Goddamn green smoothie bandwagons

I hate a bandwagon. If you need to know something about me, it’s that I’ll climb onto a bandwagon very reluctantly, only when my feet are blistered and bleeding and I can’t physically walk the remaining 5 miles home without help from a donkey. (Do donkeys even pull bandwagons?)

If cocktails in a bar are being served in cocunuts with straws, I’ll probably order a wine. In a pint glass.

But, dammit, my health needs to be taken in hand, like, with handcuffs. I’m drinking goddamn green smoothies. I throw in enough berries on top of the spinach to turn them poo brown so they can’t be called green. Shhhh. Don’t tell anyone I actually like the taste either. And you will NEVER catch these abominations on Instagram with a caption saying ‘oooh I feel green and clean’. Promise.

Here's a frigging green (reddish brownish) smoothie for ya, to wash down my daily handful of au natural pharmaceuticals.

Here’s a frigging green (reddish brownish) smoothie for ya, to wash down my daily handful of au natural pharmaceuticals.

I am doing the things I laugh at people for doing. I know what chia is. I know how to say keen- wah. I’m getting freaky with freekeh. I put Stevia in my tea. (Aka tea with Steve. That Man is well jealous.)

The thing is, no migraine in 4 weeks. Less headaches. Face looking more like skin, less like pepperoni. And I am no fun anymore. What a frigging conundrum.

I read the well-holy wellness green food sites with two fingers at the ready, to make the gagging noises. I hate that shit.  I should clarify. I like the food. I like to eat healthily, and I always have. What I don’t like is a supercilious attitude towards food and eating, and the   prosyletising of health like a religion. Do what works for you, I say. I don’t need to see your hemp seed whale glue tree bark smoothie in a jam jar with a stripey paper straw to know you’re healthy. If you say you feel good, then great. I believe you. Pictorial evidence not required.

Work lunch. Will put hairs on your chest and spinach in your teeth. Grossly hypocritical gloating pic of healthy eating. First and last ever.

Work lunch. Will put hairs on your chest and spinach in your teeth. Grossly hypocritical gloating pic of healthy eating. First and last ever.

Unfortunately, I love healthy food, but I LOVE ALL THE FOOD. Including cheese. I want to be moderate and healthy, but I can’t even manage that right now. And this stupid ‘un-diet’ is working for me in a head-being-less-explosive guts not speaking in exclamation marks kind of way. I’m smiling spinach at people on the train to brighten their mornings too, as an added bonus. Damn you, bandwagon body. Climbing on without asking if I wanted to come.  I want to drink the wine and eat figs and goats cheese and prosciutto until I’m a dairy nitrite headache acne filled cretin. But body says no. Too tired. Too sore.

No fun Kim. Pleased to meet you. Let’s see how we go.

Are any of you doing this ‘green’ thing? Are you out and proud or are you in the closet like me?

Dance like nobody’s watching … really?

That “dance like nobody’s watching, … Sing like nobody’s listening” quote is a pretty sounding piece of crap advice. I’m pretty sure that’s how the Harlem Shake meme came about. Because, if anybody was watching, they probably would have told them to stop. That’s some BAAAD dancing. On Saturday night, as promised, however, I did sing like nobody was listening. The next day, I was still Livin’ On a Prayer … to make it through the day… Dead or Alive. If you’re under 18, I suggest you stop reading now in case some of the alcohol in my system has seeped from my fingers into the words on this page and is right at this moment intoxicating you by osmosis …

Thanks Jon – I’ve got it from here. You can pop over and mind my kids though, if you wouldn’t mind?

Paid babysitting. So much pressure. You pretty much need to start doing high-kicks the second you close your front door just to make the most of your night out. Pressure aside though, it was awesome. I MISS MY FRIENDS so much and it’s so great to hang out properly. And the Brumbies did me the big huge favour of winning against the Waratahs, to make me extra happy. After a couple of cheeky ciders at the pub, we went for Japanese in Neutral Bay, where the food is fabulous and the decor, unique.

If you’re prone to nightmares, best look away from the Wall of Cat

Yum, yum, yummity-yum. I think I should become a food writer, so expressive am I. We ate sashimi, and gyoza, and ‘yummy as soybean babies’, and tempura, ‘a mouth water explosation of prawns, fish vegetable’. It was as exciting as it sounds. Truly an explosation.

It seemed almost cruel to eat these little guys.

