Chuck Norris, a Paddle Pop and me.

NOTE: Just because since the birth of my second baby my blog posts have been very infrequent, doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing stuff. I have. It’s just a little kooky. But that’s what happens when you have sleep deprivation. Your brain starts melting in it’s own skull, kept alive only by a crying baby that needs you, and random fantasies.  The following is one such selection of fiction. I wasn’t under the influence of anything other than 1am, then 3.30am, then 5am wake-up calls.

Me: Hey there. Chuck. (looks down, laughs nervously)

Chuck: Hey. Whatcha got there?

Me: Uuhm this? It’s ahh. Well… it’s a Paddle Pop.

Chuck: A Paddle Pop?

Me: Yeah, it’s…. Well – it’s basically just ice cream. Chocolate ice cream. Well, technically choc banana, but on a little wooden stick.

Chuck: Oh right.  Yeah I know, I diffused a bomb with one of those one time.

Me: Really? Wow. Huh!

Chuck: Yeah. Yep.

Me: So would you like one? A Paddle Pop? It’s just that, well its hot today. I mean, I was hot before so I thought some icecream would cool me down. And you seem like you’re feeling a little hot.

Chuck: Yeah some stuff’s been pretty intense today.

Me: Really? What happened?

Chuck: Can’t talk about it. But I will say, I was NOT prepared to karate ass kick a bunch of terrorists before lunch.

Me: ….uh…..

Chuck: (continuing) I mean it was bad enough they blew up the hospital, good thing they called me in time or I never would’ve saved everyone. I was in a Cobra when I got the call so you know…

Me: (nodding as if I totally know)

Chuck: Let’s just say we broke air traffic regulations to make it in time.

Me: Right. (biting top lip) So you want a Paddle Pop?

Chuck: Nah. I’m good.

Me: I mean, I know it’s not like, a healthy…

Chuck: Hey. I never said nothin’.

Me: I just thought you might want to cool down.

Chuck: That’s why I carry this canteen filled with river water.

Me: Oh.

Chuck: Well, you seem like you’re enjoying it.

Me: Yeah.  It’s one of my fav….. Aaah. I have to suck it slowly like this because my teeth are really sensitive. I can’t just bite into it. I’ll get brain-freeze.

Chuck: Brain freeze?

Me: You know, like a cold headache.

Chuck: (looking away, as if distracted) I got a cold headache one time. A Neo-Nazi General was holding my face against the wheels of a tank that was driving on ice.

Me: Lucky you have that beard!

Chuck: Mmm. Maybe I’ll go wait in the F22 Raptor.

Me: Cool. I mean… Hey you wanna hear the joke on the Paddle Pop stick?

Chuck: Later sweetheart.


Sorry. And that.

I’ve been crap, haven’t I! Inconsistent blogging with months between them. I know. I’m a bad blogger. If I was a dog you’d be rubbing my nose into my computer screen. So anyway I’m sorry.

Well, as sorry as a self-indulgent mother of 2 in serious need of sleep and a facial with a broken washing machine and broken spirit, and a surprisingly well-in-tact superiority complex can be, anyway.

Not sure that anybody really cares that much. It’s not like my blogging saves lives or helps anyone, other than people who have insomnia.

You know, you random strangers out there that are so bored and wanting to be entertained because despite like a hundred new free TV channels there’s still crap on TV, so you’ll google “nice stylish boys lonely feeling sad” or “hairy condom sex” or ”Jennifer Lopez butt” or “Ryan Reynolds testicle tuck” and sadly somehow (I’m not kidding) you’ll see a link leading you to this site and go: Oh, this should amuse me for about three and a half minutes….

To those of you – I’m especially sorry. Oh and ahhh…. Also to all the celebrities who google their own name and see my 2 cents. Sorry to you too. Not for my 2 cents. But because I have soooo much more to give and I haven’t been. And for THAT I’m sorry to myself.

The kind of sorry that could apologise to an entire generation if it wanted to. Just by getting a bunch of people on a hill somewhere in Canberra and saying – I’m sorry, really slowly into a microphone and then printing it on a T-shirt and in the sky with a plane and that.

The kind of sorry that could round-house kick karate chop your arse, if it could be bothered getting off the couch… what leotard? I don’t know.

But anyway, my sorry would be wearing a sweat band Rambo style. And a red leotard with Swarovski crystals stitched into the bodice. And Christian Louboutin Mouskito Pumps in Black and Red. Because my sorry is AWESOME.

