Road trippin’ solo

I’ve been on many a road trip. Driven all over the North Island of New Zealand with my family, set off on a cross-country adventure in a beat up old van whilst living and working in Canada, made the dash down to Lorne from Brisbane to volunteer at the Falls Festival and soaked up the sights of the countryside through the United Kingdom. Each an exciting adventure of new sites and experiences, sing-a-longs and the inevitable overdose of energy drinks, but none prepared me for the solo drive from Brisbane to Melbourne.

 Ok, not quite solo. Bruce was my road trip comrade on this particular journey. But as far as road trip buddies go, he wasn’t exactly lively. Positioned right up front with every bit of luxury in tow, he managed to sleep his way from Brisbane to Melbourne. Rousing only when he couldn’t get out of the sun, making sure I knew his discomfort with every exasperated snort and staring at me in pure shock when I belted out All Saints Never Ever word for word. Clearly impressed. And how is it I can remember all the lyrics of Never Ever like it ain’t nobody’s business, but can never remember to pay for parking through the cellopark app… :/? Needless to say we didn’t have many bonding sing-a-long moments.

I had planned the journey so I was only driving a maximum of five hours a day. I don’t enjoy driving at the best of times, so I thought the five-hour limit would eliminate the driving fatigue and also give me the opportunity to stop along the way and explore the east coast of Australia.  But phwoar five hours of driving by yourself is hard work. I have no idea how people do large stints by themselves. I had to have at least two energy drinks a day to make it to my accommodation. By the end of each day it would take all of my energy to finish off that last hour or two. Though the exquisite scenery of the east coast definitely made up for it. If only Bruce knew how to drive.

Never one to shy away from time by myself, I wasn’t concerned about doing the trip solo. I value my own time, probably a little too much and have always had an independent streak that is stubborn at best. However, there were a couple of moments on the trip where I cursed my independence and the fabulous idea to drive to Melbourne by myself.

The first was on the first night. Having left later than I originally intended, facing traffic and road works after road works, I found myself driving through the bush and up the winding road of a mountain late in the night. Scenes of Wolf Creek flashed through my mind as I gripped the steering wheel and checked for the millionth time that I’d locked the doors. Bruce stared at me with apprehension in his eyes, probably sensing my anxiety. Clocking a steady speed of 40ks and watching my arrival time delay further, I was less than impressed with this life decision… but I made it, without any Wolf Creek incident.

From there it was smooth sailing. Bruce and I were in a groove. He slept. I sang. We were merry. Part of that groove was to stop, fill up the car and check my tyres each day. Day three rolled around and we went about our ritual as I drove through a tiny town, Bruce supervising of course. I drove up to the air pressure machine thing (clearly I don’t have much understanding of car mechanics) and went to check the tyre pressure and pump them up. Apparently the air pressure machine (thing) was broken. Instead of pumping them up it was letting them down. This is where a sign would be of great assistance. Three attempts by the service attendant to get the machine working and I was wondering how ridiculous I would look if I whipped out a YouTube instruction video on how to change a tyre. Not to mention also cursing myself for not knowing basic car maintenance skills. This is one of those occasions where a boyfriend could be handy. Maybe. Luckily an old man came to help and put enough air in the tyre for me to drive to the petrol station up the road with a fully functional machine. Crises averted.

Despite these little hiccups, I highly recommend a solo road trip. There’s nothing quite like hitting the open road with your beloved pooch, to take time out from the daily grind and do some soul searching.

That time I embarked on a dating challenge

I’ve been a bit of a cynic when it comes to the world of online dating. Always quick to voice my feelings of loathing at the whole process. Then hypocritically ‘giving it another go’ six months later. Always with the excuse that this is how one dates in our modern-day world of technology. In the words of Pat Benatar – love is a battlefield. A battlefield of dick pics, inflated egos and a never-ending series of awkward first dates.

Yet at the end of 2017 I found myself staring down the barrel of questionable tinder profiles, as I embarked on a 52 dates in 52 weeks dating challenge. I know, seems a bit over the top from the girl who ‘loathes’ the whole process. But as I sat in Hanoi Airport with the post-holiday doom and gloom creeping into my spirit, I stumbled across an article with that very title, ’52 dates in 52 weeks’. As I read through I thought why the hell not? If anything, this would be some ripper blog content. I was coming off the back of a spectacular holiday and the thought of going back to my work and study existence seemed like a jail sentence. My move to Melbourne was four months away, so it was all a bit of fun.

As I unveiled my grand dating plans to friends many came back with, “What if you meet someone? Will you stay in Brisbane?” I scoffed back cockily, “Pfft, I’m moving to Melbourne. I won’t get attached.” And at that one obnoxious remark, the universe turned to his/her mate (as I like to visualise it) and said, “Hold my drink.”

It started off true to form. One date, which would never turn into a second. I think the pivotal moment being when I said the trick to dating is to have zero expectations. Go in there expecting nothing, or even less and you may be pleasantly surprised. He blinked back at me and said he had expectations. Whether romantic or physical, I wasn’t exactly sure, but he was looking at me with googley eyes like I was the answer to all his problems. When he asked to kiss me and I nervously fumbled out, “Umm, sure, on the cheek,” and turned my head as far around as someone possessed by a demon could, it was pretty clear I wasn’t keen. I had put rules in place to ensure I still treated people as people and with respect. Thou shalt not ghost was my commandment. And so, I let the guy down with a sorry it’s just not there for me, but we could be friends…? No response, as to be expected.