There was also wine, of course. One bottle or two, or three, or four. Who can be sure? What is certain though, is that by the conclusion of the meal we were in a karaoke state of mind. The Pickled Possum was our destination. This place? It’s a Sydney institution of STRANGE. But by god it is FUN. Beers come by esky, mixers by home brand bottles lined up behind the bar due to the lack of postmix. But if you’re arriving sober and quibbly about such things, you should probably go elsewhere. It’s friendly and everyone sings along with everyone else. The guy who runs it likes to sing every second song, however, so be prepared for a wait!

I think my ‘Living on a Prayer’ went ok. There was no falling face first off the stage (because, you know, that would be predictable ;), there was fist pumping (mine), and there was even some back patting and ‘You’ll go a long way. You were great’, from some nice old dude who looked upset when I cynically came back with ‘Thank you! But yep – all the way back home to my kids.’ You can take the cynical bitch out of the girl, but… actually, nope. You can’t take the cynical bitch out anywhere, really.

At one point a couple of hot girls (I can say that can’t I? Not sure what else to call them in this context) got up on stage and dragged a practically comatose but good-looking guy up with them, and I was wondering what on earth they were going to do with him. He had those half-mast eyes and dopey dazed smile, obviously hoping he could grin his way out of any trouble because he had no idea what he was doing. Definitely in no state to sing, and in NO state for back-up dancing. The strains of Carly Simon’s ‘You’re So Vain’ started up, and they make him the focal point for their ridicule. It. Was. Hilarious. He took it with good humour – ‘who me?’

I’m modifiying the aforementioned ‘dance like nobody’ quote to include “drink like there will be children jumping on your bed at 7 the following morning, and know it will always hurt”. No regrets though. I woke refreshed in spirit, (despite being embalmed from the inside out), having spent more than 2 hours in adult company. I felt like a whole person again, without labels attached. And with bonus mystery bruises. Game on!


The female midlife crisis – 35 is the new 40

Everything is the new 40. 40 is the new 30, 40 is the new black (what does that even MEAN!?) while 40 is the new chance to get naked and do a spread in a magazine, it would seem. If you happen to be Jennifer Aniston. I say 35 is the new 40, and the dawning of the age of the female midlife crisis.

I have a looming birthday, like I’m in a plane, and there are snakes on it, and I’m flying it, and straight ahead is Mt Birthday, with snow on the top. Yes, yes. That may sound like a dream (or a really bad movie with Samuel L Jackson), but it is, in fact, a birthday. But this one isn’t 40. Oh no, it’s pissy little 35. I’m bothered by the fact that I’m bothered by it.


Look out, or you’re going to fly RIGHT into that birthday!

It’s not the number that’s worrysome, but what it represents. It’s the middling-ness of it all. MID-30s. MID-life. SCHOOL mum. MARRIED with kids. WIFE. PART-time worker. It’s all so nameless, half-way something, and devoid of identity.

Am I having a midlife crisis? Can women have them? Am I really a man in women’s clothing? Does that mean I get to buy a porsche? Silver, please.

I read a fab article in the SMH the other day, suggesting it’s a REAL THING, cos, you know, what’s in the paper and in the opinion/lifestyle section is, like, FACT. Apparently, according to Melbourne psychologist Robyn Vickers-Willis it’s quite common for women between the ages of about 35 and their late 40s to feel somewhat lost and to look for a new sense of identity outside how we’re conditioned to see ourselves, based on expectations, to seek how we really truly are.

The rest of the article is here.

So, I’m still 34. I’ve always been quite advanced.

The question is, what to do about it?

1. I am sad about missing out on my Sports Illustrated spread. (I’ll mourn my ballet career and lead singer in a rock band losses when I turn 40). Come on, I’m realistic. It was never going to be the cover. However, I’ve discovered you need to invest sizeable sums in certain surgical enhancements to make the cut. My windsocks would never do.

2. Failing the Sports Illustrated grade, become a professional tennis player’s girlfriend. They sit down a lot, and smile, and get their hair made blonde regularly, and probably exercise a lot. The tennis players earn enough money to support the necessary enhancements and procedures. Champagne. Parties. A LOT of watching tennis training. Mmmm maybe no.

3. Get new teeth. I’d feel like Mitch in City Slickers after his wife tells him to ‘go and find your smile’ and he comes back all smiley with a baby cow called Norman if I could get me some shiny new white un-chipped specimens that glow in the dark. OK, maybe skip the last part. (The glowing – I’ll take the baby cow.) But, all in a white row without the chunks out of them would be nice. Do they make industrial-strength teeth? Cos I’d just grind down the newbies to a sandy dust in my sleep in no time too unless they’re made of cement. On the to-do list. Shall investigate further.

