If you will permit me to have a Carrie Bradshaw moment - I have been thinking of the beauty within pain. Pain of heartbreak that is.
Looking back at lost love it’s easy to slip into the romantic delusion that your heart belongs to your lost love and the fact it is no longer there, brings about a feeling of loss so profound the pain is palpable.
To be denied the connection you had with someone - a love and lust that can no longer feed in the physical realm - is to find yourself in a world of solitude, of aloneness that leaves us in a state that is nothing less than aching.
But interesting it is - this state of melancholy can also be tantalising, consuming and addictive. The state of mind that allows itself to be lost to and idealise the past is an escape from reality, the now, the present, where we are and where we need to journey.
It's the elixir of anaesthesia.
Sure our (now ex) boyfriends may have been the best thing since sliced bread but the universe paves its way in unforseen territories and if she forces us to part - it is essential we honour this and accept the inevitability our step is to build a new life sans Don Juan.
Find our own feet and tread the next gradient solo.
Until the future man of our dreams falls in our lap, it's our romantic connection to the nostalgia of the past that keeps lost loves at the forefront of our minds and in our present.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Ready made families
I've read that where we are in life is where we have chosen to be.
I've also subscribed to the words from the poem "Desiderata" by Max Ehrman ever since they came to my attention when a trader cited them in his weekly newsletter after the stock market crashed in 2007 (and my share portfolio with it).
"You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should."
I've also taken solace in: "you never forget the ones you've loved" from the French film, Apres Vous, when missing the boys I've said goodbye.
When the chips are down, it's in these trinkets of wisdom that I'll often lean.
And then there's children.
I would love to be a mother and often beat myself up about not having children. But in reverting to my opening line, it has had to have been my choice.
My maternal instinct is there - the relationship is not.
The answer? Play surrogate.
Two friends of mine, both mothers with three, are employing me as their babysitter.
It has brought a whole new lease of life! I role play mum, and my friends take their breather. Win win.
I'm practicing motherhood.
I've been a pet owner for 16 years - ask any committed pet owner, they will confirm, the pet is our fur child.
But there's something to be said for being a part of your friend's family. You love your friends, you (usually) love their kids. And when six year old Willy says: "I love you Cazi", it makes me melt.
I've also subscribed to the words from the poem "Desiderata" by Max Ehrman ever since they came to my attention when a trader cited them in his weekly newsletter after the stock market crashed in 2007 (and my share portfolio with it).
"You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should."
I've also taken solace in: "you never forget the ones you've loved" from the French film, Apres Vous, when missing the boys I've said goodbye.
When the chips are down, it's in these trinkets of wisdom that I'll often lean.
And then there's children.
I would love to be a mother and often beat myself up about not having children. But in reverting to my opening line, it has had to have been my choice.
My maternal instinct is there - the relationship is not.
The answer? Play surrogate.
Two friends of mine, both mothers with three, are employing me as their babysitter.
It has brought a whole new lease of life! I role play mum, and my friends take their breather. Win win.
I'm practicing motherhood.
I've been a pet owner for 16 years - ask any committed pet owner, they will confirm, the pet is our fur child.
But there's something to be said for being a part of your friend's family. You love your friends, you (usually) love their kids. And when six year old Willy says: "I love you Cazi", it makes me melt.
Friday, April 9, 2010
The Kevin Bacon Party
For a long time now my city has been renowned for its lack of available men seeking a long-term relationship with 30 something women. It seems most hetro guys have partnered up before they hit 35 and it's slim pickings for us girls left on the shelf.
Whatever the reason, there are a truckload of single Generation X women in this city and not enough guys for us to go around.
Enter...The Kevin Bacon Party!
I plan to host a targeted, singles evening for Generation X professionals with a penchant and means for the good life. To grab my single contenders' attention (and more importantly cajole them into attending), we will avoid the innuendo that people who go to such functions are 'desperate and dateless' (...there goes the working title "What Melbourne Man Drought? It's Raining Men!").
I have called my endeavour The Kevin Bacon Party where people will meet their match six degrees from Kevin Bacon and from eachother.
