Goddesses are Complex…

I’ve had glorious guests all week. This morning I was sat on my deck, coffee that was lovingly made for me in hand. One of the many Goddesses I have met in EV circles, Lynne, who can talk the hind leg off a donkey, perched next to me next to me. We are both mulit -tasking and making and receiving phone calls. Lynn does not sugar coat things. We’ve had a solid talk fest since meeting for lunch and a spa session yesterday. She spoiled me and it was very strange to be on the receiving end of such a grand gesture. We hit the ground running most of the subject matter was sharing stories from the 90’s, and the roles we both played in the early days of the Internet, and deep and confronting chats about our childhoods. We are similar kinds of broken and can breathe easy in each other’s undeniably frenetic company.

This week I have been covered in cuddles from some my tribe of glorious goddesses, laughed till my face hurts, had sessions of carpool karaoke (Canadian Content), cried for the fragile inner child we are all trying to heal, and realised, once again, that we are all shoveling vast and varied piles of shit with huge Vaseline grins on our faces. We were told as little people to smile and the world would smile with us, and that is exactly what most of us are doing, despite demons that dwell beneath our shiny exteriors.

We talked for a bit about the Brene Brown revolution, encouraging people to embrace their faults and insecurity. I’ve worn my ugly and shared my struggles openly for years. While it makes me incredibly vulnerable, puts my friends at ease. Most of them choose a slightly shinier veneer, and save spilling their spicy for close conversations, yet we all know that the world is full of the walking wounded. Nobody gets out of life unscathed, and there’s a magic to meeting people who can relate to and share the stories of their scars.

I have no idea why women so often feel inadequate. It seems that my closest friends all suffer from crippling imposter’s syndrome, despite epic accomplishments in their personal and professional lives.  

Lynne’s been blown away by the strength and kindness of the kindred spirits she’s met here in Auckland. We are all Wonder Woman, most of us mothers, and all of us take it in turn to act as cheerleaders or a safe place to land for each other when shit gets real.

And now, I am on my way to Field Days with my amazing and energetic EA. We are going to go smash it at Field Days. Hayley, another of the goddess tribe, has been working with me for a few short months, and acts as a buffer between breakdowns and enables me to be a baller. She displays the same self-doubt as all the other brilliant and broken beauties I am blessed to know. Juggling a farm, a toddler, and an endless list of organizing and actively having my back, she regularly feels like she’s not doing enough, despite moving mountains every single week.

WHY do most of the women I worship feel defective? Why do we strive to the breaking point to prove to ourselves and the world we are worthy?  Why can we so readily show Love and support for each other while negative internal dialogues rage on in our heads and hearts?  How do we start cutting ourselves the slack we give each other when we’re lending an ear or a shoulder during crisis?  Why do snarky comments or unkind criticisms seem to stick so readily, while the good stuff and supportive sentiment so often slide off?

I have no idea, but am certain I am grateful beyond measure for the women in my world.

Expect To Be Imperfect

Wanted to write some epically uplifting piece applauding our efforts as parents.

I thought maybe I could distill the side-splitting laughter, heart-wrenching helplessness, soul-shimmering hope, sleepless nights, kitchen fights, shining lights, and making the wrongs right, that we all do as parents into a few hundred words.  

No fucking way.

Each journey is unique and harrowing in every single possible permutation between parent and child. It has been said countless times, that observations of humanity seem to point to the fact we are all just toiling through our existences, trying to find purpose and put to rest our mommy and daddy issues. Those issues run in both directions. Parents feel as much anguish for their roles in their kids’ lives as children feel for existing. It is the great circle of life.

As with most things , We are bound to try incredibly hard to face the tough stuff head on. Realizing that our kids are bound to be terrifically traumatized by the clusterfuck they were handed as a mother, we make huge and valiant efforts to face the demons (separate and combined) head on. We talk. We real talk. Our kids have always been entitled to their feelings, opinions, fears and focus. We have enlisted outside help and scaffolding in the form of counselors, testing, trial and error, and everyone in this home is wholly encouraged to lay their shit bare and be the broken and beautiful mess that they are.

This is not the most common mothering tactic as far as I can tell, and I know I get judged to the extreme as a demon or a queen, and plenty of things in between for the way I do things.  I judge people too, despite actively putting in efforts not to.  There seems to be a fairly big element of being (or trying to appear at least) buttoned up with a certain amount of spit and polish in most families.  

I scroll through the highlights reels of social media and compare myself to everyone else.  