Date one down. Blog content banked for when I could grab a second to write it. And then I went on my second date with a Canadian guy who had been studying and living in Australia. That’s when the challenge stopped. Date one I was intrigued. Date two I was hooked and date three there was no turning back. Well played universe.

As clichéd as it sounds, meeting someone always happens when you least expect it. Apparently when you’re treating it as a big joke to blog about. Having not properly dated in years, I’d forgotten how exhilarating the process is. Getting to know someone and connecting with them. Everything is exciting and new and fun. You’re giddy with excitement at the thought of seeing them. I still kept telling friends that I wasn’t attached. But I was.

Melbourne was still a definite and when I finally revealed that little snippet of information three or so weeks into it, there was disappointment on both sides. A week later he told me he was moving back home. Unable to lock down a job after graduating, there was no real choice. And I was gutted.

Even though I always knew we’d be parting ways, it still hurt. Turns out having interstate moving plans doesn’t stop you from catching feels.

After a month and a half, it was all over. Over before it could even begin. I was more upset than I expected to be, which proved I was in deeper than I thought. It seemed like a cruel cosmic joke. Why would the universe place someone so amazing and special in my life to only take them away? Is it a lesson in letting go? Am I being taught that people can have an impact on you; regardless of the amount of time they’re in your life?

Two months on and I now look back on it with a smile. It’s still sad and I still miss him, which sounds a bit crazy, but why should we have rules on how we feel? The biggest thing I learnt out of the whole thing is to accept who I am. For years I’ve tried to be the ‘cool girl’, allowing the guy to dictate the parameters of the relationship to suit them. Even though I would want and need more. But I would rarely voice and set those boundaries, for fear of sounding needy or crazy. Which upon reflection is crazy in itself. It never ended well. I’m not a half in kind of girl. I’m not going to bother if I’m meh about you. What’s the point? Aren’t we here to connect with people? Why half arse it? I’m all in or not at all. A full bomb dive into a sea of feels with a reckless abandon. I may get hurt, but that’s ok. With happiness, there’s pain and love there’s loss. If you’re not experiencing these emotions are you truly living your life to its full capacity…

The things you keep

Over the past month or so I have been doing an aggressive cull through my stuff in anticipation of an interstate move. It’s a project I’ve decided to undertake in dribs and drabs for the pure fact that after 4 and a half years I have accumulated a lot of stuff. As I’ve scoured through cupboards, draws and every corner of my house, I’ve found myself questioning why people hold on to the things they do. Especially myself.

I confess I’m rather sentimental. Rather is a bit of an understatement. I’m sentimental as fuck. You could give me a completely inconsequential note that says ‘You rock my socks’ and if you mean something to me I’ll keep that bad boy until my very last breath. I still have said note from my senior years in high school and to this day it still means something to me. I’ve kept all manner of things over the years; a glass rose that was a gift from an ex-boyfriend that sits proudly on my book shelf, a coffee cup that says, ‘the other legend’ from a colleague and every book that was ever given to me. Every. Single. One. Because books are precious gems and it’s a heinous crime to get rid of them.

I found myself taking trips down memory lane I wasn’t expecting to take. What I thought would be a couple of hours for each cleaning stint, would generally end up being a day affair that opened up a Pandora’s box of emotions. Admittedly I’m already a tad emotional from the pending changes, but these little rendezvous with the past had me in such a state of nostalgia that I feel like my penchant for sentimentality has only increased.

I found artworks from my final year in high school I had completely forgotten about, which only fuels my desire to get re-acquainted with my creative self in 2018. Tears flowed when a poem beautifully crafted by a friend, honouring the passing of my childhood dog slid out from amongst the artwork and into my consciousness and heart once again. A collection of letters, presented in a book from friends when I went overseas to Canada, enough art supplies to start a small art class and a basket of photos spanning my entire life up until the event of Facebook all presented themselves as amazing little treasures that I could never bear to part with.

I know the intention of the cull was to lighten the load before the big move, and look, I honestly did. Goodbye ridiculous amounts of linens and clothes I never wear. I’m sure St Vinnies is very grateful for that haul. But these sentimental things I just can’t part with. They mark moments in time that I want to remember and treasure. And why shouldn’t I treasure them? Isn’t one’s life a collection of moments that make you you and your story unique? So why not hold onto the items that help you remember those extra special moments? The moments that bring a smile to your face and a sentimental tear to your eye.

The Perpetual Student

I’ve just had a moment. An epiphany has hit me, smack bang in the feels and I’m not sure how to process it. I have finished studying. For good. Finito.

I feel strange. There’s this weird mix of emotions bubbling up to the surface. I want to celebrate; belt out a tune at the top of my lungs like I’m Queen Bey and dance like the spirit of funk has possessed me. I want to laugh and cry and possibly scream. I want to engage with people and escape to the outside world. But most of all I want to collapse in a heap from the exhaustion. And Sleep. Sleep for days, weeks, months, possibly a solid year. Because most of all my whole being is just flat out exhausted.

It’s that exhaustion that seeps into your bones. My bones are tired. Is that even possible? But that is the best way to describe it. It feels like I’ve run back-to-back marathons and I’m dragging my dead weight over the finish line. Studying and working full time is not as easy when you’re 30. It seemed so much more bearable when I was in my early 20s completing my initial Bachelor’s Degree. Fast-forward five years and this type of workload is just crazy.

I went into 2017 with the mission to finish my Graphic Design course and that meant three trimesters of four subjects. Chuck in having to complete my RG146 Superannuation course (what a hoot), plus a demanding and tumultuous work life and I’m crawling into the holiday period.

