So you think you can ski?

It's true. I thought I could ski.

Okay - I didn't start until I was in uni, but a season as a chalet girl in Italy ended with us being able to ski a gorge that we'd hiked for a couple of hours to reach. Yes, it was extremely scary, but also exhilarating. I've not done anything like that since but I did feel it had left me a 'capable' skier.

After that there were several skiing weekends with work and friends and when George and Jaz - and then Elle -  were little, we spent five days skiing with family friends at Mt Buller for seven consecutive years.

This last Christmas we skied in Japan. And now we're in Queensland, New Zealand.

Our first day was at Coronet Peak. Elle and I joined the guided tour after lunch with a few others and we all described ourselves as 'intermediate'. In truth, we were a bit better than one couple and probably on par with the others (guides excluded!). So weren't we surprised when our next ski day at Treble Cone proved we can't ski to save ourselves.

Having done a couple of warm up runs in the home bowl and  checked Sass into ski school, we moved over to the second bowl over the back and O...M...G. It didn't look that challenging from the chair lift so I skied straight over the front - cautiously followed by Elle and Geoff. It was an ungroomed Red run - so not even Black, the most difficult. (We've now come to realise that Black isn't a standard and when the snow is a bit crunchy and ungroomed it can be the difference between do-able and down-right dangerous!) It was so steep and the snow so unforgiving and I was so fearful of falling, I couldn't turn and actually had to sit down on my bottom and flip my skis back the other way. How embarrassing.....

Ignore my religious-looking head gear and check out the scenery - amazing!

We eventually managed to pick our way down to a point where we could get back onto a groomed piste only to be further humiliated by a kid who I swear was 5, shoot past us at the speed of light, his mum and siblings calmly swooshing after him. We looked like absolute amateurs.

But as the day wore on, something started to become clearer.... everyone we met on the chair lifts were locals. Okay - one guy was from Australia - but he was working there having done three seasons at Thredbo - so he might as well have been local. I shared a lift with an older guy who was complaining heli-skiing was ruined by people who can't ski. I thought he was boasting to his companion but it was also revealed he's a guide for the 'back country' - ie of the map.

At lunch, (a delicious NZ$18 pork belly with apple gravy, glazed carrots, peas and onion and garlic roasted baby potatoes no less!) we noticed all the families knew each other. We were clearly tourists.

We've since skied The Remarkable (rudely dubbed 'Unremarkable' by a Treble Cone local) and Cardrona so have our confidence back - just.

Locked In The Loo

I have a bit of a toilet thing going on, don't I? It's not deliberate I promise.

Being locked in the loo came up when we were out the other night. I've been locked in twice. Once back in the 80s (ie no mobile phone) I was living in London in a flat that was one of three in a converted house. It was a Friday afternoon and my flat mate was heading to the Isle of Wight after work for the weekend, due back Sunday around 10pm. So when the handle came off the door I was more than mildly panicked.

Our flat was upstairs and the bathroom was in the middle of this rock-solid brick building - not a window and only solid walls to bang and wail against.  I decided I could sleep in the bath, I had water and a loo of course, just as long as I didn't die of boredom, I would survive.

Two hours later, legs shaved, brows plucked and nails filed, I suddenly heard a loo flush downstairs. I yelled down the basin drain 'Heeeeelp!' and heard Deb from downstairs call that she had a spare key and would be up in a jiffy. Phew!!!

The second time wasn't nearly as dramatic. The exact opposite in fact. A freestanding structure within easy yelling distance from the open air reserurant Geoff and the kids were sitting at in Laos. The door, held secure with wire, became jammed. I simply popped my head through the two foot gap between the wall and the roof and politely called for someone to get me out. Naturally it was our guide who obliged - everyone else was too busy laughing.

But it did remind me of a client Christmas party. The ad agency I was working for at the time was famous for its parties and this was no exception. The venue was so fancy and the bathroom so dark you pretty much had to feel your way in.  (What is with that direct correlation between venue coolness and lack of lights in the bathroom??) Added to the degree of difficulty was wall to ceiling curved cubicle doors. Perhaps not the biggest challenge in day light and before 25 vodkas - but seemingly impossible at an ad agency bash.

This is the actual venue and the toilet doors are just like this...
although this isn't the bathroom, there's far too much light

I was chatting to a colleague on the in to said amenity (we were sober, as good hosts should be) when a guy hanging about stopped me.
'I've just had a call from my colleague,' he explained, waving his mobile. 'She's stuck in the loo - the middle one. She's been calling out but no one can hear her.'

I could hear sobbing, whimpering and relief when I called through the door. But I managed to coach her through it...
'Undo the lock... yes, turn it right... okay... stand back... I'm going to push the door.' It opened with ease. I have always suspected the curve got her (and the 28 vodkas) and she'd probably spent all that time trying to push the door open.... instead of pulling.

