Princess of the World

This morning I went to a very nice young pedorthist at Women’s College Hospital, so he could make me some orthotics. He looked at my feet a bit, then told me to walk up and down a corridor whilst he judged my posture, how I sold the outift and my signature pose at the end of the corridor. He snapped his fingers in the shape of a triangle and said ‘Girl! You look fierce.’ Okay, maybe he only snapped twice. Anyway he said I had some latin thingo and when I said wha? HE SAID I WAS KNOCK KNEED. Wtf? It makes some sense I suppose and you can kinda see it in the shape of my legs, my lower legs are not perfectly straight below my upper legs. Whilst it’s only really the merest hint of hillbilly legs I am basically Kleetus the slack jawed yokel.

Then he made me kneel on a bench and he wiggled and waggled my ankles around a bit and said ‘do you find you trip over a lot?’ … Seriously? There is a medical reason for why I’m so clumsy? That’s FANTASTIC. My ankles are so flibberdy jibberdy that I could go anywhere at ANY TIME. I’m like a ninja. Or one of those big wavy figures that car dealers use outside that have air blowing up in them so they wave and spasm all over the place. Also, if you’re in the area, come to Downtown Toyota for an amazing deal! I’ll be there daily from noon to nine.

Then we stuck my feet in some oasis (like the oasis you put in the bottom of flower arrangements to hold them in place, it’s a really fine foam) and he made casts of my feet. He was fascinated at how high my arches were, and how quickly they collapsed when moved. He even said ‘Wow! They’re like ski hills’ and ran two fingers up and down the arch in the cast we’d just made like his fingers were ski-ing. Things like this add credibility to my assertion that basically, I am doctor.

So in three weeks time I shall have some horrible full length orthotics to stick in my trainers. He has recommended a style of sneaker that has motion control and essentially is like strapping a plank to your foot. A very ugly plank. I will wait to see how the orthotics go in my current, perfectly good, medium support trainers. Having to wait three weeks before I can run again has really put the final nail in the coffin of me doing the 10km run on May 3. I will only have been running for 2 weeks again by that time and it is almost impossible that I’ll be running fit by then. I’m disappointed, not least because I’ve paid for the run AND enlisted a friend to do it with me, so I can’t really back out. I’ll just run/walk it, and try not to be embarrassed at how long it takes me.

Was at the gym 6 days last week. Then drank far too much wine with Jenny and Matt yesterday. Swings and roundabouts my friends. I don’t want to never have fun again (and not drinking and only eating salad is anti-fun, let’s make this perfectly clear), I just have to limit my fun to infrequent. Pinched and humorless folk are fantastically thin I hear.

And that’s it. Back to the gym for me now. After a whole day off I miss the smell that my bra gets after I’ve worked out for an hour. Stink boob. That’s me.

So. I’ve been on hiatus from writing in this thing because I am very lazy. And easily distracted. Squirrels!

Update on Supermodelness:

I was running a lot. Well, three days a week. Seemed like a bloody lot to me. Still not terribly good at it, but I had a black terry toweling sweat band around my head, and I think that counts for quite a lot. I was even following a plan to prepare for my first public run in May. Given I’d never run more than 5km in my entire life, and the 5km run was in Grade 6 AND I came last, I was incredibly proud after my first 5 mile run.

That was a Friday and I gloated to all and sundry for the entire weekend. The next Monday when I hopped on the treadmill, I lasted about 4 minutes before the crippling vice grabbed hold of my right knee and refused to let go. I had a little walk, slowed down my pace (tricky when the only difference between me jogging and walking is the level of flailing about my arms do) and stopped after only half an hour.

My first legitimate sports injury! Hurrah! I guess my knee had been in some pain before but I always assumed it was because fat people should not run UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. This day however my left knee was fine and I knew I had finally reached the ranks of professional athlete, by injury rather than success (but whatever, I can take your scorn, I’m a professional now, I expect your jealousy. Also, I am now sponsored by Kenya, so if you don’t agree, you’re a total racist).