So with that I say to you, my trusted friends, should I ever mention study, or you see my eyes twinkle at the words course, masters or graduate diploma; you have full permission to lock me in a padded room. I have clearly lost mind and I’m a danger to myself and everyone around me. Put me in a straitjacket and chuck me in the padded room until I’ve come to my senses.

The tastes of Ho Chi Minh City via Vespa

My first thought of Ho Chi Minh City upon arrival was chaos. The traffic is legit cray cray. There appears to be no rules or order. Apart from the order in the chaos. People ignore traffic lights and merge onto main road traffic without even a second glance. It's enough to set anyone into a conniption and that's not even taking into consideration being a pedestrian. Pedestrians have zero right of way and as one of our guides jokingly put it, "the best way to cross the road is to close your eyes and pray." Amen brother.

So that combined with my lack of coordination and certain tripping out of a tuk tuk incident, I had whole heartedly put to bed any possibility of getting on a Vespa. Especially not in Ho Chi Minh City. Turns out I should pay more attention to the tours I sign up to...

First night in Ho Chi Minh city and I find myself on the back of a Vespa. Cruising the chaos that is the streets of this great city, as we were taken to its hidden food gems.

Terrified is the best way to describe how I felt hopping on the back of that bad boy. I've never held onto a handle bar so tightly. Near miss after near miss saw my break foot go into over drive. Forever trying to find that familiar pedal. And every time our drivers started speaking to each other as we criss crossed through the city streets all I could think was 'eyes on the road Rhonda'.

As the tour progressed and a few beers had been drunk I started to relax. By the time we were heading to our main course I was loving it. No longer gripping the passenger handle bar for dear life, I experimented with some no hands action. Even getting game enough to take some photos and videos. I know, I live life on the edge - I'm a badass.

Vespas are hands down the best way to get around a city, and this food tour an unbelievably delicious journey discovering the top street food of Ho Chi Minh. There's nothing quite like having the wind in your hair and weaving through traffic like you're in the fast and the furious. Mind you when you get stuck in backed up traffic at a red light the heat is unbelievable. But I guess you can't have it all.

The guide teaches you all the tricks of the trade when eating these foods. Showing you how to add flavour by simply adding this herb leaf or that herb leaf and which ones go together to give your tastebuds their own little party. I cannot recommend it enough. Not to mention every stop includes a drink and you're introduced to the locals top nightlife spots, including live music at a swanky little bar and a band performing in a pub. Such good times.

We bonded with our fellow tour patrons over our love of our dogs. Turns out fur children is a global thing. Everyone talks fur child. Renay and I then mistakenly thought to be in a relationship as we tried to explain that we both have a dog of our own and our tour guide proclaimed we share two dogs together. I guess we didn't do ourselves any favours when we signed their 10 year anniversary Vespa with our new combined ‘celebrity couple' nickname Rendice... we think we're funny..

Moral of the story: vespas are fun - get on them, Vietnamese food is amazing and don't give you and your travel buddy a weird 'celebrity couple' nickname - it confuses people.

Full moon yoga on a Cambodian rooftop

Anyone close to me knows that yoga is my life force. After 8 years of practice (give or take) it's my go to for everything. If I'm sad I go to my mat to honour and acknowledge that emotion. If I'm happy I go to my mat. If I'm grieving, frustrated, angry, fearful, jealous, whatever it may be I go to my mat. It never fixes these perceived 'negative' emotions to happy, it acknowledges and honours them and allows them to just be. Yoga is a constant source of grounding as I embark on the up and down roller coaster that is life.

As I've deepened my practice my connection to my surroundings and nature and how that relates to my emotions have only intensified. I always feel at piece on a hike. Even when I was a child I relished in the lushness of a forests undergrowth and the noises of its inhabitants calling to each other. The beach I can go without its the rugged wilderness I love.

This past year I've picked up more and more on our connection to the moon. Whenever there is a full moon I've noticed my emotions become completely chaotic. There have been days when I've felt like the fire of emotion burning inside is about ready to flip tables and burn some shit to the ground. On those days I question whether I've finally cracked it. What the hell is going on with me? I feel beyond cray! And for the past few months as I've had that thought I've driven over a hill on the way home from work and low and behold there's the full moon burning bright in the nights sky. And those chaotic emotions suddenly make sense.

In a strange turn of events I have found myself on a yoga retreat this past week, undertaking a detox of the mind program. Of course a full moon just so happened to be taking place on my third night there. The first full moon following August's solar Eclipse. Coincidence? I don't think so. I know you're probably reading this and thinking wow Candice has actually flipped a switch. Her brain has boiled in the humidity and she thinks she's on some sort of spiritual journey where she worships the moon. Maybe I have and maybe I am :P

Naturally being at a retreat based on meditation and yoga they held a full moon yoga practice. Initially I thought it was a full moon meditation practice, so I rocked up in my swimmers and poolside dress, ready for the floating meditation I thought I was engaging in... as we moved through the yoga sequence and paired up for partner yoga I realised my choice of clothing was probably not one of my greatest ideas. But I let that go and trusted that the universe meant for that to happen.

What struck me throughout this practice undertaken on a rooftop in Siem Reap, one of the most spiritual places you could be, is that everyone speaks yoga. All different nationalities from Australian to American, British and the French, Brazilian, Asian and of course the local Cambodians, had joined together that night to connect mind and body through movement under the spectacular full moon. We moved in unison through the beginning sequence and shared sweat, laughs and growth in the partner practice. I'm not good at letting strangers into my personal bubble. Hell I'm not good at letting loved ones into my bubble, so to be partnered with someone I didn't know and attempt these poses was really huge for me. Massively huge - and I loved it.