Out she spilled, all running mascara, snot and gratitude. You'd think I'd saved her from a burning train wreck! She said she loved me. At least ten times.

I have one more - a friend of a friend  - but I'll save that for next time!

So, have you been locked in a loo? Does everyone have a 'locked in the loo' story?

Who Gives A Crap?

I love this concept and have Facebooked about it - but here's some more info and a new chapter....

Basically, you have your toilet paper delivered to your door on a schedule that works for your household. It's inexpensive, recycled paper, wrapped in paper in a cardboard box and 50% of the profits go to building toilets and improving sanitation in developing nations. Okay - the paper isn't the most luxurious but the cause far outweights a bit of 'digital break-through'. (I spent some time in big ad agency land working on toilet paper and that's technical speak for when your finger pokes through the paper.... possibly collecting some poo...)

Anyway, how cute are the wrappers?

Do check them out - they're very funny! - and please order some. Here's their website. And just reminding you - although you hardly need it - no-one, and I mean NO-ONE pays me to promote products. (Let's not explore that too closely, I might be a bit sad....)

But, there is another part to this....

We got a delivery late last week and I asked Elle to put it away. Naturally she didn't. So when we got home from the footy on Saturday, with a friend and his 10 year old son, it was still just inside the front door.
Me - annoyed tone:  "Elle! I thought I asked you to put the toilet paper away??'
Elle - moany voice: 'I'll do it now...'
Friend's 10 year old, loudly: 'Who gives a crap!'
Friend - appalled: 'ETHAN! Don't you speak like that!
Us - all laughing - point at the toilet paper as Ethan gets a hasty apology from everyone.

So there you go kids - it also gives you a chance to use the word CRAP and not get into trouble!!

Sieze The Day

Such a cliche, but so true. And I'm now realising why this concept of mindfulness and being in the moment is so incredibly important.

It's a frightening realisation that you don't remember most of your life. In fact, far less than 1%. Some would suggest it's as little as .001%. Of course it varies from person to person - many of my university friends wish I didn't remember as much and I certainly wish Geoff would remember more... but it's somewhere in that ball park.

Think that can't possibly be true? Well, what did you have for lunch on Tuesday two weeks ago? Unless it was your birthday or some other differentiating day, chances are you'll have no idea. Those ordinary days just all blend in together. So you need to be mindful of today and now - because all too often it doesn't mean anything else.

And even with what we do remember, there's much speculation around it's accuracy. Is that actually what happened or is that just our version that has evolved over time? Who knows.

I guess in the current era, we all have more evidence  - the extraordinary amount of photos and video.
Here's an amazing pictorial on the rate of photos taken by the world, ever. We've taken half of the pics ever to exist in the last 4 years - and most of those are on mobile phones.

But it does concern me. That time is passing by and I'll remember nothing of this winter save a couple of lovely catch ups with family and friends. So that was my motivation to get up at 4am on Saturday to go skiing and to get Geoff to organise footy tickets for next weekend.

When George and Jaz were with us, these periods of stability and nothing-ness were treasured, but now they just make me restless. I find myself trying to remember details of my grandmother's house or a hotel in Egypt or the lodge I worked at in Scotland...

How about you? Are you accepting of this situation or like me, do you try and recall what you can while always knowing you can't remember what you've forgotten?

Roasted Cauliflower Salad

Not amazing photogenic but this salad is yum. Here's the drill:

• Break a whole cauliflower into smallish florets, dice any chunky stalk bits, drizzle generously with olive oil and roast at 180C, turning regularly as it browns pretty quickly once it starts (this is what makes it nutty and delicious). Allow to cool
• In a bowl, mix the cauliflower, a can of drained chick peas, a heap of dukkah, a few seeds and nuts if you like (I used sunflower, pepitas and almond slivers) and a handful of baby spinach
• Add a good sprinkle of sea salt (only if the dukkah is salt-free) and a generous drizzle of pomegranate molasses, a squeeze or two of lemon juice, toss and serve

We had it with slow roasted shoulder of lamb, fresh pomegranate and flat leaf parsley, crispy roast potatoes and a rocket and edible flower salad (below), but it actually makes a great meal on its own. 

While the oven's on (gosh I sound like my mother!) peel and core some pears and put in a roasting dish. In a Pyrex jug, mix some brown sugar, break in some cinnamon sticks, add some vanilla extract (the kind with seeds in it), hot water and a knob of butter - microwave for a bit and then pour over the pears and roast while you're doing the cauliflower (although depending on how green the pears are, they might take quite a lot longer..).

