2 May 2012

X is for Xbox

I have never understood the enthralling nature of the mysterious Xbox. I have always wondered if one needed to be inducted into some sort of underground, boys only club to get it, or if I would understand once I got my own.

Well, to be quick and to the point, I have an Xbox and it doesn't do it for me. It serves its purpose as a DVD player and that's it. My brother is an Xbox Xpert. He knows his gaming. He's so serious, he sometimes conferences with other gamers, just to strategise their gaming heirarchy. He has friends who get paid to play games all day. But here I am, still clueless.

I thought I was in. I thought I had entered the world of the addicted, however my dedication to the art of repetitive thumb twiddling lasted all of three days. A solid effort by my standards, but clearly the work of an absolute novice. The Sims on Xbox doesn't really capture one's attention for very long.



I do however, have a new respect for the pimpled, socially awkward basement dwellers - they have a stamina I don't think I could ever manage to acquire. And I trust they will put it to good use. In their basements.

Jessenia xoxo

30 April 2012

W is for Whimsy

I wash my car at three in the morning simply because I get the urge. I go to the local 24 hour K-mart and stroll through the homewares section at odd hours just because. I wore a fluffy Willy Wonka hat to pick up my brother because it caught my eye when I opened my wardrobe. And I am so much happier for it.

I think we all need to give in to those silly, childish urges and just DO IT. If you want to wear a cape as you vacuum, then by all means, wear the damn cape. Feel like a super hero as you're stuck doing mundane chores. Infact, blast up some Duran Duran and make it the most embarassing housework/aerobics/dress-up session you've ever had in your life. Paint your toe nails glow in the dark and attack a sibling or partner with the beacons of light shining from your feet in the dead of night. Go to a movie, avery serious movie, and in the most serious of scenes, make fart noises. It might annoy some people. It could mortify others. People will think 'oh my gosh, did they actually do that? Is she wearing a CAPE?' and they might stare. But I bet 90% of them are dying to have the guts to do the same.

We only live once, and if it's always a case of following routine, then I hate to say, but you're boring. What will people say at your funeral? "They were polite. Orderly. They followed routine. A model citizen, by today's measure." Pfft. BORING. Why don't you just start wearing beige, paint your entire house white, embroider days of the week on your underwear and cook all of your meals for the week on Sunday night and freeze them. And NEVER defer from the routine.



At least for my funeral I know there is a wealth of hilarious and unusual stories to draw from for the poor sods stuck doing eulogies and readings. "Remmber when she ran down the highway in swimmers an hour out of Dubbo, chasing tumbleweed for Hanah's collection?" or "Remember how she used to get in the car, at whatever time of night and say let's go for a drive, and we'd end up two hours away" or even "Remember when she busked outside the toilets at the shopping centre. People were so confused." I know I am at the extreme end of things, but I couldn't imagine being any other way. I wish everyone would just do the chicken dance if the mood struck, because most wouldn't. Most would stamp down the urge and deny themselves the pure joy that comes from whimsy. It's one of the greatest gifts, besides organs, we can give. And the best part is you can give it to yourself. So whilst it's probably not best to ALWAYS follow the weird and wonderful impulses we get, it certainly does beat being ordinary. And boring.

Jessenia xoxo

29 April 2012

V is for Vulnerability: A Response to Jess' U Post

Growing up we are taught that vulnerability is something bad and that we should avoid it at all costs. Reading Jess' U post about unsolicited advice reminds me of my own journey with vulnerability. How the two are linked, I'm not so sure, but in my mind they are. Could it be Jess feels the way she does about travelling on public transport because it makes her feel vulnerable to attracting uninitiated and generally purposeless conversation? Me thinks there's an element of that.

As I age, I am more comfortable with the concept of vulnerability. In my younger years, I always felt vulnerable because of uncertainty. I needed to be in control, know where I was going, know what my next goal was and deal generally in black or white. I have now realised that was fallacious thinking.

A rich life is one that includes some grey and some uncertainty/vulnerability. Embracing it is the only way we risk and grow. It is the way we open ourselves to new opportunities and experiences, if we only did the things we knew and were comfortable with, we would stagnate. Unfortunately a lot of people do just that. Taken to the extreme of course, vulnerability is not a such a good thing. But equally, trying to live a life where one experiences no vulnerability at all takes a lot of energy and can often be lonely. People often do and say unpredictable things. As vulnerability generally means no unpredictability, those that are afraid of a little vulnerability are generally closed off. They may have acquaintances, certainly, but real connections?



None of us are on top of things at all times in our lives. I don't really understand the need to appear to be in total control and constantly successful. Pride is such a dangerous beast as  is hanging one's self-esteem on external validation. There will be times when we have to feel vulnerable, but vulnerability is the mother of innovation and change. It's the how and why we move on. It's OK to be human and not have all the answers. The key is the bounce back and resilience.

