Just call me Mrs Turkey

We were meant to have a little Australia Day party tonight. I was going to dress up as Dame Edna, G was going to be Keith Urban (we were going to have the BEST hair). I wasted a good part of my day yesterday "sourcing" outfits. I had the Edna hair, the glasses, the feathers and the gladioli. I'd put together a play list that involved 9 hours of Australian music, really good music. We'd stocked up on supplies, made lamb pies, bought prawns, and fished the flags and decorations out of the back of the cupboard.

And then everything turned a little pear shaped.

It began yesterday. G had been complaining about not feeling well. I seem to remember hearing the words hot, dizzy and fever. And then, while attempting to change the toilet roll, he lost his balance and nearly wiped himself out on the towel rack.

That was when I stopped making jokes about Man Flu.

"Should I cancel the party?" I winced while I watched him clean up the blood from his forehead.

"I'll be fine tomorrow".

And then tomorrow came.

I went to wake up the boys and slid across the floor through something slimy and yellow. Before I could make enquiries a child provided the necessary information.

"I threw up"

Another child looked down and said in a surprised and somewhat excited tone.

"Oh - I thought that was wee!"

I found another child wrapped in her quilt on the playroom floor, her cheeks were pink, lips dry and her eyes were shadowed with dark circles.

"Go and hop in to bed with Dad - and tell him Mummy is going to cancel the party"

As I sat down at the computer to send out a message to my fellow Aussie celebrators, people who I knew were planning an evening dressed as Olivia Newton John, Merv Hughes and Dennis Lillee, I absentmindedly ran my hand under my arm.

There was a lump in my armpit.

Within the next 30 seconds, I had both breast removed, chemotherapy, was wearing a bandana and making videos for my children to keep as keepsakes.

And then I remembered I still had to take one child to school and pick up another from school camp.

I looked over at G who had just finished coughing up a lung. "There's a lump under my arm".

"Well - you better go straight to the doctors, like, now."

And then he returned to dying a slow but vocal death.

By the time I actually made it to the doctors surgery I was riddled with tumors. This lump under my arm must have been the explanation for my sore shoulder (even if it was a different arm) and that pain in my knee surely meant the disease had taken over my body. A nurse made her way in to the waiting room and looked in my direction.

"Ms Turkey?"

"Umm, no. My name is Kirsty - but you can call me Turkey if you like"

I gave a half hearted nervous laugh.

Her face remained blank. She didn't seem to find me funny. Okay, so my name was now Turkey.

When I saw the doctor we made some small talk. She was Egyptian, I was Australian. I had children, she had children. I liked living in Qatar, she liked living in Qatar, I showed her my breasts, she showed me......

She gave me a referral to the radiologist, marked it with an urgent stamp and on a separate piece of paper she wrote the name of another female doctor.

"There would usually be a wait of maybe two weeks but you need to go now. Ask to see her, I'm going to ring her now and tell her you are coming". Her conversation is sprinkled with "Yanni" "Inshallah" and "Halas".

I sat in the waiting room of the radiology centre thinking about lamb pies, children with soaring temperatures and where an appropriate location would be to arrive dressed as Dame Edna. I receive a text from G "Are you sure you don't want me to come and sit with you?"

"Ms Turkey?" another nurse appears.

Within minutes I was naked with a Nurse from the Philippines and a Doctor from Iraq. All three of us are looking at my breasts.

"You know usually I'd expect you to buy me a drink before we got to this stage" my nervous laugh returns.

Once again. Blank.

Sometimes language just doesn't translate. Particularly when it's a joke, and it's lame. When things begin to get serious we all understand each other perfectly well. We begin to speak the language of lumps in underarms and lymph glands. We speak of mammograms, cysts and growths, benign and malignant.

