How Can Our Teenagers Still Be Smoking?

Tags

Health, teenagers, ADHD, Parenting, Smoking cessation, Nicotine, Cigarette

So Kurt (Cobain), our son with ADHD, has started smoking.

I’m devastated. How can our teenagers still be smoking?

No Smoking by machechyp at http://www.flickr.com

His decision isn’t exactly a surprise – smoking is a rite of passage for a lot of those rebellious teenagers who are drawn to living life on the edge.

It can provide a sense of belonging and community with their peers; during what can be a tough ride through adolescence.

And, unfortunately, kids with ADHD are particularly drawn to all types of self-medication.

But it is obviously another ‘fail’ to add to my list of parenting failures; another blow to my ‘mother’s guilt’.

This is Kurt’s first self-expression choice that has potentially serious health implications. Even worse; I can’t control this choice. Simply wanting him to stop smoking isn’t enough.

Have you ever tried ‘reasoning’ with a teenager hell-bent on self-destruction?

‘Never smoke’ was probably my biggest mantra as a parent; which is probably why he’s started. It’s a simple act of teenage rebellion. I obviously caught on too late to the whole reverse psychology strategy in parenting.

But this is the most bitter parenting pill to swallow.

(So far!)

Obviously, I have thought about ways of bribing convincing Kurt to stop, but have come to my usual conclusion of ‘not having a f*cking clue’ (like I have with most of the parenting problems lobbed at me by our teenagers) – so this time I am trying the mature path, by meeting Kurt halfway. (Then I’ll simply cut him out of my will in bitter retribution, later on).

Unlike his fad for dressing up publicly in bizarre costumes, I also feel guilty about Kurt’s new form of ‘self-expression’ because I was a smoker. And I am probably his most important role model.

Although, I don’t think Kurt remembers me hiding furtively behind the shed puffing on a ciggie, while he hyper-focused on Bob The Builder, I have always been honest with him about my smoking and my regret of the habit. But now Kurt is using this information to his advantage, with ill-concealed delight.

Every time I warn him gently about the dangers of smoking, with a ‘you’re going to die a slow and painful death from lung cancer,’ he reacts defensively by reminding me that I will probably go first.

Personally, I find it hard to believe that he could be so stupid after the hours of PDHPE lessons he has obviously wasted on the subject – hours that could have been spent on extra maths, say. And how can teenagers ignore those gross pictures on the cigarette packets anyway?

And he did make a solemn promise to me at the age of five that he would never smoke. So this is a trust issue too.

Of course, being an ex-smoker, I knew he was smoking before he knew I knew. I can smell nicotine across a suburb. Eventually I found the butts killing my window plants and filling our gutters and then I caught him red-handed hanging out of his attic window, (a firetrap if ever there was one) and I completely flipped my lid. I’m not very good at ‘calmly confronting issues’ that scare the sh*t out of me.

Because I’m terrified for him.

Suffice it to say that the words ‘lung cancer’ and ‘f*cking idiot’ were recurring nouns in my composed explanation of why he had to stop smoking IMMEDIATELY.

Of course he hasn’t. I’m not sure he can now.

So we have imposed sanctions. 

We are not funding his habit nor condoning it, but how do we get him to stop? We know he’ll continue to smoke away from home, whether we forbid it or not. It is a way of proving his manhood, like drinking – Kurt is letting us know that he is old enough to make his own choices and wants to be taken seriously.

While I am losing control and slowly going mad.

Trying to control his habit by severing all links to cash hasn’t worked either because his smoking friends supply him. They obviously don’t have the same respect for Kurt’s lungs as me.

Smokers need smoking friends – it’s a smoker’s only real justification – even I remember that part of the addiction.

Kurt’s ADHD coach told me that smoking will be a way for him to ease his anxiety and has advised us to focus on the bigger issues in his life, like his poor socialization skills, his  need to cavort naked around the house flaunting his manhood, (especially when his sister is in his vicinity) and getting him through school.

But I know that once addicted, smoking is a habit that Kurt will never truly get rid of, rather like a tattoo. And having packs of Marlborough within lighting distance in the house is sorely testing my own self-discipline, (being in a heightened state of anxiety myself).

Once an addict, always an addict.

I can already hear Nicotine tapping me on the shoulder again, taunting me, always there in the wings waiting, whenever I find myself at a vulnerable point in my life. I just pray that Kurt won’t become its newest recruit.

Related articles

• Chapter # 5:”HOW CAN I QUIT SMOKING” By Bushra Sarwar (uogmcm12.wordpress.com)
• To Stop Smoking, Teens Should Start Moving (nlm.nih.gov)

Have I Become Prudish With Middle-Age?

Tags

attitude, lubrication, middle-aged, prudish, Sex toy, Sexpo, Vaseline, Women

I recently won a prize for a blog post on http://www.iVillage.com.au. In the previous weeks, the winning prize had been a collection of Revlon nail varnishes – the week I won, the prize was a year’s supply of Vaseline.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I was super-excited to be winning anything, (especially for writing), but to be honest, I just couldn’t imagine what the f*ck I was going to do with a year’s supply of Vaseline. Aside from the obvious.

But at my age?

Nevertheless, I shrugged off my embarrassment, even posting a message on my Facebook page along the lines of:

“Won a year’s supply of Vaseline. I’m going to be a busy lubricator!’

But here’s the thing. Now that I’m older there are some things that just make me squirm, and one of them is words with sexual connotations, like ‘lubrication.’ I certainly would never have considered myself to be prudish before, but like the words ‘cock’ and ‘vagina’, ‘lubrication’ said out loud makes me want to hide.

And don’t even get me started on those Tena ads.

And I know it’s not just me – if I use the verb ‘erect’ in any context in our house, Nerd Child runs for cover.

My friends didn’t disappoint in their reaction to my comment. It was reassuring to note that their maturity levels peaked like mine, around age fourteen. But my comment did provoke the inevitable double-entendres and suggestions for what I could use the Vaseline for – ideas that mainly involved the old man’s nipples – something to do with nipple chafing in cycling, I believe.

They obviously thought they were funny. At the time.

Luckily, this is the Vaseline product I actually received.

Have I become prudish with middle age?

So as you can see, I was in fact worrying about absolutely nothing, and it transpired that the Vaseline products I received were ones I actually use all the time.

‘Relieved’ doesn’t cover it.

But isn’t it funny how certain products have uncomfortable associations for some people? Vaseline and sex are what Mick Jagger is to Mars Bars, as mentioned in one of my previous posts about my ‘Ideal Man’).

Maybe men are more comfortable talking about ‘sex’ stuff and the nuances of sexual vocabulary than women. The best responses I got for the cheap lubricating joke were from men. Men seem to embrace that ‘base’, ‘non-cerebral’, cheap humour.

Bit I was a little disappointed in myself for feeling so threatened by my potential winnings, as I like to think of myself as having a liberal attitude and try to convey that to our children. We walk around the naked in our house, we don’t close doors, and we watch Game of Thrones together, as a family.

Yet, I would feel deeply uncomfortable visiting a sex shop for example, or ordering anything sexual online, (imagine the Postie’s conclusions!), and would obviously never consider going to a Sexpo.

Or so I thought.

Last year, a younger friend asked me to come with her to a Sexpo because she needed to buy a new vibrator(!). Yes, she just threw it out there, exactly like that, straight into the conversation as we were relaxing over a cup of coffee.

Obviously, (after I’d spat my mouthful of Skin Flat White all over her face in horror at her shocking ‘over-share’), I refused point blank to go with her. Going to a Sexpo would be admitting that I occasionally have sex and that I might actually quite enjoy it, occasionally.