We wear and share our struggles as a family and as individuals.  Tears and tantrums are common inside our walls, as are hugs and hope and heaped piles of rolling laughter.  I am the sweary, scary, and incredibly affectionate and care-y mom.  I stopped trying to be anything else a long time ago.  But I still look at other parents who are super outdoorsy, or sit quietly and read alongside their little carbon copy introvert offspring and I yearn for what I do not have.  I see the seemingly contented and clearly calm domestic goddesses at the school gate, with their gluten free crunchy granola kids and glowing smiles. 

Every single mother (and father) I bump into at any kid event terrifies me until I actually talk to them.  Like, really talk to them.  Every time I do, I find out that they are just as scared of me as I am of them, and we are all struggling and second guessing ourselves.  Well, nearly all of us.  There are also genuinely creepy and congnitively dissonant folks who think their kids are perfect, owing, in no small part, to their parenting planning and pinache. Fuck those smug bastards.

Give me broken, give me bold.  Give me terrified and truths that are seldom told.  Because no matter how shiny a veneer any of us attempt to keep up, we are all complicated and spend a good portion of our parenting journey out of our depth.  We owe it to ourselves and each other to curb the judgement and kick up the kindess a notch or 11.  Inwardly and outwardly, be kinder to ourselves and our peers.  

You are already enough, and can and will be a huge source of hope and safety to your children.  You are not expected to be perfect, just present.  You are infinitely important to your kids, and I’d hazard a guess you rarely feel like you are.

When I am restless and running and see contented home bodies feathering their nests and looking their best across social media, I stare harshly back at my reflection in the airplane window as I skip off to escape as I have done countless times before.  This mother’s day I’m dedicating myself to being more present, and I have canned countless opportunities and cancelled nearly all my extended jaunt and journeys to face my family as we transition into our next chapter.

Running away served me for a while, but now, I get home, and my kids feel complete as the rhythm of our comfortable chaos resumes.  I chose to have children and choose to correct the trajectory I’ve been on because I know that’s the right thing to do.

You are the kind of mother (or father, and in some cases mother and father) you are and that is so incredibly enough for your kids. Even though chances are quite good that you expend a great deal of time and effort trying to be what you think you need to be or listening to too many opinions from people who do not know shit about your situation.  Your kids want you.  Happy, healthy, present, mentally strong, you.  They don’t need micro-scheduling or grand gestures of parenting perfection.  As far as I can tell, what most kids want, is the same as what everyone wants, to feel connected and enough.   

So, I will end this less than uplifting blog with a deliciously dark and confronting poem by one of the most masterful observers or the human condition, Philip Larkin.

So go forth and fuck things up, the is no salve for the pains of parenting and imperfection.  There are no simple answers, and we all fuck up.  So do your best, remember to get some rest, and carry on.

Time Wounds All Heels, And Heals Most Wounds

I feel like I’ve got whiplash from all the travel and trying so desperately to avoid my demons lately. Those cunning bitches seem to catch up with me no matter how many take-offs and landings I try to put between us. Might be time to dine with them rather than trying to ignore them? Deep right? Look at Dee being all poetic and shit. I’ve been on a roller coaster (stop laughing, sometimes shit is kinda smooth and normal) the past few weeks, after finding out a dream international speaking gig was canned because Phteven said no. Grrr.

This shit happens in every kind of relationship all the time. One person is passionate, one oblivious or just busy or bored. This drifting in different directions makes the whole amiable dissolve a challenge, but fuck it, being married is/was more of a challenge so this too shall pass.

He’s not a bad man.  He’s actually still one of the best people I have ever met, but has inherited a spectacular mean streak, and a kind of obliviousness that presents itself like arrogance, but I know he is not.  I’d be less tearful if he’d even say, I am sorry you’re so sad about it. It’d be better if he was able to genuinely see what a complete clusterfuck missing this, and any other big PR and networking opportunities is.  So, I am in massive pout and feel like a failure mode and I want to be a human burrito and watch Netflix.

LUCKILY, I have a few friends.  A gaggle of goddesses who valiantly (although ever so calmly) come to my rescue, even though the fact of the matter is, they’re busy and, in my opinion, too fucking good for me even when I am not being a needy basket case.  You know who you are as I write this.  So, thank you.  

I’ve seen a bit, been around, and have collected some incredibly sage and useful advice over the 41 years on this planet.  