Most Generation Xers will remember the Kevin Bacon six degrees of separation game? Heck, the namesake created a charity (sixdegrees.org) based on this notoriety. I've workshopped the connections and here is one scenario:
We start with Kevin Bacon (1 degree), who has acted in A Few Good Men with Tom Cruise (2 degrees) who is married to Katie Holmes (3 degrees), who stars in Don't be Afraid of the Dark. I've shared a bottle of wine with the publicist for this movie (4degrees) who met Katie Holmes and I'm the party organiser (5 degrees) which brings its attendees six degrees of separation from Kevin Bacon.
I know singles' parties are a dime a dozen. I've seen them regularly advertised by the dating site, RSVP, as well as the speed daters and even commercial radio stations (especially around Valentine's Day).
The difference I hope can be achieved with The Kevin Bacon Party is attendees a) will be quality and b) will be connected at least six degrees from someone else in the room. So it will be a party among friends of friends. Everyone likes to meet their new mate through a friend - it's a good, solid reference point.
My experience as a 35 year old woman is I've generally run out of puff to trawl the city bars on a Friday and Saturday night looking for new talent. I remember it working well in my 20s but that's also the catch - there's the age varient. I've moved on 10 years (cougar I'm not...yet).
Essentially, I'm not alone in my vintage for giving up the gas or being disillusioned that most guys who hang at these places are in their 20s. That doesn't mean us old farts are ready to turn from love. Oh, no. We're ripe for it. We just need the right place, people and connections to get us over the line.
If I start the ball rolling to lead the troops down the aisle - here's the current plan:
We go high-end, $150 per head. It's cocktail themed. Dress up; but guys won't have to worry about wearing a tux and girls can hold off on the gown (save this for your wedding day).
The venue is Comme, our champas is Moet. We engage local companies to donate products for door prizes. The event extends to men in Sydney, Canberra and Adelaide (it is a Melbourne man drought afterall) and any interstaters wishing to swoon our Melbourne girls are welcome.
Tickets are limited.
Sat 28 August 2010 from 8pm (block out the date!)
And last but not least - the event's success will be dependent on all of us. Please put your thinking caps on and nominate all single people you know who fit the bill. Help me spread the word about The Kevin Bacon Party and encourage single Generation X professionals to get in touch with me (carolinejamespublicrelations@gmail.com)
We particularly need men - so think hard who you know, work with, live next door to, do yoga class, say hi to at the footy or meet at the gastro pub. Think of it as helping our fellow mankind.
It is my mission to find the Generation X man or woman of your dreams!
Whatever the reason, there are a truckload of single Generation X women in this city and not enough guys for us to go around.
Enter...The Kevin Bacon Party!
I plan to host a targeted, singles evening for Generation X professionals with a penchant and means for the good life. To grab my single contenders' attention (and more importantly cajole them into attending), we will avoid the innuendo that people who go to such functions are 'desperate and dateless' (...there goes the working title "What Melbourne Man Drought? It's Raining Men!").
I have called my endeavour The Kevin Bacon Party where people will meet their match six degrees from Kevin Bacon and from eachother.
Most Generation Xers will remember the Kevin Bacon six degrees of separation game? Heck, the namesake created a charity (sixdegrees.org) based on this notoriety. I've workshopped the connections and here is one scenario:
We start with Kevin Bacon (1 degree), who has acted in A Few Good Men with Tom Cruise (2 degrees) who is married to Katie Holmes (3 degrees), who stars in Don't be Afraid of the Dark. I've shared a bottle of wine with the publicist for this movie (4degrees) who met Katie Holmes and I'm the party organiser (5 degrees) which brings its attendees six degrees of separation from Kevin Bacon.
I know singles' parties are a dime a dozen. I've seen them regularly advertised by the dating site, RSVP, as well as the speed daters and even commercial radio stations (especially around Valentine's Day).
The difference I hope can be achieved with The Kevin Bacon Party is attendees a) will be quality and b) will be connected at least six degrees from someone else in the room. So it will be a party among friends of friends. Everyone likes to meet their new mate through a friend - it's a good, solid reference point.
My experience as a 35 year old woman is I've generally run out of puff to trawl the city bars on a Friday and Saturday night looking for new talent. I remember it working well in my 20s but that's also the catch - there's the age varient. I've moved on 10 years (cougar I'm not...yet).