"There is nothing sinister Ms Turkey"

She shows me my lump, takes some measurements, explains why it's not sinister with words that make me screw up my nose, words like "fatty" and "abscess" and "cyst". And I feel like a very lucky Australian in Qatar. I tell them about the party, about Australia Day and how maybe I'll just have the party on my own. I giggle at the thought of me sitting alone dressed as Dame Edna with a bottle of bubbles in one hand and lamb chop in the other. The euphoria of my fatty cyst has me completely cracking myself up by this stage.

They stare at me blankly.

Stop talking and keep it simple.

"Thank you" I say. "Thank you so much. It is a big relief".

"Happy Australia Day" says my new Iraqi friend.

Happy Australia Day.

Arrivals or Departures?

Years ago,  a girlfriend of mine, confided that she often snuck off to the airport on weekends. She had no reason to go, it was purely for people watching. "I love that bit when you see people saying goodbye - I wonder where they're going and for how long. I just like to feel a part of their excitement. It makes me happy". I asked about the arrivals. "Yeah, that's okay - but the departures are more exciting".

I love the arrivals.

I've watched hundreds of people recognize the person they love as they've made their way off the plane. Hundreds of faces change from absent minded boredom to teary eyed nostalgia. It never gets old. It's that brief moment where every thing is forgotten. You've made it. You're back. You're here. We've missed you.

If you ever want to test out if Gin really shouldn't be drunk on a long haul flight - try landing in an unfamiliar airport and watching families re-unite while your own family is thousands of miles away. Unrealistic optimists such as myself always hang on to the hope that miraculously you will land in Malta/Singapore/Tripoli or Wherethehellisthatistan only to find a familiar face waving from the distance. Even though you know your Dad's at the bowls carnival in Berri, it's possible he may have found himself in Chicago on the same weekend as you. Right?

I know. I know.

Over the years I've installed a few mechanisms to cope with the disappointment. My favourite being the I'm going to pretend I'm a movie star entrance. That's the one where I make my way in to the arrivals hall and begin walking quickly to avoid the paps while wearing sunglasses. I usually wrap a pashmina around my neck for impact. Unfortunately the pile of baby vomit on my shoulder, Cherrios stuck to my bottom and broken travel stroller have blown my cover over the years. Not to mention the lack of paparazzi and the chicken little backpack hitting me in the back of the leg with each step.

My parents avoid airport departure lounges. They were there for the first one and it wasn't pretty. G and I had been married for a few weeks and he'd gone on ahead to Perth. It was time for me to join him. I was 30, it was just me and them. We hadn't lived in the same town for years but this was different, I was moving states. I think we all knew it was just the beginning. They said all the right things, but we all cried. I sobbed for about the first hour of the flight until I settled with just letting out little hiccup cries, you know the involuntary ones that come out of nowhere? Just when you thought you'd stopped crying - there it is again.

They came back to the departure lounge about 18 months later. The first little traveler was 11 days old and G and I were traveling back to Jakarta with more luggage than U2 travelled with on their last tour. My Dad was assigned the job of swinging the little traveler back and forth in her basket while we all told him how he could do it better. I could see him looking at all of her little features, wondering what she'd look like next time he saw her. My mother was looking at me, wondering if I was really alright, not wanting us to go. It was so much more than a goodbye.

We don't do departures now. We stick to arrivals.

My flight came in to Doha from Jakarta at 11.30 on Friday evening. I just presumed that G would have to stay home with the little travelers and I'd catch a taxi home. When I walked through the doors and in to the arrival hall I saw hundreds of faces looking back in my direction, it was noisy, bustling, people were holding signs. And then like something out of a movie, there was G, all 6 feet something of him, standing at the back of the crowd.

You've made it. You're back. You're here. We've missed you.

Lost in Translation

The little travelers all attended a French Immersion School during our time in Canada. This meant that by the time the eldest little traveler was in Grade 1 all classes were spoken in only French. Homework was excruciating for G and I, we were both non speakers and struggled to help out. By the time she hit Grade 3 we were well and truly out of our depth. We sat through quite a few school concerts bursting with pride while being completely clueless as to what was actually going on. As parents tend to do, we envisaged that this would all make sense when she arrive home at the age of 25 and told us about her new role as the Head of the United Nations.

