Dear John (Cusack)

I've seen the headlines while standing at the checkout in the supermarket. The villain, the cheat. What was he thinking? Brad and Jennifer, Sandra and Jesse, Reese and Ryan. And now, I can't believe I'm saying this, its John and Kirsty (or Jorsty) as the press commonly refers to us.

Yes, I'm as shocked as you are. 

Some of you may remember the beginning of "Jorsty" back in October when I wrote this. That was back when John found me witty, entertaining and a scary stalker delightfully entertaining woman. I imagine he sat at home and gently slapped his thigh, chuckling while shaking his head "oh that Kirsty, so witty, so entertaining, how I wish she wasn't with G, 4 kids, 20 suitcases and that rascal of a beagle"

It's fair to say, John and I tweeted on different levels. He with pictures of himself dressed as Edgar Allan Poe, pictures of him front row or backstage at concerts, pictures of him taking pictures. He shared his politics, his concerns.

My tweets obviously had a similar depth, when discussing all words beginning with "V" with  this very funny man, I found myself giggling along at my own hilarity. Of course there are some obvious words that begin with V, and as I have the sense of humour of an 8 year old I tweeted this:

@shamozal

Kirsty Rice

@SquigglyRick A vegan vagina.......now there's a thought....."sorry, my vagina's vegan" #mostpoliteknockbackever

27 Jan via TweetDeck Favorite Reply Delete

I didn't realize it at the time, but that was the day John and I broke up. 

I'm not sure if it was the instigator, it may have been the conversation that followed about swim up bars, drinks with umbrellas and me in a hot tub (without a time machine) wearing a burqini. That was when John decided following 85 people was way too many, he had to drop it back to 63.

@johncusack

John Cusack

i un followed a bunch for no real reason but to follow some new people--will refollow after i do what ever i do next-- there is a logic here

27 Jan via web Favorite Retweet Reply

Ahem, "a bunch" and "no real reason".  Just excuse me for a moment while I pick up my self esteem up off the floor (it's just next to my copy of 2012).

It's been tough answering the questions from the paparazzi.

"Have you asked John to return the life sized salt and pepper shakers of G and yourself?". 

"You bet I have". 

"How hard will you fight for the custody of the beagle?"

" What beagle?". 

"Has it affected how you feel about Twitter?" 

"Never, it was a discovery of pure Serendipity."

Hi, my name's Kirsty and I'm a...................

The Qatar Professional Women's Network became desperate, they needed a speaker, and after scraping the bottom of the barrel, up I popped, in a sparkly top with jazz hands, okay so I had a sparkly top, but my jazz hands didn't make an appearance (it was a dry event).

It was one of those great Doha nights, a sea of headscarfs, suits, saris and abayas. Thank you for smiling and giggling at the right spots, apologies to those who had a mascara malfunction.

I've been asked if I would post the talk I gave that evening, which provides me with a "cut and paste" opportunity, and being Australia Day....it is a holiday. Right?

Here it is:

Thank you for the introduction:

When I started thinking about what I was going to say tonight (which may have been this morning) I typed “thank you for the introduction” and that was about as far as I got.....but as my mind began to wander I went back and read the sentence again, "thank you for the introduction".

Have you ever thought about how you introduce yourself?

Or how many times you've had to introduce yourself throughout your life?

As a child it starts at school. My name's Kirsty will you be my friend? My name's Kirsty will you play with me? As a teenager, the terrifying my name's Kirsty, would you like to go to the movies with me? Remember waiting to see if the guy you considered as “your boyfriend” was going to his introduce you as “his girlfriend”. During your College or University years it was my name's Kirsty, and I'll be your waitress this evening, your barmaid, and then finally after a big night out (for those of us who enjoy a drink), after waking up in the morning................ my name's Kirsty and I'm an alcoholic.