I too have received unsolicited advice whilst travelling on public transport and at times have not felt like engaging. But there's a saying along the lines of ...be generous with who you invite to your dinner table, you could be inviting an angel.

And Jess, if you really don't want to talk to anyone on the bus, bury your head in a book or put your earphones on - with your choice of music. You'll love not having to battle the traffic, worrying about driving and it'll be 40 minutes of just letting your mind go. I always found it a great transition between work and home.

28 April 2012

U is for Unsolicited Advice

I'm starting a new job in a week and whilst I'm excited, I have a few fears. Namely transport. Because I am going to find myself relying on the public transport system, and fighting my way through the problems that come with it.And I am shaking in my little leather boots.

You see, I currently drive to work each day. It's fantastic. I get to choose my music or radio station. I control the temperature in the vehicle. I even have control over how fast I travel. In fact, for a control freak like me, driving is tops. But the absolute height of my enjoyment when it comes to travelling to my current job, is the fact that I am ALONE. I get up to half an hour, depending on how long it takes to find parking, to myself. I don't have to listen to anyone else's public conversations on their phones. I don't hear some angst-ridden teen's extremely loud goth music through their poor quality ear phones. I don't have to keep up a hood on my jumper to avoid sneeze germs coming from the diseased folks going to the doctor. I get peace, quiet and isolation. The closest I come to being in contact with people when I drive is when some idiot on the road does something stupid and I flip them off. All of that however, is about to change.

I used to ride the bus to school. The very public bus. And I used buses to get around before I could drive independently. And when I head into the city, I catch a bus as well. And whilst it is sometimes great not having to focus on the road, or to worry about the fool in the right hand lane trying to cut me off, I have had far too many bus rides to know this is going to go smoothly.

The lonely old lady desperate for human contact, or the seedy old man staring down my top. Or even the talkative middle aged woman with a lot to say and very little audience. You name them, I've endured their conversations. Bus rides punctuated with random conversations has been my life's story, as others have seen fit to expound upon me their life story. Unwelcomed, by the way.



I've stepped off a bus knowing more about the random Ukranian woman's family than I do my own, having heard about it for forty-five minutes. Each tale has been littered with bits of advice, wholly unsolicited advice, mind you. "Never tell your daughter she was too good for her ex-boyfriend anyway and that he was a directionless loser and she's done well to be rid of him. It could blow up in your face when they get married." Gee, thanks for the advice. I'll keep that in mind, twenty years from now. I've also been instructed to become a doctor. To never do drugs. To stay in school. To avoid hanging out with the "menaces who vandalise fences" and that if I were to ever get a dog, to keep it on a lead. And pick up its poo.

I remember one bus ride where an old man sat next to me, even though there were about ten empty seats, and proceeded to tell me about his childhood, growing up in Maroubra. It was rough, apparently. And apparently, I was supposed to care.



I suppose lonely old people don't bother me as much as the unqualified, but still highly knowledgable pseudo doctors, telling me old wives' remedies to cure all sorts of ills. Or the drunken slobs trying to find their way home after a really messy night. Or the suspected paranoid schizophrenics who scream at everybody around them. But either way, people are too free when it comes to dispensing their unwanted, entirely unsolicited advice on unsuspecting victims like myself.

If I don't ask about it, clearly I don't want to know. If I don't show interest in the conversation, like say for example, I don't acknowledge your existence after you begin talking, I think I've made my point. Going ahead with the conversation seems pointless, no? So please, don't be offended if I walk away mid-conversation. If I put in ear phones and start playing music. If I roll my eyes, sigh repeatedly and look boredly out the window. And for the love of God, don't look so offended when I tell you to quit your blabbering because I've no interest in the crap currently being projected in my direction. I've had it, and trust, you'll hear about it. Whether you want to or not.

If you too have often been a victim of unsolicited advice, especially on public transport, drop us a line. It would be great to hear from you, and let us know what you think.

Jessenia xoxo

27 April 2012

T is for Trendy Ailments

By the beard of Zeus, they're all diseased. I can't believe it. I looked on at the group infront of me in wonderment. I was sitting with a group of friends and their friends and such, and everybody all of a sudden had an ailment. A trendy ailment to boot. ADHD, Dyslexia, Syndrome X (particularly unappealing), Athsma, Eczema, Stutters, Lisps and other speech impediments, Sprained ankles from amatuers playing tennis like pros. You name it, they were crippled by it. And to top it all off, they each had friends with ailments as well. "So and so is Manic Depressive" followed by "well so and so is Bi-Polar", followed by "well have you seen so and so lately? She's Anorexic AND Bulimic" Don't those two go hand in hand?. Each new problem sparked great interest. All of a sudden I was in a room full of learned doctors and specialists, each of whom was totally and completely qualified in their books to give their shoddy advice. Following this was another round. Diabetes, Blood Pressure problems, Iron deficient (possibly Anaemic), Lady Part problems and quickly it became a case of 'My professionally diagnosed medical problem is way bigger than yours'.