It’s been two and a half weeks now, and I haven’t run since. I do have unlimited physio coverage with my benefits, so went to see a nice lady who took one look at my feet and said ‘oh, you need orthotics’. She did not shout LIKE A TEENAGER at me, but we all knew the subtext.

So off I shall go next Monday to see a pedorthist (Wtf? “Pedorthist” is the most made up name I’ve ever heard) and they will fix me. Truth be told, I miss running. Well, I miss jogging slowly. I have tried to keep up my fitness, using the elliptical which I loathe and doing weights and some classes, but I’m not inspired. I felt so proud of myself for doing something I never thought was possible. And I had the headband. That was pretty inspiring, you know?

Once I have orthotics, my knee bones should stop grinding against my tibia and femuribula (or whatever the fuck is down there) and I should be able to run like Forrest Gump again. It’s also warm here! 16 degrees today! Obviously that won’t last but it’s warm enough to get outside finally, and start my jogging/ having forward propelling seizures in the open air.

I will try to be a bit more regular in my updates. I have so many things to tell you about friends!  I need to tell you about my new hair brained scheme, also about not drinking for a month (that is a boring post, heads up) and how the chubby receptionist at the physio is a total bitch and I am going to fuck her up.*

*The views and opinions expressed herein do not necessarily state or reflect those of Kenya. Look guys, Kenya loves peace! Obviously.

Hi!

Do you have a slow cooker recipe that tastes good (and is possibly healthy as an added bonus)?

We were given a slow cooker and I know y’all swear by them but I can’t make food taste good in them. I can make food taste okay, but there is no magical releasing of flavors or anything remotely like it.

Beans/ egg/ fish/ nuts are tricksy but we can often work around them if the recipe is worth it.

Please help! Email me or comment here and let’s make the party in my mouth. Thanks!

Oh internet. I am off the wagon. I tried to jump back on the wagon but it was filled with hand whipped double cream and I just slipped off the back again, face first into some refined sugar.

Things that I shoved in my gob this weekend that I probably oughtn’t have…

7 home made scones with carcinogenic margarine, raspberry jam AND cream.

A baguette with cambozola (thick, we’re not talking a spread here people, we’re talking hunks)

About 2lbs of smoked and BBQ meat from Mark Thuet’s Cluck, Grunt and Low, WITH fries

Cheesecake (this was not my fault and was to save my husband from feeling awkward as it was meant for him but he was allergic, his eyes were pleading with me to eat the cake, eat the cake. I did. It was delicious)

4 cadbury cream eggs (maybe 5 but the diabetic coma I was in for most of the weekend prevents me from remembering).

A bag of maltesers.

A medium-ish popcorn at the cinema (without butter, but I aint fooling myself that this was good for me).

A box of chocolate covered almonds.

A chocolate chip cookie (I would say epic sized?)

Shepherd’s Pie (I ate all of the shepherds, all of their meaty flock, and then some of their bovine extended family, just to fill the hole).

A Twix Bar.

Some sour key candy.

Homemade Guacamole with corn chips.

Some Riceworks Wasabi chips.

I can’t think of any major food group I didn’t shove in my big cake hole and then have a bit more of. Delicious.

So please, if you see my wagon, ask him nicely to come home, I’m sorry and I need him back.

I am a terrible, terrible junkie.

In my attempt to lose a little weight, I have had to work really hard to cut some things out of my diet. Because of Graeme’s allergies, we eat pretty well and I make most things from scratch. We use organic ingredients when possible, cut the fat off chicken and eat lots and lots of vegies. You know, normal stuff. However in the early 1970s, the Germans FINALLY did something right and wondered what would happen if Camembert and Gorgonzola did the dirty. Cambozola was invented. Now, I’m not saying Da Vinci was a total douche bag, I’m just saying he really missed the boat on shit that REALLY needed inventing. Cambozola is the GREATEST. It’s creamy and tasty, but not over powering. It’s also expensive, and possibly (along with red wine) one of the prime reasons I am porky. I love it. I can eat an entire wedge in less than 7 seconds and be ready for more. Furthermore, I eat it ALL THE TIME and resent those moments when things like work and life get in the way of me eating my Cambozola GODDAMIT.