When I think of others introducing me, I immediately think of family, "Hi, I'm Lizzie's Mum" or  "I'm Greg's wife".  My mother, still to this day, will remind and introduce me to people as “this is our baby”.

When I was in my Twenties I started my career in Human Resources with an International firm called Kelly Services, or simply KELLY. I became "Kirsty from Kelly". It's quite hard to say that a lot, Kirsty from Kelly. Each time I picked up the phone “Kelly Services, this is Kirsty” Or "Hi, I'm Kirsty, from Kelly". It was worse for a couple of the girls I worked with though, particularly Shelly. Shelly from Kelly, always got a giggle. But the surprise favourite was Jenny, in our open plan office, there was nothing better than hearing a tongue tied Jenny, mix her words up and become Jelly from Kelly. Hi Jelly.

As my career progressed with Kelly, the job title was thrown in as well. I was this our “Account Manger Kirsty” and then when I thought I'd really hit the big time I was “our Major Account Manager Kirsty”.

BUT, what happens when it all disappears? What happens when we suddenly become just Kirsty.

There are all sorts of women in the room tonight. We have women who have relocated on their own, for their own career. Women who have relocated solely for their partner's career, leaving a career behind, hoping they can piece something together when they get here. We also have local women who have watched Qatar amplify and thrive, transforming into an International city. 

All of us have something in common. We are all surrounded by foreigners, and with that, actions that are foreign to us.

When I entered what was a very foreign expat world to me, I was 6 months pregnant and had left a career, that I loved. On arriving in Jakarta I knew the decision made financial sense, I knew that we were about to have an experience of a lifetime, but I still felt a little lost. I was jobless, friendless, homeless and really FAT. None of these things, will build your self esteem.

Every single one of you who has relocated, has been through a similar process. We've all had to attend that dreaded introductory coffee morning or company function. Usually you arrive late because you've managed to get lost, you're looking disheveled and out of breath because you've run to make up time. You're possibly living out of a suitcase and discovered you've packed none of the right clothes. You can't find your favourite brown eyeliner. You're in need of a good haircut, because you didn't quite manage one in the rush of packing up at your previous location. Then you find yourself approaching a table full of strangers who are all mid conversation.

For me, that's when for the first time, in a long time, I became "just Kirsty".

It's the opportunity we all get given when we relocate. We get a fresh start. Many of us mourn the loss of the life we left behind, but some of us are blissfully happy to say goodbye to it.

Some of us do it with ease, some struggle for months trying to find our niche, others can be floating along for years and then suddenly realize that they're not really sure how they got there.

I learnt in a very tragic and disturbing way, that I had to keep sight of what was right for me as an expat and as a woman. I had to be happy with my introduction.

The company my husband and I had previously traveled with, has an incredibly huge and helpful spouses association, I believe its one of the largest in the world. Through this association I met a woman, a German woman who had been married for around 20 years. I would have said we were acquaintances more than friends, we were at different stages of our lives but we ran in to each other often at the usual venues.

After meeting in Jakarta, we then, by coincidence, ended up then living in KL at the same time. When I met her there, I noticed the change in her immediately, she was drinking heavily, she'd lost weight. She was a different person.

A few months later, on a trip to her home country she received a phone call from her husband, he told her he was relocating, but she wasn't. He wanted a divorce.

She immediately hopped on a plane, she wanted to talk to him face to face. She arrived at their apartment in KL and found his girlfriend. A woman he had met in Indonesia, he had been having an affair for some time. It was the typical cliché, she was half his age.

She left the apartment, devastated, but she came back later on her own.

Their apartment was located directly across from the office, there were people working in the office that day who knew the woman, they watched first with interest and then with horror, as she put on her eye mask, inserted her ear plugs and jumped to her death from their highrise apartment.

I guess she couldn't imagine an introduction that didn't involve him. She didn't know who she was if she wasn't with him.