I was surrounded by people in the last of their teen years and extremely early twenties, and they were all diseased. Ruined. Crippled for life by problems and were competing for the title of biggest medically challenged cripple out there. The shock almost sent me over the edge.

We are young. We don't have too many problems. We can't be this faulty? Do I need to return my body for a full refund?. I was just hit with an overhwelming desire to tell everybody to shut up and bask in their crippleness silently. And then it dawned on me. This is society. We are full of a desire to blame all of our woes on unforeseen medical hurdles which all of a sudden seem to plague each and every one of us. We're not competing for sheep stations when it comes to who has the better car, or the nicest kitchen. No. We're competing for the golden ticket when it comes to who gets the biggest cop out from their trendy ailment.



Who gets to blame hormone imbalances for epic mood swings? A, D and F each put their hand up as moody because of hormones. The temptation to say "No, you're just psychotic" was overwhelming. Then there was M, she had a thyroid problem, which was why she had steadily gained 20kg over the past year. I was dying to tell her it was because of the cheesecake and macaroons she seemed to eat on a daily basis. And the McDonalds. And the chips. And the soft drinks. And the fact that if she had to walk more than five minutes to get to the bus stop, she'd either not go or get a taxi. But that would be rude.

The conversation resumed. The hype surrounding this disorder and that syndrome was incredible. Is this what society has been reduced to? A group of losers who want reasons and diseases to blame for their sucky lives? I get that there really are real problems. Trust me. I get it. There's cancer, and heart disease and paralysis and multiple sclerosis and a variety of non-trendy, very serious ailments around. But here I was, surrounded by people who had Life Altering, but not Life Threatening ailments, and they couldn't get past it. And it brought me back to the many conversations I've accidentally been stuck in when I have asked how someone is, and all of a sudden they're now screwed up. And I have to hear about it.

So I sucked in a tortured breath and decided to ride it out and soon I would be free. The conversation was escalating. Wild gestures describing invasive medical procedures were being included, and I soon learned that nearly everybody had required a CT scan or an MRI or a Very Serious Internal Exam (I giggled when I heard this. A lot.) Voices were getting louder, and the competition was heating up. C was looking pretty serious, whereas H and N had dropped out - the speech impediments whilst embarassing, were not considered all that terrible. E was tossed aside by the group collectively - yeast infections were temporary and easily treatable. The same went for T, with her gastro and UTI problems. Syndome X looked to be holding her own, and Type 2 Diabetes was fighting hard until suddenly, and bang. It was decided, Syndrome X and Diabetes along with the Faulty Thyroid were three way winners, but why the hell were they staring at me? I realised their victory was conditional, as some diseased toe rag had pointed out I had recently had some medical problems of my own. All in the room were looking wide eyed at me, the three way winners glaring slightly, daring me to take their position. "So what is your problem again, Jessenia? Are you okay now?" Dammit. Bugger the lot of you to the fiery pits of hell. I was unceremoniously dragged into the  conversation. The blood thirsty little mongrels were demanding I air my dirty laundry for all and sundry to enjoy.

"I have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome." There, I said it. Short sharp and sweet, I blurted out my ailment and moved on. Until another little demon spawn from the far left corner piped up.

"What is it? What happens?" Again, dammit. Damn you seven ways from sunday you twitchy little diseased ingrate. 

"Basically my ovaries drop too many eggs each month, as a result of and because of my hormones, which are completely out of whack. I'm insulin resitant. I had to drastically change my diet because of that. I have  a hard time losing weight, it's easy to gain, I am prone to depression and I need to be careful because I am extremely prone to diabetes. And CVD. And lots of other nasty little things.And it may make me infertile" There. No more questions. They can't possibly need more than that, right? Wrong.

"How do you treat it?" Bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger and again, Bugger. Don't they get it? I don't enjoy this. 

"A medication called metformin, a very restricted diet and I'll find out more about hormone treatment when I see the endocrinologist."

The collective "oohh", followed by an "ahhh" was almost comical. Mouths shaped in serious O's, they were thinking, until finally, nodding their heads resolutely. Oh yes, that's right readers. I had, unwittingly, become the spokesperson for those crippled by life altering, very serious, very unfair ailments. Mine was the worst, apparently. I had too many problems, apparently. In fact, Syndrome X, Diabetes and the Faulty Thyroid were backing away from the crown all too eagerly. I believe it was a case of the devil you know. Yes well, the devil I know is currently reigning supreme, as queen of the diseased and leader of the trendily crippled. And no, I will not wear the crown publicly.