Essentially, I'm not alone in my vintage for giving up the gas or being disillusioned that most guys who hang at these places are in their 20s. That doesn't mean us old farts are ready to turn from love. Oh, no. We're ripe for it. We just need the right place, people and connections to get us over the line.
If I start the ball rolling to lead the troops down the aisle - here's the current plan:
We go high-end, $150 per head. It's cocktail themed. Dress up; but guys won't have to worry about wearing a tux and girls can hold off on the gown (save this for your wedding day).
The venue is Comme, our champas is Moet. We engage local companies to donate products for door prizes. The event extends to men in Sydney, Canberra and Adelaide (it is a Melbourne man drought afterall) and any interstaters wishing to swoon our Melbourne girls are welcome.
Tickets are limited.
Sat 28 August 2010 from 8pm (block out the date!)
And last but not least - the event's success will be dependent on all of us. Please put your thinking caps on and nominate all single people you know who fit the bill. Help me spread the word about The Kevin Bacon Party and encourage single Generation X professionals to get in touch with me (carolinejamespublicrelations@gmail.com)
We particularly need men - so think hard who you know, work with, live next door to, do yoga class, say hi to at the footy or meet at the gastro pub. Think of it as helping our fellow mankind.
It is my mission to find the Generation X man or woman of your dreams!
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Life gets in the way of a good run
I live close to two running tracks - one winds around a large, scenic lake and the other is a favourite among CBD and inner city joggers, locally referred to as 'the Tan'.
These running tracks have become my second home and I've been a consistent jogger for about four years now. Having said that, I got back into running before then, in my late 20s, spurred on by a bad breakup. I hit the treadmill to release pent up emotions and like Forrest Gump, "I just kept on going."
My thrice weekly effort averages 30 minutes a go (the Goldilocks 'just right' for me) and in this pursuit I'm rewarded with benefits.
I recall the Nike running scene in 'What Women Want' with Mel Gibson and Helen Hunt:
"It's quiet, just the sound of her feet on asphalt. She likes to run alone. No pressure, no stress. This is the one place she can be herself. Look any way she wants, dress, think anyway she wants. No game playing, no rules."
Many runners hit the track at dawn but I prefer to run late afternoon (I've since read the body's core temperature is warmer between 4 - 7pm, presenting an optimal time for exercise). It's nature's call that surges me along after a day's work.
On the track my mind empties its daily junk and sweats the big and small stuff. With a few strides, I've entered the runner's zone.
Unfortunately, sometimes, life gets in the way of a good run.
Tonight the first hiccup in my running ritual came from a near miss with a cyclist. As I began my steady canter, I caught him in my peripheral vision hurtling towards me. This mind and body interruption was not to be my last. Ahead two women were engrossed in conversation and had failed to notice (or more likely just didn't care) that they'd taken up the full width of path by walking side by side. I veered off course to pass them. Along the track there were more walkers and runners, some with dogs skirting from one side to the other. Not to mention the rowers that needed avoiding as they carried their boats from the sheds to the water.
Then there's going to the Tan for a run. This comes with its own irks. There are traffic crossings, office workers not watching where they walk on the journey home (distracted by mobile phones). And once I've finally reached the track, I'll share it with the many corporate types going on company group runs as well as solo fitness fanatics whizzing past like a bolt out of the blue.
It's a jungle out there where only the fit will prevail. Lucky for me, fitness is part of the deal when you go for a run.
These running tracks have become my second home and I've been a consistent jogger for about four years now. Having said that, I got back into running before then, in my late 20s, spurred on by a bad breakup. I hit the treadmill to release pent up emotions and like Forrest Gump, "I just kept on going."
My thrice weekly effort averages 30 minutes a go (the Goldilocks 'just right' for me) and in this pursuit I'm rewarded with benefits.
I recall the Nike running scene in 'What Women Want' with Mel Gibson and Helen Hunt:
"It's quiet, just the sound of her feet on asphalt. She likes to run alone. No pressure, no stress. This is the one place she can be herself. Look any way she wants, dress, think anyway she wants. No game playing, no rules."
