WHITNEY

All my life I’ve wanted to be a singer. Or, more simply, just able to sing. As a gangly ten year old, I was convinced I was destined for stardom as the fifth member of Abba.  I mean, my hair was naturally blonde. Surely that was enough.

My girlfriends and I would choreograph these complicated dance routines, physically miming “digging” as we were “diggin’ the dancing queen”. Shovel, shovel, and throw it over your shoulder. Repeat twice. Seriously.

We were lip-syncing heroines long before Milli even met Vanilli.

Money Money Money was all about pretending to count out wads of cash. We skipped Knowing Me Knowing You, because after all, we were ten years old and didn’t know a thing about heartbreak (which is what I eventually went on to discover the song was all about). We did our best work with “When I Kissed The Teacher”. Oooh, the naughtiness of it all. Kissing a teacher – eeewwwwwwww. That dance was an easy one to put together. Kissy kissy sir?

When school finished, the singing didn’t. It just got augmented with the likes of John Farnham (You’re The Voice), Tina Turner (Simply The Best), David Bowie (especially when he was Under Pressure) and Kylie (should I be so lucky?) And of course the soundtracks to Grease, Fame, Flashdance etc.

Moody Blues, Dire Straits, Van Morrison – I would slot the tapes in, grab a hairbrush or a spray deodorant can, and I was away.

And even though I loved her on sight, I could never even try to emulate Whitney. Not just because she had legs that went up to sky. Not just because she had the most luminous skin and radiant eyes. Not just because she looked good in a lavender dress. I mean, who the hell looks good in lavender?

It was that voice. That power. That strength, fearless and true. No matter how much I tried to hit those notes and unveil that depth, I failed abjectly every time.

Because there was only one Whitney.

And as time went on, and as I started singing along with Anastascia, Powderfinger and Celine, I grew apart from Whitney. The hard drugs, the bad marriage, and the poor behaviour made me sad. Such a great voice, such a mighty talent, such a shocking waste.

She had almost disappeared entirely from my radar when one of my closest friends turned up one day clutching two concert tickets and the last vestiges of air in his lungs.

The concert tickets were for Whitney and his rapt joy at securing seats left little room for regular things like breathing.

“Yes darling, of course I’ll come with you,” making a mental note to upgrade my Sudoku app on my iPhone because I was convinced I would need an entertainment mode at the concert separate to Whitney.

And I am glad I did. Because sadly, for the most part, her Brisbane concert did not leave me in mute awe at her brilliance. Moreso bewildered embarrassment for her shoddy performance.

But eventually, finally, Whitney wound her way to her signature song, “I Will Always Love You”. Despite all negativity, that song and the way Whitney sings it, is peerless. Always will be. The mere thought of someone, even Dolly, doing a cover makes me uneasy.

But I knew Whitney’s form was not good. So I just crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.

When it got to the part where she launches into that thunderous chorus (yes yes you know the bit I mean) there was an extended pause on Whitney’s part. Unhealthy in its length. She drank some water, freshened her lipgloss, sprayed something around her neck.

And the jittery audience waited. And waited. The boredom was deafening.

Finally, Whitney moved back to centre stage, clicked her fingers, the lights blazed and she started to sing.

And sing she did. Hitting that note like the pro we knew she was. Watch it here.

Even crotchety folk like me, who were making mutterings about refunds and time-wasting, sat up and listened. With respect, admiration and disbelief.

I was spell bound.

And now she’s gone. We’re about the same age, with daughters about the same age too. I shudder to think of leaving my daughter in a world without me just yet. I believe Whitney would feel the same. We can’t judge someone else’s life until we have lived it so we can’t make off-hand comments about “she had it coming” or “that’s no bloody surprise” because we don’t really know what went on.

So Whitney, let me say this to you. Thank You For The Music.

TODAY SHE LEAVES

I think it was when she was in Year 6. I know it was just after 7.30pm. The reason I know that is because Seinfeld has just finished and this was back in the halcyon days when new episodes of Jerry and the gang started at 7pm weeknights.

We always watched Seinfeld.

My daughter and I got up from the couch. Me to head to the kitchen to stack the dishwasher, and Jade, I presumed, to clean her teeth and get ready for bed.

Instead she followed me into the kitchen, fiddled with a tea towel, rubbed her nose and asked me if I had any pictures of penguins lying around.

“Not off-hand, no darling,” I said, actually pausing for a moment to consider if I did. “But you could look through the Woman’s Day magazine I’ve got over there, or we could look on the internet?” (Dial up internet, of course, perhaps using Netscape as a browser. Ah, those were the days.)

It took a few minutes for the penny to drop, but I finally turned to her and asked the obvious question. “Jade darling, why do you need a picture of a penguin?”

Well, it turns out that she has a school project due the next morning, which has to be all about Antarctica - the explorers, the history, and of course, the penguins.

After the usual round of “I can’t believe you left it this late” and “When I talk with you every afternoon about your homework, did you not think to mention this, like, six weeks ago?” I realised had two choices.

Either my daughter could confront the wrath of her teacher (who, as an aside, I didn’t particularly like anyway) or I could do the bloody project for her.

I ended up having a very late night that night. The teacher who I didn’t particularly like gave me a B+ for my effort.

Fast forward to Year 12. I’ve dropped my daughter and her girlfriend at a party. I knew there would be boys there. I knew there would be alcohol there. I had checked with the supervising parents and I was happy that all was in order.

The call came in around 10.45pm. Earlier than I had expected. “Mum, can you please come and pick us up? We don’t feel very well.”

