Monthly Archives: September 2014

WordPress is better than Facebook


I don’t think I like Facebook anymore. I haven’t been visiting there much lately and I don’t miss it.

The people on Word Press are a lot nicer.

The people on Word Press aren’t constantly in your face.

The people on Word Press seem to be more intelligent because they have more interesting things to say.

The people on Word Press are positive thinkers.

The people on Facebook are always having dramas and insulting each other.

The people on Facebook sometimes bully and exclude others with their hidden double meanings that only certain people catch onto.

The people on Facebook think the ability to take a photo of yourself with your phone is a skill worth celebrating.

The people on Facebook are actors, you don’t know what people are really like.

If you vote Facebook, do nothing.

If you vote WordPress click like.



Blogging in transit


For people with health challenges, airports really do push the limits. The location of this gate is at the end of the airport practically on the tarmac. They herd people on and off like cattle. Such is budget flying.

I am so thankful I arrived to my gate early.
1. To rest
2. To eat some yummy choc covered raspberry licorice bullets I just bought
3. To watch people arrive off flights
4. To watch kids and parents have meltdowns
5. To reflect on life

Hopefully happy flying, see you in Tasmania.

This too shall pass


Today I suffer for having a good day yesterday.

Yesterday even my toes were gleaming with dark red polish as I wandered through a small shopping centre catching up on jobs. I dallied in the bookshop. I had to buy a book. I didn’t want an ebook I wanted a book. Such a definitive, important book, The Artists Way (, an ebook just wouldn’t cut it. I found jeans, but not just jeans, I found jeans I love! How hard is that? They are of the popular name, “boyfriend jeans”. The fact that they are a current popular trend is a bonus. I texted my sister, “Can I buy boyfriend jeans if I don’t have a boyfriend?”. “Haha yes” pinged back the reply. I was in such high spirits I even told the sales girl my joke. I sat and ate one of those mixed Asian food plates, the ones only found in such shopping centres. In and out of stores I crossed all my jobs off my list.

Sneaky pic in the change rooms.

Sneaky pic in the change rooms.

Yesterday I knew I was lucky for a sunny, happy day. But I also knew I’d pay.

Today movement is optional. The jobs may or may not get done, but it will be an uphill struggle the whole day. I don’t have the option of resting or not. One, my body says I have to, and two, I have to rest before flying out tomorrow to visit family. However, resting is not sitting peacefully sipping coffee and reading a magazine. Resting is laying in bed with my head lifted by 2 pillows, holding my iPad. Or, I might shuffle to the couch and watch some tv or read or maybe even draw. At some point I will pretend I’m not in pain so I can meet my new cleaner. Yesterday I wondered if she was necessary, today I know it must be. C’est la vie.

Women of a certain age

Women of a certain age

What does that mean- women of a certain age?

I was busily dottering around my house today when this phrase jumped into my head.

Why, oh why? Who is this woman of a certain age. This is not me- or is it?

Am I starting to act this way? Like a little girl trying on heels and clumping around, practising what she will inevitably do once teenager hood hits and she can’t wait to take on makeup and heels and long jewellery and handbags. Even those of us who were not really “girly girls” we were drawn to practise nonetheless. As I entered teenager hood Madonna brought a new rebel version of womanhood, thankfully. I still remember jumping off my bus once it hit the city, to head into the amazing accessories shop that had an abundance of rubber bracelets, especially in my beloved black.

Anyway, I digress. Women of a certain age. Who are these women? What do they do that sets them apart? I looked it up. Urban dictionary came to my rescue, of course.

Woman of a Certain Age:
Ironically polite term for a woman who does not want her actual age known, e.g. one who is close to or just over the menopause. Things which define women of a certain age are: exceptionally gaudy clothing, homeopathy and aromatherapy, sensible haircuts, books on feminism, affairs with paper boys, and coffee mornings.


OMG exceptionally gaudy clothing. I think it’s me. I’m wearing utter crap. I actually often wear daggy clothing. But now that’s a sign I’m nearing menopause. Really?

Homeopathy and aromatherapy? What because women of a certain age smell? Or like to smell nice smells more than others? Really? I have candles. Sometimes they are lit, many times they are not.

Sensible haircuts. No I fail at that one. I’m not there yet that’s for sure. I have crazy hair. My Mother has a sensible haircut. She’s obviously a woman of a certain age.

Books on feminism? Who has these? University lecturers maybe? Negative, out of over 1000 books in my house there’s not one on feminism. That doesn’t mean I don’t support feminism though. Because I do. I follow “Destroy the Joint” on Facebook, maybe that counts? But I follow lots of different social justice issues. Oh dear. Does that mean I’m old, well, a woman of a certain age?

Affairs with paper boys? Shit I wish, lol. Probably should try getting the paper delivered. But in my area I think there’s an older man who delivers the papers. Fail.

Coffee mornings? That would require being out and about in a morning hour, and possibly having friends. I have trouble on both counts.

Close to or just over the menopause? I don’t think this characteristic works. Not to get too technical, but menopause can happen to a 40 year old even though the average age of menopause is 51. Unless of course, we think women’s behaviour changes with their hormones. Noooooo.

And finally, a woman who does not want her actual age known. I don’t mind telling my age. But when I turn 43 or 44 or 45 I’m not sure. (I wrote this post thinking I was 42 but then remembered I’m only 41. Does forgetting your age count towards being a woman of a certain age? Bugger).

According to the definitive checklist on urban dictionary I don’t completely fit the description of a woman of a certain age. Yet I’ve started vaguely wandering around in my own world and I thought that would be a sure sign. Could wondering what a woman of a certain age is, actually be the beginning of transformation into said woman?

What I think really is necessary is a new definition of a woman of a certain age. Then I’ll be able to move on.

Woman of a certain age:
A woman who, through living a full and interesting life for many years, has decided to not give a shit about what anyone thinks. She does what she wants when she wants, buys what she loves, dresses in a way that pleases her, pursues activities that are personally rewarding and enjoys life with no restriction. A woman of a certain age leads a happy and fulfilling life at her own pace and according to her own priorities.

(Definition by me, 2014)

Phew. I’m good now. I’m heading that way, but have not yet reached the age of being a woman of a certain age. I know this because I’m still getting all my ideas for living my life in line. But now I know what I’m destined for, I can’t wait!

Why am I lucky?

Why am I lucky?

Yesterday my mind was clouded, body seemed ok. Today my body is a brick, mind is fuzzy and communication verges on gobbledygook.  This is the roller coaster of chronic illness.

However, what illness can bring is a different way of thinking about life. Included is the sometimes fleeting ability to appreciate life and living, the big and the small, the obvious and the hidden, the unusual and the mundane.

Today, in a bit of a fog, I drove the 50 minutes to the city and back. On the way I appreciated the neat grass edges on the highway, new building works in a new subdivision, bright printed real estate posters, and on the way home, neat bright shining street lights showing the wide far-reaching road in front of me. The rest of the trip is a blur and I’m sure I saw lots of other things in my environs but I remember those things. They are always there. Mundane. Basic. Standard. But here went my thinking.

What though, if I saw these things through the eyes of a poor Indian person? (Why Indian jumped into my mind I have no idea why, there are plenty of countries with extremely high poverty.) But what would this person think? All these people in my country living privileged lives. With everything new. And clean. And organised. And these privileged people still find reasons to whinge and to cry and to want more.

I suggest, step back and have a think:

What do I have?

What am I grateful for?

Why am I lucky?

Family home in India