Needless to say, eating Cambozola often is not recommended for those on the path of becoming a supermodel. So I’ve had very stern words with myself and cut it out entirely. I certainly don’t want to never eat it again, but in the interest of losing a couple of pounds I have to let my love be free, to go on without me. You know that scene at the end of Beaches where Barbara Hershey is all dyin’ and Bette Midler sings a sad song ? It was kinda like that. I cried. Cambozola cried. A horse ran past.*

I try to eat my biggest meal at lunch time and something light at dinner. (This sucks by the way and means after you’ve slogged through your day at work and get home, the only thing to look forward to is half a saggy carrot and the thought that Elliot might take his shirt off on Law and Order SVU.) I am eating enough (I think), eating well, lots of vegies, bit of protein, no carbs or starch after 4pm. I try to mix it up a bit, make lots of different soups, have a market stall worth of vegies in the fridge and devote time to preparing my lunches before I go to bed. All good right?

Oh! What’s this?! Stephanie Alexander’s revised Cook’s Companion. I wonder if she has a recipe for, uh, like ‘Something Delicious with Negative Calories’, flick to the ‘s’ section, I wonder if.. S… Salads… no, that’s not it, scallions… not yet…. Scones…. Nope… wait. What? Scones? Ooooo. Scones. Hey! They’re just a teensy bit of flour and butter. That’s not so bad. Zip zip zip and an oven ding later and scones! I made scones! And they were DELICIOUS. So I made some more. That day. And THEY were delicious too! I ate them all. In lieu of sharing with Graeme I periodically let him smell my breath so he could imagine what they might have tasted like, should I have shared.

What’s worse is since the new healthy lifestyle implementation (incarnation 79), we don’t even have butter in the house, we have margarine. MARGARINE! Carcinogenic yellow spread. And I used a spatula to slather that shit on my scones and topped it all off with half a jar of organic raspberry jam (sweetened with apple juice so that is basically like eating lettuce) (fatty fatty lettuce).

The next day I felt HORRENDOUSLY GUILTY. All my hard work was gone in a puff of homemade fluffy scone. Obviously I went to the gym and jogged my way through 500 calories, figuring that meant there was only another 60 or 70 miles of jogging before I was even again. I got home, made some sort of chicken and salad concoction and sat down to see watch Law and Order (no shirts taken off, total bullshit). But then Graeme wandered in and said ‘oh, I might have one of these last two left over scones’ and I thought ‘well we have to get through them, and if we don’t do it tonight we’ll just do it tomorrow so I may as well have the other one’. So I did, and it was delicious… mostly. It just didn’t quite recapture the divine caloric ecstasy from the day before. Hmm. Disappointing…

…

SO I MADE MORE.

I’m a terrible terrible junkie. I’m wracked with guilt, delicious raspberry tinged guilt. I don’t want to be an idiot about it as I will doubtless continue to eat things that will not help me on my path to professional ballet, but I’m disappointed that I have so little self control. I’ve pared back the last two days to try to balance it out on a weekly scale, but that means I’m a bit lethargic and a bit hungry. Coupled with having to get up at 03:25am this morning to get to work before 4.30am, it’s all a bit much for the Princess of the World.

Anyway, I am off for a couple of days now so can reset the system, take a break and have some fun. Maybe if I’m good I’ll dress up in some lingerie, snuggle into bed and look at pictures of Cambozola on my lap top. Grrrr…. Saucy.

*Seriously, watch this link and remember how you used to cry through this movie and how jealous you were you weren’t the kid, aka Blossom. Do it. You’ll feel gross after but it’s pretty good during.

This is the description of the film Orlando Bloom is currently making. It is officially the greatest movie I am yet to see.

“…he is in Los Angeles shooting the film Sympathy For Delicious, in which he plays a recently paralysed DJ who develops the ability to heal people.”

Perfect.