The almost 3 hour yoga and meditation went by without any concept of time. There were no phones or technology as distractions. It was just people from all walks of life connecting through yoga under the full moon. Something undoubtedly beautiful and an experience I won't forget.

Namaste

Angkor Temples #angkorwat #cambodia

Getting lost in the ruins of Angkor

Clumsily sliding my way out of the car as I arrived at the Angkor Wat temples, I was not fully prepared for the sheer size, magnificence and grandeur that this archaeological site encompassed. Angkor Wat was a 'must do' whilst in Cambodia, but if I'm honest I really didn't know the magnitude of it. I knew it was the worlds largest religious monument, but you don't really understand that until you see it. And when you see Angkor as a collective with all its endless temples, monuments, hydraulic structures, carvings, architecture and layout that demonstrates the social order of how this civilisation lived up to almost 1,000 years ago... well your mind is nothing short of blown!

One of the most important archaeological sites in SE Asia it stretches over 400km2. You could get lost in there for days as you explore this mega city that flourished from the 9th to the 15th century under the Khmer reign.

My tour started through the back entrance of Angkor Wat. Possibly to build up the momentum to that pinnacle moment when I would turn around and see Angkor Wat in all its glory and my tour guide would proclaim, "behold the temples of Angkor Wat!" Or possibly because tourist traffic was considerably lighter this way. I suspect the latter.

The size of it is astonishing. And the detail. Oh the detail. The carvings are breathtaking and you can't help but be in awe of the craftsmanship that is still on display today, transcending lifetimes.

Angkor Wat itself was built from 1113 until 1150 when King Suryavarman died. It was never completed. Future kings built more temples further developing this capital city of mass proportions. It is thought to have had a population of close to a million at its peak. As my guide put it, in comparison at that time London had a population of 300,000.

Made of sandstone, it's amazing this city was created during a time when machinery wasn't at hand. The stone was shipped down the river some 50kms away and like all ancient civilisations the structures were built by slaves.

As you're guided through Angkor, which I highly recommend you spend the money on a guide to explain the structures and history, the social structures of the city become evident as well. Broken down into high, mid and low classes, various areas were designated to each. Not only that, there's the remnants of the hydraulic structures (basins, dykes, reservoirs and canals) that supported the city. You can also see the changes in architectural design as you move through the temples. Mostly influenced by Hindu, but there is some Buddhist influence there too. The  only disappointing thing is the number of statues that have been removed by thieves over the years and the damage done in wars. There are still bullets left in the walls. 

Although Angkor Wat is undoubtedly beyond words magnificent, my favourite temple was Ta Prohm. You may recognise it in Tomb Raider. I'm a sucker for overgrown ancient sites, where the trees have worked their way into the man made formations and taken back what is theirs. Not to mention it's also substantially cooler walking around that site. The Bayon Temple comes a close second. There's just something about it.

That Age-Old Question...

To get a boob job, or not to get a boob job?

I’m sure many women have asked themselves this very question. Not surprising given the amount of focus and pressure that is put on our bodies. The unrealistic expectations of how we should and shouldn’t look are drilled into us, whichever way we turn. But that’s another blog post.

It’s a question that has plagued my psyche for the better part of a decade. Ever since I googled ‘when do your boobs stop growing’ and realised my race had been run and I hadn’t achieved the gains I’d hoped for.

Since that fateful day, I have been as indecisive as Sian on the Bachelor, flip flopping back and forth constantly. I was a hell yes in the lead up to my 30th birthday, figuring being a fully-fledged adult warranted treating myself to some adult boobs… #amiright? But then nana died and the thought evaporated from my mind, no longer seeming like a legitimate want to entertain.

That was until I found myself sans bra after a yoga class, doing the mad dash to Big W (aka Big Dub) at 7.30 in the morning. The rate at which I forget my underwear when I do yoga in the mornings is pretty concerning. What’s even more questionable is the amount of active wear I pack for my lunchtime gym classes. That day I had three sports bras, two pairs of gym undies, two gym shirts, one pair of tights, another pair of shorts and four pairs of socks, enough workout attire to dress an entire gym class. But could I remember to pack a bra? Nope.

You see every time this little phenomenon happens. I’m faced with that all too familiar question, will they or won’t they stock my bra size? It’s like the deal or no deal game show for the cup size challenged. Trawling through the racks, my frustration grew with each passing taunting cup size. Reaching my limit, I wanted nothing more than to throw the bras on the floor in a fit of rage. Being the respectful lady I am I didn’t. But I wanted to. In my mind, I’m a badass gangsta. Instead I resolved that the universe might be trying to tell me something. Something along the lines of – ‘yo need a boob job gurlfrand’.

That day was spent in one of my three sports bras. And we all know how flattering sports bras are... #winning.

I’m an A cup at best. A 12A to be completely honest. A small cup size with wider ribs is a hard combination to cater for. Sometimes I can push a 10B if I tighten the straps to keep these lil’ puppies from jumping around. Not that they jump much. I’d call it more of a tiny bop, or a slight head nod. They’re great for running! There was a period that I tried to convince myself I was a solid B. But you can’t lie to yourself forever. At some point you need to accept yourself for who you are and live your truth.