 About halfway home, with the girls in the back seat, they ask me if I can stop. They needed to be sick. During a break in the chundering process, I asked my daughter, “What were you girls drinking?”

Midori, was her blithe answer.

I hid my shudder at the thought of that sickly sweet syrup that reminded me waaaaay too much of Peach Cooler.

“Darling what were you mixing it with?”

She stares at my blankly. “You’re supposed to mix it?”

I’ve hung out kilometres of nappies and folded them with care. I’ve hidden bikes and trampolines outdoors and tied tinsel to her wrist, so when she woke on Christmas morning, I could watch her joy as she followed the trail to her new present. I’ve interviewed teachers and child care workers and potential boyfriends.

I’ve made lunches so yummy that she’d never want to swap them. I’ve spent rainy weekends watching The Lion King, The Aristocats, and Aladdin repeatedly. I’ve hidden behind a pole at Woolies at Indooroopilly and watched her operate a cash register when she got a part time job.

I’ve driven hundreds of kilometres with gibbering teenager girls clipped into every seat belt, who said “Oh my God” so many times I began to think the good Lord was in our midst. Sometimes I even crossed myself just to be on the safe side.

I’ve fancy-dressed her as a fairy, a princess and Joan Jett. I’ve pulled nits from her hair, painted her toe nails and wept loudly when she went overseas for the first time.

I’ve spent 20 years kissing her, 20 years holding her, and 20 years listening to her hopes, dream and fears.

And today, I kiss her for the last time in many months. She’s off on the adventure of her life, heading as many Aussies do, to the UK for a few years. London won’t know itself when Miss Jade arrives.

Lucky London.

There's no more time for advice, for cautioning, for leading by example. Whatever I've taught her, shown her, given her, this is it. It's up to her now. And I've never been prouder. 

The temperature will be minus one when she arrives. All I keep thinking is “I hope her coat is warm enough”.

Mothering never ends, does it...  

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN BOOBS

Women With Big Breasts…

- can get a taxi on the worst days

- have a neat place to carry spare change

- have always been the centre of the arts

- can keep a magazine dry while laying in the tub

- usually can find leftover popcorn after a movie

- always float better

- know where to look first for lost earrings

- rarely lack for a slow dance partner

- have a place to set their glasses when sitting in an armless recliner

Women With Small Breasts…

- don’t cause a traffic accident every time they bend over in public

- always look younger

- find that dribbled food makes it to the napkin on their lap

- can always see their toes and shoes

- can sleep on their stomachs

 -have no trouble sliding behind the wheel of small cars

 -know that people can read the entire message on their t-shirts

- can come late to a theatre and not disrupt an entire aisle

- can take an aerobic class without running the risk of knocking themselves out

YOU KNOW YOU'VE GROWN UP WHEN...

1. Your houseplants are alive, and you can't smoke any of them.

2. Having sex in a twin bed is out of the question.

3. You keep more food than beer in the fridge.

4. 6:00 am is when you get up, not when you go to bed.

5. You hear your favorite song in an elevator.

6. You watch the weather channel.

7. Your friends marry and divorce instead of "hook up" and "break up."

8. You go from 130 days of holidays to 14.

9. Cargo pants and a singlet no longer qualify as "dressed up."

10. You're the one calling the police because those bloody kids next door won't turn down the stereo.

11. Your uncle feels comfortable telling sex jokes around you.

12. You don't know what time your local McDonald's closes.

13. Your car insurance goes down and your car payments go up.

14. You feed your dog Hills Science Diet.

15. Sleeping on the couch makes your back hurt.

16. You take naps.

17. Dinner and a movie is the whole date instead of the beginning of one.

18. Eating a bucket of KFC at 3am would severely upset, rather than settle, your stomach.

19. You go to the chemist for Panadol and Metamucil, not condoms and pregnancy tests.

20.A $5.00 bottle of wine is no longer "pretty good stuff".

21. You actually eat breakfast food at breakfast time.

22. "I just can't drink the way I used to" replaces "I'm never going to drink that much again."

23. 90% of the time you spend in front of a computer is for real work.

24. You prefer to drink with friends at home rather than hang out at a bar.

25. When you find out your friend is pregnant you congratulate them instead of asking "Oh no, what the hell happened?"

MONDAY 31 DECEMBER 2012

Well we didn’t all die. We didn’t blow up. The world didn’t end. Like some fools had us believe. All that needless panic. Which is a pity because I know for a fact that, based on the world’s demise, some people whose names I won’t mention made significant dents in their credit cards at Queens Plaza and Palazzo Versace thinking they’d never have to pay it off.

Fools. I only made a modest purchase at Chanel. And those sunglasses will never go out of fashion. So it was an investment really. $400 times 10 years of wear works out at a paltry $40 per year. Not even a dollar a week. Sensible.

And I didn’t renew my gym membership. I need the money for my sunglasses.

It’s kinda weird having New Year’s Eve on a Monday night. Monday nights are usually terrible things. You’re tired because it’s the first work day of the week, and the fun of the weekend is still lingering. You’re out of food, because you ate it all at the weekend and haven’t had the energy to shop for more. There’s crap on television, there’s all the washing from the weekend to fold, and you realise there’s another four long days before you get another respite.

Terrible things, Monday nights.

Except for tonight. It’s party night. I’ve got my champers at hand as I blog, and my mind is cast back to the year that was 2012.

It was my first full calendar year of being married. And weren’t there some surprise weddings this year! I didn’t even know Ashton Kutcher was friendly with Dawn French, let alone getting engaged to her. But then, I guess after the whole Demi thing, he seriously has a thing for older women.