Canada, please please please turn the tap off when you brush your teeth and drink the tap water while it lasts.

http://www.abc.net.au/news/events/bushfires/

Updated: I’ve saved a couple of amazing and horrific photos in a flickr album… They are from theage.com.au where there are hundreds more photos, each as shocking as the last.

Fire Photos

It seems strange to some folks here that so many people can die, why don’t they evacuate earlier?  Why stay to protect your house when you can replace it?  Without people implementing their own fire plans, installing sprinkler systems, clearing trees and scrub from near buildings, and helping to fight, the fires would be much worse.  There simply aren’t enough firefighters to save everyone’s houses and land and most houses are lost to embers, not to the big fire itself. Insurance is expensive, especially for some folks up in the bush so if they lose their house, they’ll have no money to replace it.

People protecting their house are a vital part of fighting fires, only this time it was too much for most.  The fire was just too big this time, too quick. Some of the survivors tell of the fire threat going from remote to on top of them in 15 minutes.  Just too quick.

Most firefighters are volunteer firefighters in Australia, locals who train and rehearse and train and rehearse and when the fire alarm rings in their community, they are the people on the front line.  Risking their life for their community, and rushing to other communities to help when they’re needed.  My thoughts are with these women and men who have given up their lives to help their community, and their neighbours.

This photo (also from theage.com.au) was taken by Wayne Hawkins.

Dear Thinnies.

Things I want you to tell me:

I have a fantastic bottle of 2002 Shiraz that I am much to thin and hungry to appreciate, shall I bring you a glass or would you prefer a straw?

Things I do not want to hear from you:

Oh god, I absolutely must make it to the gym soon. Sara, you’re so diligent! Good on you, god, I just absolutely have to get back there, get cracking and just do it. You know? I’m just so busy. You know? Fantastic. Good on you. Fantastic.

Fuck you.

So you’re thin and you don’t work out? Great. I’ll be sure to sucker punch your genetically gifted mom next time we meet. Furthermore?  You are thin already. I will consider it a personal affront if you decide to start going to the gym.  In fact if you are so inspired by me going to the gym that you get your bony yet contoured ass back there, I reserve the right to stab you in the face repeatedly so you have to move to the basement of an opera house and take organ lessons from your grandma.

If all you thinnies start getting your ass to the gym,you”ll become even thinner and thusly it will become a never ending circle of YOU BEING THINNER THAN ME.  It will keep spinning out of control until you are basically a ghost and I am the BIG FAT GHOST NEXT TO YOU. Selfish much?

So go on, just eat the pie and relax. Hey, LOST is probably on, chill out. You deserve it.

Quite frankly my friends, this should be all you need to know about Bulgaria. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2LTLEVC-sfQ

Today I learned something that NO-ONE SHOULD EVER HAVE TO KNOW ABOUT BULGARIA. I don’t mean to be racist, but fuck those guys… http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RZlodHgCipk (Also, I look a lot like him when I work out, a little more Britney on the iPod but pretty much the same thing.)

To give you some background, my absent trainer in this gym expedition is our pal Simon. I worked with him last year for a couple of months, as sort of barter for him living on our couch periodically over the last few years. He is a hideous horrible tyrant (picture below) and I hate his guts.

Simon has selfishly moved to South Korea to teach Simonglish (English with a personal touch). If all South Koreans that you meet from now on say ‘Amazing’ or ‘Wang’ at the end of every sentence, he is the reason. In his absence he’s set me a workout that will last four months, and then will send more via the intermanet. The routine is a body’s worth of weight training (12 exercises, 4 sets, 15 reps done in groups of 3) one day and then cardio the next.

Today was day 4 of be a supermodel, thusly it was weight day 2. I got up at 6 so I could have my latte and make my lunch and toddled off to the gym (surely my 15 minute amble to the gym is worth 100 grams of brie???)