When we moved to Houston, we returned to an English speaking environment but kept our fingers crossed that she'd retain some of what she'd learnt. Now that we're in Doha, she's back studying French as a subject and doing well. In our parent/teacher conference the French teacher made the observation that perhaps she was sometimes a little over confident in her memory. "She knows the words but it's remembering their order and sometimes she switches them around".

Anyone who's attempted learning a language can identify with this. A little bit of knowledge followed by a dollop of confidence can be a recipe for a large serve of embarrassment.

I went back to an old haunt today. An institution for expat women in Jakarta, a place on Kemang Raya called Mil and Mat that has been in Jakarta for years. No appointment needed, its a no fuss express pedicure, manicure haven. They also do the most amazing cream bath, which is kind of a deluxe hair wash followed by an extended head massage that makes its way to your shoulders. It is heaven.

Mil and Mat hasn't changed an inch. The tiny supermarket down the road is now a three story shopping centre but Mil and Mat has exactly the same decor, same sinks, same staff and dare I say it, the same magazines.  As I laid back at the basin to have my hair washed the very gorgeous Pon (yes, that was her name) smiled and said a few words that I recalled as "you have a lot of hair". I nodded in agreement and said "yes, yes, everyone says that".

She had actually told me I was very beautiful.

I am now dying with embarrassment. Can you imagine. You are very beautiful. Yes, that's right, yes I am very beautiful.

I didn't work it out until I was half way home and saw a sign for shampoo and realized I'd got the words for hair and beautiful a little mixed up. All I wanted to do was go back and tell her that no, I didn't think I was beautiful, not at all - I just thought I had a lot of hair.

G gave up on learning Bahasa Indonesia after we'd been living here for about a year. It was after we'd hit the streets looking for outdoor furniture. He instructed the driver, a man who took him to work every day and was fast becoming a friend, that he'd like to stop by the side of the road and purchase some small children. I can still picture the look of horror on both the driver's face and G's after I managed to interpret where it had all gone terribly wrong.

The sooner someone invents the language chip that we can just slot in behind our ears and magically communicate the better.


How about you? Ever been lost in translation?

Coffee and Cake.

I have a friend who lives in China. She's Scottish. Her husband is English and when her children want to really drive her mad, they tell they might be 51% English. If you thought the Americans were patriotic it's possible you're yet to hear a group of Scots break in to a rendition of Flower of Scotland.

We met in the lounge room of a British nurse who had set up a clinic for those in Jakarta with new babies. We'd arrive each week and weigh in our tiny little bundles. We'd always stop for a coffee and cake, discuss cracked nipples, sleep deprivation and where to buy nappies/diapers that didn't dissolve in your hand. My friend will tell you it was my shoes that she noticed first, they were hot pink. For me it was her wicked sense of humor. I listened in on her conversation with a friend and giggled from a distance. I decided right then and there that I was going to get to know her.

As time moved on we began seeing more and more of each other. We'd get together for a coffee and put the children on a mat on the floor surrounded by toys and then somehow the entire day would just disappear. Coffee would turn in to lunch and then I'd realize that G was going to beat me home from the office if I didn't leave.

It sounds so vacuous and Stepford wives when I write it down like that doesn't it?  Women sitting around having coffee and cake, imagine all the gossip, so many other productive things we could have been doing right? Well, not really. Those pesky children kept getting in the road of climbing Mount Krakatau and then there was the fact that we still needed to work out the logistics. Logistics like finding a doctor or finding out where to passport photos. We discussed doing MBA's through online Universities, where to find children's books in English and how to protect you and your family from getting dengue fever. Situations that happened with ease at home e.g. a simple trip to the hardware store could end up taking an entire day only to come home empty handed.