And Shane and Liz, oh dearie me. They broke Kim Kardashian’s 72-day record by 43 days. Helen Keller could have seen that one coming. Outright winners. The only white Liz should have worn this year was her self-styled bikini.

And Elle Macpherson finally took George Clooney’s bachelor status away. Well, I guess it makes sense that the two most beautiful people in the world would want to keep all those lovely genes in the family. Is Elle too old to have another kid? It would look cuter than Shiloh Jolie-Pitt.

Speaking of those Jolie-Pitt’s, I knew Brad would eventually marry Angelina. I was just a tad surprised when he took her name. Brad Jolie just doesn’t conjure up the same image. Ange sure does wear the pants, obviously to protect her testicles. But who am I to comment on what goes on behind chapel doors.

I must say I was a bit shocked to read that Britney is taking dance lessons from Justin Beiber. I thought he was her son. Although I did read that she refuses to cut her hair into that ridiculous style. A small mercy. A big mercy is that Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton are both incarcerated with parole not due until 2018. I’m loving the Los Angeles judge who made that call. Don’t drink drive next time you pair of nits.

I think 2012 was the year for weight loss. Apparently Victoria Beckham turned sideways and completely disappeared from view. Jennifer Hudson now weighs 17kgs but Katie Holmes got back up to 25. Nicole Kidman is somewhere in the middle, which is disturbing because she’s like 100 feet tall.

It's a good thing Catherine Middleton had twin girls this year, otherwise she could have ended up Victoria-esque as well. Man, she was so thin she was heading that way. But carrying around two 9-pounders certainly beefed our future Queen up a bit. I really like their names, Charlene and Charmaine. Apparently it’s part of Kate and Will's attempt to be regular people. The last time I heard the name Charlene was when Kylie Minogue was on neighbours but I’m in no position to judge.

Now let’s hope that William’s tilt to change that throne succession law is successful. I look forward to being ruled by Queen Charlene. Got a nice ring to it.

Weren’t the Olympics sensational! Did you manage to get over to London to see them? My daughter is working in London so it was a good excuse for Alan and me to pop over. If you can call 30 hours travel time a “pop”. Thorpie showed those nay-sayers by smashing his own record for 200 metres. And it was great to see Lisa Curry in the pool again too, hot on the heels of her success in Celebrity Apprentice. I’ve always liked Lisa.

Thank goodness Lleyton won bloody Wimbledon. Now we can all get some sleep. That’s just way too long between drinks. No more listening to him badgering and whinging and making up excuses. You did it son, it was great, now leave it be while you’re at the top.

And on the local front, here in Australia, how do you find our new prime minister, Ms Jessica Rudd? I think she’s a natural. She’s got her father’s political nous, her mother’s business sense, and her hair always looks fabulous. Such a nice change from all that red we had smothering our television screens.

And with Mark Bouris as treasurer, we’re in good hands Australia.

Here’s cheers to 2013.

@#!*% GIRLS SAY

Perez Hilton has nailed it. Have a watch of this and tell me if you've ever said any of these...

........What's my password????

Enjoy!! x

I’M SPINNING AROUND, MOVE OUTTA MY WAY

Each month a sum of cash finds its way from my bank account to my local gym’s bank account. The is an arrangement that has been going on for some years now and both of us abjectly lack any valid desire to change this set up. Even though most times, my money sees more of my gym than I do.

The reason I never change this arrangement is due to one word. Summer. Ok, make that two words. Summer and bikinis.

Which is how I found myself back in the gym around mid October. When I walk in the door for the first time, I noticed the staff had changed from last year. The last lot probably finished uni and got real jobs as public servants or stand up comedians.

They greet me with enforced joviality and care. Really they’re thinking, oh crikey here comes another one that we need to forklift onto the treadmill.

“Good morning,” they beam, all fake white teeth and spray on tans. “Is this your first visit?”

“No,” I dourly reply, “but the last time I came, you were still being breastfed.”

I am fortunate in that my gym has a pool. A decent one at that – 25 metres long and eight lanes wide. Think Olympic and halve it. Twice a week, I join the aqua aerobics class. I love this class. At 46, I’m the youngest. They think I’m their adopted grandchild. Last week they brought me bags of lollies and told me to make them last till the end of the week. The week before, one of them gave me a dollar and told me to put it towards something I was saving up for.

Get the picture?

I like aqua aerobics. You can work really really hard if that’s your mood. Or you can just splash about a bit and have a giggle with Dot and Pam, the two oldies who hang around the end of the pool pretending to work out but in reality hoping to pick up. Seriously, Dot has her eye on Alf, but Alf, as can be typical of men at times, has no idea she’s interested. Who needs Bold And The Beautiful?

After a week or two in the pool, I realised I needed to add diversity to my exercise program if I was going to make it into this year’s Bikini Olympics. Mmmm, I thought, what other group exercise can I do?

Definitely not Body Attack or Body Combat. No way. Not only is there all that unsightly jumping and running (I’ve got boobs, for goodness sake) but if you miss a step, the rest of the class trips, you feel like a bozo, and everyone immediately knows you’re both unfit and unco.

Which is how I ended up in a class called Spin. It has nothing to do with darning. Which is good. This one time I tried to sew up a hem, but ended up sewing my finger to it, so I now get qualified people to do my mending.

In a Spin class you hoist yourself onto this new age stationary bicycle and pretty much move the pedals around and around for 45 minutes. Wherein you get off, fall over, and crawl on your belly to your car.