Many runners hit the track at dawn but I prefer to run late afternoon (I've since read the body's core temperature is warmer between 4 - 7pm, presenting an optimal time for exercise). It's nature's call that surges me along after a day's work.
On the track my mind empties its daily junk and sweats the big and small stuff. With a few strides, I've entered the runner's zone.
Unfortunately, sometimes, life gets in the way of a good run.
Tonight the first hiccup in my running ritual came from a near miss with a cyclist. As I began my steady canter, I caught him in my peripheral vision hurtling towards me. This mind and body interruption was not to be my last. Ahead two women were engrossed in conversation and had failed to notice (or more likely just didn't care) that they'd taken up the full width of path by walking side by side. I veered off course to pass them. Along the track there were more walkers and runners, some with dogs skirting from one side to the other. Not to mention the rowers that needed avoiding as they carried their boats from the sheds to the water.
Then there's going to the Tan for a run. This comes with its own irks. There are traffic crossings, office workers not watching where they walk on the journey home (distracted by mobile phones). And once I've finally reached the track, I'll share it with the many corporate types going on company group runs as well as solo fitness fanatics whizzing past like a bolt out of the blue.
It's a jungle out there where only the fit will prevail. Lucky for me, fitness is part of the deal when you go for a run.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Inner city living with noisy children
Weren't the outer burbs built for the defactos and marrieds once baby made three? Not in my world.
I've been working from home for almost three years now and while I'm used to my opera loving (retired) neighbour blasting arias more often than Opera Australia can perform La Boheme, I don't think I'll ever get used to inner city brats using my street as a playground.
In my uber chic suburb there are several young families who have toddlers and primary school children. The kids delight in using the narrow, one-way streets as their own backyards. One can hardly blame them, in the packed like sardines world of inner city dwellings, there is hardly room for lawn.
Among us, particularly precocious parents block streets to set up cricket games as well as hog the local patch of park to kick a footy with their budding next generation Chris Judd. Unless passer bys are watching their own game, we are guaranteed to be road kill - of the 'hit by a football slash cricketball' kind.
While I hate to think that having children would boot me out of my choice of suburb, and know it is wry of me to begrudge the parents who choose to stay put after Baby Goo Gaa beds in...there is a part of me that resents them for sticking around.
Not to mention most of these people are loaded with high income cash, and thus have the luxury of inner city living while occupying a mansion. But more often than not, lack of inner city space does translate to compromise.
I guess it will remain a love hate relationship.
There are some neighbourhood children I would happily swap for a well-behaved pet, but others who are sweet and endearing. They wave and call hi as they zoom past on skateboards.
So perhaps ma and pa, it comes down to you. Live where you will and grow your family as you please, but next time the house youngster is screaming up a storm; can you do me one neighbourly favour? Send little Sammi Jo to the naughty corner and not onto my street.
I've been working from home for almost three years now and while I'm used to my opera loving (retired) neighbour blasting arias more often than Opera Australia can perform La Boheme, I don't think I'll ever get used to inner city brats using my street as a playground.
In my uber chic suburb there are several young families who have toddlers and primary school children. The kids delight in using the narrow, one-way streets as their own backyards. One can hardly blame them, in the packed like sardines world of inner city dwellings, there is hardly room for lawn.
Among us, particularly precocious parents block streets to set up cricket games as well as hog the local patch of park to kick a footy with their budding next generation Chris Judd. Unless passer bys are watching their own game, we are guaranteed to be road kill - of the 'hit by a football slash cricketball' kind.
While I hate to think that having children would boot me out of my choice of suburb, and know it is wry of me to begrudge the parents who choose to stay put after Baby Goo Gaa beds in...there is a part of me that resents them for sticking around.
Not to mention most of these people are loaded with high income cash, and thus have the luxury of inner city living while occupying a mansion. But more often than not, lack of inner city space does translate to compromise.
I guess it will remain a love hate relationship.
There are some neighbourhood children I would happily swap for a well-behaved pet, but others who are sweet and endearing. They wave and call hi as they zoom past on skateboards.
So perhaps ma and pa, it comes down to you. Live where you will and grow your family as you please, but next time the house youngster is screaming up a storm; can you do me one neighbourly favour? Send little Sammi Jo to the naughty corner and not onto my street.