When I lived in Jakarta there was a group of about 10 of us that had babies within roughly 8 weeks of each other. I was neurotic, stark raving neurotic. I'd never looked after a baby and I was sure I was going to break the one I had. My disastrous thoughts ranged from her getting bitten by the wrong mosquito, needing an ambulance that would never find our house or getting swallowed by a passing python. All of these theories were highly improbable but I think I may have been on the verge of being a little post natal in that first year. I have a few people to thank for keeping me sane, people who made me laugh, shared their worries, their hospitality and their friendship. I like to think that it doesn't matter how often I see these people, they will always be my friends because we shared a time. A time that was incomparable to anything we'd done beforehand.

When it came time for us to leave Jakarta I remember driving away from my Scottish friend's house with tears streaming down my cheeks. I knew I'd see her again in KL, she would come and visit, but I wasn't sure if we would ever live in the same country again. This was nothing like my goodbyes with girlfriends in Australia. It's a bloody awful feeling, having a friend that you really adore but knowing your time is limited, that you'll never be able to just drop in casually for a cup of tea. It will always be timed, organized, people will be jet lagged and sleeping in a spare room. Children and partners will be around and then when it's all over it will end with a goodbye that stings.

I sat at a table with a group of women on Sunday night while connections were made and re-made. I looked in to the biggest blue eyes you've ever seen, eyes of a friend I made in Kuala Lumpur ten years ago. We waddled our way in to the same doctors surgery and quietly prayed that it was all going to work out. Her second little traveler is 3 weeks older than mine. We met again in Houston and now she's relocated to Jakarta. We talk about a mutual friend who has just moved to Paris and we both sigh, nod and smile. Another women at the end of the table mentions her friend who had just moved to Copenhagen, the story sounds familiar "Is she Australian?" I ask "I met her in Houston! I have her caramel cheesecake recipe - she's really good friends with my Scottish friend in China."

These are conversations I once listened to and thought were precocious - I now put them in the same basket as the conversations I hear in my home town "oh you remember Sally, she was Julie Smith's bridesmaid, she married Bob, they live out on the back road to Chowilla".

I went back to a restaurant today. I knew exactly what I wanted, it had to be Nasi Goreng. I've dreamt about going back to this restaurant for 10 years and today was the day. I sat in the sunshine and looked over to a table in the corner, it was empty but in my mind it was full. There were women with strollers, babies everywhere. My Scottish friend is giggling because her son won't conveniently go to sleep when the meal is served, she wraps his head in a muslin cloth and promises that she's not suffocating him, that this is the only way he will sleep. He falls asleep within minutes but we make sure we give her grief about her unconventional ways. The table is busy with chatter. We're asking each other questions "where did you find Avent bottles?" "Who was the specialist you saw in Singapore?"  "Did you hear about the demonstration yesterday?"

Every woman at that table is now in a different country, some went home, some moved on to the next location. Each had to pack up and restart again, find new friends and ask new questions.

It's not Stepford wives, it's not vacuous. It's healthy, it's survival and been going on for years. Don't discount it. Claim it. Celebrate it. It's a skill. Here's to you and all of the women at tables around the world.

When you're finished changing...

I desperately wanted to smell that smell again. Jakarta has it's own unique fragrance. In our travels I've never smelt anything quite like it anywhere else in the world. All cities have their own smells but Jakarta gets right up inside your nose. It makes it's way in to your hair and sits on your skin.  While I sat writing at my desk in Doha, transporting myself back to Asia was relatively easy when it came to feelings and emotions - but trying to explain the smells and the sounds was far more difficult. I really wanted to go back and write it all down.

I walked through the airport last night like a human hound. With a huge grin on my face I sniffed and I sniffed. I didn't care what I looked like. I grinned at the stranger next to me at the baggage carousel "it's exactly the same!" he gave me a disinterested half smile. Undeterred I said it again but with even more excitement "it's exactly the same!"

