner, a converted train carriage with a single strip of booths and nothing more, barely room to swing a cat. <span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.32px;">Homes in Worcester were vastly different from those in Boston, mostly made of wood or shingles, and a series three storey homes where each floor houses a different family. Downtown Worcester was very ghetto, with my friend confessing that for a long time it was deserted as it had become quite dangerous. As we headed from the city centre to the suburbs I couldn't help but comment on the beautiful, almost country-style homes with their patriotic flags and unidentifiable boundaries, it all looked so welcoming. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.32px;">The following morning I packed my suitcase, dragged it back down two flights of stairs and then two blocks over, and boarded an Executive Business Class bus, Limoliner, to New York City. But that, my friends, is a story for another day. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.32px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Kel xx</i></span></span></div>
Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-59604397013298748982015-02-08T19:54:00.000+11:002015-02-08T19:54:40.996+11:00DIY Detox leads to lifestyle changes<div style="text-align: justify;">
I've never been a dieter. The extreme pleasure that results from my tastebuds being intimate with food will always reign over having the perfect body or being the picture of perfect health. Whoever said "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels" hasn't had a pulled pork and coleslaw burger from Churburger or a Waffogatto from Waffle Co. Hell I'm sure they haven't even tried a damn Toblerone, because I guarantee you it tastes better than a rib cage feels... </div>
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Body shaming is rife. Everyone is too fat, too skinny, too muscly, too jiggly, no booty, huge booty, dimpled booty, thunder thighs, flat-chested, big-tits McGee, saggy boobs, pot belly, mummy tummy, knock-knees, bow-legs, chicken legs, varicose veins, flat feet, club feet, tuck shop arms, shrunken skull, five-head, wing-nut, bum-chin, Steven Tyler, frown lines, laugh lines, hairy, bald, albino, leather skin, acne, oily, dry, psoriasis, WRINKLES... I could go on forever. And if none of these existed, nicknames would be much harder to come by. </div>
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On top of that, every second person is on some kind of diet... raw, vegetarian, vegan, paleo, 2&5, atkins, clothesline, Terry White, Celebrity Slim, cabbage soup, Hollywood, lemon detox, meal replacements, Lite N Easy, Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, macrobiotic, low carb, high protein, whole food, gluten free, flavoured air...<br />
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I wish that we could all accept that the human body is a beautiful, sophisticated thing that comes in many shapes and sizes. I'm not interested in the pursuit of the perfect body, but I do believe in good health and in feeling comfortable in your own skin. And food, I believe in food. For this reason I try to balance bouts of overindulgence with healthy eating and portion control. If I enjoy a man-sized meal of ribs, chips and beer then you know I'll be lunching on salad for the week. It's all fun and games until someone needs to buy new jeans, one size up. </div>
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A recent 2 week vacation was the perfect time throw caution to the wind and enjoy that overindulgence that I'm so fond of. Right after Christmas, the season of EATING. Needless to say, by the time I arrived home I was feeling like an overstuffed chicken, bulging in all of the wrong places. My concern wasn't how I looked, it was how I felt. Pudgy. Slow. Sick in the stomach. Sore in the chest. My skin felt terrible. My body forgot how to function properly. My organs needed a break from all that hard work they were doing trying to metabolise 2 weeks of solid drinking, cheese platters, burgers, fries, spicy thai food, pancakes, ice cream... And I wondered, how on earth do people feel like this ALL THE TIME?</div>
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I decided on a DIY detox and consulted Dr Google to ascertain the best detoxifying foods. List in hand, I headed off to Harris Farm Markets to purchase a whole lot of things that I rarely ever buy including cilantro which I couldn't find, possibly because I have no idea what it is or what it actually looks like. Naturally, green leafy vegetables were at the top of the list, no surprises there. Artichokes are apparently excellent for a detox, but I'm assuming they aren't in season because I couldn't find them anywhere. Unless I don't actually know what they look like either, in which case, I need to get out more. Beetroot was at right up there for being very high in antioxidants. I once grew beetroot and when I dug it out, I had no idea what to do with it, it didn't look like the stuff that comes in a can. However, I had a plan for my detox beetroot - in smoothies and grated on salads. Berries, chia seeds and green tea were also highly recommended, and fortunately these are staple items in my house. I also picked up some 'Superfood Powder', cashews, almonds, sunflower seeds and linseed. I'd read that coconut oil and olive oil are ok, which is good because I love them. Or maybe I didn't read it, maybe I made it up to make myself feel better. Whatever. </div>
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Traditional detoxes include periods of fasting whereby only liquid (water or tea) is consumed. <b>Hell to the no</b>. The only time 'fast' applies to 'food' is in the drive thru, in my opinion. Instead I decided that my detox would eliminate all processed/refined sugar (my favourite), alcohol (sob), complex carbohydrates (with the exception of sweet potato, because I love sweet potato), red meat, dairy (with the exception of a splash of almond milk and dollop of plain, unsweetened yoghurt each morning) and coffee. The intention was to provide my body only with nutrients, and only with things that are easily digested. </div>
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<i>*sings* This is the post that never ends... yes it goes on and on my friends..</i>.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpfWuoiQWWUMKgB3mf7tt_OGfkatvJ8afzphSzm4Ymq6-pg6xygee8WX9eV4AmPO_pmE_ER9y4J1jEtARcoPGRa7DIdIx6Uh_qgrol1QRBVNkwHwy4ml5TkmTFNKYmdLm8XE09OsWq5IOb/s1600/1421297161182.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="detox" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpfWuoiQWWUMKgB3mf7tt_OGfkatvJ8afzphSzm4Ymq6-pg6xygee8WX9eV4AmPO_pmE_ER9y4J1jEtARcoPGRa7DIdIx6Uh_qgrol1QRBVNkwHwy4ml5TkmTFNKYmdLm8XE09OsWq5IOb/s1600/1421297161182.jpg" height="320" title="detox" width="180" /></a><br />
Ahem.