Spin has two very endearing features. First of all, you do it in the dark. Or as close to dark as possible. You wouldn’t even have sex in this sort of light. I think they make it dark so that we keep our senses alert. Which staves off the boredom of pedalling around and around for 45 minutes.

It also means that if you slacken off a bit, no one can see. Not even the instructor.

The second endearing feature is the little knob in the centre of the bike that increases tension thereby making your workout harder.

You turn this little knob to the right and suddenly it’s like you’re riding your bike up Mount Everest after a heavy snowfall. Turn it to the left, and it’s like you’re riding your bike along Santa Monica Pier with George Clooney catching your tail wind.

And much as I try to keep that knob turned to the right, it all gets a bit much for me, and I have to knock off Everest and go back to Clooney.

And because it’s dark, nobody knows. Yesterday, while pedalling away, and trying to shift my mind away from the glaring monotony of pedal, pedal, pedal by thinking of interesting things, such as the players in the 1975 Australian cricket team, I had a thought.

What a relief that all our knobs don’t carry sensors, with massive reporting boards on the balls of the room. Imagine every time you knocked it back a few degrees, a bulb would flash or a siren would go off. The instructor would position her headset and shout, “Bron, gear it up, no slacking off” and I, of course, would immediately arrange to change my name. And my gym.

Tomorrow is Body Pump. I hear that has nothing to do with sex. Apparently it’s about weights. Heave-ho then...

MARKETING EXPLAINED

People constantly ask me what I do, how do I earn my money. At heart, I'm a writer, but often that doesn't get the dollars in.

So I do marketing, communications and training for companies big and small. I help them get their message "out there" using a variety of platforms.

Which is why I loved this list below. It explains marketing in relative terms. It is both true, and quite funny. Read on...

Marketing explained:

1. You see a gorgeous girl at a party. You go up to her and say, "I am very rich, marry me." That’s direct marketing.

2. You go to a party, and your friend walks up to a girl while pointing at you, and tells the girl, "He is very rich, marry him." That’s advertising.

3. A girl walks up to you and says, "You are very rich, will you marry me?" That's brand recognition.

4. You say to a girl, "I am very rich, marry me," and she slaps you. That's customer feedback.

5. You say to a girl, "I am very rich, marry me," and she introduces you to her husband. That's demand and supply gap.

6. Before you get a chance to say to the girl, "I am very rich, marry me," your wife arrives. That's restriction from entering a new market.

Got it?

QUEENSLAND ON A PLATE

My lovelies, this is the recipe for the yummy prawn, mango and avocado salad I made last weekend. I pretty much made it up in my head, mixing together a few similar recipes and using  a dressing from FashionFoodFatale's Jane Walsh. Unfortunately, I don’t really have quantities for the dressing,  but you know what you like and just keep tasting it until it suits you.

The Salad:

Prawns (I used 1.5kg medium/large)
Mango x 3 cut into bite sized cubes
Avocado x 2 cut into bite sized cubes
Rocket (or green leaf salad mix) heaps
Lebanese cucumber sliced thinly
Red onion sliced thinly
Red chilli x 1 (seeds optional)
Fresh Coriander - heaps
Fresh Mint  - heaps
Rice stick noodles – half a packet

The Dressing:

Coconut milk or lite coconut milk (half a can)
Little bit of green curry paste
Kaffir lime leaves chopped really finely (6-7)
Lime juice (half a lime)
Lime zest (half a lime)
Red chilli (remove seeds if you wish)
Brown sugar (tablespoon or so) or you can use palm sugar
Fish sauce (a good shake)

The Method: 

Put the noodles in a bowl of boiling water, leave for five minutes, then rinse under cold water, set aside in colander to drain.

Dressing: Combine all dressing ingredients in a jar (remember to keep tasting), shake well, put in the fridge for a few hours, shaking it every 30 minutes. When getting ready to serve, strain it, and serve in a jug on the side.

Salad: Get a massive platter (this looks fabulous on a platter, instead of a bowl). Starting with the green leaves, add all ingredients (including the noodles and the herbs) in a layer. Do this twice. Then give it a bit of a mix up using some tongs. Serve with dressing on the side, and let guests add their own dressing.

Will keep for a day or two in the fridge, so will the dressing.

PS: the other thing I served was dates – I made a slice in a fresh date, pulled out the seed, popped in a piece of Danish feta, wrapped the date in really thinly sliced prosciutto and grilled it for about 5 minutes on a medium heat. Superb!! 

I hope you enjoy!
Love Bron xo

SILVER ANNIVERSARY IS PURE GOLD

The thing I like about old rockers is that their music can speak for itself. All they really need to do is switch on the microphone, make sure the speakers are positioned, nod to the lead guitarist or the drummer, and they’re away.

If you’re lucky, they may pop on a clean shirt, or perhaps brush their hair. But that’s not mandatory. Because all you want is the music. It’s all they want too.

And that’s what John Farnham is like. An old rocker, who understands what his audience wants from him, and he delivers. Consistently.

I’ve seen Pink, Kylie, and some other recent teenage sensations live on stage. These lovelies are all about the extravaganza. I guess that’s why you pay the big bucks. To be wowed by set design, costume changes, pyrotechnics and acrobatics. Granted, Pink is a great singer. But the trapeze act leaves me a little startled. Whitney Houston was a farce. Celine wanted a lot of money for very little ROI.

Yet last night, at Brisbane’s Lyric Theatre, my old mate John, brought home the goods and then some.