I spend the first half hour wondering if anyone is looking at my double ass (where my knickers cut so firmly into the middle of my butt cheek that there are several tiers of cascading ass). I spent the next 15 minutes trying to simply stand on one leg and put a leg up on the bench behind me then when that didn’t work I rolled around on my tummy on a big red ball shouting ‘BACK EXTENSION! BACK EXTENSION!’ in lieu of whatever the fuck a back extension is supposed to be when you’re rolling around the gym on a stupid red ball.

I then had a little stretch, plucked my knickers from tier 3 back up to tier 2 of my ass and went and had a shower.

How hard can this work out thing be? I’ll be a supermodel by Thursday GUARANTEED.

I have many hobbies. I’m not good at tiresome things such as practicing or, like, actual participation though so most of these hobbies are strewn through my life like Canadian Tire money. Activities that have dotted my 29 years include swimming, tennis, juggling, stilt walking, magic, hockey, soccer, decoupage, pottery, papier mache, poetry, knitting (FUCKING DISASTER by the way), paper making, “sewing”, ukulele, saxophone, violin, singing lessons (see knitting), ceramic painting, jewellery making and so on.

So needless to say when it comes to having to do something for the REST OF MY LIFE, I struggle pretty hard to not tell that something to just. fuck. off.

For example, say, ah, say exercise?

I hate it. It’s hard and I hate it. It’s boring and I hate it. It’s stupid and I hate it. However, the consequence of this is fatness. Great, white fatness. I know I’m not the fattest ever (that role is provided by this little munchkin) but I’m no supermodel, let’s be honest. Well, I suppose I am kind of a supermodel, about three of them, all strapped together and lumpy.

I have a gym membership, that’s not the problem. I nearly always have a gym membership, I just don’t go. It’s boring, I told you, why don’t you listen?

With my work schedule what it is however, I’m not sure I can commit to a team sport that actually relies on me to show up (if only to fulfill gender requirements). Also, running and leaping and understanding the offside rule in front of other people sounds totally mortifying. So the gym it is!

But the gym sucks ass. It’s filled with anorexic marketing managers with highlights, 19 year old students in sweat pants that say something cute and endearing like ‘junk slut’ and men the size of stegosaurus with teeny tiny little pin heads.

Here is what I decided though… I don’t want to turn 40 and realize that I’ve spent the last decade feeling past my prime, unattractive and undesirable. I want my husband to keep thinking I’m gorgeous as my boobs continue their Long March to my knees. But I don’t JUST want my husband to think I’m hot, I want 22 year olds in black rimmed glasses and cardigans with Hugo Boss features to think I’m worth a shot. I want to get up at 3.30am to go to work, work my 10, 16, 20 hour shift and come home exhausted but okay and ready to do it again tomorrow. I want to be fit, I want to be able to run for my life if I need to. I want the 12 year old event management graduates with shitty French manicures to be intimidated because I’m not just fantastic at my job, I look GREAT. All of it, I want all of it.

I turn 29 this year. I’m young enough, I’m not moaning about that. I just don’t feel so great about myself. I don’t like my body anymore, and that’s a pretty big part of me (insert own joke here, I can’t do EVERYTHING for you). So I’m back to the gym. I’ve been going on and off for years, but I much prefer the months off due to busy-ness than the actual going bit, so I’m worried I’ll lose 5lbs in a few weeks and quit again til September.

As I lurched my fat ass down the treadmill yesterday, arms trailing behind me like useless tentacles, eyes bugging out and sweat spouting from my face like a geyser, I thought of something that might help me stick at it.

Public humiliation.

So internet. That’s where you come in. I’m updating my blog. I’m going to write about the hideousness that is the gym and the process of inching closer and closer to being a supermodel. Or ballerina. I haven’t decided yet.

I’ll try to update often. I’ll try to keep it funny. Read it, don’t (it’ll take a day or so to get the ol’ blogsies up and running, but I’ll let you know). But maybe those of you who do read it can help out when it really gets hard. Say hi. Say LOL or some other vaguely unfortunate acronym. Or not, I don’t mind. I just thought it might help keep me going, knowing that something entertaining at least was coming out of it.

But either way, here we go… wish me luck!