Don’t get me wrong. I like my boobs. They’re a solid handful… ok ok I’m referring to my hands and my hands are small, but I’ll take what I can get. It’d just be nice to properly fill a bra. Experience having cleavage for once. Feel a bit more in proportion with the rest of my body. Hell, even just feel like a woman with real curves and shit.

It’s probably a question I’ll continue to dwell on. The internal argument never ends; do I spend $10k on boobs, or $10k on an overseas trip? Do I just invest in some Victoria Secret’s bras that gives the impression of boobs? Falsely advertising myself and my ‘assets’, and punk a future dating prospect if you get my drift? ;) Imagine the lols!

All I want is some acceptance of my size from the retail sector. Going bra shopping shouldn’t be such a painful ordeal each and every time. I’m just a girl, standing in the lingerie section, asking for the store to cater for my cup size.

The Power of a Regular Yoga Flow

When I first dipped my toe into the steaming waters of hot yoga a friend asked if I was trying to tighten my vagina. That reason hadn’t crossed my mind being 22 and sans children, but hey our maturity levels weren’t high back then. I was just hitting up the latest fad to be thin and achieve that ‘yoga physique’. Eight years on and I can ‘hand on heart’ swear that I can’t live without my regular practice. 

I come to the mat at least four to five times a week. My addiction is to the point where I have been known to get a little yangry when I have skipped a class. To those not in the know, that’s a little something I coined to explain the drastic disparity in my mood when I haven’t done yoga. It is my opportunity to take time out, connect with myself, my breath and work through anything that’s going on in my life.

Admittedly I haven’t been practicing consistently throughout the eight years. I have had a year break here, another six months there, but in the end that 30-degree room and some almost impossible poses have suckered me right back in.

At first it was just for aesthetic benefits, to look a certain way. Then it progressed to wanting to be the best. I’ve always been somewhat competitive, albeit quietly, but as I deepened my practice and the connection to my body and mind grew, I learnt to take the ego out of it and let go of that competitiveness. Then it became my life source.

Yoga has been such a powerful therapy tool for me. No matter what has been going on I have made time for yoga. It didn’t matter if I was up until all hours of the morning, dealing with the fall out of another drunken spiral of my ex. Or juggling full time work and study like a mother fucking crazy person. I’m pretty sure I’d have been committed by now without it. I have benefited more from my practice than any psychiatrist I have seen. That could partly be because I’m introverted and internally process my emotions, but I’m not going to argue with the system. It works.

Other forms of exercise have never quite matched the therapeutic benefits that yoga offers. I run to sweat out the stress of the day and do gym classes to strengthen my body. But yoga. Yoga I do to connect, accept and let go. You can’t run from anything when you’re on the mat. And you certainly can’t run from yourself. Yoga teaches you how to breathe and how to be present. It teaches you about acceptance and honouring the journey. Accepting that each day is different and each yoga class unique. Some days you may have the balance to get into dancers pose or the strength to nail a crow and other days not so much. One day you have the stamina to go through the whole class without coming down into child’s pose and the next child’s pose is your new bestie and you’re meeting on the reg. Instead of being frustrated you learn to accept. You learn to take the ego out of your practice and just be. You learn that the transition into these poses is just as important if not more so than the poses themselves. Much like life’s journey. That’s some nek level deep shit right there for y’all.

So get amongst it peeps. If you’ve been thinking about giving it a whirl get involved. If you haven’t you should probs reassess your priorities. And if my hippy like rant has put you off, I can tell you from a physical perspective that my core strength is outstanding. I leave all other gym class participants eating my dust in any and all ab circuits. All thanks to yoga. It’s a win win.

Namaste!

Surviving a Brisbane Summer

I’ve been holding off on doing this post because I didn’t want to jinx the arrival of winter. There was a cool change a little while ago that I cockily donned trackies for, only to rip them off five minutes later. For my arrogance, summer reignited its fury and cursed me with 30 degree temperatures the following few days. Just to let me know who’s boss. No, I’m not going to make that mistake again.  You’ve got to be ‘the Citadel releasing a white raven to announce winter has come’ sure before you write a post about a Brisbane summer. There you have it folks I’ve been reading way too much GoT! 

As this post will allude to, I am not built for summer. The pommy genes run deep and I am not equipped to handle the heat.  Kudos to those who are, my hat goes off to you. I have friends who relish the sky rocketing temperatures and suffocating humidity. Lapping it up like a lizard on the road. You do that champ, Imma bunker down in my man made igloo until winter returns. But for those people who have never lived through a Brisbane summer and whose standard response to my endless complaints is, “I enjoy the heat.” I say to you, “Fuck off mate.”

A Brisbane summer is unrelenting.  It isn’t a heat wave that lasts for a few days. It’s literally you being four months deep, swimming in a pool of your own sweat,  trying to gather up enough strength to complete everyday tasks. There is zero level of comfort. Just sweat and rage invoking heat.

This past summer we were mid-heat wave when the weatherman announced another heat wave on the way.  How can you have a heat wave on top of a heat wave?  Is there an unprecedented amount of bad people in Brisbane that Jebus  has no choice but to open the gates of hell on our tiny forgotten city? 

During summer my hot yoga classes were a cool relief compared to the outside world. That’s some nek level kind of wrong. How people can argue global warming is beyond me. I realise doing hot yoga before work probably didn’t help with my heat issues. The fact I couldn’t get dressed in the studio after my shower, without dripping in sweat moments later was probs a sign I should approach my mornings differently.  As was my ninja level skills trying to get dressed in the car so I could be in the comfort of some intense aircon blasting. Ain’t nobody or no season gonna mess with my yoga routine. 