Most marriages don’t last as long as my one-sided love affair with John Farnham. It all started around the time he did his version of “Help” where his bluesy-funky-ballad style became his first anthem. He jived a bit with Little River Band (mind you, I always preferred Glenn Shorrock but don’t tell John that). Then, in 1986, with bagpipes blasting, he instructed us to “make a noise and make it clear” because after all, we were The Voice.

And he was The Man.

Together we took the Pressure Down, whilst giving each other Reasons, all brushed with a Touch of Paradise. Our Two Strong Hearts started a Chain Reaction and became the Talk Of The Town.

(Only serious Farnham-ites will get that last paragraph.)

My fervently patient first husband lumbered along to the Brisbane Entertainment Centre with me as much as he could. When John Farnham played the lead role in the extended run of the stage musical Jesus Christ Superstar, he drew the line to spending every Friday night watching a mock crucifixion.

I was ok with that because it meant I didn’t have to find anyone to babysit our one-year-old daughter. And I could throw roses on the stage without fear of humiliation.

During the early days of my first relationship post-marriage, I realised quite quickly that I needed to initiate my new lover to the traditions of my long-term lover.

“Darling, I am afraid I can’t be monogamous,” is usually not an ideal fashion in which to begin a new relationship. Granted, my new boyfriend came along with me a few times to meet John, and was quite content to witness my screaming, panting carry-on that occurs every time I see him perform. So I don’t think the ménage trois  was the reason we didn’t work out.

My next boyfriend just said no, flat out. No way, no hell, no nothing was he even going to come close to the mullet, even though I had assured him the mullet had been left behind in the 90s. He was a little uncomfortable about my passion for John. One time, during a heated moment, he actually said, “Oh for goodness sake, why don’t you just go and shack up with John Farnham, you seem to think he’s the ideal man.”

Little did he know how much I would have liked that…

Now, I’ve been John perform at Expo 88. I saw him on the green at Sirromet Winery. (That was a bit of a funny night because I think John was a bit pissed before he went on stage. Wineries have that affect). I saw him do The Main Event with our girl Olivia and Anthony Warlow. I saw him at Royal Pines Golf Course on the Gold Coast. I saw him at the Sydney Olympics.

I saw him at “The Last Time” concert. Then I saw him at his “Last Last Time Concert” and at his “OK Folks, Sorry For Misleading You, Here’s Another Concert” concert.

That’s why it came as no surprise to hear he was doing another round of the capital cities of Australia to celebrate 25 years since the release of his comeback album Whispering Jack. It’s still the highest selling album in Australia. Of course it is, it’s brilliant.

Alan, my superb husband of eight weeks and one day, mercifully embraced the idea of coming with me to see John. Mind you, I figured a bit of marital duty might have been going on but certainly no hint of jealousy. He looked impressed when John did his usual stunt of throwing the microphone stand high into the air and catching it on its earthbound return. So 1970s, I love it!

He smiled when I left my seat beside him to stand patiently in line by the side of the stage to shake John’s hand – one of John Farnham’s gifts is his availability to his audience. You want to come for a kiss and a photo, then you are welcome. Film the whole bloody concert on your smartphone if you want! Load it up to YouTube, or share it on Facebook, he couldn’t care less.

That’s a true star in my books.

When the audience roared to its collective feet when the encore version of “You’re The Voice” began with its signature introduction complete with bagpipes, Alan was right beside me clapping away. And he was first at the merchandising stand at the end of the show, demanding to know if John had issued any items in pink.

Thanks John Farnham, I had an amazing night, I hope to see you again next year.

WHO'S THE SELFISH ONE DR WALTERS?

So not only do we have to suffer the indignity of having a gallon of blood gush out from between our legs every month. Any woman who has suffered the horror of standing in a grocery queue or sitting in a meeting and felt that insidiously familiar feeling of a tampon overflowing will know what I mean.

Not only do we feel compelled to strip hair from places on our bodies that for centuries enjoyed relative anonymity. Any woman who has felt the hot wax ripping the hair from her groin will know what I mean.

Not only do we implode with guilt when we a) don’t spend enough time with our children b) don’t spend enough time at the gym c) don’t prepare enough home-cooked meals. Any woman who has a home-delivery company on speed dial will know what I mean.

Not only do we watch our bodies expand to indescribable proportions whilst housing a growing human being. Any woman who has wondered if her vagina will ever go back to normal after giving birth will know what I mean.

Not only are we nurses, chefs, psychologists, prostitutes, teachers, chauffers, cleaners, decorators, landscapers, ironers and project managers. Any woman who does all these tasks yet still gets called “just a mum” will know what I mean.

So – not only do we have all this on our plate, we now have to cope with being called selfish because we aren’t having our babies until our late 30s.

Or so says Dr Barry Walters, an obstetrician from Perth's King Edward Memorial Hospital.

He says that the number of older expectant mothers coming into the hospital had become an epidemic and this led to far more pregnant women and babies with medical problems.

Fair enough, it is common knowledge that the older the mum is, the higher the risk.

But interestingly it isn’t a risk to be an older dad.

As I see it, there are men out there who glide through their 20s and 30s, meeting women but avoiding commitment (and therefore fatherhood). They hit 40, and have an epiphany that they’re suddenly ready to “settle down” and either seek out a life partner or agree to have children with their long-suffering mate.

Which means, all ages being equal, women are having babies well into their 30s. Because they sat around for so long waiting for the right man to show up, or for the man right now to commit.

A close girlfriend of mine waited 12 years for her boyfriend to marry her. That means baby number one was born just after she turned 40. Baby number two arrived at 43.

Sure, I hear you all, and I heard myself say it as well. “Leave the bastard. If he won’t commit, then leave him and find yourself someone who will.”