So. Day one.<br />
Breakfast was a boiled egg.<br />
Lunch some smoked salmon, avocado and cucumber.<br />
Afternoon snack a cup of raspberries.<br />
And then I went out to dinner and had 2 glasses of champagne, a glass of Shiraz, a Lebanese feast, and a giant cup of Yogurtland to finish off. I won't even tell you what was in that cup. But it was amazing. And I was happy.<br />
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So... Day one? Failed.<br />
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For the remainder of the week, my breakfast consisted of chia seeds soaked in almond milk, with a tablespoon of unsweetened yoghurt, blueberries, almonds, sunflower seeds and linseed. I often eat this for breakfast anyway because it's delicious and packed full of goodness. </div>
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I consumed a lot of kale. Do you know what kale tastes like? Arse. It tastes like arse. But apparently, it's one of the healthiest arses around, so I kept on eating it and trying different ways to serve it. On the second day, a neighbour decided to fertilise their lawn. There I was, standing by the window munching oven-baked arse, when the stench of manure infiltrated my nostrils. I froze. I panicked. Was I really eating stinky arse? Was this what my life had become? </div>
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The 'Superfood powder' said to mix with with water and drink. The stupid little packet cost me $22 and looked like algae but I knew I had to drink every last drop. I could have bought 2 bottles of wine for that price. I threw it down as quick as I could... and gagged, struggling to stop it from shooting back out. But I kept it down, washed it down with water, and moved the hell on. </div>
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The rest of my meals were purely vegetables, sometimes with some salmon or tuna. All snacks were fruit, nuts, kale chips and chickpeas. When I started to struggle a friend suggested I try a banana smothered in crunchy peanut butter. I don't know if it's because I've been eating arse and drinking algae or if it's actually good, but I swear, in that moment, a banana with crunchy peanut butter was the best thing I had tasted in my entire life. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOP9jR0LGlcqc05GOibJdAkrzaW6z6h0LHpBP2a6k8xuBuu1wQaP1AuQnc5LTOekzYT2v3rjWEjDnXgWok6o_LBpYWVpvDZpI1EfrxRMIdzbRRemdJY8HqUEN4-hmFFIvrnqf6j0wi34Hw/s1600/2015-02-07+22.46.44.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Kelly" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOP9jR0LGlcqc05GOibJdAkrzaW6z6h0LHpBP2a6k8xuBuu1wQaP1AuQnc5LTOekzYT2v3rjWEjDnXgWok6o_LBpYWVpvDZpI1EfrxRMIdzbRRemdJY8HqUEN4-hmFFIvrnqf6j0wi34Hw/s1600/2015-02-07+22.46.44.png" height="200" title="Kelly" width="198" /></a>At first, it wasn't easy. On day 3 I started to get a terrible headache which lingered for a few days. I can only assume this was some kind of withdrawal. On day 5 I gave in and had some wine at dinner with friends. By day 7, I was feeling amazing. My skin was soft, smooth and positively glowing. My stomach settled and strangely, I felt light. I felt like some balance had been restored. By the end of the second week, I didn't crave fat, carbs and sugar like I normally do, I WANTED to eat well. I felt amazing, I was looking great, and finally I understood why people put themselves through the misery that is healthy eating. </div>
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I think this is going to be a lifestyle change for me. A month on and I'm still eating more fruit, vegies and seeds than I ever have, I'm still not eating junk or drinking alcohol (except Fridays), I've lost 4kg, and I'm feeling amazing. </div>
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Kel x</div>
Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-79488177359107377912015-01-13T05:30:00.000+11:002015-01-13T05:30:00.219+11:00Single: Am I doing it right?There are social stigmas attached to long-term single people. The first is that they're players, too keen to share their love among the masses rather than settle down with just one partner. The second is that there's something wrong with them, a reason why no one has chosen them as a long-term partner. For women, this is often because they're batshit crazy, and let's face it, so many of us are. For men, it's usually because they never grew up, and let's face it, so few actually do.<br />
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I'm fast approaching the 2 year mark, 2 years as a single woman. Considering my last relationship began at the ripe age of 18, in quantitative terms you'd call this 6% (2 from 32 years). In the grand scheme of things, that's not long at all, it's hardly long-term single by comparison of your average 32 year old woman. Regardless, I fear that unreasonable social stigmas are seeping in.</div>
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In qualitative terms, that 6% has been EPIC. I've presented at conferences and secured a promotion, a scholarship and further education. I've visited 3 countries, 1 city and met more people than I can count. I've eaten dessert for dinner, swam naked in Australia's most iconic beach, and faced just about every fear that once held me back. Inhibitions? Ain't nobody got time for that.</div>
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Once upon a time my life was made up of monotonous routines. I wasn't living it. I was going through the motions and ticking the boxes as if I were starring in Groundhog Day... and I was drowning. Now, I'm freestyling like Shane Gould, snatching up those medals like they're going out of style. But I'm still not sure if I'm doing it right. </div>
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This isn't a 'grass is greener' type scenario, because I'm acutely aware that all grass is at some point covered in shit, or dying, or growing wildly out of control. I'm not a 'grass is greener' kinda girl, I'm a 'mow your own damn lawn cos nobody else can keep that shit for you' kinda girl. </div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Ladies, don't independence yourself into loneliness!"</span></i></div>
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As I watched the Tyrese Gibson clip about ladies with a strong sense of independence producing a repellent against all men, at first I was laughing. He's a funny guy. But suddenly it wasn't funny. Suddenly, he was talking to me, he was telling my story. I wanted to use my independent fist to punch him square in the throat so he would stop telling me that I'm so independent that no man will ever want me. And so as I said, I've been wondering if I'm doing it right.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYDeuITmGPGUsTzHZlOuni4fSk1GXrympe9KNx7WFYtij20fDD8fywX80Yvmxx7UA0t-U5TuM6Pz60-bcQ0tSEfx1vY4o34jb4_TOllyps7ey1NiPCWD7i5uPmPYRi0WX3_AJUQiHA9RZ7/s1600/P1080524.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="bula, fiji, sheraton resort, denarau, sheraton villas, vacation" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYDeuITmGPGUsTzHZlOuni4fSk1GXrympe9KNx7WFYtij20fDD8fywX80Yvmxx7UA0t-U5TuM6Pz60-bcQ0tSEfx1vY4o34jb4_TOllyps7ey1NiPCWD7i5uPmPYRi0WX3_AJUQiHA9RZ7/s1600/P1080524.JPG" height="240" title="Fiji 2015" width="320" /></a></div>