Fortunately, my friend seemed to accept my puritanism protestations, but under the pretense of taking me to some home interiors shop she’d heard of, then forcibly dragged me into the Lions’ Den.

More sex toys than in the whole of the Playboy Empire!

‘Mortified’ doesn’t begin to describe the mental anguish and acute embarrassment I felt at being surrounded by more vibrators, PVC and sex toys than used by the entire Playboy Empire.

My friend, on the other hand, seemed completely indifferent to the implications of the stock, and shopped like she was at the local fruit market. She marched around each stall, knowledgably, chit-chatting with the retailers, looking at all the functions of the different types of vibrator, feeling them for size, shape, special features and even turning them on, (the battery that is), while I hid, cowering behind the dominatrix suits, in shock.

There were items there that I had never heard of nor could ever imagine using.

But isn’t it funny how quickly you can adapt to new situations? Within an hour of my entry into the hall, I was handling the equipment like an old pro (sorry), enquiring about speeds, investigating cock rings and trying out whips.

(Well, it’s got to be done).

But I wonder why I was so self-conscious about the idea initially? Is it my age or body image issues; have I become set in my ways, or do we just get more prudish as we get older? Perhaps I can blame the teenagers for thwarting my sexuality too?

I do remember my own mother hyperventilating over the word ‘period.’

What do you think? Have you become more prudish with age?

By the way, Vaseline has a lot of uses other than….. the obvious.

Like:

Using it as a lip gloss

Apparently, it makes your lashes grow longer and thicker over time if you put it on your lashes at bedtime.

As a makeup remover

To help ease off stuck on rings

Using it to heal and protect new tattoos

Rubbing it on your hands and massaging through your hair for a choppy look

Using it for massage

Apparently, Vaseline is also really effective as a lubricant during sex.

1001 Sex Toys From Amazon courtesy of krazydad / jbum at http://www.flickr.com

50 Uses For Vaseline from Christina Loves…

Related articles

• Celebrating the invention of Vaseline (sciencelens.wordpress.com)
• VASELINE – The Little Pot of Wonder (loulou15081978.wordpress.com)

Swimwear Shopping for Middle-Aged Women

Tags

fashion, middle aged woman, middle-aged, Shopping, swimming, swimming costume, Swimsuit, swimwear, Women

Fanny Durrack (left) and Mina Wylie, Australian swimmers (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I went to buy new swimmers yesterday.

Shopping for a new swimming costume when you’re over 40 must be up there with admitting how much weight you haven’t lost at a Weightwatchers meeting; in terms of excruciating embarassment.

Because designers are still not catering for middle-aged women, and that makes it so hard for us. Not to mention our self-esteem.

There are two clothing items that no middle-aged woman likes to buy – swimming costumes and jeans. They’re just so hard to get right when your body decides to re-define itself with age.

Luckily, on this occasion, I wasn’t looking for impractical ‘fashion’ swimmers – the ones you flaunt your body in as you still try to pose provocatively on the beach hoping that you’ve still got it, (all the while knowing that you haven’t).

No, I was looking for a practical, full piece suit to aid my new Olympic training sessions at the 50m pool. (Yes, you heard right – I did say 50m).

My weekly dips have obviously pushed my loyal Target swimmers to the limit of their endurance. The chlorine rot is so bad now that holes have appeared in the nipple area and the fabric sags badly everywhere else, so my boobs free-fall to the sides mid breaststroke. It was obviously time to get the right equipment – I’m not averse to skinny-dipping in a public pool but the sight of my un-encased breasts is obviously causing a discernible awkwardness among the older set when I pass too closely to them in the lanes.

My mission should have been an easy one. As I mentioned, I wasn’t looking to make a style statement and I had a budget of around a $100 because a) I take my sport VERY seriously and b) I saved it on the food shop by cutting out all the old man’s favourite junk food.

I was quite excited at the prospect, for five minutes.

I think I must have tried on forty sets of swimmers in all, although the sales assistant did remain very calm and professional throughout our ordeal, (yet typically a tad invasive – what’s with them barging in when your tits are hanging down out?). By the thirtieth costume, I had had enough and was ready to capitulate fully and buy this horror of a floral 50’s retro cozzie, partly to get out of the shop, but mainly because it was the only one I could contort my body into that was a size 14.

Generally I am a size 14 12, but do you think I could pull any of the size 12s over my muscular thighs? And even when I did, they were all so damned short in the body that they did a better job than gravity at pulling my boobs further down towards my ankles.

The experience was beyond mortifying for the assistant.

She looked at me pityingly as I stubbornly tried to squeeze my body into each tiny cozzie like sausage meat into a skin. The more I persisted requesting size 14s, refusing to consider any diaphanous suggestion in a size 16, the more she shoved those big motherf*cker maternity costumes in my face.

It was the principle of the matter.

I must have worked off 10kg in that changing room. Ever tried changing swimming costumes with straps that test your IQ, padding in unobvious places, and in a space the size of a toilet cubicle?

But finally, I found the one.

The sales assistant cracked open a bottle while I sat on the floor and wept with joy, sweat pouring down my face.

The Men’s Over 60 Swimming Club is definitely going to be a little disappointed this week, now that my breast tissue has now been firmly strapped in. Thanks Speedo.

This post was inspired by Nikki Parkinson’s post Am I Fashion’s Invisible Woman at http://www.stylingyou.com.au.

The Secret To The Ideal Man

Tags

ideal man, men, middle-aged, Mr Right, perfect man, sexy men, women's ideal man, Woody Allen

English: Mick Jagger of the Rolling Stones NYC show, taken with a Nikon F (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 “Men are like fine wine. They all start out like grapes, and it’s our job to stomp them and keep them in the dark until they mature into something you’d like to have dinner with.” ~ Kathleen Mifsud

Men, like women, come in all shapes, sizes and guises. Like women, none of them are perfect. Some men are needy, some jealous or too possessive; others are uncaring, bullish or as dull as watching paint dry. That’s why it’s so hard to find that perfect partner, let alone a soul mate.

It’s also why the divorce rate is increasing at an alarming rate. Especially in the middle-age range.

You’d have thought that if you make it into your forties with the same man, you’re definitely ‘lifers’; but apparently that’s no longer the case.

You see, women have more choices these days. And their tastes and needs change as they get older and become wiser. In middle-age, the mature women is no longer vetting men as a potential father to her children, she is seeking a man to spark her interest, to light her fire.

Sure, he still needs to have all the inherently good qualities too, like compassion, honesty and integrity, but he can’t afford to rest on his laurels anymore and rely on his bank balance as a replacement for effort.

I wonder if the old man and I would pick each other were we to lock eyes over a speed-dating table now? (It goes without saying that obviously the old man would not be seen dead at a speed-dating table in reality, because that would involve organization and effort, and he might miss some sport on tv).

But with more middle-aged women either working or going back to work after raising their children, and more importantly, becoming financially independent, they no longer have to settle for someone who’s not quite Mr Right.

English: Barack Obama delivers a speech at the University of Southern California (Video of the speech) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A fact that made me fantasise think about what my perfect man would be like now, at this time of my life, if I had to choose again. And how my needs in a partner may have changed as they have evolved with age.

According to an article in the Mail Online, Mr Right is a beer-drinking, meat-eating, hair-free (apart from on his head presumably), man of average intelligence who loves shopping, is handy with a screwdriver, drives an Audi and is earning $70,000 per year.

