Striking a blow for sisterhood

I AM woman, hear me roar.

Don’t mind me. Just thought I should try something different. Apparently my line in self-deprecation is getting a little old. [Read more]

Men are from Mars, cars are from Venus

SO MEN and women approach things a little differently. Take our recent search for a new car for example.

The hubby visited every car yard in town, looking at everything within $10,000 of his price range, meticulously recording the relevant info on each and collecting vehicle brochures. [Read more]

Humiliation really is the key to humility

HUMILITY is a wonderful virtue. I keep myself humble by regularly embarrassing myself.
When I’m done embarrassing myself, I embarrass my husband or children. Not because I’m a klutz or socially inept, you understand, but just because I’m on a journey of self improvement. Those with over-large heads take note.

Frequent humiliation really is the key to virtuous humility. [Read more]

Tom, Katie, Brangelina; It’s not you it’s me

It seems I’m nobody’s target demographic these days.

At least that’s what I gather, judging from the magazines in the waiting room at the doctor’s, or in the lunch room at work. [Read more]

Excercise update: The shoes failed to deliver

THEY say the best indicator of future performance is past behaviour.

If I believed this I probably wouldn’t get out of bed in the mornings! I prefer to work on the premise that I can always try again tomorrow.

If the former were true, it would indicate that I’ll never get the laundry pile under control; never convince the two-year-old to knowingly eat vegetables; never get the in-tray cleared at work; and never stick to a regular exercise plan.

Take my recent vow to start a program of jogging.

The very idea inspired hoots of derision from my friends and family alike.

But I would like to state for the record that my detractors were all wrong: I have been jogging since then. So there.

Only once since then, it’s true; but that’s hardly the point.

The point is that I put my pretty new running shoes to their intended purpose and got them all wet and grassy as a result.

I can’t even wear them inside any more. Now they just languish on the front porch, looking at me reproachfully every time I walk past.

It’s all their own fault. The shoes failed to deliver.

They’re supposed to be running shoes, yet they help very little with the actual running.

Don’t be fooled people. It feels roughly the same running in a pair of brand new Nikes as it does running in a 15-year-old pair of no-brand shoes.

They also say: “A good tradesman never blames his tools.”

I say if I can’t blame the shoes, I’ll blame the pants.

To be clear, I was dragged forcefully from my bed by the firstborn before 7am (apparently I had asked him to do this), and the little slave driver didn’t even give me time to change.

Fortunately, I had been sleeping in a pair of tracksuit pants. Unfortunately, they had only ever been used for lounging on the couch or sleeping in.

I wasn’t to know that once you move into second gear they start “slipping”.

So that was my jogging experience to date: dragged from bed into the chilly dawn, to lurch along, lungs burning, clutching at the waistband of my pants while being taunted mercilessly by a 12-year-old.

I have to believe things will be better next time.

Regular exercise, $100 Nikes and a big stick

Vowing to exercise regularly has become a cliche. I revisit the idea at least once a month.

It’s featured as part of my new year’s resolutions, columns about my ever- growing to-do lists, about hiring treadmills, and let’s not forget my little series re: getting up at the crack of dawn and pounding the pavement in my post-Easter 2008 columns.

(I’m counting on no one remembering what I write from one week to the next, let alone from two years ago).

So far my resolve lasts about as long as it takes a newspaper to get to print. This time is different though. This time I have bought the right shoes.

“Apparently 12-year-olds only respond to cash, not emotional blackmail. Particularly when he hates getting out of bed in the mornings as much as I do.”

Now that I have the cutest pair of pink and grey Nikes imaginable, I’m sure I’ll be able to stick with a regular program.

I saw them when buying soccer-related paraphernalia for the kids last weekend, and the minute I tried them on I felt all sporty and athletic.

Trust the hubby to point out the absurdity of paying $100 for a pair of running shoes when I haven’t run anywhere since the 1980s.

He’s missing the point entirely. It’s like one of those chicken/egg arguments. The shoes must come first. When I’m wearing them I can just picture myself bounding along on an early morning jog before my breakfast of wheatgrass and ginseng-infused something-or-other.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, though. First I have to wear them outside of the house (unless it’s raining; they’re too pretty to get wet).

I’ve asked the first born to help me get motivated. I’ve suggested his job could be shaking me vigorously at 6am and then chasing me down to the park with a big stick.

When I asked if he knows what a personal trainer does, he replied: “Make lots of money?”

Turns out he’s only willing to help if he’s remunerated accordingly – as if potentially adding years to his mother’s life wasn’t reward enough.

Apparently 12-year-olds only respond to cash, not emotional blackmail. Particularly when he hates getting out of bed in the mornings as much as I do.

Not to mention that he and his siblings benefit from the status quo: at the moment they can outrun me when required, so it’s in their best interests to keep things that way.

One pill won’t turn Johnny into Bonnie

MANY fathers are understandably worried when their beloved child starts taking birth control pills.

The hubby certainly was, when he discovered his youngest son eating a whole row of them last week.

He came across the little pill-popper in the bathroom, happily ingesting female hormones by the handful. [Read more]