Anyway the consistent folk over at DarwinLife Magazine have this thing called a monthly deadline. So despite my absence here, I will be updating soon with Cyclone columns that appeared in June and July issues.

But for now, well you know.

Why Men Don’t Get It – Chapter 4: The Man Flu

You may have noticed I haven’t blogged for a week.  I’m a bad blogger. If I was a puppy you’d be rubbing my nose in it. If my blog is my baby, then fine. Call me a neglectful parent.  Call me a gamblerholic who’s left my blog locked in the car at the casino in 36 degree heat.

But look, sometimes stuff happens. Like vomit.

And sometimes other stuff happens, like headaches. And sore throats. And runny noses. And coughs. And aching, aching bodies.

It’s true. While the world has been turning, while the Socceroos have been struggling in SA, while troops in Afghanistan have been dying, and while deputy PM’s have been plotting to do some rug pulling, I’ve been sicker than Marilyn Manson with a nose bleed eating his own toenail clippings.

Yep, that’s pretty sick.

And wrong.

And that is how I’ve been feeling all week.  Hence the blog-less week that’s been.

Well there’s that, and the fact that I’ve had 4 extra people living at my house, including 2 children under the age of 2. That alone would render you almost useless to do much thinking… let alone sitting still for an hour to write.

There’s a reason they call getting sick Coming Down.  Coming down with the flu, or a cold, or a chest infection.  Because it’s as if your body has just been dumped and fired all on the same day. Your body is no good to anybody. Not even somebody, and especially not everybody.

Now when you’re a man and you feel like this, of course you remind every person you come into contact with during that ‘sick period’ that you are a futile human. Less of a man, and therefore, in need of much care and attention until once again your faculties are restored and you are made whole. 100% man once more, after which time you can recall to others your ‘sickness.’

And as you recount those days of horror, you remember what a brave soldier you were, suffering the way you did, and what manly ways you used to fight and destroy the sickness that bound you.

HOWEVER when you’re a woman – it’s not just a different story, it’s a different author from a library far, far away.

I’ll admit, I’m a bit of a drama queen when I’m feeling bad. “Puh Huh. Puh Huh…” That was me after a scorching case of sunburn / sunstroke. A shivering pathetic bright red mess.

So perhaps I’m not the best person to be noting the major differences between men and women when we’re sick.  Especially when you consider I’ve been on the verge of self diagnosing a severe case of The Man Flu.

But I haven’t. Not yet.

Now when you have the Man Flu, movement is impossible. You have to lie still like a vegetable, or you will never get better. You have to have tissues at your side, along with substantial water or juice in order to properly replenish the fluids you’re losing through the cold sweats.  You also have to have some form of pain relief – Panadol, Codral, etc… as well as some kind of lozenge if the throat area happens to be affected by the Man Flu as well. These are always located on the bed side table, or lounge arm chair – depending on where the man in question has decided to spend his debilitated and delicate state recovering. And all of these items have been delivered to the side of the suffering patient because they are incapable of doing anything for themselves beyond involuntary bodily functions.


The same symptoms experienced by a woman however, do not necessarily mean the same diagnosis. Man Flu is reserved for those who choose to suffer in NON-silence. It’s very serious. Those indisposed are extremely fragile. It is an illness reserved for those who can’t possibly leave the confines of the couch, let alone the house.

When a woman with similar symptoms is sick, it’s just called the flu. Or – in some cases where a woman is determined to keep on going – just a bit of a cold. Nothing serious.  A woman will still be able to prepare her own meals, make her own bed, go to work, wash her own dirty dishes, get herself a drink, drive herself to the chemist/doctors, and basically function as usual. Movement? Of course – movement is necessary for function.


So. I have tried DESPERATELY to convince my husband this last week that I may be coming down with the Man Flu. That I am barely able to function. But he’s not buying it. Yesterday morning when I lay in bed, in those last few precious moments before you get verticle, I told him I wished I could stay in bed all day.

“But you can’t. I need you to tidy up outside and water the plants today, and you need to get on the computer and fix up that traffic infringement, and – since you’re last out of bed today, do you think you could make the bed?”

(Yep, we make our bed every day and we both get annoyed if last one out hasn’t made it).

On the rare occasion that my husband has the Man Flu, asking him to fix his own toast and vegemite is like asking him to tint my eyelashes. It’s a ridiculous idea to be baulked at.

So? My response to his suggestion that I get outside and channel Jamie Durie?

