Meat. Man meat. Get your Weber here.

My mid-life crisis shake-up has turned into more of a mild vibration of late. I disappoint myself. No trapeze, karaoke, or radio interviews to report this week. Instead? Only some advice for those who, like me, find themselves in their mid-30s and beyond. DO NOT approach this time and think that vegetarianism is a good option. You’re a woman. You need meat. Man meat. Today, for crisis shake up, we’re just going to wobble our eyeballs.

Sorry, it’s the most I can muster after scraping myself back up from the school holiday funk. I’ve had all the yelling, crying, and stomping I could handle for the past fortnight. The girls did their fair share as well. If you’re a man? I apologise. The ensuing objectification of men is despicable and in poor taste. But this is a BBQ today, so, I had to bring a plate. This is all that was in my freezer.

Today we will not eat our vegetables. Did you know the Australian region produces some of the finest cuts of meat in the world? Prime for export, we ship them internationally, yet they boomerang back home, because, well… if the man meat is fine, what do you think our Aussie chicken is like? You and me girls. Top quality. Rub us in marinade and we’ll be even more tender tomorrow. Today we peruse a veritable smorgasbord of sportsmen, beginning with Mark Webber, the Roger Ramjet of Formula 1 racing.

'What? You say there's an extra 'B' in my name? But I'm WEBER. Man of grill. No?'

‘What? You say there’s an extra ‘B’ in my name? But I’m WEBER. Man of grill. No?’

It’s a shame, really, that the only time we see him is in a helmut, with a white skin thing underneath, then inside a roll cage, then inside a car. Stupid sport really. NEXT!

What else is on the man grill? Adam Scott. Golf is a little thin on the ground with men worth cooking. Not because they are lean cuts of meat, however. Oooooh nooooo. You’d think with all that walking that they’d be a bit more, um, heart smart. Have the BBQ tick of approval, so to speak. ‘Tis ok though, dear eyeballs. Adam Scott is here.

I'm not going to make a joke about there being a hole in one of whatever that is. No, I'm not. I didn't.

I’m not going to make a joke about there being a hole in one of whatever that is. No, I’m not. I didn’t.

Yes, yes, I understand. He only hits one ball, every so many shots, and you have to watch ALL the other people on the course, and all the WALKING! And all the DUCKS! Frankly, you keep falling asleep. Isn’t there a quicker better way to see something good?

And I tell you yes. Yes there is. You’ll have to learn some rugby though. Just a little bit. Ok, that’s a lie. Learn nothing, but take a girlfriend. Drink beer, and gossip, and watch the big screen. It is more fun if you know who’s winning though. Look out … here comes your rugby union meat conga line…

As much as I can’t ever let the All Blacks win without yelling at the TV, I will equally never miss a game, because of THIS. ONE. MAN. All hail, fillet steak, Dan Carter. But, I can’t show you his face on this blog, because, well… I support the Wallabies. And, there is SO MUCH good stuff right there to show you. I present to you Pat McNabe (who plays for the Brumbies and hence draws my favour):

Brumbies. Like horses, but better.

Brumbies. Like horses, but better.

Will Genia (from the Qld Reds)


and I would also put on a pic of Liam Gill, from the Reds, but the poor little dude WAS BORN IN THE 90s and that’s pushing it. Just can’t.

Thanks for joining me for this minute glimpse into the literally hundreds of different choices on offer at your butcher. Er… stadium. So there you have it, meat-eaters. RUGBY IS THE ANSWER. You can have steak, kangaroo, lamb, mince or hamburger, all on the field, 30 at a time. BBQ smorgasbord, with gravy.

Linking with the Lounge, for BBQ Thursday. Yum.


[Images ref: Pat McNabe - Getty images]



Polka dot, polka dot, Kimbo circus.

It’s a pretty good day when you can fly though the air and be caught by a shirtless man wearing tights. I’m on a quest to beat back the looming midlife crisis that creeps with crepitus fingers into the whooping last years of my 30s. Adrenalin is my light sabre, and I’m using it to vanquish the forces of ageing. If you pop by here regularly you’ll have read about the drunken buzz I gained from belting out ‘Living on a Prayer‘ to a packed bar. This time I tried a more sober style of hit. It was even better. Trapeeeeeeeeeeze! Polka dot polka dot Afro circus!

If you want to shake up your weekend, here are a couple of little tips I picked up.

TIP 1: Be NOT hungover. A thumping heart upon reaching the top of the trapeze ladder is better than a thumping head. Try not to go to the rugby and drink until 1am the previous evening. Being upside-down is more comfortable without a headache. The good part is, the excitement and thrill will throw your headache out the window after the first 10 minutes.

I know, I know. This goes without saying. I have to be sensible most of the time, so on the rare occasion I go out at night, I am all jazz hands and wild eyes. A bit like a flying fox. It was Waratahs v Brumbies. Husband v Wife. We were in a box with many friends. A waiter was topping up my drink. We had big fun. It was hard to say – ‘oh…. I’m doing something mad in the morning so I’ll just have a water thanks’. So… I didn’t. Oops.

Head is thumping instead of heart. Oops.

Head is thumping instead of heart as I wait by the ladder. Oops.

TIP 2: Falling face first can be a GOOD thing.