Easier said than done, as many women reading this will know.

I was lucky. I fell in love and was married at 20, and was a mum at 25. But it was some years later that my girlfriends and peers started having their kids. Now that I’m mid-40s, I have girlfriends who are taking their little ones to prep. They’ve got years to go.

And that’s not for being choosy or picky. That’s not for being career-obsessed. That’s not for wanting material items over family bliss.

It was simply because they didn’t have a man in their life at the time that wanted to make a family with them.

So, Dr Walters, you certainly have some valid points to raise on the potential difficulties older mums face. But don’t put a blanket label of “selfish” on them. Understand the context of their situation first.

And maybe give a few lectures to commitment-phobic men.

What would the world be like if a man’s sperm ceased to be viable after the age of 40? Think about that…

COLD CREAM PLAY

So I’m in some nondescript discount warehouse chemist place, in some nondescript suburb on the north of Brisbane. It’s Thursday night about 8pm, and winter as we know it in Brisbane is nearly over.

The reason I knew winter was nearly over was because when my darling husband, who is prone to a spot of Thursday night shopping, suggested that after dinner we should “pop” out to get a “few things”, I changed out of my slippers and into some ballet flats. You see, usually the cold months would see me leave my slippers on; hang the concerned sympathies and random unsolicited offers of dementia medication.

The first place we popped to was Officeworks. I’d mentioned in passing that my wireless mouse was coming close to retirement age, and my ever vigilant husband had stored this information for future action. We selected a fabulous new wireless keyboard/mouse arrangement, and, me being a girl and all, hankered after some pink glittery notebook and matching gel pen set.

Utterly useless and highly inappropriate at any form of business meeting, unless I was going for an interview to host Romper Room. Which I wasn’t.

I managed to fob off a “five seconds, that’s all” visit to Bunnings. But Alan mentioned he had a script that he wanted to fill and asked if we could just “nip” into the chemist warehouse place that was “on the way home, won’t take us out of our way darling”.

So while Alan is at the prescriptions counter, I’m doing what all women the world over do when they are in a chemist shop. They look at weight loss supplements. Then they try on lipsticks on the back of their hands. Then they spray every perfume available for testing.

Having done all these, I aimlessly started wandering the aisles. These discount chemist places are like Bunnings for sick people. Row after row of vitamins, cosmetics, potions and lotions. All claiming to heal the soul, turn back the clock and make you scoff at those funeral plan advertisements they insist on showing on Kerri-Anne every morning.

And guess what I found. Jars of Pond’s Cold Cream. I may be having a Back To The Future moment, but call me McFly by any other name. I hadn’t seen this stuff for years.

Hello old friend, I’ve missed you.

My grandmother swore by this stuff. She’d have a dressing table lined with china jars of Pond’s Cold Cream. I would watch her tie her long hair back in a scarf, rub this gunk into her face, wipe it off with a tissue, then rub more in – and leave the bloody stuff on all night.

Of course, back then I was too young to realise that the more Pond’s Cold Cream she used on her face overnight, the less likely it was that grandpa would tap her on the shoulder. But when you’re seven, you don’t think like that.

I hadn’t seen Pond’s Cold Cream on the shelves for years. Decades, really. I’d flirted with it a bit as a teenager, but far too quickly was suckered into advertising muck and genuinely began to believe that only million dollar Estee Lauder products would save my youthful complexion.

If only I’d thought at the time that stopping smoking and drinking plenty of water would have the same effect.

Oh dear...

So by the time I was saddled with a child and a mortgage, and seeking refuge in simpler (ie cheaper) beauty products, my good friend Pond’s was MIA.

And had been for at least 20 years. Apart from that claim I read that our very own pop princess Kylie swore by it, it had been missing from my life.

Until last Thursday.

I had 30 jars of it in my hands but Alan, ever the wise and prudent one of this marriage, suggested that perhaps I limit my excitement to two jars and test them out to make sure I’m still happy with the quality of the product, before we buy shares in the Pond’s Institute.  

Well, I’m pleased to report that it is still the same. Smells the same, feels the same, works the same. I rubbed it all over my face. In seconds it took off mascara that previously needed a neutron bomb to do the same job. You should see the horror residue on the tissues when I wipe it off. Shudder. And to think that stuff was ON MY FACE!

Oh Pond’s welcome home.

Alan, can we ring the stockbroker tomorrow?

THE SKINNY ON BRIDES

Of course the obvious person to blame in all this is Kate Middleton. For no other reason than half her body seemed to be missing when she stepped out of the car on her way to marry William. Did you see that tiny waist? Of course you did. So did New Idea, Women’s Weekly, Cosmo and Vogue. Now they can’t stop talking about it.

Because Kate did what just about every bride the world over does – she lost a heap of weight for her wedding. Unlike just about every bride in the world, however, Kate seems to be keeping her weight off. I think that’s because she exists on a diet of hearty Welsh air, and when she’s totally famished, she nibbles on the rotor blades of Will’s helicopter. I hope Diana’s ring doesn’t slip off her skinny finger and fall down the sink when she’s doing the washing-up one night. You remember the Lara Bingle/Michael Clark diamond-down-the-drain fiasco? Imagine what it would be like with bona fide royalty.

A dear girlfriend is getting married later this year. She’s lost 25kg since Christmas. That’s Christmas 2010. Not 1994. That’s pretty impressive. That’s up there with The Biggest Loser. Which is good for me; I'm already two years ahead on my daily fat allowance. I'm looking for skinny people to see if I can borrow theirs.