I served them warm with salty caramel sauce that I confess I bought at the supermarket, cacao nib crumbs that I had made a couple of weeks ago and frozen, caramel and macadamia ice cream and cream. 

What matters?

We were recently fortunate enough to work on a brand strategy that landed us in a space of 'what matters'. It recognised that we often get so caught up in the everyday 'doing', of being busy, that we don't know if it is achieving the things that actually matter. The brand encourages people to take a moment to reflect on what does matter to them and just check that it is where your energy is directed.

For me, knowing that I have been fortunate in life means giving back matters.

I'm currently part of a small group, The MJs, (please do LIKE us on Facebook) who undertake various grassroots events to support different causes. Our key aims are to have minimal expenses so the maximum amount of funds raised end up with the cause, to try and get people closer to the cause (perhaps through a personal connection, the type of event or an activity) and to put the FUN back into FUNdraising.

Our current project has been providing physical help to an amazing organisation called Avalon, which collects, sorts and distributes clothes and bedding for the homeless. It has some other very worthy activities as well - check them out at avaloncentre.org.au 

Before we started mobilising the small army of helpers, Elle and I went out with Avalon on their Sunday night run, following the St Vinnie's food trucks and helping pack and unpack the vans at the various city locations.

At one stop, the well-signed bus was rushed by an exuberant woman who clearly had business on her mind. She'd spoken to the key organiser and had rendezvoused here, as planned, to make her donations. We climbed out of the van as she handed over a couple of black plastic garbage bags - one at a time with explanation:
'Now this bag has sheets and doona covers and pillow cases..'
The second bag came our way.
'...and this one has everything matching - the doona cover and pillow cases and the thing ... the frilly thing for the mattress...'
'The valance?' I offered.
'That's it!' she exclaimed, clearly relieved someone was speaking her language.
'It's got the doona cover, pillow cases AND valance - all matching - and I would REALLY like them to stay together.'

I managed not to laugh out loud. Was she insane? What homeless person is going to be concerned about having a matching valance? In fact, what person anywhere is lying awake because they don't have a matching valance? And what does a person sleeping rough even do with a valance? So many questions....

But, as she pranced back to her black BMW,  high on the goodness of her charitable deed, I realised... a matching valance mattered to her. And that is absolutely her prerogative.

The Fishing Trip

Before you read this, know that I have permission to tell this story.

So a couple of years ago we were staying with my parents over the Christmas break. Geoff and my oldest brother Will had taken George and Sass up to the harbour to fish and Elle and I were meeting them up there. (Mum had kindly tipped a good amount of tonic water out of the 300ml bottle and topped it up with Hendrick's gin for me to take. As it turned out, I needed that drink!!)

On the drive to the harbour Elle was saying she had managed to get a tampon in but that it was really uncomfortable. Now as it happens, I've spent her entire lifetime working with a brand of feminine protection, so these conversations are well within our comfort zone. I simply explained it probably wasn't in far enough and she needed to push it up further.

Once we arrived, Elle had a go at 'adjusting' but was still whinging so I sent her back to the loo with the instruction to just take the tampon out. Minutes later she was back, white, sweating and threatening to pass out. 'I can't get it out...' she's almost crying. Good grief. 'Okay,' I say, reminding myself I've dealt with far worse crises. 'I'll come with you as you'll just be pulling the string at the wrong angle.'
'Everything okay?' asked my brother Will, cheerily.
'All good!' I replied, matching his cheeriness.

I took Elle back to the corrugated oval structure that is the public toilet - with enough room to hold a small party! She plonked back on the loo, in serious danger of fainting. I tried to coach her through it, even sliding down into a sitting position with my back against the wall next to her to demonstrate the angle (with pants up!!) but she was now so distressed nothing was budging.

Next minute there was a crunching of gravel and a knock on the corrugated iron door - it's Uncle Will. 'Everything alright?' he called out - although it wasn't necessary for him to raise his voice as the structure provided no sound proofing what so ever. Elle was almost hyperventilating. I opened the door a crack and whispered 'All fine - secret women's business....' with a very earnest and hopefully imploring look.
'Oh,' he said, bewildered and wondered off. And I still wasn't  certain that he wouldn't be coming back.

All demonstration and coaching options had now been expended so there was nothing for it - I was going to have to fish that sucker out myself.

In a moment of clarity, I realised my best approach was to turn my back to Elle rather than head in head first. I reached down and got her to pass me the string and within a nanosecond, the offending tampon was out and she was breathing again.

Back at the wharf the fish-fishing was proceeding in a relaxed manner as I grabbed my tonic bottle and glugged it down fast, wondering where in the manual of being a mother it mentioned the removal of recalcitrant tampons??!