I can only assume that women under the age of thirty created this particular wish list, because women over forty have a completely different set of credentials. Interestingly, cerebral and sexual benefits outweigh financial health and physical good looks for the mature woman.

So if the old man wasn’t quite as perfect as he is, here’s what I would be looking for:

• Height: 6’ is a good height but fundamentally he just has to be taller than me. Shorter is just plain awkward.
• Hair:  I am surprisingly accepting of lack of hair on the head, but my perfect man does need to be ‘as hairy as’ everywhere else to rock my boat…..I’m talking Gorilla-style ideally. None of your metrosexual clipping, waxing and male narcissism for me. I like running my fingers through tufts of man-fur. Hair on the back, however, is divorce worthy.
• Earnings: As long as he can contribute to keeping me in the luxury I deserve and have become accustomed to, it’s fine.
• Brain Function:
• Cerebral – great;
• Well-read – bonus;
• Arrogantly farty – no thanks;
• Intense – running as fast as I can. I want to learn from him and with him but I don’t want to be patronised by him or for him to use words that I have to look up in a dictionary.
• Man-Shopper: I can’t imagine anything worse than a man who loves shopping, unless it’s for me or for food.
• Handyman: YES! YES! YES!
• Drink of choice: Wine or Champagne – beer produces baby bellies, wind, boy behaviour and bad breath.
• Food of Choice: Anything as long as it’s not ‘fast’.
• Technique in Bed: Open to innovation as long as it’s not ‘fast’
• Style: Chris Hemsworth by day, Bradley Cooper by night, Mick Jagger in bed.
• Car: Completely indifferent.
• Mutual Interests: Must keep fit, like drama on tv, live music, wine, piano bars, putting themselves second in bed.
• Biggest Turn-On: Voice, humour, great Dad, giving (of self), generous
• Biggest turn off: Selfishness, vanity, hairy back, nose-picker, self-interest, being more high-maintenance than me
• Emotions: Neither a bottler nor a blubberer

During my research, I asked the old man for his opinion about what he thought middle-aged women want in a man.

English: Woody Allen in concert in New York City. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

His response: (said in patronizing, pathetic, high pitched, what he thinks is a ‘girl’ voice) ‘

‘At one with their emotions, great father, great husband, kind, considerate (insert wretching noise), wealthy (said disdainfully), giving, caring….’

Did I mention that it would be refreshing to have someone ‘mature’ in my credentials for my new ideal man? I declined asking him for his feedback on what middle-aged men want in a woman.

So here is my choice of ideal, famous, middle-aged men with keywords to sum up their personal appeal:

Denzel Washington – ‘talented’, ‘black’, ‘gentleman’, ‘sexy’, ‘suave’

Mick Jagger – ‘Mars Bar’, ‘bad-boy’, ‘naughty’, ‘bed’

Barack Obama – ‘power’, ‘cerebral’, ‘innovator’ and did I mention ‘power’?

David Bowie –  ‘androgynous’, ‘beautiful’, ‘dangerous’, ‘stylish’

Vigo Mortenssen – ‘sexy’, ‘powerful’, ‘Neanderthal’, ‘strong’

Richard Gere – ‘officer’, ‘gentleman’, ‘gigolo’, ‘91/2 Weeks’, ‘ice-cube’

Woody Allen – (bear with me on this one) –  ‘so f*cking funny you’d be laughing your tits off all the time and you wouldn’t have time to think about sex anyway.

And as boringly predictable as he is, it would be unforgivable for me not to mention George – ‘LUST’, ‘LUST’, ‘LUST’

 So tell me, who is your perfect man and why?

(In the meantime, obviously the old man and I have some things to work out. Which just goes to prove that men really are from Mars and women are undeniably perfect).

The Mothers Day Grinch

Tags

Mother, Mothers Day, Parent, Parenting, teenagers

I might be mildly excited about Mother’s Day if I was getting a real treat this year – just for me – TIME OUT from my kids, say?

Does that make me bitter? A Mother’s Day Grinch?

Mothers Day Grinch

Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids, but I spend the other 364 days of the year worrying about them, so ONE day to myself would be a real treat for me.

As you know, my two aren’t cute little knee-highs still innocently and naively worshipping their Mum.

They’re big, scary teenagers, resistant to parental demonstrations of love.

And if Mother’s Day is indeed ‘a celebration honoring mothers and motherhood, maternal bonds, and the influence of mothers in society’, (Wikipedia), I can think of no better way for my ‘orrible teens to ‘honour’ me, than by orchestrating a day off for me.

It’s been an interesting week month at Dysfunctionality House, as you are probably aware. So it’s hard not to be a tad cynical about the circus of Mothers Day.

Mothers Day is in danger of metamorphosing into the commercial carnival of Halloween (Halloween Humbug) and Valentine’s Day and it’s getting harder to avoid being sucked into it. Tried booking lunch in a decent restaurant on Mother’s Day? Think again. There are now special Mothers day menus created especially for us, althoughI have yet to discover the perfect restaurant that serves three courses of Chardonnay, cholesterol and chocolate.

As I said, my attitude might be a little less misanthropic if Mother’s Day hadn’t fallen during this particular month.

Sometimes it’s hard for us paragons of motherhood virtue to celebrate the joys of parenting with offspring who consistently cross every parenting boundary, or your endurance for door banging, and who rip apart the fabric of the moral code you’ve spent fifteen years painstakingly trying to teach them.

Does that sound bitter?

Of course I DO realise that in the very wise words of Chris Martin, ‘no-one said it would be easy’.

But did you know that turtle and snake mothers abandon their young at birth? That fact used to sadden me in the days when I had babies, was still lactating, still believed my children to be the most beautiful things ever created and even found pride in watching them pee in the toilet as opposed to on the floor.

Female Wolf spider on sidewalk (Photo credit: imarsman)

Before they reached the age of 13.

Human mothers, like us, and Wolf Spiders (go figure!), protect and nurture their young for much longer. Our kids can remain in the fold as late as their mid-twenties before we turf them out, (or are forced to buy a one-bedroom unit).

I’m beginning to understand some of the logic behind the ‘abandonment at birth’ method of ante-mothering now, although I have no doubt that Kurt will be residing in the local correctional centre before next Mother’s Day anyway.

Typically I have begun questioning my own parenting skills, like all mothers do daily occasionally. Should I have been tougher with him? Should I have said ‘no’ more?

Perhaps our generation is guilty of mollycoddling Generation Y as has been suggested.

I blame those new-wave paediatricians that told us to educate our children through love, encouragement and play; they were obviously misleading us.

Our family is lying wounded in the trenches after Kurt’s recent ventures into ‘spreading his wings’. The Urban Dictionary’s definition of a teenager as ‘someone who has everything but appreciates nothing’ is particularly apt at the moment. Not that I don’t remember that feeling – of being young, invincible, self-important and able to conquer the world single-handedly (before responsibility and empathy finally kick in).

As you know if you follow my blog, this month he has managed to violate any deep-seated hope that he is not some mass murderer in the developmental stage.

Lest I forget, I am a mother, not a saint.

And hormones obviously have a huge amount to answer for. His, and mine. Teenagers and menopause are about as compatible as oil and water. God screwed up his timing there.

Teenage angst or mental unhingement, I have yet to decide which my son is suffering from?

So back to the point of how exactly I’m expected to sit through a pleasant Mother’s Day lunch without growling threateningly at Kurt over my Prawn Cocktail? Especially after his forage into the ‘mean’ dictionary this week, where he has sourced every hurtful adjective to sling back at me.