The impact of her death on the expat community was initially huge. The news seemed harder on the younger women. Conversations like “I'm not going to follow my husband around for 20 years only to be traded up or discarded for a newer model” were had. Couples asked to be relocated home.

A lot of the older women saw it simply as the tragedy that it was. They had the wisdom and the experience to see just what an idiot the husband was.

I was shellshocked, it wasn't that I ever felt like the situation could happen to me, but I wondered how I was going to keep a little piece of myself. I seemed to be perpetually pregnant or breastfeeding and my career was a distant memory. Meanwhile my husband's career was skyrocketing. I wondered if I was ever going to get back to work?

For the next few years I did what a lot of traveling women or women at home do. I avoided the question of “what do you do” at dinner parties. I despised those horrible forms at the airport that asked you to fill in your occupation. I refused to write “housewife” and “home duties”.

So, I started making things up, we've all done it. If I was feeling arty I decided the dance last night at the kitchen table qualified me as a “dancer” There's the other ones, the more serious Mummy ones, Life coach, Domestic Engineer, Parent rights advocate. My husband would learn over my should to see who I was going to turn into each flight, lover was his favourite, castrator had him cautiously handing me the butter knife.

After a few more moves and a few more children, I found myself in a position to go back to the office, firstly part-time which quickly turned in to full time. My life changed drastically to early morning meetings and high speed chases to make it to school concerts and field trips. I guiltily hopped on flights, hoping that cough wasn't going to need a doctors appointment. I traveled at least once a week. I didn't need to make up anything for the airport forms, I had my title back, I had my business card.

If I hadn't have been walking around in a guilt ridden sleep deprived haze, life would have been perfect.

After 2 years of the balancing act of managing 4 children and a full time job, I realized something had to go. I was going to have to sell 2 or maybe 3 of our children........unfortunately that was wasn't going to work, I needed a solution.

But of course, for all expats, the solution for every problem is the same. Just wait long enough and you'll be relocated. Sure enough, a move came and I had to resign. The result was a much more relaxed Kirsty and a Kirsty that knew that her career would always be there, although the 8 til 6 at the office wasn't going to work right at that point in my life, there would be a time when it would. And for the first time in a long time, I relaxed and enjoyed the present and stopped worrying about the future. I was very happy with being “just Kirsty”.

Having worked in the business of HR, I know that women have a higher emotional intelligence than men. It's a proven an indisputable fact. Having a higher emotional intelligence often means that women are far better managers, socially it means, what we as women have known for years.

We make much better friends. 

There's nothing like a really good girlfriend.

This being the case, it is our job as women to USE this emotional intelligence. Particularly in the expat world, it is not only our job, but it's our responsibility to look out for each other. I'd like to think that if I met the German woman now, I'd be a bit more useful.

It is a “career” on it's own to pack up a house and start a new life in a new country. Particularly if it's your job to find the supermarket, the insurance office, the school, the friends (and the good quality cheap handbags). If you're at a stage of your life that you can also fit in a job outside the home, you then have the added stress of the job, the new boss and the new rules and regulations. Finding the balance is something we as women, struggle with on a daily basis.

My new career as a writer, allows me to have that balance. It took me 11 years to find it. If I had to introduce myself, to me, now, I think I'd have some advice. Just relax, it's okay to just be you. Just enjoy the ride. 

I'm six and I'm examining my options.

Photographer Angie Hill - son Braxton

This evening at the dinner table our second Little Traveler was telling a story with genuine empathy and concern. In a hushed voice and a very serious tone she shared her story with the other little travelers. As they leaned in closer she told them about the little girl who was "death".  She had been "death" since she was a baby. I asked if she meant she couldn't hear? "Yes" she answered with great graveness and sincerity, "she's death". 

The moment took me back in time to a dinner table in Canada. Our first little traveler was seven and had spent the entire afternoon with a group of Little People who had arrived at the school for an educational visit. During their presentation the Little People had explained they didn't like the term Midget or Dwarf, both terms were seen as inappropriate. After a small presentation, the rest of the afternoon was spent playing basketball and talking. The children loved it, it was a great success.