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Facebook is the bane of my existence. People in their second marriages, blossoming love, those who bounce from relationship to relationship without ever really being on their own... I hadn't noticed them before, but now it seems that Facebook's creepy marketing scheme filters them all into my newsfeed making me question why the rest of the population seems capable of wiping their hands of their last relationship and moving the hell on while I'm still sitting on my couch in my underwear with my laptop and tub of Ben and Jerry's. </div>
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Don't mistake this as a post about yearning for an end to insufferable loneliness or a whine about the lack of appropriate suitors, I do quite well on my own and I know that there is an array of decent seafood in the Pacific Ocean. But I must confess that I am slightly panicking that perhaps I've become so detached that I won't ever be able to let someone in again. Perhaps I am, in fact, independencing myself into loneliness. </div>
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I have a fulfilling life. Between my children, my work, my friends and my family, my cup is never half empty. I wonder how I'll ever find room to fit another person in. I'd like to, but do I have to? Society tells me that people come in pairs. On our recent trip to Fiji, we were often asked where the husband was or where the Dad was. People found it difficult to accept that a family existed without a man. But here we are, existing, two years strong. </div>
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And yet still, I wonder, am I doing it right?</div>
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Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-8941301748535624442014-10-21T05:30:00.000+11:002014-10-21T05:30:00.039+11:00Where I always wanted to be...I'd forgotten what it felt like. At first, I didn't recognise what it was, it had been so long since I'd felt that way. My mind was elsewhere, marred by an inability to focus or think. My hands a little shaky, my mind a little fuzzy, with that lingering 'about to pass out' feeling. But worst of all was the insufferable nausea, that constant feeling in the pit of my stomach that any minute now passers-by would be privvy to a viewing of the contents of my stomach.<br />
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Anxiety. I have a fine-tuned ability to switch my mind off and avoid negative thought patterns, so for me, anxiety manifests itself physically first. You see, I was about to take off to Cairns for a work conference and a few days of pleasure. It was my first ever solo trip, because I'd been with him half of my life and never had to do anything on my own. I was leaving my babies behind for 7 whole nights. It was killing me. </div>
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I woke the morning of my flight and decided I just wouldn't go. It was all too much to handle. I missed the kids already. And the last time I left them he was an arsehole and punished me for it. I just wouldn't go. </div>
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<i>You're being an idiot. People take trips every day. This is not a big deal. The kids are fine. You won't die. </i></div>
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I'd planned to drive to Blue Emu car park, leave my car and catch a transfer to the airport. It sounds pretty simple, right? But because I'd never done anything like this my anxiety levels increased, my ability to rationalise decreased, and I was certain, absolutely certain, that something was going to go horribly wrong. But I dragged my arse into the garage and drove off anyway. </div>
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The whole way there I panicked. I panicked that I would miss a turn off. I panicked that I should call the kids and tell them I love them because I was surely going to die that day. I panicked that I wouldn't know where to get the transfer from and I'd be lost and lonely in the car park and I'd miss my flight. But I drove on anyway, because people take trips every day.</div>
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I parked my car, grabbed my suitcases and walked to the bus stop. And then I panicked. I panicked that I might have read it wrong and a transfer might not come. I panicked that my car wouldn't be safe in the car park for a week. I panicked because I should call the kids and tell them I love them because I was surely going to die that day. And then the coach came. So I panicked that I wouldn't know where to get off, that someone would take my suitcase instead of theirs, that perhaps I'd gotten on the wrong coach. And then I told myself...</div>
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<i>You're being a fucking idiot.</i></div>
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No really. I was annoyed, so annoyed that I was ruining a big moment by being a paranoid-worst-case-scenario expert. And I regained the ability to avoid negative thought patterns. I strolled into the airport, checked in my suitcase, and did some shopping. I sat down and enjoyed an iced coffee, allowing myself to savor the moment. I was about to do something pretty huge, and I decided to enjoy it. </div>
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I boarded the plane and walked down the aisle, frantically scanning for my seat.</div>
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<i>Fuck, I'm in a middle seat. That sucks. Oh hey, he's cute! Oh shit, that's my row! Oh shit, cute guy is next to me! OH SHIT. </i></div>
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"Hi." I smiled shyly as I dropped my handbag on the seat next to him and shoved my carry on into the overhead compartment. </div>
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"Hey, how you going?" He smiled back, and I looked away and didn't answer, taking my seat. </div>
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The plane took off in awkward silence, and I'd decided we would spend the entire flight NOT talking. I pulled out my notes and began to practice in my head, page by page, topic by topic. I knew this stuff so well, but I wanted to go over it again. He reached forward and pulled out a few sheets of A4 paper stapled together. He flicked through, skimming over pages, it was obvious he wasn't really reading. As he paused on a page I glanced over, and I couldn't help but notice my name, right there next to his thumb.</div>
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"We're going to the same place." The words fell out of my mouth, rather casually. He laughed.</div>
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"I think half of the plane is probably going to the same place!" He joked. I felt foolish.</div>
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"Yeah, I guess so..." I looked away. He looked at the notes in my hand. </div>
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"Are you presenting?" He asked. I looked back to the page in his hand and pointed to my name, right below my abstract.</div>
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"Yep, that's me!" I smiled. </div>
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He read through the abstract and asked questions about my work. We talked for the entire flight, and suddenly the very scary first solo flight wasn't scary at all. We joked about the difference in our baggage as we grabbed our bags from Cairns and shared a cab into the city, my hotel the first stop. Previously, I'd been so nervous about the whole process, and suddenly I was standing there, checking in, cool as a cucumber. As I entered my home for the next week, dropping my bags and heading straight for the balcony to take in the view, I remembered why I switch off that panicked voice... because it always works out, in the end.</div>