The airport tiles were still orange and the uniforms on the immigration officials were still brown. There were slight changes here and there. Different signs and new technology. I moved with ease, no hands to hold or Chicken Little backpacks to pick up and carry. I looked over at a mother traveling with two children, both of them were sitting quietly at her feet at the Immigration counter - they knew the drill. I thought of my own little travelers.

The very first time I came to Jakarta was in November 1999. I was 12 weeks pregnant with the first little traveler. It was a "look/see" visit, but it felt more like a covert operation - a big secret. I hadn't told anyone at the office that I was pregnant. I said G had work to do in Indonesia and I was going to tag along for a few days. I didn't mention the possibility of relocation. I knew that both pieces of information were going to signal the end of my career for a little while. It sounds dramatic, but both of these things were life changing for me.

It never occurred to me that it wasn't the end. It was just the beginning. All I could think about was what I was leaving behind.

I read familiar words on signs, words that I haven't said for years. Kecil, masuk, polisi, my spell check keeps trying to correct them on my phone. I buy a sim card and the man asks me if it's my first time in Jakarta "I used to live here..." my voice trails away as I think about our house, our friends, a moment in time. I think of faces that I will never see again and feel a sweeping wave of sadness.

I wonder how many times I've stood in this airport. Imagine if there was security footage? Imagine if you could just push rewind? If I could just see the snippets of G and I at departures and arrivals. What did we look like?

We brought our first baby to this airport, she was eleven days old. I was terrified. It was her vulnerability and perfection that frightened me. I was sure I would break her. We had to remove her clothes at the baggage carousel, she was screaming, red faced and sweating. The all in one was perfect when we left Adelaide in late May, but not so much in Jakarta. I'd only been in town for 20 minutes and it was already a disaster in my mind. My first failure as a traveling mother.

I was different then. I was way too hard on myself, too hard on others.

It's different now.

The tiles are still orange, the uniforms are still brown - but I'm not the same.



"When you're finished changing, you're finished".
Benjamin Franklin

It's not rocket science.

All four little faces spun in my direction at breakneck speed.

"WHAT?" said one.

"You can't!" said another

"Noooooooooooo" said the eldest little traveler.

"You're not allowed to go away" they chorused.

I was flattered, but a little bemused.

"Dad just went to London and no-one said a word? How come?"

"Because you're the Mum, because you're always here, we don't want you to go".

For the past week I've looked at our routine closely, thinking about what I might need to tell G. I mean it's not rocket science is it? You drop them to school at 8, you buy groceries, you try and find healthy snacks for school lunches and think of something interesting for dinner. You pick clothes up off the floor, remember to fill out consent forms and search for pictures of your child in winter clothing for the school project. You ring the orthodontist and drop the forgotten trombone in to school. You remind someone they have PE tomorrow and then remind them again in the morning when you see them putting on their sandals. You say "stop jumping on the couch" at an escalating pitch roughly 20 times. You listen to Trombone practice, clap at the end and then take a panadol or open a bottle of wine. You ask if they're trying out for soccer, hope they don't want to do cheerleading and bring a snack for the smallest traveller while you watch the others learn how to kick a ball and do the long jump.

It's not rocket science.

When she said she wanted to audition for the school play you were surprised but impressed with her courage. You heard her singing with the door closed while she practiced her lines. "Don't come to the audition" she said, "not even the other kids are allowed in - just wait in the car, I'll come find you". And then it comes, the feeling. Something's not right, she told you not to go but you're going to anyway because something's not right. While you hide around the corner you can see her through the window, she's smiling and giggling and talking to friends - but you can tell - you can see it - something's not right. She sees you and walks in your direction, her face is different, she hugs you and tells you it was fine, that it's over.

"Do you want to go outside?"

Her face crumbles.