Over the dinner table, our very excited first Little Traveler began telling us about the experience, "it was great Mum, we played basketball and we watched a movie, they were so funny....and Mum just make sure you don't call them Little People because they don't like it" she told us. I was a bit confused. I was a big fan of a cable TV show called "Little People Big World" and I was pretty sure it was the correct term. Our first Little Traveler was adamant, she wasn't going to be told, and in the best authoritative tone she could muster she said "Mum, they want you to call them Dawbs, please, just call them Dawbs".

Conversations like these remind you that children are children, they don't often hear every piece of the message. Changing the language, in their eyes, just doesn't make any sense. Why can't I call out across the room to ask the man where his other leg is? Why can't I tell that lady she looks funny with a beard? 

Although, when it comes to language, if you have school aged children, you may have noticed the language has changed. The modern child can quite often sound like they've just left the boardroom.

In grade one, our third Little Traveler is already making "smart choices" for everything, and when he's not doing that he's "examining his options". I suggested a DVD  for my 4 year old and was told "I don't think that's appropriate for me, I just don't think I'm ready for that". What an incredibly clever way of saying I think that DVD is really boring and I don't want to watch it. When choosing her Science project our first little traveler looks for the most "exciting experience", I wonder when it changed from the easiest one that was going to get you the best grade?

My personal favourite came from a recent Skype conversation with Aunty Suzie.

When Aunty Suzie asked our first little traveler if she had read the Hobbit as yet the reply was "no, my favourite genre is realistic fiction". Favourite genre?  I thought back to when I was her age, I wonder what genre Dot and the Kangaroo fell into?  

It appears though that this language can only work in a controlled environment. By the end of the day, when the Little Travelers are getting tired and begin walking in to the walls, the old favourites come out "you're not the boss of me", "did not, you did" and "I'll fart in your face". 

Any of these sound familiar?

She done good with those pies.

It all started with a picture of my lamb pies. I'd spent the morning baking with the children and was feeling very proud of my culinary achievements. If you had seen some of my previous cooking efforts you'd understand why. Perhaps I was overly excited when I decided to share my lamb pies with the world on Facebook, but I was very, VERY proud of my pies.

Complimentary comments drifted in, a few people "liked" my pies, a few comments like "yummy" and "delicious" popped up, my Aunt Jacqui was even kind enough to ask for the recipe. I was glowing in both the heat of my baking trays and my Facebook adulation.

Then it happened.

A friend, a sweet, doe eyed Scottish mother of adult children, wrote what I imagine she thought was a passing comment. I can't tell you exactly what the comment was, as it's been deleted (by her), but it was something like "are there no ends to your talents". I giggled, I considered my future career move in to the world of nuvo cuisine. I was obviously going to be more Nigella than Martha (sexier and less jail time). Another comment arrived in my inbox, it was from  another friend, who had never met the person he was about to correct,  he said "*is* there no end". That was it, nothing else, that was his comment. Ahem, he didn't even mention my pies?

Within moments, another comment popped up from my publicly humiliated friend  "oops, sorry " she said, she acknowledged her hideous grammatical wrong doings over the highly debatable pies and then disappeared. I imagine she promptly went and put her dunce cap on and sat in the corner.

I was dumbfounded, but also incredibly curious. Are there grammatical expectations on social media? Did Mark Zuckerberg and his team post a grammatical guideline for Facebook? Maybe I didn't receive the memo? I thought about Twitter, hundreds of mini status updates being squeezed in to 140 characters, how were they going to break the news to Kanye "Imma let you finish" West and his 2 million followers?