At least I know I’m not alone. There are as many mothers of teenagers out there suffering in silence as there are mothers of toddlers revelling in mummy worship.  Feral teenagers are on trend at the moment – it’s almost becoming a contagion.

It’s a phase we have to go through on their journey to adulthood.

Admittedly retaliation was immature, I realise that now. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I am the adult. I never said I was perfect mother and ‘little git’ just popped out of my mouth in the heat of the moment. To be honest, far worst adjectives were queuing up in my vocal chords in that moment of intensified frustration. But of course he hasn’t let me forget those words. Especially when that lovely advertisement for Mother’s Day comes on the radio with those angelic little children recounting the virtues of their own mothers with, ‘I love my mum because….’ – Kurt finishes it with, ‘she calls me a little git.’

‘Unconditional love’ says, that I have to love him no matter how badass he is towards me. And of course I will; wearily.

All I’m saying is that sometimes it’s brutal.

So, for just one day, I’m closing the door on good parenting, unconditional love and spreading the love on Mother’s Day. I am celebrating being a Mum, a good mother (given the respect I deserve), who will be back, fully committed to the role on Monday.

The Mother’s Day Grinch can be found in Pitt Street Mall on Mother’s Day. Her friend, ‘mother’s guilt’ has enforced that she will be watching the new Star Trek movie with aforementioned ‘ferals’ in the evening.

Mistaa Grinch by Alexa Fades Away courtesy of Flickr.com.

How To Improve Your Sex Life With A Bicycle

Tags

Cycling, middle-aged, relationship, Sex, sex life, sexting, Sports

The old man is onto his next new sports craze.

Apparently swimming made his skin dry and boxing was a bit frightening, so his latest venture into the world of extreme sports, (in his perpetual attempt to lose weight get fit), is cycling.

Dunkelblaue Radlerhose (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not moaning. I’m all for him losing some weight couples having their own hobbies. It gets him out of the house (unlike during his Pilates phase) while he’s still grieving the loss of his weekly visits to Kimbriki tip.

Furthermore, it has reminded the whole family, during what have been difficult times recently, about the importance of being able to laugh….. quite raucously in fact…..as in almost to the point of pissing yourself, whenever he appears in his new cycling clobber.

‘NORMAL’ people, when they dip their toe into a new sport, make do with existing equipment until they are fully committed. When the old man takes up a new sporting challenge, this is his how his thought processes work:

1. I’ve cycled a couple of times now and I quite like it.
2. Maybe if I spend ludicrous amounts of money on new equipment I’ll become a really good cyclist.
3. The problem with cycling is that it’s actually quite tiring and people seem to find the sight of me on a bike quite amusing. I can’t understand why.
4. I might just take all that very expensive equipment (that I could have bought Louisa a new piece of jewellery with) to the tip (furtively) to give me space to reflect on the next load of sports equipment that I can fill the garage with and waste my money on.

During that initial first two weeks of ‘I’m going to do this until I die’ passion, (from the point where he suddenly decides that he is the next Lance Armstrong to the realization that he is not in fact a true athlete), the world stops revolving and absolutely nothing can come between him and his new hobby. Not even me.

He had never even shopped on-line before he got this new cycling bug – now he’s ordering cycle caboodle left, right and centre and the house has suddenly taken on the appearance of the back storeroom of Cycling World.

Lance Armstrong in the prologue of the Tour de France in July 2004 in Liege, Belgium (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Have you seen what middle-aged men look like in cycling shorts? It’s not pretty. Lycra doesn’t leave much to the imagination, least of all the kilo or ten that the old man knows he should really lose off his beer belly.

The teens are mortified by the sight of their father in his little fluorescent orange runners, skin-tight top (that emphasizes his man-boobs saggy pecs) and my faux Rayban women’s sunglasses in their new city neighbourhood, just as they are trying to fit in. His lycra cycling vest is that tight that we’re all convinced he must have ordered it from the children’s section.

That’s the worrying thing – that he obviously has to cycle in public.

He is now cycling to and from work, OVER SYDNEY HARBOUR BRIDGE, which I suppose is quite generous of him, providing free entertainment to tourists and his colleagues at the office.

Maybe it’s just another in a long line of Midlife Crises, but he seems to veer from one craze to another these days, although unfortunately I am never the recipient of his attention. The old man is far more interested in bicycles than me at the moment.

Evening conversation revolves around pumps, gears and tyres, helmets and shafts these days – so much double-entendre – it’s enough to drive a girl mad with longing.

So I decided that if the mountain won’t come to Muhammed, Muhammed must go to the mountain. If it’s bicycles he wants, then that’s what he’ll get.

So I decided to use his new fetish as foreplay and began sexting him like this:

How To Improve Your Sex Life With A Bicycle

And role-playing too, waddling walking around in my old cycling shorts, provocatively, saying things like’ so when can I mount your bike?’ or ‘shall we pump it up right now?’ or ‘how hard shall I grip your handlebar?’

And I swear I’ve seen the suggestion of a far-off glimmer of interest in his eyes.

Sad but true – when you’re middle-aged and been married for a b*tch of a long time, you’ve got to use what you can.

That’s this month’s sexpert advice on how to improve your sex life with a bicycle.

My Top 5 ‘Young Fashion’ Shops For Middle-Aged Women

Tags

Attik, Australia, Bardot, clothes shopping, Clothing, dresses, fashion, middle-aged, Shopping, Women, Zara

I refuse to dress like my grandmother just because I’m over 40. I might not have the body I had in my twenties, but I still have my pride.

I have made a few concessions to my age in terms of fashion, admittedly – wedges, flats and loose fitting dresses have become much more prominent in my wardrobe these days, but I’m proud to say that there is still not a Hush Puppy or kaftan in sight.

But even though I want to stay fashionable, I don’t want to look like ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ either.

So what’s a girl to do?

Well I’ve come up with this great little list of ’young’ fashion high street shops in Australia that provide great casual wear for mature women too; for those amongst us who are not ready to swamp ourselves in pastel tents or kid ourselves that Sportscraft smock tops are actually flattering.

 

But aren’t the clothes in ‘young’ shops poor quality and a little bit ‘mutton’, I hear you ask? 

Not necessarily. If you find the right items, they can be value for money and stylish.

Here are my reasons for not shopping in ‘wrinkly’ shops just yet:

1. Lavenders, peaches, pistachio green and florals that look like wallpaper do nothing for my skin tone
2. High, elasticated waistlines accentuate my post-natal baby baggage rather than concealing it
3. I want a visual experience when I shop, not rack upon rack of of ‘meh’
4. Sometimes, I still want to look sexy as well as stylish

And to be honest, I rarely buy my clothes from the high street retailers that are supposed to cater to my advancing years either. Mainly because they are just too damn expensive. I just can’t justify $250 dollars for a Cue dress, for example, no matter how much I orgasm over the designs of their cute little retro numbers. I might part with a week’s earnings for a special event, but not for everyday wear.

‘Witchery’ is another example. Love their look, but their focus on the colour ‘beige’ stumps me – that innocuous, fleshy colour palette may look sophisticated on younger or darker skin tones, but it washes me out completely.

So I’ve had to be resourceful and find shops that suit my lifestyle and budget, because even though I’m middle-aged I still want to look sophisticated and on trend.

So here are my top 5 ‘young’ fashion shops that are great for middle-aged women too:

Zara 

There’s a lot of hype about Zara and justifiably so. Stylishly European and offering clothes with an affordable price tag, Zara caters for all your wardrobe needs. Shoes are often expensive in Australia and you can buy well-made, stylish leather shoes in Zara for half the price of other brands and the  styles of their separates and dresses are so effortlessly chic, that even celebrities are happy to endorse them.