Reality check
I have been watching an awful lot of reality TV on Foxtel. It's necessary for me working in public relations to be abreast of all the latest and greatest, even if part of the viewing time is dedicated to trash, trash and more trash.
They say you will never work a day if you love what you do and I concede that in living this credo, I must be a winner - I'm a sucker for couch time in the reality sphere and I can
purport a great percentage of this time to the name of research.
Warning - unless you have pay TV, the following names and shows may have no semblence at all to your recollection! But stay with me, there's plenty of reality TV on free-to-air too (read: ticket to mental health: 'why pay for a psychologist when we have Dr Phil?').
Gok Wan is my high street fashion and give me a quick pick me up in the ego stakes hero while old stalwarts Trinny and Susannah have long been making me watch what I don't wear...then there's the adorable like a bickering, married couple Phil Spencer and Kirstie Allsopp from Location, Location, Location giving us a glimpse of London and its greater area's flats, apartments and houses. Oh, the joy I felt to learn that Phil is in Oz filming "Relocation: Phil Down Under" bringing him one Qantas flight closer to me.
Then there's the handsome and learned Dr Christian Jessen from Supersize vs Superskinny urging us to maintain a healthy weight using extreme shock tactics by showing us a very fat person compared with very thin...egged on by his sidekick, the kooky and entertaining, Anna Richardson. Who can forget the episode where Anna downed baby food as her main staple for a week as well as copied Beyonce in following the maple syrup and hot water diet?
Alot of reality TV participants have made an enduring career - think Kendra from The Girls of the Playboy mansion who left bunnyville for her own spin-off show and Giuliana and Bill Rancic (Giuliana from Entertainment Tonight and Bill from Trump's The Apprentice) keeping us glued perhaps more so by their good looks than their smug married antics.
In my opinion, the Brits and Yanks do reality best (exception - Michelle Bridges and Shannon Ponton from The Biggest Loser Australia - you rock) and among it all, I've learned how to eat, exercise, dress and date best....Patty Stanger aka "Millionare Matchmaker" where have all the millionaries gone? - your show has been off Arena too long!
In Foxtel land there is enough reality how to's to send Borders' self help section broke.
Like an Abba song I could go "on and on and on" but with a dose of reality, all good things must come to an end.
But to the non-pay TV subscribers I give you some reality tips to abide - never miss an episode of Man vs Wild with Bear Grylls on SBS TV Monday nights (for Pay TVers - he's also on Discovery Channel - we have double dip - whoa!). Bear has clocked up most of his survival skills from his time in the Armed Forces as well as learning from his late dad in the sentimental fashion of father shows son how it's done.
The daytime doyens - Dr Phil and Oprah are worth their weight in gold (obv Oprah's carrying a little more) and yes, The Biggest Loser Australia, while it's a spin off from the US & UK versions, provides cute little quips and affirmations deliverd in true Aussie twang to help boost self esteem and knock off the kilos.
I'm sure there will come a day when I say "enough is enough" and quality TV drama with real (no pun intended) actors takes precedence over my 15 minutes of fame lot, but you know what they say: life imitates art and vice versa. It's blurred. But doesn't have to be. US reality hit, Extreme Makeover's, laser correction surgery will have us boasting 20/20 vision in no time.
They say you will never work a day if you love what you do and I concede that in living this credo, I must be a winner - I'm a sucker for couch time in the reality sphere and I can
purport a great percentage of this time to the name of research.
Warning - unless you have pay TV, the following names and shows may have no semblence at all to your recollection! But stay with me, there's plenty of reality TV on free-to-air too (read: ticket to mental health: 'why pay for a psychologist when we have Dr Phil?').
Gok Wan is my high street fashion and give me a quick pick me up in the ego stakes hero while old stalwarts Trinny and Susannah have long been making me watch what I don't wear...then there's the adorable like a bickering, married couple Phil Spencer and Kirstie Allsopp from Location, Location, Location giving us a glimpse of London and its greater area's flats, apartments and houses. Oh, the joy I felt to learn that Phil is in Oz filming "Relocation: Phil Down Under" bringing him one Qantas flight closer to me.