I’m one of those people who refuse to spend my life worrying about what I eat. There's no pleasure worth foregoing just for an extra three years in the geriatric ward.

I’ve been to four weddings in the past five years. Every bride swanned down the aisle with a waist that could measure a totem-pole. Or so it seemed. Yet their grooms looked just like they do every day of the year. Except the look on their face is like they heard that Shaun Cassidy was the entertainment at their reception. They were probably thinking “Where the hell did my wife go?”

Because, as I see it, he fell in love with you when you had those extra 10kgs. He asked you to marry him when you had those extra 10kgs. I’m not convinced that showing up at your own wedding weighing less than Ghandi will guarantee you a long and happy marriage.

I’m totally convinced it will guarantee you some fantastic wedding photos. Photos that you’ll want to shred in two years time when all the weight is back.

At least on this subject I can speak with authority. I was a bride back in the mid-1980s, God help us. All frothy merengue and sleeves that needed a traffic controller. I was a mere 20 years old, and a mere slip of a girl. I had discovered sour cream, soft cheese and pizzas with the lot, but hadn’t had time to eat enough of them for the results of my appetite to show. So hence I got away with being a skinny bride.

Fast-forward 25 years, and I have my second walk down the aisle impending. Except it won’t be an aisle this time, moreso a stroll across the sand on Noosa Beach, but you get what I’m saying.

From the instant that my gorgeous Lover Bloke Alan slid this massive diamond solitaire engagement ring on my finger, I began bleating about my urgent need to lose weight. Get my top-end size 14 arse back to a more sedate size 12.

I’m one of those people who prefers to eat whatever I like and let the food fight it out inside.

As the months counted down, I’d kid myself that I could lose 10kg in three months, in two months, in one month. Dieting’s no piece of cake you know. With my nuptials literally just around the corner, I’ve come to the realisation that I will look nothing like Kate Middleton. And that’s not because I’m blonde and she’s dark. Or because she lives in a palace and I don’t own a crown.

I’ve found myself a perfectly ok dress. I won’t be a bride (be there done that) but I think my ankle-length strapless number will suffice. There’s enough print on the fabric to disguise my offending arse. And of course there’s shapewear.

Or maybe, at 45, I’ve come to realise that it’s the stuff on the inside that counts. Which is good because at the time of writing, the stuff on my insides were lasagne, red wine and garlic bread with extra butter.

What size is that dress of mine again?

WORKING THE NETWORK

Last night, I was at a function to launch the next edition of a business magazine. It was a mixed crowd, borderline eclectic (possibly because one punter was determined to stay hunched over in his black overcoat and another punter wore red tartan trousers with matching scarf and driving gloves).

The industry types were just as eclectic, from funeral planners and home-based marketing businesses to travel agents, pilates instructors and business advisors. We collectively clutched our copy of the mag, a handful of business cards and the requisite glass of bubbles.

Now, I have a headstart on the majority of the other punters because I write a regular column for this particular tome. So, in networking terms, this is like going directly to GO and claiming $200. I could confidently walk up to groups and say, “Hi, I’m Bron, I write the customer service column,” and straight away we had an opening for a conversation.

I mean, there’s always the risk they’ll turn to me and say, “So you’re the one who writes that crap?” but it’s a risk I’m willing to take. Like wearing heels to a garden wedding, opening a third bottle of wine or voting for Abbott.

Being in business for myself and working from home means networking functions are a necessity. Sometimes they are the sole reason I change out of my pajamas that day.

But the more I go to, the more I see such a stark difference in the way people – men and women alike – go about networking.

Without creating a spoiler alert, you need to know that this blog is not about male-bashing or the like. Quite the contrary. I think men are adorable. Especially when they take out the rubbish and put air in my tyres (thank you Alan). I even thought one of them was so spectacular that I married him for a long while. And I’ve now got another one who is even more spectacular so I reckon I’ll marry him too.

OK, now that’s cleared up, I’ll tell you what happened at this function. And I have to tell you, none of this is made up. Like some of my other blogs are prone to be…

I’m standing in a group of women, I think there were four including me. We were chatting, and it doesn’t matter whether we were chatting about the school pick up run or the fallout from the federal budget, we were chatting.

Then in bursts a male, business card brandished, with the stellar opening line, “G’day there girls, I think it’s about time I got around to telling you lot about my business.”

What a charmer. I bet he takes the dishes out of the sink before he pees in it. We may have two ears and one mouth but this fellow definitely doesn’t use them in that order. He was in the baby boomer category, is that relevant?

I couldn’t stomach such arrogance, so politely nodded my farewell and went in search of a champagne refill and a new group.

I’d been selected to give a short welcome address to the group at the start of the function, so en route to the bar, I was waylaid by another business card brandishing fellow who complimented me on my speech (which was lovely). In the next breath he asked if he could share my client data base because he was convinced that his wealth creation strategy would be needed by them all (which was not lovely).

Parched, I lurched stiletto first into the next group I spied. This was quaintly mixed – two boys and with the advent of me, two girls. The boys were trying to outdo each other in terms of football knowledge, Amex card colours and, I am sure, penis girth.

I’d clearly picked the wrong group to join. I don't have a penis.

I quickly assessed my combatants and subtlely winked at my co-conspirator. We drifted off to the bar, claimed a refill, complimented each others shoes/earrings/eyeshadow application technique, and gave a précis of our business in 25 words or less. We chatted about working while raising kids and propping up husbands. We spoke about corporate raiders, live beef exports, the commonalities in our work and Lady Gaga. Swapped business cards and agreed to keep in touch. A brief air kiss and we diverged.