Bardot

 

Bardot sell sexy, loose-fitting tops that are fantastic for a casual night out over jeans or leggings. I simply love the high rounded neckline tops in particular, such as the Shimmer Cami which is flattering and priced well at the $30 level. Most of the dresses are a bit too short for me but some of the looser styles can still be worn over leggings and boots.

Forever New 

I have a thing for sparkle and this season has been awesome in the bling department. Golds, sequins and studs are everywhere and Forever New has noticeably recently transformed its designs and the quality of its clothing. There is an assortment of great sparkly tops, vintage-style dresses and cardies, as well as shoes.

Cotton On

Nerd Child loves the vintage, layered look and Cotton On is a great shop for simple, lightweight, patterned cotton dresses (2 for $50 at the moment). I bought a couple for myself over the summer as well as a really useful ivory lightweight jacket for around $38 which looks great with a sparkly top over jeans, or even for work. Admittedly, there’s a lot of sh*te more suited to the younger kids but rake around and there are plenty of surprises.

Attik

Described on their website as ‘inner city festival edge’, Attiik is about colour and fun. It has a retro, hippy vibe and they offer beautifully patterned, loose fitting dresses and tops which look quirky over skinny jeans or leggings. Their colours are vibrant with a liberal use of the Indian palette such as vivid pinks, reds, mustards and turquoise but their designs are quite retro offering a sense of fun and individuality. I bought a great dress there that I have lived in over the summer, for $50.

BUT REMEMBER, there are still RULES with styling when you look to younger fashion for your wardrobe.

What to avoid:

Forget most of the skirts, because unless you want to look like you should be standing with Roxanne under her red light, in general the skirts are just way too short for the older woman, even if your pins are still fabulous. Ignore most of the accessories too, because at our age we just can’t get away with cheap and nasty bling or vinyl, poorly-made handbags. As for the ‘at the moment’ trends like gawdy floral jeans (probs not), faux leather jackets (not convinced), crop tops (NEVER, no matter how perfect your abs) and camouflage jackets and pants (ABSOLUTELY NO F*CKING WAY) – Walk away quickly!

I love buying new clothes and looking good and having some more expensive ‘basics’ in your wardrobe is vital. I spend my ‘serious’ money on shoes and dresses, but I also like to mix it up and wear new stuff, so sneaking a few cheaper tops and jackets into my wardrobe is how to keep it fresh. I’m not at all averse to the occasional op-shop either, as I mentioned here (You Don’t Have To Be Dita To Look Good In Vintage).

Don’t let the shops dictate what you should be wearing and how much you should be spending based on your age. After all, ‘age is just a number’.

Shopping Bags courtesy of richmondsquarephotos at http://www.flickr.com

Related articles

• Spring 2013 Style Inspiration: What to Wear to a Day Party (fashionbombdaily.com)

How To Celebrate Your 20th Wedding Anniversary

Tags

Anniversary, Hayman Island, Marriage, Parenting, relationship, wedding anniversary

Will and Kate may just have celebrated their first wedding anniversary, but more excitingly we too have a major wedding anniversary looming. One that could test the very foundations of our marriage, as inevitably we share very different views about how best to celebrate it.

It’s not that I’m worried about the old man remembering the date – he only has to look at the massive tattoo on his chest inscribed with the words ‘17^th JULY’ – my gift to him on our first anniversary.

I just know innately that I’m going to be disappointed. I can’t decide whether to accept that for what it is, suck it up, and focus on all the things he is wonderful at.

Or HOPE.

I think that ‘hoping’ is where I always go wrong. Hope is dangerous and a little foolish after twenty years together. Logically, leopards do not generally change their spots.

But, I argue in my head, this anniversary is more special than the others, so maybe….

*Hoping*

My argument is that we need to celebrate that I have put up with him for twenty years and lived to tell the tale. It’s an achievement that needs to be celebrated with more than a bottle of sparkling white wine, a curry and a quickie.

His arguments are characterically, ‘cost’,  and some bullshit about ‘not needing to prove his love with false public demonstrations of love.’

It’s not like I’m expecting anything REALLY special, like friends of ours who set the bar unrealistically high by flying to New York and doing romantic stuff like ‘spending time together’. (You know who you are!). Just a step up from a Chicken Korma and a kiss on the cheek, say.

I’ve bandied around the idea of a weekend on Hayman Island, which was met with what I can only describe as a guffaw from the old man’s camp. Is that a positive reaction or am I reading too much into it?

I foolishly thought that if I aimed high, he might actually ‘read the cue’ that I’m serious about him treating this anniversary with a little more than the usual skepticism.

But there is a fundamental problem with us going to Hayman Island, (were there even the remote chance in a billion that he would ever to take my suggestion seriously), in that I am terrified of the ocean. I’ve always had difficulties with the whole breathing technique of snorkeling and usually end up a spluttering mess on a bed of those hideous-looking Sea Cucumber things at the bottom of the ocean – (Ever question God’s choices when he decided what to create?). Frankly, I can only tolerate living fish if they stay in their own zone or are in tanks.

So I was hoping that he might come up with a counter-suggestion along the lines of a weekend in Noosa or Port Douglas maybe, even Melbourne, or worst case scenario, some fancy-schmantzy hotel in the city. But I haven’t spotted him furtively researching any holiday or hotel websites recently and I’ve checked his search history and there’s nothing there apart from questionable bodily function symptoms.

I made him promise years ago that for my fiftieth birthday we would go on a tour of Italy together and he’s even having second thoughts about that now. Last night he offered me a change of plan and suggested that I go (with a few girlfriends) on an all-expenses-paid trip (by him) around North Korea.

So it doesn’t bode well.

My husband has many talents but organization and ‘giving’ are not two of them. He has surprised me once during our marriage – at our wedding reception, when he introduced my speech to our guests – the one that I had no idea I was making and had to deliver after at least eight glasses of Champagne.

The other problem we face, of course, is that we are not sure if we can leave Kurt Cobain (the ADHDer), the Spoodle and Nerd Child on their own and in the same house, for a whole night.

Nerd Child has been having a bit of a crisis as a result of Kurt’s recent antics at Darling Harbour. She has come to the conclusion that our house is a mental asylum and I admit that I have noticed that she stays at friends’ houses more and more regularly as Kurt becomes more and more sociopathic. I’m envisaging more therapy bills for the old man to tut about.

In fairness, she has offered to ‘babysit’ our sixteen year old for vast sums of money, but these are the conditions:

• Kurt is not allowed to walk around the house naked
• He is not to emit his Tourettes-like howls before 8am in the morning
• He is not to steal money from her purse to buy cigarettes
• He is not to climb out onto his roof to smoke them
• He is not to wake her up in the middle of the night, singing
• He is not to take the television apart
• He is not to play his electric guitar at full volume using his Big Muff distortion pedal before 8am
• He is not to wear his bunny onesie or Thunderbird costume in public
• He is not to terrorise the Spoodle by any of the following means: a) the blanket game b) the bladder game or c) dressing up in aforementioned onesie.

Unfortunately, Kurt will not agree to conditions 1 and 8, so it looks like we could be back at Blue Ginger’s curry house for our 20th wedding anniversary after all.

What did you do to celebrate your 20^th Wedding Anniversary?