I know that I should trust but verify, yet I rush headlong into believing people, because I want to.  I know that patience, persistence, planning and passion are a winning formula. I only really actively observe one, and very occasionally two of these things and should have learned decades ago to stop being so reactive and impulsive, but the “let’s push the button and see what happens” impulse has been the source of far too much magic to abandon completely.

And, I know, that time will vilify and vindicate people and their intentions and character.  The SHOCKINGLY painful book of Job in the bible was my first recollection of this testament to patience and fortitude, but it really doesn’t have a happy ending and is basically the same story as that 1980’s movie with Dan Ackroyd and Eddie Murphy called Trading Places.  Basically two very powerful beings start posturing and make a bet and fuck many, many, many lives as a result.  It is literally my least favourite book in the bible and a HUGE reason why I am agnostic now, but it taught me, at around the age of 6, that shit is going to happen and keep happening, and all we as mere mortals can do is roll and stick to our core.


What’s your core?  Where does your compass point?  What direction are you heading?

You know what, I think maybe my whole reason for being is merely to serve as a very loud warning to others, and to make people think/feel “well… at least I am not as fucked up as my friend Dee!” and you know what, I am doing such a stellar job of fulfilling that role, that maybe I ought to stop taking disappointment, embarrassment and self-loathing so seriously, and just be the complete cringe cottage I am, and allow people to dwell and bask in my radiant facepalm glow for as long as they can handle and not take it personally when they’ve had enough and need to fuck off completely or just need a break. I’m a lot.

The heartache of today will pass, and the utter cunt that the universe can be sometimes, well it will unfold and clearly show me the important lesson and I can choose to ignore it, or I can grow from it. The exact same formula (in deeply complicated and confusing permutations) pertains to every other mother fucker on the planet. Time is a great teacher and will teach you, and me, if we listen to it and let it.

See you soon Liza.  I realise I have already warned you about the ugly cry, but it’ll be on your doorstep in the next couple of hours.  Love you and your non judgemental and super dark humour since that very first time we met so many years ago.  You’re too fucking good for me.  And I can’t wait to say thank you in person.

Richard and Sarah, thanks for bringing me back to life today and being actual good, clever, tolerant, and terrific people.  Robert, thank you for letting me cry on you and I am so excited about seeing Cynthia and Lynne after such a long time between visits.  

And HAYLEY!!!  You’re amazing.  You work your ass off, and you always face struggle with a smile.  Slow the fuck down and pat yourself on the back you pathological over achiever.  And don’t worry about me.  We will take our bite at altering the course of history in its entirety soon, but right now, please just breathe.  

Thanks for reading.

Swearing, Ranting, Raving TANTRUM of a Post.

Buckle in.  This is going to be well ranty and sweary.

Okay.  What the actual fuck.  I am trying SUPER hard to listen to the universe and heed whatever infinite gaseous and gorgeous galaxies seem to be working toward me learning.  

HOWEVER… The lesson seems to actually be:  Don’t be nice.  Just don’t fucking do it.  You’ll either be too nice, not nice enough, and no matter which way that particular jagged pill goes down, you will end up getting fucked.  BUT WAIT.  Not only is your hope, trust and cheerfulness absolutely going to turn you into a slow moving target.  NOT only THAT, but being this painfully slow, visible, and vulnerable target will get you shot down, trod on, and YOU WILL FEEL LIKE YOU FUCKING DESERVE IT?!?!?! Not everyone fucks me or you over BTW. Most people are good and trying, I truly deeply believe that as I write it.

As far as the “stop being nice” message you seem to be peddling, if that’s what you’re selling Universe.  I ain’t buying.

Let me share with you an observation.  Really, super, extraordinarily outgoing people very often have super shitty self-esteems, suffer from imposters syndrome, and question themselves all the time.  Yeah, we look like we don’t GAF.  But oh my fucking good gracious, we do, we do give all the fucks.  And the assholes, justifying, and forever trying to chop our heads off or make us feel like shit, well it hurts.  Don’t think that because we are friendly and gushy and kind, being taken for a ride or taken for granted doesn’t honestly smart, and leave some heart scars and tummy tigers.  You know when you’re being an asshole.  I (try to) know when I am being an asshole.  So.  Please. Just don’t be an asshole.