Jessenia xoxo

26 April 2012

S is for Swamp Donkeys and other creatures

My brother and I were arguing not long ago. Insults were flying and truthfully, I was on a roll. I was winning, which is a victory in and of itself considering my brother is just as smart, witty and rude as I am, and I was revelling in the glory. Until he turned around and told me to "shut up, you SWAMP DONKEY".

What the hell is a swamp donkey? I thought. I'd never heard the term. So I told him that if he stopped being an ass, perhaps so would I and then I went to the google machine. According to Urban dictionary, a swamp donkey is: "A very ugly, usually fat girl who hangs around in bars and clubs waiting to sexually assault males who are too drunk to defend themselves."

Now call me crazy, but I'm no swamp donkey. However that wasn't my problem. My issue was the absurd insult. It seems things like swamp donkeys are now normal terms. Instead of resorting to the regular "Shut up you fat whore",  we come up with some highly unusual word or name. I don't know whether it's a trend I enjoy or dislike.



On one hand, some of the 'terms' in urban dictionary are absolutely hilarious. Creative, witty and ingenious, I think they show promise for the english language. Recyclopath is another favourite of mine, described as "A person who militantly engages in recycling and is so hostile to simply throwing away garbage, it borders on mental illness" or there's Ninja Sex, "noiseless (no squeaking or moaning) sex done whilst someone is passed out in the room". As funny as it is to call someone a 'swamp donkey' instead of the more mundane 'ugly trollop', it get's hard to keep up with the ever changing language.

I don't think I have much choice but to go with the flow, so the next time someone calls me a swamp donkey, I'll be prepared. And my arsenal of absurd and highly incomprehensible insults will be greater.

Jessenia xoxo


R is for Respect: Find Out What It Means to Me

Back in March I wrote a blog post about commitment and questioned whether Gen Ys were going soft on it. Since writing that post, I have read more than a few blogs about the issue and there seems to be more and more writers expressing angst about commitment and in particular about the impact of mobile phones on etiquette.

I am now convinced that this is not an issue solely for Gen Y. Gen Xers are just as likely to choose convenience over respect. I am also firmly of the view that one of the biggest compliments you can pay someone in this day and age is to give them your FULL attention. Remember how good it feels when the person you are speaking to is entirely focused on you and is totally into what you are saying? Some people have an incredible knack for making you feel like you are the most important person in the world at that time. Call it a charm or a warmth, either way it's a dying art.



We now carry our computers wherever we go through smart phones. We are now socialising online and it has become mainstream. Miss an email or a post or a comment from someone and it could mean social suicide (not)! You're probably not even in the same timezone. Remember when we spoke to shop keepers and interacted? Surely service is a two way contract. We as customers have an obligation to the service providers too, namely that we will show them enough respect by being attentive during the transaction.

Remember the good old days when you used to talk to cabbies? Every cabbie had his take on politics, sports and the economy. Now they talk through the whole journey on their mobile phones to a friend or family member usually in a foreign language. We as passengers aren't much better. We get in a cab, state our destination and spend the whole time on a phone call. Maybe we should just cut out the middleman and call the cabby directly!



How many times have you spotted a group at a night out at a restaurant, each member on their mobile phones? Recently, I was at a restaurant with  a friend and there were about half a dozen kids young guys and girls at the table next to us, each with his or her mobile phone open looking at their Facebook pages. They might as well have gotten together online and eaten at Cafe World!

Somewhere, somehow we have lost the notion that the person we are with is the most important. They took the time and trouble to come and see you... right?


I have to say I feel more than slightly cheated when the person I am with focuses more on their phone than my witty repartee. Maybe that says something about my sense of humour. But I am not alone in these feelings and there is a small and almost silent revolution going to reclaim respect and face to face interaction. Some have closed their Facebook accounts or have ceased checking it daily. Others are tossing Twitter and turning off their phone notifications. To my fellow crusaders, I applaud you and say stand up and let's reclaim the respect that we all deserve.

Viva la respect revolution!

22 April 2012

Q is for Questioning Gracefully

Firstly, I just wish to apologise to readers, fellow challengers and above all, to my co-blogger Judy, as it is my fault we are behind. I've had a busy few days, so deepest apologies. But we are STILL in the challenge, and we are STILL going to be posting. Cheers, Jess :)

 Now, on with the posting...



Have you ever had a serious desire to ask a question you knew would offend someone? Perhaps to hint at their child's rather unusual tendency to eat crayons? Or perhaps wanted to ask if they had, in all seriousness, lost their mind?

You see, I've noticed a trend of avoidance when it comes to out of the ordinary quirks. We all know my once very anorexic friend is starting to relapse, but to ask her how she's going would be crossing the line in my social circle.

Is there a way to ask the hard questions gracefully? Can you ask someone if they just passed wind at the supermarket when you know they'll be embarassed if they did or offended if they didn't? Usually, I'd go right ahead. In fact, if I'm feeling particularly vindictive, I might ask my probing questions loudly in a very public place. The pained look on people's faces as others start to stare at them and the severe blush is enough to have me in stitches for the rest of the day. I do however, hold a modicum of respect for a select few people, so I wish to master the art of graceful interrogation.