Hayman Island by df1hx at http://www.flickr.com

Snorkelling by Jenchiblu at http://www.flickr.com

Nilgiri Chicken Korma by Sailajag at http://www.flickr.com

6 Ways To Prevent Heart Disease And Live Longer

Tags

Coronary disease, Health, healthy eating, Heart disease, Heart Foundation, National Heart Foundation of Australia, Physical exercise

Ahem! As an unofficial ambassador (as in VERY unofficial) for the Australian Heart Foundation, I have been reliably informed that some of you still find eating healthily (I quote) ‘boring’ and are naively putting your lives at risk.

To be honest, I used to think that I was too young and awesome to worry about eating healthily too, and I certainly didn’t worry about a minor thing like my own mortality. That is, until I was given a very valid reason for changing my lifestyle.

Living.

Heart disease became a personal and very real issue for me when my family discovered that we had inherited a condition called Familial Hypercholesterolaemia on my mother’s side, that led to a heinous trail of human destruction in our family.

The effects of heart disease can be devastating. Take it from someone who knows.

Hyperchol….what, I hear you ask?

Don’t worry, even I am a little sketchy on the science behind it. But what I do know about Hypercholesterolaemia is that it is a f*cking scary condition, which if left undiagnosed and untreated, can be a killer. It is one of the reasons some people have seriously high levels of the really bad cholesterol (LDLs) in their blood, which can lead to furring of the arteries, blood clots and premature heart attack.

Fortunately these days the condition is not a death sentence and there are treatments available. These may start with lifestyle changes such as a low cholesterol diet and exercise, or medication such as Statins may be prescribed.

But thirty years ago, very little was known about Hypercholesterolaemia and heart disease, which is why heart disease became particularly personal to me when it killed my mother, her brother and her sister before they reached the age of forty.

Heart disease is that kind of f*cking serious.

You might think that an unthinkable event such as the premature loss of a parent when you’re a teenager might actually stop you from stuffing your face with as many cream cakes as you can fit in your gob and smoking your lungs out. Unfortunately not. You see, I was young, hedonistic, had a real reason to be f*cked off with the world, and I was convinced I was going to die young anyway…..

As you know, I am still here.

My seminal moment regarding the state of my health, (and the realisation that I am not unfortunately a Cullen), kicked in the day that my first child was born, when I realised that I really wanted to see her grow up.

I realised that I wanted to live as long as I could.

By that time I had the diet side of things pretty much under control. I was eating healthily. Some of the wisdom of the army of specialists I saw must have infiltrated my conscience somewhere, because I can’t remember ever not drinking skimmed milk or not eating margarine instead of butter and I had always passed on cream and fatty meat.

But admittedly it took me longer to cut out the cigarettes – something I truly regret now when I look at my children. I can’t imagine that any of you are smokers anyway – filthy habit that it is – and just SO eighties!

Luckily, I’ve found out that it’s never too late to change your lifestyle. And the research that the Heart Foundation has carried out, backs this up.

A lot of you probably still eat too much ‘unhealthy’ food without realizing it, like I did. Which is why, when the Heart Foundation approached me to write this post about heart disease, I was super keen.

They’re clever, those people at the Heart Foundation. They invited me to share an evening with them to discuss heart disease and how they can best educate women to eat healthily. They obviously had no idea who they were dealing with when they invited me. I mean, how could they have possibly known that I would have at my disposal this perfect, god-awful, shocking family-history story to preach to you about, which was bound to appeal to your morbid fascination if nothing else?

To be honest, I would have written the piece without the informative cooking lesson and naughty glass of wine they plied me with to accompany it.

But here is the important stuff that your need to know –  the six fundamental ways you can prevent heart disease and live longer:

• Give Up Smoking – smoking is a major risk factor for coronary heart disease.
• Eat Healthily – Choose plant-based foods, wholegrain cereal foods, moderate amounts of lean unprocessed meat, oily fish and foods with low or reduced salt content
• Be Physically Active – the Heart Foundation recommends that you try to include at least 30 minutes or more of moderate-intensity physical exercise, ideally each day of the week. A brisk walk with the dog does count.
• Manage Your Blood Pressure – Have regular blood pressure checks. Did you know that every adult in Australia is entitled to a free medical at the age of 45 where your cholesterol and blood pressure will be checked?
• Maintain A Healthy Body Weight – if you eat healthily and enjoy healthy eating, this won’t be a problem.
• Maintain Your Psychological And Social Health – people who are more prone to depression, or are socially isolated or do not have quality social support are at greater risk of developing heart disease. Depression can be treated, so if you think you are at risk, speak to your health professional and seek help.

Heart disease is the number one killer of Australian women. It kills more than three times as many women as breast cancer and eating healthily is one of the ways you can prevent yourself from becoming another statistic.

But in case I was still sceptical, (as if, after a glass of wine!), the Heart Foundation also educated me in how to make some deliciously easy, healthy recipes too.

Did you know that fine slices of lean beef with a rich pesto and olive tapenade, crisp Vietnamese spring rolls with herbs and vegetables, succulent stuffed chicken breasts with spinach, mozzarella and roasted peppers and an orgasmic red wine fruit jelly are all recipes that were easy enough for EVEN me to create; and they’re healthy too?

So to encourage you to start eating healthily from today, here is my FREE (yes, I did say FREE) giveaway of three fabulously heart-healthy recipes shown to me by the Heart Foundation with my own stunningly professional photography thrown in.

Vietnamese Rice Paper Rolls 

Vietnamese Rice Paper Rolls from the Heart Foundation

Rice paper wrappers

Cooked vermicelli noodles

Mint and coriander leaves

Iceberg lettuce

Sliced carrot

Sliced cucumber

Snow pea sprouts

Heat some water in a pan. Dip one wrapper into the water for a second to soften. Lay the wrapper on the bench and start filling with your selected ingredients. Place the filling in the centre, leaving about 5cm of the wrapper uncovered on each side. Fold in the uncovered sides of the wrapper and tightly roll to enclose the filling.

Rolled Chicken Breast

Rolled Chicken Breast from the Heart Foundation

1 Chicken breast per person

Choice of fillings –

Asparagus

Baby spinach

Roast capsicum

Roast pumpkin

Roast eggplant

Caramelised onion

Reduced fat ricotta.

Slice a long slice through the side of each chicken breast, not all the way through. Open the breast out and if need be slice a further pocket to allow for even rolling. Place filling down the middle of the breast.  Lay a piece of foil on the bench followed by a piece of glad wrap over the top. Sprinkle some mixed spices (smoked paprika, basil and pepper) and the grated peel of a lime onto the glad wrap. Place breast with filling onto the spices to coat outside, then roll chicken breast up tightly, securing both ends of glad wrap tightly. Do the same with the foil, securing both ends tightly and cook in a pot of water, just under simmering point for approximately 20 minutes. Remove from water and allow to rest for 5-10 minutes. Remove chicken from foil and serve.

Red Wine Fruit Jelly

800ml Red Wine

Red Wine Fruit Jelly from the Heart Foundation

3 Star Anise

1 Vanilla pod

1 Cinnamon stick

3 Cloves

100ml Honey

Pulp of 4 Passionfruit

1 Mango cubed

1 Punnet strawberries, raspberries and blueberries

3 Sheets of gelatin

Small individual jelly moulds or decorative glasses of your choice.

Soak gelatine in cold water until it is soft, squeeze off any excess liquid. Bring red wine, star anise, vanilla pod, cinnamon, honey and passionfruit to the boil in a small saucepan. Once boiled, strain. All mixture to sit for 1 hour. Then return liquid to the pot and bring to the boil. Remove from heat. Add gelatine to the pot and whisk into the mixture. Add mixed fruit to your moulds. Pour jelly liquid over the fruit. Place in the fridge to set.