Then there's the handsome and learned Dr Christian Jessen from Supersize vs Superskinny urging us to maintain a healthy weight using extreme shock tactics by showing us a very fat person compared with very thin...egged on by his sidekick, the kooky and entertaining, Anna Richardson. Who can forget the episode where Anna downed baby food as her main staple for a week as well as copied Beyonce in following the maple syrup and hot water diet?
Alot of reality TV participants have made an enduring career - think Kendra from The Girls of the Playboy mansion who left bunnyville for her own spin-off show and Giuliana and Bill Rancic (Giuliana from Entertainment Tonight and Bill from Trump's The Apprentice) keeping us glued perhaps more so by their good looks than their smug married antics.
In my opinion, the Brits and Yanks do reality best (exception - Michelle Bridges and Shannon Ponton from The Biggest Loser Australia - you rock) and among it all, I've learned how to eat, exercise, dress and date best....Patty Stanger aka "Millionare Matchmaker" where have all the millionaries gone? - your show has been off Arena too long!
In Foxtel land there is enough reality how to's to send Borders' self help section broke.
Like an Abba song I could go "on and on and on" but with a dose of reality, all good things must come to an end.
But to the non-pay TV subscribers I give you some reality tips to abide - never miss an episode of Man vs Wild with Bear Grylls on SBS TV Monday nights (for Pay TVers - he's also on Discovery Channel - we have double dip - whoa!). Bear has clocked up most of his survival skills from his time in the Armed Forces as well as learning from his late dad in the sentimental fashion of father shows son how it's done.
The daytime doyens - Dr Phil and Oprah are worth their weight in gold (obv Oprah's carrying a little more) and yes, The Biggest Loser Australia, while it's a spin off from the US & UK versions, provides cute little quips and affirmations deliverd in true Aussie twang to help boost self esteem and knock off the kilos.
I'm sure there will come a day when I say "enough is enough" and quality TV drama with real (no pun intended) actors takes precedence over my 15 minutes of fame lot, but you know what they say: life imitates art and vice versa. It's blurred. But doesn't have to be. US reality hit, Extreme Makeover's, laser correction surgery will have us boasting 20/20 vision in no time.
The Gym Class Cult
I attend the odd Body Pump classes at the local gym/swim club and the comment: "in life there are pumpers and non-pumpers" by a particularly ebullient instructor a few weeks ago, was no more apparent than in today's 9.20am class (when most people are working).
Comprised majority 40+ year olds, and mostly women, (albeit littered with a few graying men), these pump bunnies came five or 10 minutes earlier to set up - and catch up.
In the few minutes before the instructor had the tunes and iron pumping, some of the 'regulars' cordoned off and engaged in breezy chit chat (in the vein you'd expect to hear at a weekly Mother's Club).
As the class 'newbies' looked on (we had no gym bud to turn to) I began to liken the picture before me to a cult phenomenon. It's true, like attracts like and birds of a feather flock together. This class of happy body pumpers demonstrates our essential need to connect with those like us (pumpers as against non-pumpers).
Who the hell cares if some people's connection comes in chewing while burning the fat with practical strangers over dumb bells and lycra? For me it's fun and curious to watch, and while I strive to remain on team 'pumpers' for fitness sake - I'll be staying on the other side of my step board.
Comprised majority 40+ year olds, and mostly women, (albeit littered with a few graying men), these pump bunnies came five or 10 minutes earlier to set up - and catch up.
In the few minutes before the instructor had the tunes and iron pumping, some of the 'regulars' cordoned off and engaged in breezy chit chat (in the vein you'd expect to hear at a weekly Mother's Club).
As the class 'newbies' looked on (we had no gym bud to turn to) I began to liken the picture before me to a cult phenomenon. It's true, like attracts like and birds of a feather flock together. This class of happy body pumpers demonstrates our essential need to connect with those like us (pumpers as against non-pumpers).
Who the hell cares if some people's connection comes in chewing while burning the fat with practical strangers over dumb bells and lycra? For me it's fun and curious to watch, and while I strive to remain on team 'pumpers' for fitness sake - I'll be staying on the other side of my step board.
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