So far, I've made a list of techniques that I think are 'offence dampening' measures, and if you have a hint, let me know.

1. An innocent wide-eyed look is a must.
2. A sincere voice, potentially saccharine sweet.
3. Use of 'code words' or metaphors to soften the blow
4. An apology directly before or after the question, followed by an explanation eg. 'Sorry, but I really am curious. What's it like to have herpes? Is the burning unbearable?'
5. Showing, even if it's a lie, genuine interest in the person, rather than the topic/issue.

And so, I hope that my list of techniques will hold me in good stead for the forseable future, but if you have a tip, don't hesitate to share!!

Jessenia xoxo

19 April 2012

P is for Public-Private Conversations: A case of TMI?

The advent of mobile phones and the digital world has meant radical changes to the way we communicate. There is no doubting the speed and convenience that are now at our finger tips. Global barriers have been pulled down, but so to it seems privacy barriers.

I'm not talking here about Internet security or digital privacy issues. The type of privacy I am talking about is those private conversations which used to take place behind closed doors only amongst family members or trusted friends.

In the digital world, a lot of people now seem comfortable in spilling the intimate details of their lives across the Net. Some might say that's not a bad thing. It has meant more open discourse and we have all felt the relief in knowing that we are not alone with a problem. In that context any reader who is uncomfortable with the material can click off the page and never return.

Not so in the mobile phone world. Particularly on public transport where everybody is forced to share common space for a while. It is not common to travel on a bus after work only to find there are at least half a dozen phone conversations taking place around you. In most cases, you only hear one side of the conversation but you can sort of reconstruct the other half from the context. At these times I feel like an uninvited interloper. There is no physical escape, the conversation has been foist upon me. Tuning out is impossible because there is something about talking on a phone on public transport that means the talker has to automatically speak LOUDER than she otherwise might. And we are not just talking about brief two minute conversations, but conversations that go on for the whole 45 minutes of the journey.



Do I really need to now how Jan got together with Peter at the club and that Jan is a two faced so and so? Do I really need to know how bad your client or boss treated you today? And any medical problems or family problems are definitely a case of TMI. People wouldn't make these disclosures by shouting them into a crowded room at a social gathering. Why on public transport?

Are we really so time poor or intolerant of any state of lack of stimulation that means these conversations can't wait until the speaker has reached home? Is convenience really more important than propriety? Is the conversation really one that cannot be had by text?



The boundaries around privacy in the digital world move at lightening pace. It seems they have all but disappeared in the mobile world. Maybe I'm old fashioned. Maybe, the Gen Y "need to know right now" attitude coupled with the Gen Y "I will do it because I have nothing better to do for the next twenty minutes and can't possible site idle" attitude is the way of the future. Maybe Gen X will be caught snoozing and losing in the depths of their own privacy.

Have you ever had to endure listening to a highly private conversation whilst on public transport?

O is for Over the Rainbow

Do you ever find yourself drifting into the great abyss? Your mind seems to empty itself of all the frustrations, your eye stops twitching and you become blessedly focussed. Those around you might complain, after all your glazed eyes and dreamy expression mean you're either in La La Land or enjoying yourself a bit too much. And you're perhaps oblivious to the goings on around you.

I must admit I am a day dreamer too. I often have some random thought occur to me, such as I wonder who invented staplers? and go from there. I can't always tell that I'm off with the fairies though, and it's often when I bump into stationary objects, like telegraph poles, that I'm shaken awake into reality again. Some might call me distracted, but I prefer to reference the great John Lennon and his Imagine.



My boss goes ape whenever my mind travels, and my friends are forever asking me if I'm ok. "Are you alright? You look a bit dazed". I don't know if there is a cure, but even if there was, I wouldn't be interested. I find trying to decide whether a Unicorn could take on a giant echidna far too amusing. In fact, I propose that we should dedicate time to allowing the mind to wander - there's so much wonderfully weird stuff to discover about ourselves, it could certainly be useful.



So, drop me a line if you too find yourself thinking about what lies over the rainbow and whether it warrants the time of day and for the nay-sayers, I quote you John. (Lennon that is). You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one...

Jessenia xoxo

17 April 2012

N is for Nostalgia: What Will Gen Y Pass On?

Most of my late teens and early twenties were spent in the 80's. Those of my age can get very nostalgic about that era. We have made an industry of it, really. I think we epitomise the "everything old is new again" philosophy. And because we are now at an age where we run television studios, radio stations and other media outlets, the world is experiencing the fruits of that nostalgia.