YAY finally I’ve found my place! Did they really just say fall down face first and land on your belly? This is something I know how to do. I’m not saying I didn’t fail. Duh. I stuffed up quite a few moves, like the one where I accidentally listened to my inner 8-year-old instead of the dude without a shirt, and instead of tucking my legs back down straight from the swing, flipped them backwards over my head while still hanging on with my arms. It was extremely un-co, and I let go when I heard slight panic in shirtless’ voice telling me to ‘DROP’! Little does he realise my weirdo-contorto arms had no plans to pop out from the shoulders. Dislocated shoulder are for WIMPS. I spit in the face of dislocation. I later found out I did half of ‘skin the cat’ – I’m like, SO totally way advanced.

But I was supposed to fall on my face on the net. It was the superman move. We had to reach out like superman with our legs on, then let go mid-swing and fall on our bellies on the net. Not. Scary. At all. (She says, then spews though the net when nobody is looking).

TIP 3: Try to listen with your ears, not your eyes.

The scenery around the trapeze net is lovely. Trees and stuff. See?

Nice trees at trapeze school. Scenic.

Nice trees at trapeze school. Scenic.

TIP 4: When they say let go, LET GO!

I learned this the hard way. I wouldn’t be me unless I had a couple of fairly unique screw-ups this day. Last time I went skiing I managed to stab myself in the throat with my own ski stock. This is my special talent. I winded myself in the voice box and after I stopped going ‘huuurr’ ‘huuuur’ like a dying cow I decided to sit the day out with some frozen peas and the soothing warmth of schnapps. When I play tennis, I’m regularly belted by balls in the head, BY MY OWN TENNIS PARTNER. Just rude.

So fairly unsurprisingly, when we went to do the first trapeze catch, and the girl said ‘Legs off’ while we clamped each others’ forearms firmly, my contrary mistrusting knees said ‘You’re out of your mind lady – we’re staying HERE’! Thus our respective swings swung apart from each other, our arms remained locked, and I made myself just a little bit longer. Wanna see? Course you do.

TIP 5: Before you book trapeze, book your recovery massage.

Ninety minutes of ladder climbing, swinging by underused arm muscles, somersaults and unexpected core work will see you walking like a thunderbird if you don’t have access to a hot bath and some Tiger Balm (says the Thunderbird).

I finally got it right. I missed the backflip. Maybe next time. But this was good enough for me.

Would I do trapeze again? In a heartbeat. Would I run away and join the circus? Hell no. I’m petrified of clowns. It was such a buzz though. I squealed like a girl and climbed down shaking from the net. I’m sore but have such a sense of achievement. I’m after my next challenge but haven’t lined it up yet. Hit me with your ideas! I’m game…

To save you a little googling time if you’re down Sydney way and keen, I did this at Circus Arts – Sydney Aquatic Centre at Homebush, and it was $55 for 90 minutes.

Linking with Essentially Jess for IBOT



Shaking things up. Rage, rage against the comfort zone!

I’ve embraced it. We are one, this midlife crisis and me. But we will not go gentle into that good night. Instead it seems, somehow, that I’ve lately acquired a taste for adrenalin, through fairly unexpected channels.

Mumabulous, while I respect and admire your comfort zone perimeter (with all those hot men living inside) and commitment to thinking inside the box (since I’m a big fan of things that come in boxes myself), I’m going to have to contradict your ‘hit the ground walking’ theory. Lately I’m kind of in the mood to run before I can walk. Like a baby. Maturity has never been such a strong point for me. This mood is quite lucky, since I somehow landed on the radio today, in an interview on the ABC Afternoons radio show in Adelaide with Sonya Feldhoff. WHAT? I know. Random. And I LOVE randomness.

Swinging upside down on the parallel bars at the local YMCA where little A does gym, like some kind of hairless orangutang, I flipped down this morning, red-faced, just to check my emails and found one requesting an interview 4 hours later. Sure? Why not? I had a head full of blood so I was sure to be thinking clearly. It was to talk about the stupid things we do when we’re tired, and I am clearly an expert on the subject matter. I was the perfect choice.

I’m glad I did it. Sonya was lovely and the buzz!!! I’d forgotten how much I love adrenalin (especially when preceded by abject terror and stage fright). No, actually, I hadn’t. Only two weeks ago I stood up on stage (hmmm… ok, that time slightly more immune to the pitches of my nerves, numbed by the dulcet thrums of alcohol’s music) to sing to a packed bar, with my knees knocking. Climbing down from the stage? The SAME BUZZ. Knees shaking with adrenalin, and grinning from ear to ear.

I’m finding the pinky purple hair I’m sporting this month (read, post-birthday) is more a mindset than a hairstyle. It’s impossible to get into a tracky-pant wearing mummish slump when I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I can pretend to myself I’m still bucking some trend, of what? I’m still not sure. Enough people go ‘woah, what happened to your hair?’ and ‘that’s a bit wild’ for me to get shaken out of any funky mood I might be slipping into. You can’t walk around all droopy-faced with pink hair. So I don’t, even if I want to. It’s the nicer version of someone saying ‘Hey, smile. Life’s not that bad.’ Except I said it to myself with an inconsequential little stripe of hair dye.

Does trapeze also throw in upside-down men like these? Sign me up.

Shaking things up is FUN. If this is a mid-life crisis, I think I’ll keep it for a while. I’m not sure what’s next, but I think I’ll have to give trapeze a go. I really, really like hanging upside down. And falling? I reckon that would be even better.