As an expat, I wonder if there's a hint of elitism with our grammatical expectations. I have many friends who have learnt English as a second language and continually feel the need to apologize for their faux pas. After an almost comical year of disastrous French lessons, I would hate to attempt a grammatically correct sentence, especially when used for grammatical public consumption. Inshallah, one day I may be able to string three Arabic words together.

What about if you're dyslexic? Are you excused for getting your mords wixed up?

I'm not sure about you, but I'm not sitting around considering the words of Shakespeare while I text and tweet? It's more likely I'm either at swimming training with one eye on a child, cooking dinner, in between meetings or negotiating bath time. After seven failed attempts at bed time this evening, the second little traveler arrived at the end of my bed to discuss if we could change hot lunch day, “get in to bed.....and have you let your sister cut your hair again?” I screamed. Yes, I'm a terrible mother.

It appears we're all not perfect, but my pies is.

So, what do you think? Are Facebook and Twitter friendly, casual conversations, designed for all walks of life? Is there ever an excuse for bad grammar?

Making the world smaller

Qatar is currently hosting the Asian Cup. Which means the city has a few extra football/soccer (depends where you're from) players and fans wandering its streets.  As well as playing host to our visitors, The Asian Cup also provides an opportunity for locals and expatriates to cheer their home country along.

For an Australian, it means we have to pull out a chair, climb up to the top cupboard and retrieve all of the cheap Aussie memorabilia bought at the dollar store before we left home. We then feel the need to get our moneys worth and wear every piece of it, all at the same time.

We've been away for 12 years so our memorabilia is looking a little tired. However, the new Australian expats have the good stuff (like my friend Eliza here in the picture), the fuzzy green and yellow wigs, big blow up Australian hands and proper Socceroos t-shirts.

Our family, not so much.

I had to giggle at our first little traveler making her way in to the stadium. We ran out of tattoos after last year's Australia day celebrations so she had to be creative. She was very happy with her self designed outfit, a flag worn as a cape and a 10 year old faded tea towel wrapped around her head.  The same tea towel made its way to the much coveted 2004 Wiggles concert in Calgary ......its washed a few dishes in between and looking a bit worse for wear, but I could tell by the ear to ear smile on her face, she was very proud of her creation.

As we found our way to our seats I looked out across the stadium, of the 15,000 people that were there, I think probably 13,000 were Korean supporters. Sitting in front of a group of Australians I heard a conversation going on between two women behind me. "What is it that makes us do this when we're away from home?  Why does my home country pride increase once I land on foreign soil?"

The women commented that they weren't sure if they would cheer as heartily to "Aussie Aussie Aussie, Oi Oi Oi" if they were sitting at the MCG. I had to agree, as not only did I nearly lose my voice but I was surprised to find I was married to the cheer squad leader.

Neither G or I fall in to the category of die hard soccer fans, but the sight of Harry Kewell turned me in to a crazed Socceroo wannabe.

I kept one eye on Harry as my British friend painstakingly walked me through who was who on the field.  For the Brits, the Asian cup is torture. For a start, they're not in it. In their eyes it's full of mediocre players and teams that will never understand the true history of the game. "They cheer at the wrong times?" my exasperated English friend said "It's like telling a joke to someone who just doesn't get the punch line.....why did the chicken cross the road..hahahahahahaha".

I didn't help. When it comes to soccer I'm reduced to insightful comments such as "whatya doing?" and "kick it over there."

It doesn't matter in international sport though, as long as you scream for your country while someone next to you screams for the theirs, the world suddenly seems a bit smaller. As the little travelers listened to the thirteen thousand Koreans chant they desperately tried to match it with a "C'mon Australiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa".  When Australia finally evened the scored we all leapt off our seats and hugged as if we'd just won the lottery.

There was something else though, that made the world seem a little bit smaller. After the teams had run on to the field, a voice in English and then in Arabic made a special announcement.  "We will now observe a minute of silence to remember the flood victims in Australia".  As the Australian team huddled together, arms resting on shoulders, the crowd grew silent. I thought about all of the awful stories we'd read and watched in the past week, stories told by grown men who couldn't make eye contact with the camera. I looked at my surroundings.