“Sure, no worries. Let me just clean away the green snotty tissues, and locate my green thumb. Stat.”

Umm, No! Actually to me that was a ridiculous idea. RIDICULOUS! We had words, and his suggestion to my feeling average was: try going to bed earlier.


See men just don’t get it. When they are sick, they are bearing the diseases of the world on their manly shoulders. When we get sick, we should just go to bed earlier and surely we should be fine….  Because our threshold for pain is clearly higher, and despite pain, we are usually expected to get on with it.

And THAT is why women give birth – not men. Good grief – can you imagine????????????

Today I’m feeling better. I actually ate lunch. And look! I’m blogging again.

But until next time I’m sick – hopefully not for AGES, I’m on the prowl for a female doctor who writes medical certificates for women sufferers of The Man Flu. And perhaps a prescription to boot that reads:

“DO NOTHING. Sleep. Relax. Get a massage. And a facial if it helps. Avoid all home maintenance and cease all activities aimed at assisting the males in your direct environment. After one week, if you’re not feeling better, come back and see me for a repeat, otherwise leave a note where the male will find it saying: Annoying isn’t it???

Watch out fridge – I’m bored!

When thoughts of ‘What to do?’ become thoughts of ’What to eat…?’  I can almost predict that in a few weeks my jeans will be tight and I’ll be cursing myself for even venturing down the confectionary aisle at all.

Sometimes (usually times when I’m happy with my weight) I assure myself and others that my food issue days are over. That my relationship with food is on track and that we have put all of our differences aside forever and instead have become good friends: Respectful of each other, and kind to each other.

BUT! If any weight creeps on – and it only takes a couple of kilos – then I find myself facing all kinds of emotions I’d forgotten about: panic, fear, self doubt, self loathing…. and a severe hatred and obsession with food.

So in the last 2 weeks I’ve gained 2 kgs. No big deal. I can lose 2 kilos in 2 days if I really want. Can’t I? 

When I try to lose weight – I can’t. When I gain weight, I find it impossible to forget about food, because suddenly I’m panicking about every morsel that I put in my mouth.

But when I forget about food – that’s when I seem to maintain a healthy weight. And that’s why being busy is the best thing for me physically and mentally. Having nothing to use my brain for makes me resort to using my hands to feed my mouth instead.

Right now there’s plenty I could be doing. Washing, vacuuming, cleaning the bathrooms, sewing on buttons, making crafty things, baking banana bread…. BORING!

This doesn’t exercise my brain. Shopping! Now that’s good brain work. I think if I could shop all day every day I would never physically desire food. NEVER. Because all my urges for consumption would be being met in wonderful little shops that smell divine, where they wrap everything in tissue and put it in a lovely little bag.

Yes. Sadly, when I ‘m bored – I eat. Food fuels my body’s urge to commit to an activity. What to do? What to eat?

That fear and panic I mentioned… it’s already here. 2 kilos and I’m freaking out. Food seems so dangerous right now, in fact food is the antichrist and succumbing to its delights will only make me miserable.  Must. Practise. Will power…. Must. Resist. All. Food.

I can recognise how ridiculously unhealthy that statement is…. But they are some of the truest words I have ever typed.

This is partly why blogging has been better for me than a thirty minute a day walk. Every day I wonder… What to write about? What’s happening in the world? What sites will I visit? And as I wonder, I’m usually consuming a fairly healthy lunch, but Im not thinking about the lunch… I’m thinking about other stuff.

But today (as I’ve discovered happens occasionally) is one of those days I can’t get inspired. Hmmm, let’s see what’s making news? Sandra Bullock kissed Scarlett Johansson at MTV awards? Covered that yesterday. Adriana Xenides died? Sad but what is there to say….  The amazing and remarkable cleaning powers of Chucks Magic Eraser? Hmm, no. Paris Hilton launches her 10th fragrance? Yawn! Hmm. What will I write about? What can I eat?

So here I am writing about what to write about in an effort to keep a safe distance from the fridge door, where White Chocolate Tim Tams a jar of Nutella and Butterscotch Ice cream are waiting for me.


Absolutely, and that is why I have compiled the following list of the top 10 things to do when you’re bored and find yourself hankering for a mid-afternoon chocolate binge.  Please note, none of these activities require chores or female homeliness.