I know that after reading this post you’re all going to change your lifestyle immediately and start eating healthily and exercising like Olympians, but just in case any of you think you might be having a heart attack BEFORE you get the chance to buy your new runners, and are too embarrassed that your symptoms might be a false alarm, it is my duty as an (unofficial) ambassador of the Heart Foundation to give you some tips about the warning signs of a heart attack. (And did I mention that this information is FREE too? Because we’re like that at the Heart Foundation).

Heart attack warning signs may include the following: pain, pressure, heaviness or tightness in one or more parts of the upper body (chest, neck, jaw, arm(s), shoulder(s) or back) in combination with other symptoms of nausea, shortness of breath, dizziness or a cold sweat. For more information, visit http://www.heartattackfacts.org.au.

My work here is done. Happy healthy eating and let me know how you go.

Personal Stories

The Heart Foundation

Disclaimer: This is a sponsored post on behalf of the Heart Foundation organised by Brand Meets Blog. I was not paid to write this post; I wanted to write it.

What I Learnt About Teenage Boys This Week

Tags

ADHD, ADHD In Teenagers, Parenting, Red Bull, teenage boys, teenage drinking, teenagers

 

Those of you who follow me on Twitter may be aware that our ‘hotel’ was fully booked this week, with an influx of British testosterone; in the shape of three eighteen-year-old teenage boys.

We had never met these boys before, which might have been a potentially awkward situation. And it was.

Their friend, our nephew, (who we used to be very close to, before he thrust this scale 10 level of awkwardness upon us, was supposed to accompany them, and was the reason they had been allocated the best room in the hostel), conveniently broke his arm whilst drunk playing rugby the week before they were due to arrive; not surprisingly, there was no room at any of the other ‘free’ inns in Sydney.

We’ve since been informed that aforementioned prodigal nephew has a new girlfriend!

When I told my friends who have eighteen-year-old sons about ‘the boys’ imminent arrival, they sighed and quickly changed the subject.

So I awaited their visit with obvious trepidation.

‘Normal’ eighteen-year-old boys are an unknown entity to me. (And for those of you who err on the side of political correctness, don’t worry, the ADHDer will revel at that inference – he was proud to pimp his ‘difference’ at every opportunity during their stay). And if anyone did happen to notice the boy in the pink rabbit onesie, smoking and swilling from a bottle of Vodker in Darling Harbour this week, allow me to introduce my son.

Nerd Child was indifferent. In her world, unless a boy knows the elements of the Periodic Table, they are not worthy.  She was nonetheless disgruntled at having to surrender her bathroom to boy germs.

However, we were given a helpful character assassination of the three by my brother-in-law in advance – apparently, one was a puker, one had a habit of getting lost and one of them was reassuringly quiet. (We never did actually meet the quiet one).

So the old man and I made our preparations.

We wrote off sleep for the five nights of their visit and downloaded the entire series of Game of Thrones for the long evenings, while we waited for our wards to return back to the hostel safely from whichever debauchery or crime they had committed in Sydney.

I also surpassed my all-time Christmas record at Woollies, spending in excess of a month’s rent on carbohydrates and protein. I then watched the old man shake his head in disbelief as he entered the cost on his spreadsheet.

Our three tired backpackers duly arrived, (I assumed) ready to paint the town red, and we hurriedly concealed them in the attic before the neighbours spotted them.

Kurt Cobain (front) and Krist Novoselic (left) live at the 1992 MTV Video Music Awards. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Kurt Cobain, (the ADHDer’s new alter-ego and we’re not worried!) reacted in atypical fashion to their arrival, contriving to appear even more flagrantly bizarre (if that’s possible) in comparison to the three ‘normal’ healthy male teenagers from the other side of the world, his Porkpie hat permanently askew on his head, cigarette dangling from his mouth, (when he thought I wasn’t looking), reedy, white and undernourished body swamped in colourful Indie cast-offs – the very antithesis to the stereotypical ‘Australian’ youth.

The boys were obviously bemused and a little confused

And unfortunately Kurt was in a particularly belligerent mood, still seething from his two week grounding, (and every other punishment we thought was enforceable), our parental retribution for his recent rule-breaking shenanigans at school last term (and Darling Harbour, of course).

The boys’ arrival signified ‘change’ to Kurt and Kurt does not do change happily.

His main fear, (that they would be ‘jock’ types and bring a ball), was justified as soon as they appeared at our front door with their sparkling white teeth, obvious biceps and football in hand. I watched Kurt look at them with thinly veiled disdain.

The old man, however, came into his own in the presence of the three red-blooded male accomplices. The intricacy of every sport ever created was discussed at length at the dinner table and I listened to him brag (again) about the weekly average of units of alcohol he consumed at university, while our visitors yawned politely, a small price to pay for hot showers, breakfast and a bed.

There was actually a point when I thought that these perfect specimens of teenagers from the UK, were not real teenagers. There was a minimal amount of grunting and snarling, they chose to stay in rather than go out, and there was an appreciation for whatever I offered them by way of sustenance.

However, I soon realised that I had been hasty in this assumption, (having momentarily forgotten the dulling-down effects of a 24 hour flight), when their enthusiasm for life, living and partying resumed on day three – the day they re-discovered Vodka, Red Bull and another old friend, Jack Daniels, in our local bottle shop.

On day 3 I learned the following about teenage boys:

• Maccas’s soft-tops are the cheapest alternative to real food when budgeting
• Vodka mixed with RedBull is their most important food source
• The need to mark your bedroom door with a ‘THIS IS NOT THE BATHROOM!’ sign – this is of particular importance during the night
• Teenage boys will eat as many fried egg sandwiches as you can throw at them
• Check your water meter before they stay – they shower all the time
• Seeing the sights of a beautiful city is secondary to a) going out to get a hangover and b) recovering from it
• Teenage boys can sleep fourteen hours in one session and they need to feed all day afterwards to make up for fourteen hours of not eating
• They think about food all the time
• Allowing drinking games in your house prior to a night out should be strongly discouraged
• Their alcoholic tolerance is not as good as they think it is
• Their night out only begins as you go to bed and ends as you get up; just in time for a cooked breakfast

They left today as the bags under my eyes were touching the floor and I had exhausted the organic egg supplies at my local Woolies.

Even Kurt looked sad.

Obviously, I haven’t been brave enough to enter their bedroom or bathroom yet.

Related articles

• The Teenage Transition From Boy To Man (mymidlifemayhem.wordpress.com)
• Nirvana Revealed: Backstage diaries tell of Kurt Cobain’s passion for Scotland (dailyrecord.co.uk)

Dating for Married People

Tags

date night, dating, dating in marriage, Marriage, middle-aged, Relationships

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve decided to be uncharacteristically nice to the old man this week.

Firstly, because he’s just banked the equity from the sale of our house into an account in MY name, (which facilitates my options of doing a runner next time he criticizes anything I don’t do), and secondly, because after an embarrassing date night recently, I’ve realized that I’d be really rubbish if I had to date again.

Standards inevitably slip during a marriage. Dating isn’t for married people.

At this stage of my life, I can honestly say that I’d rather stick needles in my eyes than go on a date. The idea of making small talk with a view to an intimate relationship with someone I barely know, is terrifying. Imagine having to pretend to be interesting ALL THE TIME again, or even worse, having to feign an interest in your date? As for exposing the middle-aged re-sculpting of my once trim physique to someone I barely know – that’s the stuff nightmares are made of.

The old man and I are quite comfortable about letting our marriage lapse into a state of flux. Dare I say that we might be dangerously ‘content’? We try not to over-analyse our marriage like we did when we could be bothered, we just get on with it. In my experience, too much scrutiny only serves to highlight weaknesses.