To top off the lack of comfort and constant sweatiness, I embody a solid case of hage. Heat rage. It’s a thing. I possibly birthed it. Probably birthed it. But it is most definitely a legitimate emotion, and so help anyone who gets in the way of it. I feel particularly sorry for past boyfriends that have copped the hage in full swing. If you value your manhood do not even look at me sideways. If it’s still 37 degrees at 9pm and you even consider touching me I will dismember you. That came across rather violent, I’m generally a somewhat level headed person... I swear.

The writing is clearly on the wall here. I’m living in the wrong city.  If we’re really being honest, probably the wrong country. But there is always a silver lining. A Brisbane winter is a truly wonderful time of year. Even if it is for all of two weeks :P.

Dear Nana

Dear nana,

I’m not a particularly religious person, but there’s no doubt in my mind that the world lost an angel the day you passed away. I am yet to meet a more pure and kind soul and to be honest I don’t think I ever will.

My love and adoration for my New Zealand family, particularly you, cannot be stressed enough. I was always a big bundle of excitement when I knew we would all be reunited and would cry for days and days when the trip came to an end. I adored you more than I think you ever knew. But lets be honest everyone adored you.

It was so easy to love you and I always wanted to be in your company. You’re a true representation of what a sweet loving nana should be. In fact I think if you looked up sweet loving nana in the dictionary Phyllis Hilda Humphreys would be written there in the description. A picture would accompany it with your hair freshly done in that purple dye you loved so much and your best jewels on display.

You had this unique way of making me feel so special and loved. Right in that moment, whatever we were doing, there was nowhere else you would rather be. You would give me your undivided attention, no distractions, for hours on end.

Whenever we came to visit, no matter the time, you would be awake and waiting for us to pull into the driveway. Standing in the window to welcome us back to the family home we all grew up in.  And you would do the same when we left, waving us a tear filled goodbye. It’s these little things that meant so much to me.

Over the years you have influenced me greatly and set the foundations for who I am today. You gave each one of us grandkids our first set of wheels in the form of a tricycle, spurring our independence. You engrained into Brittany and I a great love and appreciation of books. Our letters ignited my love of writing. My favourite flower is a rose because you grew the most amazing roses I have ever seen or smelt. My favourite breakfast is poached eggs on toast because you always made it for me. My favourite games will forever be go fish, memory and dominos after our marathon game sessions. It’s all of these little moments with you like picking roses in the garden or enjoying a sneaky glass of baileys together that I treasure the most. You taught me to appreciate the little things in life, especially those shared with the people I love and I’m truly thankful for that.

When I found myself overwhelmed by life I always ran to you. You were my safe place, a haven to refocus, clear my mind and re-energise my soul. It was during this time that I got to know more and more about the woman you were and the life you led. We talked for hours about your family and childhood, living in London and through the war, your time in the NAAFI and starting a new life in New Zealand. These stories captivated me and are some of my most treasured memories. You were an amazing woman who witnessed so much during your 91 years. You had such great strength, determination, independence and unwavering grace. The kindness you showed everyone around you was truly inspirational. If I become half the woman you were I will be happy.

Ageing is such a cruel process. I hated watching your body fail you and see you in such pain. I could see in your eyes how much it pained you to not be able to do the things you used to be able to do. I’m glad there is no more pain and you are in peace. Wherever you are now, I hope you are doing the things you always loved; tending to your garden or reading your books and are finally getting Granddad to make you that well-deserved cup of tea.

I know that I am truly blessed to have had you in my life for the past 30 years and your spirit will live on in the stories I tell my children and their children. Stories about the amazing, courageous and beautiful woman who I was lucky enough to call nana. And when it’s my time to leave this world, I look forward to turning up that driveway to be reunited with my beloved nana. Where you will no doubt be standing in the window waiting for me.

Love you always and forever,

Candice

Confessions of a Bookholic

My love of books is widely known. It’s a love affair that spans 30 years and grows stronger with each novel I devour. 

These stories have taken me on endless adventures. I have laughed and cried with the characters, empathising with their highest highs and lowest lows. There’s been magic (oh how I love magic) and good triumphing over evil, love stories and heartache and of course the harsh realities of life.  But most importantly they offer me that escape to another world and an expansive realm of possibilities. What will this story entail and how will it impact my life?  Each book will impact you in some way, however small - I am adamant of that.

They have always had a calming effect over me.  To just be surrounded by them in a library or bookstore can bring my anxiety levels down a fair few notches. When I’m shopping and have reached peak frustrations at not being able to find anything that fits properly or looks good and my quota for shopping centre crowds is spent, I find the nearest bookstore. Roaming the aisles of books and the smell of paperbacks is my equivalent to meditation. Pure bliss. #notweird

At any opportunity my head is in a book. On the way to work during my morning commute, down time at lunch, before I go to sleep, lazy Sunday mornings. You name it I’ll find a way to work in some reading. I’ve even been known to read whilst on my afternoon walk, oblivious to the trail of chaos left in my wake.

Life goal?  Why my own home library, of course! I’m talking Beauty and the Beast style. Ceiling to floor books with one of those ladders that glides along the shelves, fireplace in the centre and lavish couches to read my days away. I am well on my way to that dream and have more books than I can hope to read in the immediate future. Hell, in the medium future. Yet I continue to add to my home library like it’s 1999 and the Y2K bug is about to hit. Lifeline Bookfest you say?  I’m there, trolley in tow. Nowadays I have to set myself a strict budget, timeframe and book limit so I don’t go into a book trance and buy all of the books.  Because I will and let’s be honest, I won’t be sorry about it.