Songs that contain riffs from songs that were popular at that time (think Africa by Toto and I Fight For You by Jason Derulo), remakes of old movies (think Dirty Dancing) and even comedy shows about the era (think That Seventies Show) are all being imposed on Gen Y. There is a sense of the familiar to us and it takes us back to the days of pastel colours, frilly shirts and big hair. But I am not sure whether we really have to inflict these things on Gen Y. Clearly, these types of nostalgia trip shows and music rate, otherwise they would stop making them.



So what form will Gen Y nostalgia take? What are they going to impose on Gen Z and Gen Z + 1?

Recreations of Facebook, remember when it was free and you got all of your friends' posts in your feed?

The i-phone or i-pad perhaps? When you actually got to physically hold a device in your hand and type in letters?

How about remakes of Harry Potter, Twilight or The Hunger Games?

Clones of Nicki Manaj or Adele?

The reprise of the neon skinny jean?


All are intriguing possibilities and only time will tell. My grandchildren (when I get them) will no doubt roll their eyes, shake their heads and wonder just what was Gen Y thinking.

15 April 2012

M is for Move

I walk at a decent pace. I'm no Usain bolt or anything, but I move adequately. Sometimes, I'm one of those people you see at the shopping centres, ducking and weaving through the slow-moving plebians. I'm not really in a rush, I just don't like to move slowly.

I got stuck behind a group of people the other day, and it was such a slow procession I felt the glaciers were moving faster than I was.

I get tense, you see. I can't help it. If I'm on a rhythm, and I'm moving and then all of a sudden some heffalump moves infront of me, the change of pace is near catastrophic. I don't quite know how to get by though. Sometimes it's an absolute struggle.

You wait for a gap, and try to dart in between. Or you get closer and closer, hoping they will sense you right behind them and just move to let you pass. Or, you pick up speed, keep your head down, utter a quick 'excuse me' and head for the finish line, but almost always you feel like it could have been done better. My question is, what is better?



Could I just say 'please move, you're too slow?' - didn't think so. People would get offended. And you can't knock them to the side and push through, nor can you take a walking stick or other implement and deliver some well placed whacks. In fact, I think the only option here, other than my three established methods is to have a siren, and to play it as I approach the blockage. Perhaps, the crowds will part and I will make it to the other side totally unimpeded. Not particularly likely, but a girl can dream.

Anyway, I'm off to the supermarket, so don't be surprised if you hear the sirens.

Jessenia xoxo

L is for Laundry

Laundry is a never ending mystery to me. For a significant portion of my life, clothes magically found their way from my bedroom floor to the clothes line and then to my bed. Folded neatly and smelling great. It was heaven.

From the middle of high school however, my clothes seemed to prefer the floor. They rarely moved. School uniform was the most active, but other than that, the rest of them just sat there. I couldn't understand why they were suddenly so lazy. Then mother informed me I should try sticking them in the machine myself. So I did. And I failed. Miserably.

Somehow, things that were white ended up pink, or mauve, or slightly blue. A favourite woollen number shrunk and I was at a loss. What went wrong? I put them in the machine. I put in powder. I pressed start. Mother laughed at me. Apparently it's common knowledge that you don't put bright colours with whites in hot water. How was I to know?



I decided to do away with warm water all together. And I never mixed whites with colours. And I dared not touch anything woolly again, mother can deal with the hard stuff. I was confused, and not quite sure where to get the answers.

Was there a convention I missed for laundry? Did we cover this in class at all?

I still have yet to really understand the ins and outs of washing clothes. And I'm not sure if one day I'll be hit with a sudden heap of knowledge on the topic - maybe it's something you inherit? Either way, I'm not stressing. I'll throw it all in on cold, and if it's too hard, well then let's hope the laundromat across the road does discounts for the regulars.

Jess xoxo

13 April 2012

K is for Killer Heels: How Is The Atmosphere Up There?

They say each generation gets taller than the one preceding it. I can see that happening in my family. My sons will be taller than their father, who is pretty tall to begin with. Whoever originally said this however, surely didn't foresee the use of high heels in the next generation or how ridiculously high they have gotten of late.

Gen Y seems to be taking the expression "reaching for the skys" quite literally. For the last two years, heel heights have been ratcheting up to nose bleed heights and I wonder how far they will go. Jess phoned me excitedly today to advise she purchased a new pair of shoes, revealing the heel was between four to five inches in height. This can't be good for your feet, balance or ankles.


How many girls have you seen of late, tottering around on five inch heels, simply for the sake of fashion? Ankles wobbling with an unnatural stride causing bums to stick out to act as a counterbalance, we have all seen them. It's not only the heels that have gotten higher, but the platform of the shoe as well, to the point where you have to be a professionally trained ballerina just to get your foot in.

Have you ever been invited to a dance or cocktail function where you have had to be on your feet for more than two hours straight? Maintaining any sense of feeling in the balls of your feet after standing for this long is impossible. You'll be feeling the pressure for days to come. And consider the poor guy's feet you step on!