Far from flooding, only miles from the desert in a Qatar stadium, I saw Koreans, Brits, Qataris, too many nationalities to list, all pause and take a moment to reflect in silence. "How come everyone's being so quiet" whispered the 3rd little traveler, I explained they were thinking about the flood victims. With the innocence that only a child can have he said "oh, that's very nice of them". I couldn't answer, so I just nodded.

From a distance.

There's something quite surreal about watching a news broadcast where all the pictures are familiar but the language is one you are yet to understand. As I stand in our Doha kitchen, spreading butter on my toast, the Arabic voice continues while waterlogged but familiar shots of my homeland appear on the screen. I'm completely gobsmacked. I haven't had the lead up, the constant news updates, conversations at the office and the supermarket, this is my first piece of footage. I've heard some of the stories on twitter and facebook, I've read pieces in "The Australian" and personal stories on Mamamia but there's an impact that arrives with seeing your home country in turmoil on International news.

When we lived in Jakarta, before the days of facebook and twitter, family and friends would phone from home with a slight hint of panic in their voice as they enquired if everything was okay. "Sure, why?" we'd ask. "Oh, we just saw footage of a riot and it looked crazy, they said 10,000 people had taken to the streets?" We'd explain that yes, they had, but it was brief and orchestrated, the demonstrators had packed up and gone home. In the meantime I'd been to the supermarket, G had had a round of golf, life had continued on as normal. We'd quickly downplay the incident almost feeling guilty that we'd unnecessarily worried people.

That's what happens when you're watching news from afar. You can't help but immediately do a head count. You wonder if you should be worried? "They would have rang us if there was something to worry about" G tells me. I take another look at the screen "You better ring your parents" I say to G.

G is a Queenslander. This doesn't mean he's a high maintenance house on stilts. It means he uses terms like "smoko" when he's having a break from doing something and when we go on holiday he becomes allergic to footwear.  For 12 years, everywhere we've traveled, people have usually opened the chat with "Where are you from?" G's reply is always the same "Queensland", then, just when you think he's not going to say it this time, he adds with a smile and wink ......"God's country". Every time, every single time.

After he says goodbye to his father and puts down the phone, he gives me the run down. His parents have been in to the Brisbane city centre that morning, they volunteer at their church and today they've been in to close the doors. They are now safely back at the apartment, they have plenty of supplies. I know they're fine, they've been expats and are originally from the country, they know about life without electricity. He gives me the run down on his country cousins, someone's lost fencing, someone's store is possibly flooded, cattle are loose and possibly gone, but everyone is safe and grateful. I pay special attention to the details as I know I will have to relate this information to my mother when she asks.

Granny Max is a Professor of Meteorology and river systems. Okay, so maybe she's an Accountant, but after close to 50 years of living with my father in rural South Australia and listening to "The Country Hour" each day, she does a fairly good impression of someone who knows what they're talking about. My home town is on the River Murray. I don't think there's one person in my town that doesn't know about the flood of '56. We grew up hearing constant references to '56 almost as if it would be a crime to forget. My father had to catch a bus to the neighbouring town to go to school, everyone's life was interrupted in some way. To someone of my generation it just means black and white pictures of people in small dinghy's inside shops and halls, these pictures are hanging in sporting clubs and pubs, consequently we all grew up cruising along the "flood banks."

I was a young child in the flood of '74 but I remember walking down to a stretch of road with a small bridge and watching the water frantically power through it, the noise was incredible, the bridge had been completely destroyed, the road was broken in to pieces. I remember the story of the boy who drowned. G asked me last night where that bridge is and I realized for the 12 years we've been married, it's been a dried up creek.

Until recently, my hometown like many others has been stuck by drought. People have gone broke, local business disappeared, water became a high priced commodity and a constant source of antagonism.