Shouldering my bag with a view to making a speedy exit, I heard the words, “Bron, can I have a word with you before you go?” A charming man, in a pastel shirt and rimless glasses, offered me his business card and a coffee meeting to put forward his idea to leverage our separate business skills with joint clients. Brilliant idea, brilliant concept and brilliantly conveyed. The only thing that was different from the lady I just previously met is that we shook hands instead of sharing an air kiss. Oh, and we didn’t talk about eyeshadow. I would have been mildly worried if we did.

I was nearly out the door, when one last woman waved a cheery hand and thrust me her business card. I quickly scanned it and learnt she was a personal stylist. It made me think she had a target market with this down-trodden crowd who mostly looked like they had dressed in the dark without the benefit of a mirror. Or deodorant.

“Give me a call,” she cooed in some faux French accent, whilst noticeably eyeing my outfit. “I can have your wardrobe sorted in a day so you never have to go out looking like this again.”

I had to look down at my clothes to assure myself I hadn’t accidently left my pajamas on. Oh blimey, I thought, do I look that bad? Either way, insults are not a great way to drum up business lady!

And had she seen Ms Red Tartan Trousers yet?

I like to do business with people, not companies. If I need a particular service – be it a document printed, a legal opinion, or my nails painted – I like to deal with a person I like. A person I can relate to, feel comfy with and even enjoy a laugh. Nudge nudge wink wink etc.

It doesn’t matter a jot to me if your printing firm won a major national award, or your legal company is currently putting the defence strategy together for Ricky Nixon, or even if your beauty salon does Miranda Kerr's nails. If you don’t warm to me, I freeze you out.

Even if I’m wearing pajamas!

NOT EVERYONE IS BACK IN BUSINESS

There’s a house in Rocklea, in Brisbane’s south-west, about 12km from the city centre. It’s home to a very dear friend. It’s a post-war home, reminiscent of many in the area when Salisbury was the epicentre of the 1950s industrial boom.

It has three bedrooms, one of which has been converted for use as a beauty spa. The renovated kitchen boasts an open plan dining area. The quaint bathroom gleams with sparkling tiles and a new loo. There’s a covered patio for long Sunday barbeques, a garden full of fruit trees and a fledgling olive plant. There’s two water tanks, two dogs, and a whole bunch of happiness.

Well, there used to be.

On Thursday, 13 January, flood waters went through the roof of this home. Literally. The beautifully renovated kitchen was invaded by the insidious water that held Brisbane hostage. The disgusting muck surged down the toilet, in between the walls and through the cracks in the polished wood floors. It carted the water tanks away, ripped up the fruit trees and disintegrated the doors and walls.

What was left was a heaving, rancid mess – utterly uninhabitable, unthinkably ruined, devastatingly lost. It wasn’t a home anymore, it was a dump. A wasteland of memories, happiness and sunshine days.

But it was still her home. And that’s the hardest part of all the horror that was the Brisbane floods. It’s still her home even though it is not fit for a wild animal to prowl through during the night.

My dear friend learnt the hard way, as did many many Brisbane home-owners, that insurance cover doesn’t always mean insurance cover . The scoundrels who run these agencies nit-picked fine print to death and managed to invent several meanings for flooding.

Silly me, I always thought flooding was a result of too much water coming down and the rivers and dams not being able to process it quickly enough, so therefore our homes, parks and streets were filled with water.

Apparently not. Whatever caused the flood, they said they’d only cover for the other reasons. Oh, and then said premiums would need to rise to cover their costs. Huh? Isn’t that what insurance is all about. What would I know, I’m just a writer and a home-owner. Mmmm.

So my dear friend lives day by day, battling tears, despair and adversity in an attempt to make a silk purse out of the sow’s ear that her gorgeous home has become. Little by little she saves up to get some new doors, or to fix the plumbing or to get a new stove. But it’s not fast enough.

It’s now over four months since those dark January days that stopped our city. And for all the lauding on the media that Brisbane is “back in business”, let’s not for a second forget that many people are not anywhere near opening their doors for business, let alone even having a proper door that you can open in the first place.

Just today, I took a drive around the streets of Rocklea, in that little residential pocket off Marshall Road near the McDonald’s. It was an old stomping ground of mine some years ago and holds some very fond memories.

Homes now lay vacant, their doors and windows wide open in surrender. The flood waters won the battle, and they also won the war. Dirty exterior markings brag how high the water rose. The air is putrid with resignation and anguish. A few brave souls soldier on, gamely employing construction crews to right the wrongs. Or simply to jack their home as high as council will allow.

But for many it is just too much. They’ve walked away. Tenants and owners alike. The “for sale” signs are plentiful, as are “for lease” signs. The warm camaraderie that I always knew to exist is still present, just in a very decreased number.

The place I called home all those years ago has been gutted. No longer is there the kitchen where I lovingly prepared my daughter’s meals. Nor the street-facing room where I concocted blogs and columns, and proudly started a small business. I didn’t need a doorway to pass between rooms anymore.

All I could see was the claw foot bath. Not even the nastiest of flood waters was going to move that sucker!

So people, all I ask, is that you spare a thought, and maybe a prayer, for some of our folk who actually aren’t back in business or on the road to recovery. Our folk who still live in rented accommodation because they can’t face the muck that awaits them back home. Or haven’t left the security of mum and dad’s to sort out the mess that once was their home.

Or the brave ones, like my friend, who have no other option than to live in the remnants of their own castle and who each day, try to make a little bit of a difference.

They’re not back in business at all.