Most high heels end up swinging from Gen Y's hands after a nigh out. How many girls walking around in bare feet have you seen at 2am in the morning? Evening wear and bare feet is not a good look, unless you are getting married on a beach and even then you probably have to be Pamela Anderson!

If you want evidence just how indispensable high heels have become, look no further than Snooki. Here is a picture of Snooki's high heels which she refuses to give up at this stage of her pregnancy because her feels aren't yet swollen. Hope you don't trip or twist and ankle, Snooki.



It is time for heels to come down an inch or two, so that they are manageable for the average woman and you don't need to take out life insurance to wear them. Here's to walking straight and tall in comfort without having to sign on for a life time treatment of podiatry. Gen Y has got it right with ballet slippers, now there's comfort and style. On the other hand, thongs or flip flops are not fashion no matter how many rhinestones or jewels you put on them.

12 April 2012

J is for Jam

I am a feminist. I believe in equality. I love most of the innovations the modern world has to offer, and I'm glad we've progressed from the antiquated notions that used to plague society not too long ago. But I find myself lamenting the loss of some of the most important skills a housewife could have been proud of.

My mother doesn't make Jam. My grandmother does. She makes a wonderfully tarty plum jam, and an exceptionally palatable apricot jam and a myriad of other fruity conserves. She's a jam god in my opinion. But not my mother.



My grandmother also makes world class chutney, and my great aunty bakes quiche for lunch to feed the farm hands. I stroll through markets and see homemade this and homemade that, usually coming from a country farmhouse. But I wish I could make these things. I feel that we have lost an art form.

The women of the depression were resourceful and resilient. They were creative and on a budget. So too were their children. Raised to make wholesome home cooked food, to be frugal and waste not. Always aware of the cost of groceries, and to make do with what was available, the culinary talents of the typical housewife were to be admired. These days, Lean Cusine can do it for $8.50 if you're lazy. Sara Lee will give you a packet cake and packet frosting. McCain will do it again and provide you with chips, pizza, vegetables and roast potatoes.



I don't envy the women who wore aprons for uniforms, stayed at home barefoot and pregnant or never got a night off from cooking the family dinner. I do admire them - I would have been throwing myself off the harbour bridge if I were one. And I envy their kitchen talents. Succulent desserts were but a cup of sugar away, and warm biscuits with sweet and sensual aromas were just a quick little thing to whip up, for a spot of afternoon tea.

My mother grew up with such desserts provided by the incredible woman I'm privileged to call nanna, but never really felt the need to continue to tradition. I had to wait until Sunday lunch to smell the nutmeg topped, double layer, vanilla sponge with cream and jam and when I did, it was always incredible. I never really appreciated the ease with which my grandmother makes desserts. I never really understood how much hard work goes into a marble cake, and I didn't know how difficult following a recipe could be for those who, like me, couldn't be less domestic if they tried. Until I bollocksed up a packet cake.

So, the next time someone offers you some homemade jam, think of how often you make the stuff. Could you survive always making things from scratch? Would you like to be able to? And if it's good jam, let them know. And ask for the recipe. Don't let the art form created by our predecessors be lost, because as simple and plebian as homemade jam may seem, it really is an art form.

                                                               Nanna with her Plum Jam

Jessenia xoxo

10 April 2012

I is for Inappropriate Laughter

Have you ever laughed at old people falling over? Heard the crunch of their thrice replaced artificial hips and couldn't stem the compulsion to guffaw like a loon? Have you ever struggled to hold in the giggles when very serious employers stumble over their words during a very serious meeting? Or burst into incontrollable laughter when a very relaxed yoga teacher invites you to mix your energy with theirs and share their joy? Because I have. And I am not sure how much longer I can go without being punched in the face.




I have laughed or been so close to losing it in nearly every serious situation imaginable. Funerals - I am hopeless. I sometimes wear scarves so that I can bury the lower half of my face into the material and hope to Zeus that no one sees my shaking shoulders for what they truly are.

My boss yells at me every chance he can get. And I still cannot help but laugh. It drives me to tears even though I know that it sets him off even more. That makes it even funnier.

And let's not forget the time when, seated in a meeting, the mother of a fellow student got up, wobbled her way through the aisle to get to the bathroom and three quarters of the way down the line, tripped on my foot and landed straight in front of me, flat on her face. I tipped my head back and laughed so hard I nearly fell off my chair. Never mind giving the poor woman a hand up. I simply hadn't the self control to stop the laughing fit.



So, how much more of my laughter can society take, I wonder? I don't trust myself to enter religious buildings. There is pretty much a guarantee I will be chased out by enraged worshippers. And I dare not look into the mirrors in elevators, lest I see someone behind me do something or pull a face. Museums and exhibitions get me going as well - the audio component of a renaissance exhibition Judy and I recently visited had me in stitches, with all the stuffy art snobs around me glaring every time I sniggered just a little too loudly, and interrupted their art appreciation time. Apologies, but the new technique of mixing oil colours to create a more definitive palette resulting in the innocent glow of baby Jesus was just too much.