1. Start a children’s novel. I’ve read like 1,000 and think I could do an ok job.

2. Get onto You Tube and watch everything on Britney you can find: From all the wacko fans that wish her and Justin were still together and have made ridiculous tribute movies, to the wannabe Britney impersonators who have made home videos dancing in their underwear in their lounge rooms with their BFF (or worse – mum) recording.  You might still be bored, but you’ll be morbidly fascinated.

3. Get in your car and go shopping.

4. Go to your closet and try on the smallest, tightest fitting pair of jeans you have.  If the muffin top doesn’t keep you from scoffing half a pack of Tim Tams, nothing will.  If you don’t have small jeans, try on your wedding dress, or even just a formal gown. Preferably one that clings to your curves… no spanx allowed.

5. Write a list. Things to do. Things to buy. Things to clean. (You must not actually clean – just write about what needs cleaning), Things to fix. Or my personal favourite: Countries to visit when I’m 40.

6. Go through all your old photos of ex boyfriends. And – read the letters they sent you. This is great therapy. It reminds you of the following…

  • You were so dumb back then
  • You were such a bitch back then
  • You were so YOUNG and attractive and well rested back then
  • You had SUCH good times back then
  • Food was so insignificant back then because you were too busy having fun.

7. Re-organise your nail polishes. Decide which colours to chuck (anything resembling blue please?) and which to keep (red never goes out of fashion) then give yourself a little mani/pedi. I my case, this also involves plucking toe hairs out so as not to distract from the pretty colour.

8. Browse through the IKEA catalogue. That should take you through til dinner time when It’s ok to eat again.

9. Sit on the toilet and read a magazine. I MUST note that I don’t normally condone sitting on the toilet for anything other than toilet biz. In fact I don’t understand why men everywhere think this is a perfectly acceptable place to relax with a good read, other than the possibility that it’s comfortable for their nadgies given that they can hang freely over the bowl….. HOWEVER – reading on your couch may prompt a “Hmmm, a cup of tea would be nice. Tim Tam to go with it perhaps?” And before you know it the pack is almost empty. I highly doubt you will have the urge to eat or drink anything while sitting on the loo. If you do? You might want to see someone about that.

10. Make a phone call to someone you miss, who also lets you do all the talking. Sorry, but this means anyone with problems or issues is off the cards.  If you’re busy listening, then you might want to occupy your mouth.

And that’s it. Meanwhile, it’s almost been an hour since I started typing. That’s one whole hour I wasn’t tempted to visit the fridge. And now, I might take some of my own advice and participate in number 4, followed by number 10. Who will I call?

Perhaps a therapist, to discuss my severe issues and bad relationships with my body and with food.

Pass the airbrush… pleeease?

This morning while many of you were arriving at work, switching on your computer and taking a few sips of your morning coffee, I was arriving at a photographers studio trying desperately to switch on my “I’m Having Fun“ face, while taking a few gulps of confidence. (Metaphorically speaking only:  I WAS NOT drinking any mood altering substances, although I wish I had been).

Now that I have my own… I guess you would call it a column – in a magazine, the editor asked if they could use the image of me above to accompany the article. Unfortunately the photo isn’t high enough resolution – which meant two scary words. Photo. Shoot.

Shoot me is about right. Will you? Because this could not have been scheduled on a worse day. To really explain why, I’d have to tell you about yesterday and that is so not interesting so I won’t bother.

Let’s just say: it’s ideal if before a photo shoot you can get more than 5 hours sleep, locate your concealer, have your re-growth fixed at the hairdressers and maybe schedule in some botox.

If this opportunity had presented itself to me twenty years ago – hell even ten years ago, I would have been dancing about on cloud – like 99. The prospect of a photo shoot would have excited me beyond belief. But that’s just who I was.

Age is funny like that. It changes you into your mother. “Get that camera out of my face.” Because we know we don’t look like we used to. Glory days – be gone, and take gravity with you!

So the editor apparently instructed the photographer to exactly replicate the shot of me above. Here is the whole photo – uncropped.  See? I actually do have 2 eyes.


Trying to recreate a photo that was taken at about 2.30am in the morning in the middle of a pumping nightclub on the dance floor is harder than it might sound. The above photo was taken just over 3 years ago. It was at my hen’s night at The Cargo Bar in Sydney.  I had been shaking it like a Polaroid picture, and was taking some time out to dry off near one of those big industrial metal fans, when my sister in law said, “Cindy – “ and… SNAP. 