A couple of years ago in a time of desperate need, when there was constant fighting over allocations of water, our local member of Parliament said we would need "water of biblical proportions" to solve the problem. She wasn't re elected. I wonder what she's thinking right now? Did she think it would actually happen?

As I watched the BBC this morning I found myself getting irritated, Australia initially grabbed the first 3 minutes in its headlines but there are many other disasters today, flooding in Sri Lanka, suicide bombers in Afghanistan and political drama in Tunisia. I'm not going to get the details I want on the BBC or Al Jazeera. I want to know how fast and how far it's traveling, where it's going next, if the picture of the crocodile in the main street of Gympie is real. I want more personal stories, the kind I'd get on Australian morning TV, naturally I want to know when it's going to make it's way to where my parents are,  I know  this is not International news.

Luckily, today our internet signal strength is strong enough for ABC24, yesterday they removed their IP Geo-lock for expats, I'd love for them to do it permanently but it seems it's strictly for disasters and elections. ABC news is information crack to an expat. Hands down the ABC in Australia has some of the best journalist in the world.

When I was thinking about my in laws this morning I wondered about their days as expats, how they received their news from home. No email, skype, facebook or twitter. I imagine an old newspaper or a very expensive phone call from home would have been a much cherished sole provider of news. Technology has improved the life of an expat dramatically, it's provided the illusion of being "right there" until something like this happens and you realize it's all a facade and you really are miles and miles away.



* about 5 minutes after posting the blog I heard that Leigh Sales was going to be on the BBC, I haven't seen it as yet but I've heard she did a great job.


If you would like to donate to the thousands of families affected by flooding in Queensland you can do so here.

Too much information.

How much do you share with your partner? Are you the couple in the movie? Earnestly chatting, while one of you sits on the toilet reaching for the roll, the other just metres away, brushes their teeth at the sink? At a recent Film Festival a Director explained that scenes like these are written to show the "intimacy" in the relationship, to make the characters partnership believable. I actually snorted out loud when he said it. If G sat down on the loo and started getting busy while I was brushing my teeth, there wouldn't be ANY intimacy and that toothbrush would be going straight in the bin!

Like most couples G and I were very well behaved for the first few months of our relationship, no nose picking, no farting, no magazines or newspapers in the toilet. I always find it intriguing that men can stifle their farting within the first few months of any new relationship. "Do you know how much pain I was in?" a past boyfriend told me after his talent for farting at 5 minute intervals became a part of our daily routine.

We'd been married for about a year when G said "I've never heard you fart?" and just a little bit too quickly I answered "I don't".

I was kind of telling the truth. I didn't fart. In front of him.  In fact, I didn't do any of those things in front of him, the toilet door was not only closed but locked, if he happened to walk past I stopped everything I was doing until I knew he was out of earshot.

Why? I guess I had this belief that some things needed to be kept private, that I would be less of a sex goddess if he could picture me sitting on the loo or squeezing a pimple. Maybe it was growing up without brothers, there were no fart jokes in our house. Although, my father was the master of sneaky farting, whenever that familiar smell made it's way across the room he'd immediately blame the dog and make it leave the room. Until the day he shouted at the dog and it wasn't there.

Obviously I couldn't keep up the no fart facade. Something was going to trip me up and that something came in the form of my first pregnancy.

If you haven't shared all bodily functions with your partner yet, try getting pregnant, it's a great icebreaker for vomiting, fainting, farting, indigestion and in the final stages you can enjoy a game of "spot the hemorrhoid."

I spent a lot of my first pregnancy in Jakarta and was struck down with the usual Indonesian tummy bugs. I had no choice but to share it with G.  We were living in a hotel room and the smell of my duty free Chanel number 5 mixed in with Diarrhea number 2 still haunts me to this day.