On a recent trip to New Zealand, I inherited my nanas books. When I say inherit, it was more me arguing that taking her books to the tip was a cardinal sin and we’d all be damned to eternal literary hell. Where no one knows the difference between there, their and they’re!! Oh good lord! I offered to take what I could home and donate the rest to the New Zealand version of the salvos. If I had my way and the luggage capacity, I would be taking all of the books!

I suspect my love of books was strongly influenced by ol’ Phyllis Humphreys. Rummaging through her library I quickly discovered she has a penchant for war and crime books. Not necessarily my go-to genres, but every time I pick them up I feel like a piece of her is with me. I’ll be reading the pages she once read, getting lost in the stories that she once escaped to and because of that these books have catapulted to my most prized possessions 

In the end I smuggled 28kgs of novels back to Australia. Spread amongst three suitcases and a carry on that was definitely way more than the 7kg limit, customs were none the wiser.  I have a problem – I’m a bookaholic.

Menial tasks and my sense of achievement

There’s something about completing menial tasks that really makes me feel like I’m succeeding in life and on the road to greatness. I become acutely aware that I’m adulting well beyond my usual capabilities and that in itself is exhilarating. Like when I’ve finished mowing the lawn and it’s pretty much the equivalent to me landing on the moon or winning an Oscar. “I’d like to thank my parents for my introduction to gardening at such a young age and Bunnings for the mower.”

On Sunday after a lengthy internal argument I finally got my shit together and cleaned my car. I hate cleaning my car, more so than I hate mowing, and I avoid it like the plague. However, I could no longer get away with driving it in the state that it was in. Full disclosure, and no judgement please, but I can’t quite pin point the last time I gave it a solid clean. I know it was pre strep throat and glandular fever diagnoses, which was around mid 2016. So we’re looking within the last six to nine months. #notideal.

Having parked it under a particularly unrelenting tree for more days than I care to admit (because, you know, I like to make sure something is absolutely not a good life choice for me without a smidge of a doubt) my car resembled some mutant creature from the depths of the Brisbane River.

This task was not for the faint hearted, but as I dusted, vacuumed, washed and buffed my car back to its former glory, the feelings of accomplishment began to wash over me, spreading like bush fire through my veins. Look at all I have achieved and would achieve as a world of opportunities and possibilities began to open up to me!

I ran inside at that point, took one look at Bruce and declared with such manic motivation, “Bruce, it’s bath time!” I was basically Oprah with suds. You get a bath, you get a bath, everyone gets a bath!  I also had one too, I wasn’t missing out on that clean buzz.

Now as I bask in my clean car glory and stroke the soft, fluffy curls of my beloved pooch, I can’t help but notice the little fire in my belly.  Greatness is coming.  Or at the very least I may wash my car more on the reg.

Awkward Family Photos

There comes a moment for every family when a professional family portrait becomes a novel idea. A right of passage if you will.  Are you even a family if you haven’t had at least one shoot done?   

They’re generally awkward enough with the uncomfortable positions and the almost pointless endeavor to look natural while you smile.  Add kooky outfits and strange settings and you have a recipe for peak awkwardness. There’s even a Facebook page dedicated to them called Awkward Family Photos.

A few years ago, we embarked on a second family photo shoot, a good 15 years plus from our original and authentic family picnic setting. Having never been on a picnic I thought that backdrop was a tad misleading. A BBQ was and still is much more our style. For this shoot mum opted for a bush setting, no picnic baskets in sight.

The shoot began harmless enough. Standing on logs, climbing trees, jumping across creeks, your normal family photo shoot stuff. The different combinations were taken; all four of us, mum and dad, mum and I, dad and my brother you know the drill. When it came to my brother and I something felt a bit off.  I’d been sensing a weird vibe from the photographer for a while. As he painfully tried to instruct me on how to drape myself around a tree trunk, with my brother around the other side he said, “Candice now if you could gaze adoringly into Jarrad’s eyes.” Sorry what? Come again? This isn’t Flower’s in the Attic man.  My head whipped around to snap back, “Um that’s weird, we’re brother and sister.”

He thought we were couple. Not ideal for a family portrait, but both awkward and hilarious all the same. Not to mention a bad reflection of his observation skills. My brother and I look very much alike. I think if I cut my hair short (thinned it a little – sorry brah), grew a couple of feet and bulked up we’d be twins. There’s no questioning we’re related. He ain’t no brother from another mother, we come from the same stock. Any taunting I did as a kid trying to convince him he was adopted would never fly, we were/are too similar.

We’ve just come off the back of shoot number tree. Third time lucky huh?  I kid mum, all the shoots turned out well! But this time I made sure everyone was clear on who was who. No creepy gazing into my brother’s eyes for me.  

Cleaning out my closet

This year marks my 30th birthday.  Some find that impending milestone somewhat intimidating and altogether overwhelming, but not me!  I’m legit thrilled to enter my 30s.   

I’m not quite sure what it is about 30 that ignites an almost giddy level of excitement. Perhaps it’s the allure of possibilities and the beginning of a new chapter. Maybe a desire to close the door on my turbulent 20s, with its high highs and low lows and jump headfirst into my 30s, with more of an awareness of myself and what I want out of life.  All I know is I’m keen to get there.

