PAULA ABDUL, VAGINA FARTS & TURNING 37.

Two years ago I went to my last yoga class before I gave birth to Edie. I recall writhing about on the mat aiming just to see my toes, since touching them had been lost to me about four months earlier. A couple of weeks ago I went back to yoga because while I can now see my toes, I still cannot touch them.

I’ve been doing yoga for about 12 years now and I still can’t take it very seriously. I really appreciate the time out, how good it is for me and especially how dedicated the instructors are. But I just can’t help myself. As soon as we do any pose upside down I think; ‘who’s going to do the vagina fart this time?’ Immediately followed by, ‘gee it’s a shame Q and Edie aren’t here, because nothing would be funnier to them than a vagina fart.’

Today I turn 37. Not 12 as you may well think.

‘You need to be in the moment,’ the instructor says. ‘If you’re thinking about what you’re going to do after class, you’re not in the moment.’

Is he kidding? I’ve been thinking about what I’m going to do after class since the moment I stepped out of the house. 60 whole minutes of peace and quiet (apart from the instructor constantly interrupting my train of thought), no daughters to demand cuddles on the couch, a husband to offload his latest conspiracy theory…staff…emails…family…door-knockers…

I can get more planning done in a 60 minute Yoga class than I can during the rest of the day and night combined.

I come out all cylinders firing;

Find the clean sheets for my sister-in-law who arrives tomorrow.

Do we actually have more sheets?

Try to at least read your emails. Flag the ones that are really, really important. Forward anything time sensitive on to Amy who will sort it out.

Be sure you have enough butter, eggs, milk and white flour for Q’s castle cake. Talk about a fast track to bullying. No kid wants their birthday cake made with wholemeal flour.

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I had a few false starts as despite putting them on the shopping list, when I went to bake it transpired that I had none of the aforementioned items, the wrong sized tin and didn’t read the recipe correctly and made 4 mixes instead of 2. Enter my mother and aunt who braved the wild Sydney storm to save their damsel in distress late on Friday night.

You really start to see the cracks around this time of year. People’s brains are backfiring (I like to assume i’m not alone here), patience is short, good ideas shorter. In short, everyone needs a break.

Last week the POS system at Hartsyard blew up right as service started which proved things like;

No one is good at maths when the guest is staring at you while you try to add up.

Neat writing is important as chefs get really agitated when they can’t read your docket

We do not have a stamp with our ABN on it.

I do not actually know our ABN.

We would not need said stamp if the stupid POS hadn’t exploded in the first place.

No one knows how much to charge for a can of coke.

This morning, as part of my birthday morning, I stole away for a few laps in the pool before Gregory left for work. The pool that has become not just an occasion for me to see strange men’s pubic hair, but also for me to lose important items. Last week was keys, this week my sunglass case. Not that important you might think, particularly since the sunglasses weren’t actually inside. But inside the glasses case was a piece of fabric given to me by a family member and that fabric was important.

Why have it in your sunglasses case then? I hear you ask. Since it was of some value, surely the more sensible thing to do would have been to keep it in my jewellery box with other valuables like Q’s first tooth.

Why am I keeping that by the way? She is never going to want it and I sure don’t.

I kept it in the case because I have sensitive blue eyes which means I need to wear sunnies even in London and I am also sentimental and wanted him with me at all times so this seemed a good way to go about it.

So now I am key-less and fabric-less and somewhat of an annoyance to the front desk of Leichhardt Swimming Pool as I constantly make them check for keys that I cannot even confirm I lost there to begin with.

Emails are piling up in my inbox like dirty napkins on a three-turn Saturday night, there is nothing in the fridge but cake, cake, cake and a few restaurant containers of mustards and I have not even considered Christmas shopping. For most of my friends, Christmas shopping involves a bottle of wine, a credit card, their lap top and a hard night on the couch ordering online.

I just can’t seem to get the hang of it. Every now and again I order something like enviro-friendly nappies, and then I get an auto reply saying they’ve had lots of orders for the toddler size (probably because, like me, after two kids at two years each, people have lost the will to wash the poo out of cloth nappies ever again) and they’re on back order for 6-8 weeks. Then I promptly forget about the email and we run out of nappies.

You think it’s a good idea, you try to be organised and then the universe tells you, you should just get back to the poo.

Gregory has found himself a $50 fridge to store lamb ribs in, as he realised he didn’t have enough room for the produce for Rootstock. Who knows what we’ll do with it afterwards – perhaps we can plug it in our garage and store the piles and piles of excess cake in it from all the family members who have birthdays in November and put something healthy like a carrot back in our fridge.

I know what you’re thinking. I could freeze the cake, then defrost it and turn it into trifle for Christmas Day. But I am a card carrying member of the Trifle Haters Club on account of the stale cake, cheap liquor and jelly from my childhood. Oh how I hate jelly. Man’s most useless contribution to the world .

Functions are happening, no one noticed until panic time that Thanksgiving and Rootstock are only two days apart, the tables are getting wobblier, the blood orange season expires right before we close for the year and we’ve already stained our brand new banner for use at upcoming festivals.

Just like Paula Abdul, the great philosopher of the 1980’s reminds us, sometimes ‘I take two steps forward, I take two steps back.’ *

However you’re getting there, just keep dancing. It’s 5 weeks till Christmas.

* all credit to Lizz Furtado in NYC for reminding me of the great philosopher’s words.

 

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