"I couldn't do it, I got scared, I couldn't do it, I just walked on the stage and said I'd changed my mind" she's sobbing and you're looking for a place to sit. You listen, you try and ascertain if you need to gently push or hold back. You find a tissue. You smile. She smiles. You walk to her locker while talking, you tell her that it's your job to make sure she won't be disappointed later on. You talk about Granny and how she held your hand at the piano recital. You remind her about the swimming carnival, how you dived in and got out at the ladder because you were scared. You ask if she thinks she'll regret it. Shall we go back? She just wants to go home. You think about your other children. You hope they won't notice her flushed cheeks and say something stupid. After homework, dinner and bath time you sit on her bed while she tells you her plan. She'll help out this year, audition next year and she'll make sure she gets a role the year after.

It's not rocket science.

Because rocket science is all about mathematics, formulas and expected outcomes.

Every day this week, there has been an unexpected outcome. One of my children told me he hated me and threw himself on the ground because I didn't let him leave the house to play at 6 p.m. Another told me my chicken schnitzel was stupid. There was a conversation with a teacher, regarding someones behaviour that day at school. It's highly possible that person may have shared privileged information, like the underwear they were wearing! There was math homework that created a fully blown melt down. There was social studies homework that went missing. Philosophical conversations were had "I'll never be able to do this." "Why do they make me do this?" They expect an answer. An answer better than "because".

On Saturday morning I will leave for Jakarta for 5 days of uninterrupted writing. I will not drive to school, pack a snack, find a pair of soccer shorts at the back of the wardrobe or carry a musical instrument to the car. The beautiful G is in charge. And he'll be spectacular, because he always is when it comes to these things. He will provide better food, he won't be late, he'll follow the list and play by the rules and the teachers will all love him, he will be just fine.

It's not rocket science - it's a little bit more complicated.

The Facebook

Last week Facebook informed me that one of my "friends" was having a birthday. That friend was my father. We've been friends for awhile now, I guess our friendship really bloomed when he drove me home as a newborn from the hospital.

With his brand new iPad for Christmas, my father became the final member of my immediate family to enter the world of Facebook. Or as he refers to it "The Facebook". Occasionally I'll mention an event and he'll say "oh yes, your mother showed me the pictures on The Facebook".

He'll be using his iPad mostly to read the newspaper. For the past 50 years he's had a choice between the daily tabloid which is printed in a city 300 kms away and a twice weekly local newspaper. He will now move to a virtual explosion of icons and app subscriptions. In the palm of his hand will be hundreds of links to literally thousands of stories, newspapers from all over the world. As a bloke who has spent his entire life living in a rural community in South Australia, technology has made the world a shed load smaller. I can't imagine him ever giving up the local paper (I still read it myself) but I can definitely see some additions to his reading.

It was late 2005 when I signed up for Facebook, our relationship has changed a lot over the years. It began as a way of keeping in contact with friends on the other side of the world and sharing photos of the little travellers with my family. When I went back to work it was used as a recruiting tool, and then it became all about sharing and receiving information. What I enjoy the most about Facebook now is the links, the information that gets forwarded, the jokes that are made and the insight provided perhaps from a complete stranger. I can choose to ignore or choose to read, but it's my choice. In the past fifteen minutes I've read why I shouldn't text and walk, watched the worlds coolest flight attendant, and seen a picture of the fog in Beijing this morning - it was taken by a friend as she cycled with her children to school (I used it for this blog post).

For a traveller, social media can perhaps become a little bittersweet, while it's great to scroll through the photos of the wedding, the new nephew and a close up of the Sunday roast - it's another reminder of what you're missing. If you're a long term traveller though, you'll remember the days of waiting weeks for the next letter and gasping at the telephone bill after that drunken international call was made. If only you could remember what you said.

I remember making my way through the ABC store on each trip home, clunky video tapes were stuffed in to suitcases, we were desperate to hear a familiar accent and be able to contribute to the "have you seen it?" conversation on the next trip home. Now, for half the price, it's a matter of a download and we're watching Paper Giants, The Slap and Red Dog.

Can you remember waiting for 15 minutes for the pixels to download? Last week after watching my parents push their faces up against the screen while singing Happy Birthday on Skype, I felt an immediate urge to send Mr and Mrs Skype a thank you note. I wanted to explain what they'd given me when they came up with their marvelous invention.