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The following morning my boss and I gave a 50 minute presentation to delegates from Australia, New Zealand, Papua New Guinea, South Africa, and the UK. I threw down my notes and spoke to our audience, adding in a few jokes, sharing my passion, and our audience responded, and it felt great. It felt like home, this was who I was always wanted to be, someone who could impact and influence people. </div>
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I attended some fascinating sessions and then snuck back to the hotel for a nap. After all, what's a kid-free trip without some uninterrupted nap time? </div>
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That night I headed to an awards ceremony at the Hilton, Champagne flowing, delicious finger food, lots of laughs, and then we received an award for our project. And it felt great, it felt like home, like this is who I always wanted to be. </div>
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The following morning, I decided it was time I tackled another milestone: a meal alone in a public place. Sounds simple, in theory, but when you've reached the age of 31 without ever having dined alone (in public), it's a little scary! I enjoyed a breakfast by the water before heading back to the conference, feeling like a big girl. It was confronting, walking into a conference of almost 800 people and not knowing where any of my colleagues were, but I reminded myself that plenty of people were in the same boat. And no one died. </div>
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Day 2 was just as fascinating, but again my attention span only lasted 3/4 of the day before I snuck off to explore the streets of Cairns city. I ended up in a tattoo shop with a lovely guy named Lucas, touching up an existing tattoo and adding another one to the collection. And it felt great, like this is who I always wanted to be.</div>
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On Day 3 I met some colleagues for a leisurely breakfast. I work for a large institution, so I'd not actually met these colleagues before and thoroughly enjoyed making a connection over a nice meal. We attended some interesting and some not-so-interesting sessions before sneaking out for a shopping trip. I was concerned about my choice of dress for the conference ball and wanted to find something that would cover all of my tattoos. And so I did. On my return to the hotel, a note was slipped under my door. It was the cute guy from the plane, he'd left his number at Reception, in case he couldn't find me at the ball. I sent him a text to let him know that he wouldn't miss my new blue shoes. It was all too dreamy.</div>
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We arrived at the ball in awe. So many people, such a beautiful decor, and a celebrity as the entertainment. The night was full of eating, drinking, singing and dancing. It felt great. Like this is who I always wanted to be. </div>
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Since our separation, my objective has always been to push myself, to step outside the comfort zone that I'd been living in for so long. The more I do it, the more empowered and enlightened I feel. My life has ups and downs in it, some days are really hard, but the good days are SO fulfilling now. I was never the girl who dreamed of having a husband and being a mother, I was the girl who dreamed of having a career. I may have taken the scenic route to get there, and I will never regret the path I took, but I know that the path I'm travelling is the right one. This is where I'm meant to be. And it feels great. </div>
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Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-13243953162607564372014-08-26T06:00:00.000+10:002014-08-26T06:00:01.231+10:00Dating: A recruitment processI've met a lot of men over the past year. It's different now. Pre-separation, if I met a man, it was no big deal. He was just a man. Now though, there's much more pressure. Any man I meet could potentially be the next big thing in my life. I notice them all, whether I want to or not.<br />
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It'd be much easier if this process could be treated like recruitment. There's a position vacant, and only the best possible candidate will do. Ideally, I'd map out essential selection criteria and allow suitors time to prepare their response, to document their anecdotal evidence for each of the criteria. I'd then ask them some behavioural questions and make my judgement based on their ability to reply. And at the end of the process, I could provide some feedback, and they'd either take it away and learn from it, or ignore it and remain on the unemployment list for the forseeable future, or at least until someone with lower standards comes along.<br />
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On the flipside, too often I feel like the unsuccessful candidate. Too often, I want to call and ask for feedback. <i>Was it something I said? Was it the way I acted? The clothes I wore? Can you offer some advice on how I could do better next time? </i>It's all about continuous improvement, right? My ego would prefer if every man I ever met wanted <b><i><span style="font-size: large;">me</span></i></b> to be <b><i><span style="font-size: large;">his</span></i></b> next big thing, whether I like him or not. Preferably, they'd all be falling at my feet, begging for a chance, leaving me with the ultimate power to decide who's next. Sadly, this isn't the case. And my deflated ego doesn't like it.<br />
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It's such a shame that we put ourselves through this. <i>Why doesn't he like me? Why hasn't he called? Should I call him?</i> Single life is one big guessing game that no one really knows the rules to.<br />
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At the end of the day I remind myself of something I learned long ago. Not everyone I meet is going to like me, and that's ok, because I certainly don't like everyone I meet. If he has a problem with something I said, something I did, or something I wore, that's ok. It just means he isn't the one for me. And I'm not the one for him. I shouldn't have to change for anyone.<br />
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Too often, people don't make it past the third interview. Three interviews is enough to ascertain which quirks I can handle, and which ones I don't want anything to do with. It seems so easy. Recently, a friend made it to the third interview. At this interview, he told me I should consider growing my hair longer, that I look better as a blonde, and that it was important that I continue to excercise. <i>Thank you for your application. Unfortunately on this occasion it has not been successful because you're a bit of an arsehole. </i><br />
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Once or twice, someone has come along and made it to the probationary period. I've realised that probation is ESSENTIAL, because often some major deal-breakers don't come out in those first three interviews. Sometimes it takes a little longer to realise that there is no genuine chemistry, or that the person is so black and white that they just don't fit in your grey world. And that's ok. <br />