By the time I made it to my due date I was the size of a small elephant, people had to rearrange their furniture when I entered the room. When it was time for the birth, G got to see all of me, inside and out. The labour started, it stopped. When the suggestion of sex was made by the obstetrician I could see G looking at me, not with a thought of lust, but more with a logistical "HOW?"

Hemorrhoids arrived with a vengeance. "Umm, there's something coming out of your bottom" G gently told me one day. We'd hit rock bottom, literally.

When I thought it was all over and our first little traveler was born, G watched the nurse remove the pad that was the size of a small country from under me. There wasn't much more I could share. When I told my girlfriend in horror she laughed and told me she shared the same experience with her husband (who is a farmer). Being a practical guy, he took one look at the pad and asked the nurse where they got them, he thought they looked handy for changing the oil on the tractor. I giggled and then realized I was the tractor in this scenario.

Is there ever a case of too much information in a partnership? How much can you see before it changes how you feel?

A few years ago I was getting ready for bed and was half undressed when one of the little travelers woke and called for me. As I picked him up out of his bed he promptly threw up all over me. Not just a little chuck, it was one of those insane just keeps coming projectile vomits. As I stood in my knickers and bra looking completely shell shocked and dripping in vomit G walked in to the room. "Well helloooooooooo there" he said as if we'd just met in a bar.

It was as if he couldn't see the vomit or the baby, all he saw was a wife, her knickers and bra and an opportunity. I think it was then that I realized I could be wearing tracky dacks and a stained t-shirt and G would always be "up for it". Sure, he'd prefer the lace knickers swinging from a chandelier option but like most blokes he was happy with whatever was on offer.

12 years and 4 little travelers later and I still keep the bathroom door locked, there will never be simultaneous tooth brushing and toilet going. I've definitely relaxed a little as has our beagle, I have to banish her from the room regularly.

How about you? How much do you share and have you reached a point of too much information?

Have you tried the cock flavoured noodles?

Reading a menu can be tricky when you're traveling. It can be as simple as prawns versus shrimp, eggplant versus aubergine or the ever controversial coriander versus cilantro. Globally, we all have our different way of saying things.


Where it can get really interesting though, is when the English translation just doesn't translate.


In 2002, options for a night out in Libya were limited, but one of my favourite dining memories is a night out with friends who had traveled from Australia to visit. After the obligatory power failure and we'd all sipped on our luke warm raspberry Fanta (it's a dry country) we perused the menu by candlelight.


Some of the items offered no explanation, there was simply the word "bird" or "lamp", but with a bit of clucking and baa'ing at the waiter we were able to confirm that it was chicken and lamb. The "Professional Prawns" had us stumped. We had to order them. As we waited for the prawns to arrive wearing suits and carrying briefcases someone got it, "Prawn Provencale" they shouted with excitement.


Our favourite restaurant in Qatar is a place called "Thai Snack",  it's conveniently located right next to "Thai massage", in fact when you enter there are 2 opposing arrows, left or right, it's always a tough choice. I wondered today if I'd got my menus confused when I noticed on page 2 the "fried morning glory", thankfully the attached picture had broccoli and bamboo shoots. We could choose between the "see food" or the "ster fried" both were available with "garlice". I noticed on the kids menu a picture of a plate of chips/fries labeled "french fried".


As we left Thai snack I noticed the chicken shop across the road was also in on the act, above the rotisserie is an enormous sign "Gulf Broasted." I haven't been to the local Chinese - Tex Mex (that wasn't a typo) but I hear it has a sign on the front door "parking for costumers only" not to be outdone another local haunt has "closed - sorry for the incontinence".


How about you? Are you wary of those "mean sprouts"or tried the "bowel of soup" and the "chick pee"?


My very favourite though, is from my friend Sal who is currently based in Mumbai. As she was making her way through her local supermarket she discovered the "cock flavoured 2 minute noodles". It seriously makes you consider eating your words.






Have you made any interesting menu observations? I'd love to hear them.