Thanks to social media there have been times I've seen and read about events in Australia before my parents and friends have. Election results have arrived instantly, sporting events are streamed live and thanks to Mark Colvin, who I don't think ever sleeps, I'm provided with constant news links from his @colvinius twitter account. The Daily Beast, The New York Times, The Huffington Post and The Guardian provide constant information, and a neat little application called Flipboard has rolled it all in to one and made me the editor-in-chief of my own little social media magazine.

Facebook may not be for everyone, but perhaps like anything social we just need to our clique, my glass of bubbles is your vodka tonic. If Twitter and Facebook are not your thing it's possible you're like my husband who scoffs at the idea of time lines and status updates but makes a daily pilgrimage to Linked In. Or maybe you're like my girlfriend Penny who barely "switches her Facebook on" but is a regular on Words with friends. 

Whatever you're up to, there's no doubt that social media is here to stay.

Miss Representation - The Reality.

The first time I noticed Kim Flanagan, I noticed her jeans. They looked great and I wanted them. We were in Calgary. As I walked behind her in the school corridor I realized her son was on his way in to my daughters class - perfect - I could corner her at the school lockers.

We'd never met, we were both relatively new in town, we were both sleep deprived and we were both in those early years of parenting. My initial nervous "Umm, Hi, I love your jeans" conversation starter, turned in to an hour long chat in the car park. In that hour I fell in love with Kim's self deprecating humor and I made a friend for life.

We were both in baby and toddler mode, I was consumed with the Little Travelers and my days were spent negotiating nap times with grocery shopping, toddler music class and preschool pick ups. I was struggling to remember who the pre children Kirsty was, actually I was struggling to remember to shower and apply deodorant. I was tired, I felt stuck in a rut. There were days when G would leave for the office and I wanted to run after the car calling "take me with you - I want to go back to lunch and learns, conference calls and breakfast meetings". Instead I'd walk back inside and spoon weetbix in to someone's mouth while the Wiggles tried to wake up Jeff.

We'd both left careers behind, Kim was from a different city, I was a from a different country. We both had plans to return to work but worried about the logistics and the fact that we were beginning again, without any contacts.

Kim had a way of being able to pull an outfit together, not in a desperate housewives way, there was no big hair, high gloss nails or Jimmy Choos. Kim was groovy, she was comfortable, everything she wore seemed functional but cool - no Mum's jeans. Fashion was definitely her thing. I wasn't the only one who'd noticed.

Her own experience with being pregnant and emerging with a new body at the end of it, had got her thinking on how the process affects us as women. She wanted to start a website with a consulting business attached.

"Id love to start a site for woman to reclaim who they were. I want to give women permission to rock it, no matter the age, no matter the body. I'd love to inspire women to get their groove on, young or old, different body or the same body"

Can you see why I loved her?

Over time we both got to it. I went back to work, first part-time, then full time. She started to organize fashion events for women, real women. She went to people's houses and performed "closet interventions". She managed to be honest without being mean, people loved her. Then she got a gig on TV. The morning I switched on the television and saw a group of women from school acting as models on the breakfast show, I squealed out loud. Mothers from the 1st little travelers kindergarten class, even one of the grandmothers that worked in the tuck shop. They were all standing there while Kim talked about their outfits, everyone of them blushing while looking freaking fabulous. She'd done exactly what she said she was going to do.

It was Kim who pointed me in the direction of Miss Representation. She's having a screening on February 3rd in Calgary. I would so LOVE to be there. Sigh.

If we were to believe the rubbish we see on reality TV and tabloid magazines, Kim's business model should have never worked. You can't have middle aged sized 12 women on the telly? If you believe 90% of what you see in the mainstream media, Kim and I should have never have been friends. We should have had a cat fight by the third episode.




If you get a chance to watch it, let me know what you think.