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It's important for me to listen to that inner voice, because I can manage on my own. If I were to select an unsuitable candidate for the sake of escaping single life, we'd be stuck in the phase of performance management, constantly making each other feel like we're not good enough as we try and fit a square peg into a round hole.<br />
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I don't want an ordinary love. I want honeymoon periods. I want butterflies in my stomach. I want yearning and burning. And mediocre won't cut it. Not because I'm a dreamer, but because I had a great love, I know that it exists, and I just won't settle for less.<br />
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Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-42205982521597874762014-08-19T06:30:00.000+10:002014-08-19T06:30:01.191+10:00True North<div style="text-align: right;">
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I feel like Carrie from earlier episodes of Sex and the City as I sit here on the back step with my laptop, cigarette in hand, tapping away on the keyboard. Smoking isn't new to me, in fact it takes me back to my late teens/early twenties, when smoking and writing was common place...</div>
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I wonder if perhaps I've gone backwards. Before I was his wife, I was the girl who would smoke, drink and spend money with reckless abandon. I've always thought he was my salvation, the knight in shining armour who took me away from all of the things that were bad for me and helped me to be a model citizen. I loved him for that, for being my saviour. But I also loathed him for it, because he never gave me any praise for the person I became. To me, it was a remarkable achievement to be a loving wife and mother who had a career and ran a household. To him, it was pretty average. A woman was supposed to just get on with it, to take care of everyone, and never complain. When I once asked him why he could never compliment me he said "Because it's nothing special, it's just what you do..."</div>
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I just wanted to him to think I was special. Because even in my absence, he finds it far easier to tell me everything that's wrong with me than to say a kind word. </div>
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Now I wonder if perhaps I was wrong. Maybe rather than save me from something I wasn't, he changed me from something I was. Maybe I haven't regressed at all, but just found myself again. I'm not complaining, just philosophising. If people will always find their true north, perhaps we were always meant to end. </div>
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I don't enjoy smoking, it's not something I like to do in public. I find it quite grotesque actually. It stinks, and it tastes horrible, not to mention the serious health implications. But here on my back step, the kids are sleeping, and no one knows... no one smells it but me... It's like closet eating, does it really count if there are no witnesses? Of course it does, but I'll hide under the warm blanket of ridiculous theories for as long as I can. </div>
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Why am I telling you this? I can't carry thoughts around with me, they eat me up inside and keep me up at night. I need to put it down to get it out of my system. I need to let it go. The side effect is of course feeling exposed and vulnerable, but fuck it, I'm a communicator, I need to communicate.</div>
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I feel like an 18 year old girl again. I have a crush on the local butcher. It turns out he has a girlfriend but this doesn't matter because I'd never act on it anyway. It's so much more thrilling to watch from afar, staring at him laughing and entertaining customers from behind the counter. He's just beautiful and it terrifies me, and for now, it's enough to feel like that again. It reminds me of when I first saw M, and I'd watch him through the window, wishing I had the courage to say hello. </div>
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He's moved on now. There's another girl who sleeps in my bed, who snuggles him on my lounge. It hurts, because he never wanted to snuggle me on the lounge. It hurts, because I noticed when he disengaged from me, I felt it when he let me go and she became his 'person'. It hurts, because to me, it reaffirms what I'd feared for years... he didn't love me. As I write this it seems silly, I moved out, he has a right to move on. But I'm a strong believer in intuition, and I felt it for some time. I felt that he really didn't like who I was, but he'd made a commitment and would stick around anyway, because it was a comfortable arrangement for him. I felt it when I wrote <a href="http://handmadetearsandtriumphs.blogspot.com.au/2013/01/paths-and-attractions-that-turn-into.html" target="_blank">this post</a> and he told me that the thing he loved was that I took care of him. Rather than think of this as his way of recognising my qualities, it was at this moment that I thought that I'd lost him. I felt that I'd become nothing but his caretaker. </div>
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And it hurts because I'm not there yet. I don't feel like I could let another person in. It's too risky, I couldn't go through this again with someone else. Maybe it's because I haven't met the right person. Maybe it's because I have different priorities; making sure our kids are ok, pursuing my career and remembering my friends. Because unlike him, my friends can see my qualities, they have no problem telling me the things they love about me, they reach out to me when I'm in need, they respect my need to do things on my own without ever making me feel alone. That's why my friends have gone this distance when he couldn't. </div>
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I'm almost angry at myself for still having these thoughts swirling around in my head. It's been 18 months. 18 of the toughest months I have ever had to face. I remind myself that people have been through far worse. We still have our health, our families, our beautiful children. We just don't have each other any more. </div>
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I do sincerely hope that she can give him everything I couldn't, I hope he's found the happiness he was missing. As for me, I know I'll get there, when the time is right. </div>