So, dear readers, Do you have the same problem? Is there no event solemn enough to stop your incessant giggling? Or do you have to put up with some fool whose mirth knows no bounds? Drop us a line and let us know what you think.

Jessenia xoxo

H is for Horseradish

The supermarket did something to me I didn't think possible. It rendered me speechless. And thoughtless, considering the only speech that had been going on was in my head at the time. I was completely baffled, and I'm not quite sure how to shake off the discombobulation. Let me back track a little, and hopefully my tale of confusion will seem a little more understandable.

I was innocently perusing the glorious aisles of my local liquor store, conveniently attached to the supermarket, mind you, when it crossed my mind that I was short of oranges. And limes if I planned on buying the bottle of tequila that I was staring down. And I really did plan on buying the tequila. So, before splurging on the world's greatest creation, I decided to exhibit some self control and purchase necessary supplies for a night I would struggle to remember, and made my way to the fresh produce section.

Perusing the green veggies and thinking to myself that Bok Choy and I would need to get better acquainted some day, I came across it. The evil, traitorous plant that brought about my dumbfoundedness. Oh, it was a tricky little thing. Horseradish. What do you do with it?  I asked myself. Is it for soups? Does one bake it with chives like a potato?  I had no clue.



I hadn't been so utterly clueless since my days as a firm believer in Santa and the Tooth Fairy.

It dawned on me that even though I once worked in a fruit shop, and I really do enjoy cooking, I to this day could not say how one might go about using horseradish. Or custard apples. Or Papaya - or is that Paw Paw? I'm not sure which, but I know one of them is supposedly nasty. In fact, there is a myriad of nature's creations that despite years of inclusion in cooking, escape my knowledge and leave me quivering in fear when I'm confronted with them.

I haven't the foggiest how to successfully use squash. And truthfully, I've never even thought of gracing my dinner plate with the likes of asparagus. They always looked a little too pointy for my liking. However I have decided it has got to end.



The embarassment I felt, whilst unbeknownst to others, was horrendous. I couldn't even begin to describe how I felt about being outdone by a glorified root. So I am pledging, dear readers, that I will stand firm in the face of fearsome veggies. I will widen my horizon and some day (I make no promises of when exactly), I will be the master of fresh produce. I will effortlessly sautee the most unusual of the exotic greens and I will steam to perfection every akward sounding plant related vegetable on the planet and I will not stop until there is nothing left to be mastered. I, Jessenia, shining beacon of light for my fellow Gen Y-ers, will do away with the horseradish that is the mysterious veggie. So to the unusual little suckers out there in the produce world, fear me. Because I am coming for you.

9 April 2012

G is for Girl Talk: Going to the Bathroom in Pairs

If you are my vintage you will remember that wonderful Dave Edmonds song - "Girl Talk". Released in 1979 and written by Elvis Costello, it was a homage to a guy trying to understand the ins and outs of girl talk.

Here's an extract from the lyrics:

There are some things you can't cover up
With lipstick and powder
Thought I heard you mention my name
Can't you talk any louder?

Don't come any closer
Don't come any nearer
My vision of you
Can't come any clearer
Oh I just want to hear girls talk

Got a loaded imagination
Bein' fired by girls talk
It's a more or less situation
Inspired by girls talk

I must confess I have never been a "bathroom in pairs" kind of girl. I have never understood the burning need to go to the bathroom in pairs and have a confab during a social engagement. However, I have experienced being summoned by a friend to do the bathroom thing.

As I age, I have come to appreciate more and more my girl talk discussions with my friends, which thankfully now occurs in places like coffee shops or around the dining room table. When you become older you tend to surround yourself more with people who lift you and who add meaning to your life. At younger ages, social success seems to be measured by quantity rather than quality and by status of said friends within the social circle. What a relief, when the popularity contest of life comes to an end.

But does the way we relate to each other as females change with passing of the years? I think it does. In your later teens and early twenties girl talk usually revolves around guys, rivals, fashion and entertainment. This is not unnatural, given the importance of these things at that time of life. Because of the rapid changes taking place at that time girl talk includes many more topics covered in less depth.

As life moves on, our way of relating moves to the less superficial and more about our place in the wider world and the place within our own families. It is more about the seeking of wisdom, and the seeking of trust and stability. Our lives get busier and the time we can devote to girl talk diminishes with parental duties and career taking up so much time. It therefore becomes more a matter of investing your girl talk time wisely with someone who turly understands you and plumbing greater depths in a shorter period of time.



Long live the fine art of girl talk. It's certainly cheaper than therapy!