In preparation for this monumental moment, I’ve been steadily cleansing my chakras by undergoing a serious declutter of my life.  It started with the gloriousness that was kerbside pickup. Followed by an uninhibited deep clean of the house that saw me washing walls and windows and dusting skirting boards like my life depended on it.  Clearly the clean freak gene from mum’s side of the family is significantly etched into my being.  And for the past two weekends I have undergone a nek level cull of my closet.

One can’t really expect to tackle their 30s, when they’re still hoarding clothes from their late teens and early 20s… sista it’s time to let that shit go.

And let it go I did.  What I found in the depths of my closet was sheer terror.  What on earth was I thinking with some of these outfits?  Was I drunk? High?  Did someone put a gun to my head and say, “Buy the flanno hoodie dress, b*tch!” Admittedly that little treasure was in a bag from a previous cull that hasn’t quite made it out from under the house… However I still owned a … FLANNO… HOODIE… DRESS… #icanteven

The bags filled up rapidly as the cull went on. Out went the four pairs of denim shorts that were really just minimal bits of material. You know the ones; the low riders that sat below your hips and were as short as they could possibly be? Yeh you know ladies, you bought them too! I really don’t know how I fit into those bad boys and all I could think was, “Gurrrl you a hoe.”

So many items that I only wore once got the flick.  Two bright pink dresses and a bright yellow skirt that I can only presume I bought for safety reasons.  So my friends could find me if I ever got lost..?? Not to mention the sky high heels that I have now deemed a significant trip hazard and too dangerous to wear.

I then came to the Sheike dress that I was hoping to keep. The problem I find with Sheike is they don’t really cater to ladies with a smaller (almost non-existent) bosom. Their clothing literally makes a mockery out of the smaller cup boobs, and I’m an A cup… at best. Take this dress for instance, in the top half you could literally fit everything in the kitchen including the kitchen sink, there is that much room, but the bottom half is so tight that walking, sitting or movement of any sort is unadvisable.  The message I’m picking up here is that I need a boob job and liposuction on my butt and thighs #cheersmate. Culled for the pure reason of making me feel shitty.

Including the bags from my two previous culls, I have an impressive 16 bags of clothes and shoes to donate.  Currently they’re living in my boot and lets be honest are probably going to stay there for a wee while.  Hey, progress is progress no matter how small.  

Oh Hey 2017, I Almost Didn’t See You There

It feels like I blinked and all of a sudden it was 2017.  Where did 2016 go?  It couldn’t have gone quicker according to my newsfeed. So while everyone was saying good riddance to the ‘abysmal year that was 2016’, I’ve decided to take a different tact (albeit a tad late). Honouring the significant moments 2016 brought to my life that I am grateful for.

My family and friends alive and in one piece

Halfway through 2016 my dad had a minor heart attack.  I blogged about it in the post ‘Facing Your Parents Mortality’, but at that point we thought it was just an angina.  A few more tests revealed a much more severe and life-threatening state of affairs. Within days he was undergoing quintuple bypass surgery to clear all of the major arteries that led to his heart.  

Without a doubt it was one of the most unsettling and challenging moments of the year, not to mention my life. It’s also a moment that overwhelmed me with love and appreciation for my family and gave me a deep sense of pride for my dad. The change in him was almost instant and the way he has turned his life around since is nothing short of inspirational. We were so lucky that it was discovered when it was, and for that I’m deeply thankful.

The resilience of my dog

Just before Christmas, Bruce my beloved pooch had his run in with a toad that almost cost him his life (see A Dog, Toad and the Longest Road).  Coupled with end of year exhaustion, this event floored me. I don’t think I was prepared for the emotions that bubbled over during that period of uncertainty. However, they were quickly surpassed by immense feelings of elation and gratitude when he pulled through.  And why shouldn’t he?  This is the dog I have seen devour anything and everything that he deems edible, without so much as a belly rumble.  He’s ripped through fly screens and leapt from two-story buildings, bouncing back to wait for me on the front porch. It’s going to take a lot more than an evil toad to kill Bruce’s spirit.

Spending Quality Time With Moi

For the first few months of 2016 I was dating purely for the sake of dating. Trying to fulfill some preconceived notion that dating is what I should be doing seeing as I’m single and almost 30. To say I hated it is an understatement. Forcing an introverted person into awkward situations with people she doesn’t really know is absolutely NOT a recipe for romance.  Add the element of expectation of will this or won’t this go anywhere, hanging over the date like thick black smog, and the Queen of Awkward comes out in full force.

So I tapped out.  Deleted those horrid dating apps and decided to do my own thang. Spend quality time with friends, family and myself, with the emphasis being on myself. Set some life goals, discover my true calling – you know all that self-development stuff. Ok maybe not that extreme, but it gave me the opportunity to reflect on my previous relationship and work through a lot of the emotions I’d locked up in that cupboard in the back of my mind.  And if I’m being completely honest, I shouldn’t have been dating in the first place when all of that was still jumbled up in my head.

It was also about being happy to be alone and content in my own company. Boy oh boy do I enjoy my own company.  Don’t get me wrong I love spending time with friends and family, but I find taking time out to have some quality time with myself really does wonders for the soul.  This isn’t a new concept for me, but something I reconnected with in 2016 and am pretty chuffed I did.

These were really the three pivotal things for me in 2016 that enriched my life in some way and made me feel grateful for what I have.  For 2017 I have opted to not make any New Years resolutions and instead set one simple intention (that’s the inner yogi in me #sorrynotsorry) and that is to not let fear rule my life.  Sometimes I’m a profound motherfucker.