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Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-18449349736065149272014-04-01T06:30:00.000+11:002014-04-01T06:30:01.437+11:00My Top 5 Never Fail Beauty BuysYou might have gathered that I'm pretty into this self-maintenance business. A girl's gotta look her best, after all. I'm not really one to try too many new things, I don't like risk. So when I find something I love, I stick with it, and here are the top five things I'm sticking with. (This is not a sponsored post. I'm just sharing for the love of it!)<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/AVvXsEjqJ9kX4IfnyEyA-iqqdRWnX9cTXokTiOhQBsnnscA3HSXO46p6POLGZ301OrnlqStfk3DAE3im467Tlvvzm_Tb60nRL_dEithWHn3D1_2bk5__65zopl1f9JeiWNTnCSKq13rgIpFvicIr/s1600/2014-03-31+15.08.08.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqJ9kX4IfnyEyA-iqqdRWnX9cTXokTiOhQBsnnscA3HSXO46p6POLGZ301OrnlqStfk3DAE3im467Tlvvzm_Tb60nRL_dEithWHn3D1_2bk5__65zopl1f9JeiWNTnCSKq13rgIpFvicIr/s1600/2014-03-31+15.08.08.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ravishing Rouge! See tip 5.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">1. Proactiv Solution</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK2ymJxkqyp6zxxMAQEXQonR53AOFz544wQEIPhrLS2CpptswDVjGV7iybDHzOgZB3mTdiAKRdUngBeBv3BQcMReB6zhnKy1FJ5j8TaTpT4ugoVyEcAghZrjOkwE8ppSRWwvhJ6sfGXAIn/s1600/2014-03-31+20.31.55.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Proactiv solution" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK2ymJxkqyp6zxxMAQEXQonR53AOFz544wQEIPhrLS2CpptswDVjGV7iybDHzOgZB3mTdiAKRdUngBeBv3BQcMReB6zhnKy1FJ5j8TaTpT4ugoVyEcAghZrjOkwE8ppSRWwvhJ6sfGXAIn/s1600/2014-03-31+20.31.55.jpg" height="200" title="Proactiv solution" width="188" /></a>I've had problem skin for as long as I can remember. A bout of Roaccutane in 2003 and it definitely improved, but I was still prone to breakouts. I saw the commercials for Proactiv and thought I'd give it a go, and I've used it ever since. I only use it once a day and usually skip a couple of days each week because my skin can be a little sensitive, but as a result the bottles last an eternity. I can't go without it, every time I stop using it I start to notice the difference, this stuff is magical. They have strange payment plans which confuse me, but I think the large set cost me around $90 and has lasted nearly 12 months and counting. You have to order this online, as far as I know you can't get it in stores.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKoSnM7EDFVoPR8fz_ntD3iRVaWp8Xg1J2K-jNYznBiyufhTF_ay3VUoZ_D4tEsuzezwsOGhCWlbSzabixcM6PIN2LEIl_j48d3_zAQfkyilM1oBeSsoKPHPHHWOTZbWmxF5ZOisrhZrKB/s1600/2014-03-31+20.31.17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Palmers Natural Bronze Body Lotion" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKoSnM7EDFVoPR8fz_ntD3iRVaWp8Xg1J2K-jNYznBiyufhTF_ay3VUoZ_D4tEsuzezwsOGhCWlbSzabixcM6PIN2LEIl_j48d3_zAQfkyilM1oBeSsoKPHPHHWOTZbWmxF5ZOisrhZrKB/s1600/2014-03-31+20.31.17.jpg" height="200" title="Palmers Natural Bronze Body Lotion" width="143" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">2. Palmers Natural Bronze Body Lotion</span><br />
To be perfectly honest, my love for this product isn't due to the bronzing effect, it's because of how well it hydrates my skin. I use it almost every day and when I recently saw a dermatologist about a problem with my eyes, she commented on how moisturised my arms were! My dear friend Hel got me onto it over a year ago and I've never stopped using it. You'd be looking at spending around $8 for this bottle, and make sure you wash your hands after applying! You can grab this in the supermarket too, winning!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG6tpzSIfUPU1q5t03bCUH5LKNJzpWFhf-HfZRlINXTxuBJPk7iFWoKHwS8TcSXCVEisDNoPgD5YmKsjCaHOou7U69U3T5Rv8i6a3RuHjeQjBTparcQ04Eu8azDL3PycneTMCrmpLb6vHX/s1600/2014-03-31+20.32.17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Sally Hansen Airbrush Legs" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG6tpzSIfUPU1q5t03bCUH5LKNJzpWFhf-HfZRlINXTxuBJPk7iFWoKHwS8TcSXCVEisDNoPgD5YmKsjCaHOou7U69U3T5Rv8i6a3RuHjeQjBTparcQ04Eu8azDL3PycneTMCrmpLb6vHX/s1600/2014-03-31+20.32.17.jpg" height="200" title="Sally Hansen Airbrush Legs" width="110" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">3. Sally Hansen Airbrush Legs</span><br />
This tan in a can is TO DIE FOR. My cousin, Sally Hansen's biggest fan, introduced me to it and I've been singing her praises ever since! She uses it on her whole body, but I'm far too lazy for that and reserve it for my legs on nights out. So easy to apply, such a natural colour, and it fades evenly, I don't think anyone actually realises that I fake tan my legs. I usually pick it up from the pharmacy for around $12, and again, wash your hands afterwards!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUGm3JoDE_2_QEw-jq_jB9dDj2UwrNAC3fCKny_NX8FI-8QqjRYWmsmJpJyaqa__c8uW7JfUh7zDD9_BiWi7PUvxdSbNE77aXvF9hoK28PR7QvqAnV9widm77Ud-ueKMz-2f_KDt38RkRz/s1600/2014-03-31+20.31.34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUGm3JoDE_2_QEw-jq_jB9dDj2UwrNAC3fCKny_NX8FI-8QqjRYWmsmJpJyaqa__c8uW7JfUh7zDD9_BiWi7PUvxdSbNE77aXvF9hoK28PR7QvqAnV9widm77Ud-ueKMz-2f_KDt38RkRz/s1600/2014-03-31+20.31.34.jpg" height="200" width="136" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">4. Batiste Dry Shampoo</span><br />
A fringe is hard to maintain, especially when you have oily hair. I cannot get enough of Batiste Dry Shampoo with a hint of colour. I use this on my fringe every second day to keep it from clumping and looking dirty. I cannot go without it, it travels everywhere with me. Not only does it preserve my fringe between washes, it can also buy me an extra day between shampoos. This can set me back around $13, and I usually grab it from Priceline. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-mad8TRcT-H6jgqYYOyaLE5KCU48mRTkECSaGXhGZzopcTynK6abI34gKGX5XxDM_-mxHPvfZ1XVEl__5_5r4-aCOOw6PZgVE0iNONUY0tN8Djc-y5MnrHLA2UO3twXUGZ1Yy85m4fg-Y/s1600/2014-03-31+20.33.20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Maybelline Superstay 14hr Lipstick" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-mad8TRcT-H6jgqYYOyaLE5KCU48mRTkECSaGXhGZzopcTynK6abI34gKGX5XxDM_-mxHPvfZ1XVEl__5_5r4-aCOOw6PZgVE0iNONUY0tN8Djc-y5MnrHLA2UO3twXUGZ1Yy85m4fg-Y/s1600/2014-03-31+20.33.20.jpg" height="200" title="Maybelline Superstay 14hr Lipstick" width="178" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">5. Maybelline Superstay 14hr Lipstick</span><br />
I've tried long-lasting lipsticks before and they either dried like paint and chipped just the same, or faded pretty quickly. This stuff is the SHIZNIT. It goes on smooth and stays there, leaving my lips soft and pretty. I find that it fades a little while eating but that could be because I'm a pig? My two favourite shades are Ravishing Rouge for night time and Pout on Pink for the day. I plan on buying many more. I grabbed mine from the pharmacy for about $16.<br />
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So there you have it, my top five never fail beauty buys that will ALWAYS be found in my bathroom. What are your faves?<br />
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Linking up with Essentially Jess for IBOT today :) Hi girls!<br />
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Kel xx<br />
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<br />Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-27406072897011289872014-03-27T10:36:00.002+11:002014-03-27T10:36:32.412+11:00Thankful Thursday!It's been a while since I've written a <a href="http://handmadetearsandtriumphs.blogspot.com.au/search/label/Thankful%20Thursday" target="_blank">Thankful Thursday</a> post, but I was sitting here reading <a href="http://www.kyliepurtell.com/2014/03/thankful-thursday-little-things.html" target="_blank">Kylez' post today</a> and feeling all gooey and inspired... figured I should run my fingers across the keyboard...<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>To start with, I'm thankful for my hairdresser, wine, cider, Ben and Jerry's, Belgian waffles, lamb, True Blood, Eric Northman, music, the beach, long walks, Yogurtland, cute shoes and boobs. <br />Now, to dig a little deeper...</i></span></div>