Our close friends have been concerned about the welfare of our relationship since the old man fucked up our vows on our wedding day. We’ve always been that bickering couple who are merciless in our condemnation of each other publicly, the couple that makes smug couples uncomfortable. Yet some invisible symbiotic need has held us together.

Just.

Sometimes though, peer pressure gets in the way and prompts us to make an overdue effort because we think we should. We worry that maybe being ‘comfortable’ in our marriage is not a secure space to be in, that we are tempting fate by being lethargic.

So the other night we went out on what the kids call a ‘date night’. Obviously, our preference would have been to stay in and watch the second series of Game of Thrones with a bag of Pods and a good bottle of red, but we could tell the kids were worried about us.

Pretending to be a grown up with the old man always makes me nervous. There’s too much water under the bridge to pretend – we know too much about each other now. We’re at the point of beginning each other’s sentences and sitting silently together in a cafe reading the papers.

So I fucked up any chance of us sharing a romantic rendez-vous as soon as I put my sunglasses on my nose instead of my reading glasses to read the menu, much to the amusement of the other diners. I then proceeded to knock over a glass of (very expensive) sparkling water onto our (very expensive) oysters as I clumsily tried to swap them over inconspicuously – an inadvertent attempt to dilute their aphrodisiac powers, perhaps? And finally in an effort to calm my nerves, I finished my free show by pulling a tampon out of my bag instead of my lipgloss, which I always apply when I’m anxious.

Dating etiquette has always eluded me.

The old man looked at me with incredulity; I can see that some might judge that to be an unfavorable reaction, yet it was nevertheless a reaction of sorts and a vast improvement on being ignored.

I can admit that there are certain things that you do miss out on when you’ve been married for an eternity – those frissons of excitement at the first touch from someone new, for example, the physical longing, conversation, long phone calls, and did I mention ‘effort’?

And sometimes every marriage does need a little help.

I was fortunate enough to find that The Cleveland Christian Fellowship has come up with some great ideas to turn stale marriages around in its article, ’50 Dating Ideas for Married Couples’.

Here are a few of their more interesting suggestions:

1. List the best qualities of your partner in alphabetical order (more on this in a future post).
2. Write the story of how you met. (WHY?)
3. Remember to look in your spouse’s eyes as he tells you about his day.
4. Take a tour of a local factory (WTF)
5. Plant a tree together in honour of your marriage(WTF)

Personally, if I tried any of the above, the old man would sign up to RSVP quicker than I could say ‘divorce’.

I think that marriage gets a bad press and I imagine that dating when you are middle-aged is no bed of roses either. Imagine having to close your mouth when you eat, to choose food that doesn’t give you wind, to trim your bush all year around, to think before you speak, to pretend to be interested in things that bore the pants off you.

I had to play a lot of golf when I was dating the old man – nuff said!

There’s something quite comforting about the predictability of marriage in my opinion. Is it so wrong to assume that the old man will order hot chips in a restaurant for me to eat, and that when we order dessert, he will eat the ice cream leaving me to devour the pudding?

I can still surprise him. As I ran my finger hungrily around the rim of the crème brulee dish to dig out the final remnants of cholesterol, and then began to suck them noisily off my finger, the old man was definitely surprised.

Dating for married people? Not so much.

‘I love being married. It’s so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life.’ (Rita Rudner)

Great Night For Date Night – Wind Down by Vanity Mirror at http://www.flickr.com

Related articles

• The Benefits of Marriage (insureyes.com)

One Man and His Man Cave

Tags

Father, gardening, Kimbriki Tip, man cave, man shed, men, middle-aged, refuse, rubbish, shed, Tip

 

Tip Or Man Cave?

Our celebrations have been tinged with a sense of undeniable loss this week, as we closed the front door for the final time on our old house.

Selling the house was cause for celebration; the ‘loss’ was suffered by the old man who was forced to farewell his leaking shed and the facilities of Kimbriki Tip.

I’ve mentioned the old man’s questionable fascination with Kimbriki Tip before; his home from home. (Why Gardening Can Lead To Divorce.)

My husband is a man caver, (like my son is currently aspiring to be). Man caving is apparently a fairly common pastime of a lot of middle-aged men, who allocate more of their free time to their man caves than to their children at the weekend.

His distress was evident as we began the final stages of de-cluttering the house, and my heart almost broke as I watched him tearfully clear out his crap precious artefacts from  the shed.

That shed held a myriad of good and bad memories for him. It had been his smoking bolthole when he thought none of us knew, our dumping ground for things that had no other home, but most importantly, it was his own precious man-space.

When we first bought the house and planned the renovations needed to create our dream home, (that is, before we got the quotes), I remember him saying to me, ‘Build what you like, Lou, I just want a shed.’

So I gave him his shed, although admittedly it did have one minor design fault in that it was slightly prone to attracting water in wet weather.

Hence the money allocated in our renovation budget to my spangly cushions and weathered oak beach furniture had to be spent on drainage solutions for that fucking shed. None of which worked. And it was only when the old man, either in desperation or because his cave issues had sent him barking fucking mad, suggested a moat, that I finally pulled the plug on financing that useless piece of corrugated iron crap and bought him a pair of wellies instead.

Nerd Child backed me up (for once), helpfully reminding her father of the physics involved in the relationship between water and an un-level garden. Apparently water will always travel downhill and if a shed is foolishly located at the bottom of a garden, (and in a suburb renowned for some of the wettest weather in Sydney), the shed will not always remain dry underfoot. It was a poignant moment in their relationship when she put a comforting arm around his neck and said, ‘it’s time to give it up, Dad.’

So with a white elephant for a shed, the old man was forced to source another man cave and Kimbriki Tip fitted his criteria, becoming his refuge for the next six years.

If he had a bad week at work, he consoled himself at the tip; when things got stressful at home, he scarpered off to the tip.

Which is why it was with such a very heavy heart that we dumped the final load of our shit at the tip on Sunday. As we passed through the first barrier and saluted Dave, there was a weighty silence in the car, only broken by the old man’s observation of, ‘fuck me, they’ve increased the charge for general waste to $15’.

Security is worse than at JFK Airport at Kimbriki Tip. An unfounded sense of guilt assaults the nervous system even when you know you aren’t concealing any paint pots under your veg, and the body twitches uncontrollably in the effort of trying to appear as normal as possible as you pass through the two Gestapo checkpoints.

I always imagined some Bond-esque action sequence taking place as I waited in that queue nervously. I envisaged this army of helicopters suddenly whirring into life overhead and the garbage men ripping off their yellow fluorescent vests to reveal Federal police uniforms, if we actually dared secrete some illegal paint pots, (or heaven forbid, a car battery), into the vegetation section.

The old man shared many memories with me on that car journey back home. It was obviously cathartic for him, yet it was still an uncharacteristic display of emotion from a very proud man. He spoke of his disappointment that the council had never offered a membership policy for Kimbriki, some sort of loyalty card for people like him, who needed its sense of community. He talked of his fears for the empty weekends ahead, the loss of his two man-sanctuaries that had been so close to his heart.

I can feel his anxiety building as we prune our new rose bushes. His initial enthusiasm for our new maintenance-free courtyard with its few pathetic shrubs has been replaced by a concern that trips to the tip will no longer be warranted. And there is nowhere to ‘dwell’ in the courtyard.

After six years of raking leaves, cursing at fallen Gum branches and Paper bark and wading through a waterlogged shed, it is the end of an era.

Man seeking new man cave.