4. Do something really fun and loopy, like the Color Run. Sadly, I’m too late for Sydney, as it’s on this Sunday on my actual birthday. It looks like a huge, fun, awesome, smiley and warm way to spend a day with people soaking up some community love, but there’s only one half of those two words I’m into. Colour, YES. Run, NO. I tried yesterday. There were no wolves chasing me, so I stopped. It seemed pointless.

Check this out though – it’s just lovely and makes me smile. 

5. Take up a ridiculous hobby, like lounge singing, or extreme ironing, or convince the world I’m a chef by writing a cookbook of recipes containing only two ingredients in each.


I think I have another answer though. Write. I considered doing it on my body, but that’s also a little cliched. There are many pop culture references to the male mid-life crisis. That little ol’ movie from Judd Apatow ‘This is 40′ is the first to cover things from the female end too, but that’s all that’s out there. Maybe we need to get a collective script a-brewing about the blahs of the bloggy saggy-boobed woman. Just maybe that’s the answer I’ve been seeking…

Or is there something else??

Here’s a story… of a windsocked lady …


Where’s my over-age club?

We went out last night. Wooooooo. Yep, it’s a weekly event for most, but we don’t get out much these days since babysitting came into the equation.

It was wild girls afloat – on land. OK, maybe inside my head. To the outside world, I get the impression we were more like mummies. Yes, I know you know there are children. I’m talking about the dead kind – from Ancient Egypt.


So hot right now – oo oo! Put your hands in the air!

It wasn’t a girls’ night, but we all went out for dinner together as a gang, and divided a neat line down the middle of table, with boys up one end and girls up the other, while one end drank beer and the other cocktails. That didn’t really happen. We’re far too mature for that, and mixed and mingled with the opposite sex like grown up adults. (Yes it did). One end of the table maturely shared the food on the share plates and offered seconds to one another, while the other end  fought like toddlers over scraps. One end carefully perused the wine list and selected a Pinot Grigio from Victoria that complemented the Asian flavours nicely, while the other side stuck doggedly to beer. One end discussed jobs, careers, our weeks, handbags, cocktails, politics (no we didn’t), and physio vs chiro, and the other end did some grunting and laughing. This may or may not be a faithful recording of events. The food at China Beach in Manly is awesome though. So awesome I ate it all before I took a photo.

Me and my gorgeous friend who is named after a herb. We shall call her Parsley.


Then we kicked on to a place that shall not be named, ready for a few post-dinner drinks. The place was full of 20-somethings and possibly (possibly?) late teens, and I honestly didn’t think we stuck out that much. Until.

Five minutes after we’d arrived, a girl sat watching us, smiling, and then said ‘You guys are so awesome’. I was all ‘YES. Yes we are, totally. Thanks for noticing.’ And it was then … the horrible realisation dawned. She’d been smiling at us like you smile at your 90-year old grandmother, or your sweet pet dog, in that ‘aren’t they cute’ way. And she thought we were awesome JUST FOR BEING UPRIGHT and dancing rather than lying down in our crypts at midnight, being over 30 and all.

I needed to take stock. Absorb. Process. Go and see the ugly truth. So I went to the bathroom where another rude shock awaited.

A very kind, concerned sign on the back of the stall door said ‘Confused? Don’t be. The toilet paper’s behind you.’ I turned around, only to be confronted by a reflection OF MY BIG NAKED BUTT in a mirror. Oh, and some toilet paper. AND MY NAKED BUTT. Ha. Ha. Ha I get it. Was that supposed to be a joke? What kind of person wakes up in the morning and says – ‘oh – I’ll just go and get some mirrors to stick up behind my hotel toilets today’?? A man kind of person, I suspect.

Once you’re in your 30s, are we not supposed to dance anymore? Or just dance ironically, at funny 80s retro clubs doing the sprinkler? Or just sit in swanky wine bars, or, better yet, keep ourselves to ourselves, secreted away in each others’ homes drinking wine and falling asleep on the couch? Pubs and live bands are fun, but not so much for dancing.

I don’t want to go out dancing all that often, but I don’t want to feel like an old freak when I do. What I’d really like is an over-age club, where you need to show your ID to get in, and you have to be over 30 to get past the bouncer. Would that be too weird? Would that bring about all kinds of ageism?

I probably should have slunk home in my crypt-keeper dance floor shame, but I’ve decided not to care. I had an awesome night out with my friends, and I know something those other 20-somethings apparently don’t know. One day they’re going to hit 30 too.