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<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/AVvXsEiDKzjRBwANPBy_9Xkmzq9y3usNDoQnV_3iqOkOTCWJESl5zyXcWTw9skbjh0oBXiH-QiX5tyMtSGap6hUdx9zigtaBQ94QpXdqdmWzZr3SIVaWtLgdDGFKA08CloEnXNDlqZPiBXg5cebL/s1600/Gratitude.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Gratitude quote" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDKzjRBwANPBy_9Xkmzq9y3usNDoQnV_3iqOkOTCWJESl5zyXcWTw9skbjh0oBXiH-QiX5tyMtSGap6hUdx9zigtaBQ94QpXdqdmWzZr3SIVaWtLgdDGFKA08CloEnXNDlqZPiBXg5cebL/s1600/Gratitude.jpg" height="216" title="Gratitude quote" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waikiki Beach (my photo)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I had a wedding to go to on the weekend. It's the first time I've had to attend an event alone. I mean, there have been other things on but they're always with family and friends. This wedding was extended family that I hadn't seen for so long that the majority of them didn't even recognise me. I was going with my Dad and step mum, but they knew everyone there so I was nervous about sitting by myself while they socialised. I shouldn't have been. My step mum made sure my Dad re-introduced me to everyone, my Dad made sure I always had a drink in my hand, and I got to catch up with some beautiful people. I had a great time, and it made me so grateful to have them. They take good care of me, and I don't always make that easy.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWAzjc3xdIBTfk0phBlQuzajsDWLhhgDX4nCQ3eMByAlziymoGBaEiZujU7zbbojKUuSM1gMAICYlj9TOtMVFqUWATGVvDfIzKmS0IH4DG7rsqxSRohBV7MinBIFntz196IUZ7Yqa2AQvC/s1600/Babygirl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Babygirl" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWAzjc3xdIBTfk0phBlQuzajsDWLhhgDX4nCQ3eMByAlziymoGBaEiZujU7zbbojKUuSM1gMAICYlj9TOtMVFqUWATGVvDfIzKmS0IH4DG7rsqxSRohBV7MinBIFntz196IUZ7Yqa2AQvC/s1600/Babygirl.jpg" height="198" title="Babygirl" width="200" /></a>You might have seen on <a href="http://instagram.com/kellyhtandt" target="_blank">Instagram</a> that Babygirl split her head open the other night. I don't handle these kind of things well. At all. I didn't even want to look at her head, I held her bleeding face to my towel as I called the ex-husband, fighting back tears, asking him for help. My boys calmly dried and dressed themselves and sat beside Babygirl and I, still wrapped in towels. M turned up and his calm demeanor instantly relieved me. He dressed Babygirl while I dressed myself, and took the boys home while I took her to hospital. I'm so thankful that we have maintained a strong friendship, that we live close by, and that our kids will always come first. (She's fine by the way - a bit of glue and all good!)<br />
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I am so incredibly thankful to work where I do. It was serendipitous really... a position closer to home (same employer) came up in 2011. I didn't get the position that I interviewed for, but the person who interviewed me had something else in mind. Something they thought I would be great at. And they were right. One certainty over the past 12 months was my work. I love what I do and who I do it with. Having that continuity while the rest of my life was turned on its head has been pivotal. I don't think I'd be doing so well without it. And the support I've received from the people who I spend everyday with has been priceless. </div>
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<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/AVvXsEhM0LuqoaDSJCOf0S-YlB-e2ziqLWkaWJqlt6mGDousJfWovHYIOeMLpDKj9cibsFcBe5i-qxZ1r4uCvToUb_Wktz4yF9TFonxL9iu7NEHs4ZgySnUtQZ2oy6Yw_hN5PbG_H8OnHjjr9inX/s1600/Positive+Culture+Survey+Reminder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="Survey reminder" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0LuqoaDSJCOf0S-YlB-e2ziqLWkaWJqlt6mGDousJfWovHYIOeMLpDKj9cibsFcBe5i-qxZ1r4uCvToUb_Wktz4yF9TFonxL9iu7NEHs4ZgySnUtQZ2oy6Yw_hN5PbG_H8OnHjjr9inX/s1600/Positive+Culture+Survey+Reminder.jpg" height="141" title="Survey reminder" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fun in the office</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Over the past 12 months I've been oblivious to what's going on in the world, to what's going on with my family and friends. All of my energy has been focused on me, I've been incredibly self-absorbed. I'm lucky enough to have friends who accept who and support me anyway, walls and all. When I spend time with them or talk to them, I always feel blessed afterwards. I'm so grateful for the friendships, new and old, and for the family members who I call my friends.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif-7LMC9gv3v4fyjN-M1JZ7M8HSiRro0ORPgUuxfp_NH1ZVEpYlsrWyh_n882nJW07B1fKswGeICpJ7ux741jRyVOM9BpPWuVKPXo_2ZJY66pwq_w-Cpkel_xhlhNcAgkjqbuoLH1OSNBw/s1600/1069817_10151959852307233_1536441253_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Yogurtland" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif-7LMC9gv3v4fyjN-M1JZ7M8HSiRro0ORPgUuxfp_NH1ZVEpYlsrWyh_n882nJW07B1fKswGeICpJ7ux741jRyVOM9BpPWuVKPXo_2ZJY66pwq_w-Cpkel_xhlhNcAgkjqbuoLH1OSNBw/s1600/1069817_10151959852307233_1536441253_n.jpg" height="200" title="Yogurtland" width="200" /></a><br />
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These three. Never in my life could I have imagined that I would wind up with such amazing little offspring. People often ask me how I do it on my own and I want to respond "Have you met my kids?" They make it easy. It's not 'work' to look after them. Don't get me wrong, we have trying times, but my gosh they make it worth it. They make me feel like the richest woman in the world.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px;">What are you thankful for today? Share your thanks over at <a href="http://www.aparentinglife.com/2014/03/thankful-thursday-birthday-edition.html" target="_blank">A Parenting Life today with Rhi</a>. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Kel xx</span></div>
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Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-6397125099459373902014-03-15T22:21:00.000+11:002014-03-15T22:21:13.179+11:00The AnniversaryAs I lay here on the lounge in the dark, the dim light from my laptop catches something on the couch, glistening in the corner of my eye. I turn my head to closer inspect the mysterious glimmer that's calling for my attention, to discover a snail trail of what can only be the snot of one of my darling children. Part of me is disgusted, wanting to jump from the couch to grab a sponge and clean it off right away. But the majority of me has surrendered to the tiredness, more importantly surrendered to the three small humans that occupy my house. Fuck it, it's dry snot, another day won't hurt, right?<div>
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Last week marked the first anniversary of my singledom, and what of it? So much has changed and yet nothing at all. I have more shoes than I used to... that's nice... </div>
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I've learned a lot about myself. I couldn't have told you that along the way, I've only figured things out in retrospect. Having more time to myself, more time in my own head, has opened my eyes. I've pushed myself a lot over the last 12 months, trying to break down my own barriers. </div>