When I was trying to find a blog template for Cyclone Cindy – with an image that depicted wind or cyclones, all I found was some floating autumn leaves or a winter landscape with snow. Hardly cyclone worthy.  So a few days later when I was sorting my old photos into folders on the hard drive, I came across the above image and thought – wind in my hair, cyclone – cindy!

Back to this morning… I realised I’d need my hair out to recreate the photo, which meant I should probably wash it. And I was told nothing with too much shine for my makeup. Thankfully (although also not thankfully) it was a close up – so attire was irrelevant. Jeans. Thongs.

So while I’m applying my low-shine makeup it occurred to me that a mono-brow might not be the best look. Same with the Maria hair resting faintly over my lip line. (Oh the joys of having wog-blood). Tweezers – fixed. Bleach – can’t find it. Oh well, Maria it is.

Concealer….. Concealer? Where are you?

Crap. Maria with 5 hours sleep it is.

When I arrived, I met the photographer who was playing some Pat Benatar. Just the right amount of retro and cool. We Belong to the Night. Oh yes I do – so what am I doing here so early!

So we moved through to the studio where there were lots of lights and 2 big fans….of course – to get that hair of mine blowing. So you can imagine my surprise when the photographer pulls out a blower (you know those out-door machines that you blow leaves off your driveway with..) and starts telling me to drop my shoulders, look at him and smile!

If you’re not laughing – let me tell you. It was funny ok?

So round 1 of photos, I looked like I was holding in 3 litres of water and about to burst.

Round 2 was better.  Less “Where’s the loo?” and more “Pass the dutch.”  The extreme wind from the fans was making my eyes water – so I had that glazed look across my eye balls that says, “I’ve been rolling joints all morning, where’s the pancakes at?”

I’m very happy, relieved and a little bit proud to say that round 3 was a success. MAJOR KUDOS to Shane Eecen the photographer.   He really is super talented and had his subject been less strung out on arrival, he probably would have had time to do some airbrushing. (Although Shane if you’re reading this you’re probably thinking:  Wow, she seemed so fine. I’ve just become a master at keeping sleep deprivation and chaos to myself).

Never mind. It’s me.  It’s what I look like NOW. The image above is not what I look like anymore. Apparently. (I’m blaming my 18 month old and her countless sleepless nights). Finally, a special thanks to my husband who called me a silver fox as I walked out the door!

In need of a tweak

We all need an update from time to time. A little fixing up here, a slight adjustment over there….

So yesterday I had a million things running through my head (pretty busy day) and I think I got sidetracked with my blog on Oscar. I knew what I wanted to say, but I just found all those little facts on Oscar so interesting, they got in the way of my point.

So I’ve deleted a few bits and I think now it makes sense.

And now I’m off for a bit of a tweak myself. A facial and something I’ve not had done before – mirodermabrasion.

I’m tentatively wondering about that… I’m sure it will be beneficial. You can’t have 8 years of visiting a solarium, and then 3 years living in the Territory without the early stages of the Donatella Effect. (Donatella Versace – her skin resembles a 20 year old leather sandal that’s been left on the side of the road for a few years).

So without starting a new conversation with myself about plastic surgery and botox, let me just say that tweaking in my opinion is fine – face, body or blogg. If I could afford it, microdermabrasion wouldn’t be the only thing I’d be doing….

Short – are you really that sweet?

I’ve been considering the fact that my last blog was like an essay and there was probably a lot of dribble included. But you know – things I love tend to make me go on, and on, and on….

In fact, my cousin Danielle is always telling me when I’m relating an experience or story, “25 words or less Cind…”

But who invented that phrase “keep it short and sweet” because I never heard any of my university lecturers say, “Your essays need to be 5000 words, and sweet.”

I realised I’m not really a fan of many short things. Don’t like short stories, never seen a short film, short blacks – No (espresso is a much nicer word anyway), not into short men (except that 1 cute guy on skis at Thredbo whose talent and red ski suit attracted me more than his height), short hair (on me only) well we’ve all seen the ramifications of hairdressers who take liberal snips at my mane…. Defamation anyone? Even Martin Short gives me the jeebs.

So it seems I’m not a fan of short.

But I am going to do my best to keep my bloggs MUCH shorter in future, not only for your reading convenience (again I’m presuming someone is actually reading this waffle) but also for myself. There were a few cringe-worthy moments in my George & Me blog, and writers remorse is up there with buyers remorse. Taking something back after it’s been published is like taking back a dress with no tags. It’s harder.

SO short it is… Probably not less than 25 words, but shortER.