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For example, I take the exact same route when I walk. The routine is soothing, not having to consider directions, knowing exactly what's coming... I didn't realise how resistant I can be to change, how much I need consistency and predictability. The thought of changing the route of my walk was too much to consider, there were too many variables. I like my route, there are nice views, it doesn't challenge me too much, I know exactly how long it will take me. Seeing the familiar streets and houses along the way is comforting. What if I change direction and it takes too long? What if I turn left instead of going straight and the hills are too hard to climb? What if one of the houses on those side streets has a dog that will come at me? What if I lose my sense of direction? What if I'm robbed in an alley way? Twelve months, one route.</div>
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Today my rational brain kicked in. What is the point in living if you do the same thing each and every day? HOW WILL YOU EVER LEARN ANYTHING? So I turned left, I extended my walk time by 15 minutes, I climbed hills, I saw different houses, and the strangest thing happened... I DIDN'T DIE.</div>
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I have trouble writing now, for two reasons. Firstly, because writing about how I feel is acknowledging it, it will make it real, and burying it is far more comfortable. Secondly, because of my audience. I'm afraid of the repercussions of being as raw and honest as I need to be. There are people who don't want to read what I have to write. I could start another blog, but this place is my comfort zone, it took work to build it, and I just don't have the energy to do that again. I'm feeling deja vu, have I written this already?</div>
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Anyway... this random post should probably come to a close...</div>
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Be kind. </div>
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Kel xx</div>
Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2558695965013126069.post-30673097088343710402014-02-04T05:00:00.000+11:002014-02-04T05:00:03.603+11:00Lessons learned from Kindy- Day OneI'm a naturally competitive person. But, in all honesty, I don't ever feel that I'm competing with anyone but myself. I want to DO better, I want to BE better, but only because I want to be the best possible version of me. Otherwise, what's the point in even existing?<br />
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Being a school mum is going to be a struggle for me. I want to get this shit right, I want to do this shit well, I want to make my kids proud. I'm going to have three kids go through that school, and I want to be the kind of mum who's active on the P&C, who the teachers and the Principal know well, who the office ladies love to chat to, and who the canteen lady trusts with an I.O.U on the days that I forget to feed my kids.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSwlCVv1xInMtGh81NFhuw2zk6Uo7i8deOPV_OG2ntbbYFYYY3D7Z0TUNLQJdSjyqEkjHNQcUYhirYcBwU3IS57Jb9zxSE2XRAF3dN_4jbOgI9VJe6ggYfVHjnKypNx3Y632BPCXqZbw9y/s1600/1545155_10152236369931810_470869762_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSwlCVv1xInMtGh81NFhuw2zk6Uo7i8deOPV_OG2ntbbYFYYY3D7Z0TUNLQJdSjyqEkjHNQcUYhirYcBwU3IS57Jb9zxSE2XRAF3dN_4jbOgI9VJe6ggYfVHjnKypNx3Y632BPCXqZbw9y/s1600/1545155_10152236369931810_470869762_n.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
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J had his first day of Kindy today. I'm so glad we didn't start him when he was four turning five. I knew in my heart that he wasn't ready. It might only be kindergarten, but it's the beginning of at least 13 years of education, I wanted him starting off on the right foot. He's ready now, and he's been so excited about starting big school.<br />
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This conversation occurred over dinner tonight:<br />
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<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>Me: "I'm so proud of you honey. You were so brave and strong today, I was so impressed."</i></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>J: *laughs* "Why mum?"</i></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>Me: "When I started kindergarten I was so scared, I cried!"</i></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>J: *laughs* "Why did you cry?"</i></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>Me: "Because I was scared, I didn't know what big school would be like, I didn't want to leave my mummy."</i></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>J: *still laughing*</i></div>
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You see, as we stood in the school hall this morning, the kids were asked to sit at the front while the parents stood at the back. I would have been frightened, but J just walked off and sat with his friend. Then they called the children one by one, and he sat patiently. When they called his friends name, he was left sitting alone. I would have been lonely, but J was fine. Finally, they called his name. I waited for him to turn to me, seeking my guidance, but he picked up his bag and joined the queue. The kids were instructed to blow their parents a kiss and wave goodbye. As tears welled in my eyes, I expected his to do the same. But instead, he blew us a kiss, he waved, and with nothing but curiosity in his eyes, he wandered off.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaixlk6AsQdrQviU40URk8sPAPh6LMYp3LZHOUeAq8sJ4GjYml6h-6xhp3HIvBl4z36xfa2oE2ejQVpTk_SBDsKlE_xNHv9YvurU-s81VLSl48L_FYxHcGyMb8zM-LMPC_T31fKaLWgS01/s1600/265_25282011809_7821_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaixlk6AsQdrQviU40URk8sPAPh6LMYp3LZHOUeAq8sJ4GjYml6h-6xhp3HIvBl4z36xfa2oE2ejQVpTk_SBDsKlE_xNHv9YvurU-s81VLSl48L_FYxHcGyMb8zM-LMPC_T31fKaLWgS01/s1600/265_25282011809_7821_n.jpg" height="320" width="264" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">This kid. </span><br />
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Since birth, he's just taken everything in his stride. Since birth, he's blown my mind. And talking with him over dinner tonight, in the over-exaggerated chatter he engages in when excited, I realised that if I want to see the best version of myself, I need to look no further than him. I can't be doing too bad at this parenting gig if I've managed to produce someone as wonderful as my little man.<br />
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Then the following conversation occurred:<br />
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<i>Me: "So who did you play with today?"</i><br />
<i>J: Rattled off a few names</i><br />
<i>Me: "Is a boy named Tristan going to be in your class? Because I don't want you playing with him."</i><br />
<i>J: "I don't know a Tristan. Why not?" *raised eyebrows*</i><br />
<i>Me: "I don't like him. He has a weird mum and an annoying little sister. Don't you remember them from orientation? His mum was yelling at him the whole time (*exaggerated bogan voice*) Tristan! Tristan! Tris..."</i><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>M, the former husband, then interrupted me,</b></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">"You can play with whoever you want!"</span></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<i>Me: "Except a boy named Tristan. You don't need any of that. And neither do I."</i><br />
<br />
So... maybe there are a few things I still need to work on... judgement and acceptance, for example. Yep, being a school mum is going to be a struggle!<br />
<br />
Kel xx<br />
<br />
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Kelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09451382657183203521noreply@blogger.com0