Just to clarify, no I am not talking about you. I am talking about a very specific case and a very specific thing and I am masticating (that means chewing but super looks and sounds like masturbating, great word.  Top marks for that word) on a very cold and unsatisfying heaped helping of “I told you so” from the Ex.  So, not you I’m passive-aggressively raging at. But, I am in the mood for a rant, so if you want some wrath DM me, I’d be happy to help. Plenty of that shit pent up today.  But hmm. Yes. People often think I am venting about them, but I really truly like, neigh LOVE most people. I can, with a fairly confident level of certainty take a guess that I actually like you WAY more than I like myself. Which, is, actually a form of douchbaggery because nothing is all about you or me.  We’re all just shoveling shit.

Shovel. Shovel.

I will say, that people have got to actually spare a thought for all different kinds of people, and please do not be afraid to gently steer those of us bashing through life to change trajectory and/or USE YOUR FUCKING INSIDE VOICE (I super don’t really have one of those…), or just make it through the day without earning any new enemies.  Say it gently.  Use humour to difuse.  But be nice and DO NOT assume that you are the only person with spicy or heavy (Oh man, I should NOT use the word spicy, that’s a proper young people word, ew gross) shit.  TRUST me, everyone is fighting a hard battle that you know nothing about.  

And THAT is why I super, mega, ultra VERY much Love strangers.  I can get into those juicy brains and get them to hug it out, talk it out, occassionaly even cry it out, then I get to leave before I am able to thrust my inevitable crippling disappointment on them, embarrass them (or more often myself), or just basically, run screaming in the direction of shit that is bad for me, while the good stuff waits quietly.  Without judging (but actually judging, and Loving us just as we are) and the hurty stuff we run headlong toward. Thanks to the patient posse. I need your sunshine. I just hope I reflect a bit of it back sometimes, so thank you.

Shit… So I know that I do super dumb shit, and it is utter bullshit, yet, here I am, relaying the cycles I apparently do not fucking learn from.

Well guess what Universe.  I am sick and tired of feeling ashamed.  I am sick and tired of giving SOooooOOOooo very many fucks about so very many things.

And maybe.  Just, fucking maybe.  I am going to start standing up for myself without flying off the hhh…handle.  No that’s not a likely scenario is it?  

So.  To the Goddesses who rescue me and rush to my side when the real deal hefty shit hits the fan.  I will never be able to express to you how much it means.  The thing about someone who thrusts themselves into life with all the elegance of a hippo attempting to hoola hoop (actually, that could be quite elegant animated, but it’ s my blog and I LOVE alliteration).  Alliterations, strangers and self-loathing, these are my crack.  Maybe. I’m not entirely sure I have tried crack, and I suspect I would remember if I had… probably. But people seem to think I’m pretty hopped up most of the time, and apparently it’s a tad dangerous and addictive.  So, I won’t do that

Well, the hope and unabashed joy and serious cringe that I pack around with me on a daily are not an excuse for anyone to treat me like shit.  And the same goes for you.  If we are doing our best, even if we are doing… well… anything, even just breathing, we are progressing, and learning and take it easy on yourself and everyone else. 

Because it costs nothing to NOT be an asshole.  So please.  Don’t be one.

Hmm.  Rather a meandering rant.  Ah well, fuck it.  My blog. Doesn’t have to be tidy, heaven only knows that I am a rough as fuck and a super cringe mess so why wouldn’t my art mimic life once in a while.  

And you KNOW WHAT ELSE!  I am not even going to edit.  Actually fuck that.  I am soooo gonna edit because Kylie Burling is a sweetheart and does exactly the nice stuff I talked about and takes the time to point out my spelling and grammatical errors.  And I am SO grateful, and infinitely impressed with her good eye.

So.  You do you. And don’t be an asshole while you do it.

THANK you. Even if nobody reads this I feel MUCH better.

Off to Melbourne to see my birthday Bestie!!!! (She hauled ass all the way from Hong Kong to meet me in Argentina with like three days notice last year. Definitely one of the goddesses. Chances are, if you actually know me IRL, you have had to be very kind to my slightly extra ass at some point too. So thanks.

Update on Japanese Trip

When Sakura fall from the branch, the shockwaves can shatter entire cities.”  Will Ferguson 

Just a bit over a week immersed in Japan with my two terrifically entertaining teenage chaperones, and I don’t know how or where to start the story of our adventures.

Japan is beautiful. Japan, in the spring, with Sakura petals falling like snow onto pristine lakes and beautiful brooks that babble in Japonic tonality, can break your Western heart to bits and stitch it back together with threads of cheerful nihilism, gentle bows and magical manners.

Highlights?  All of it. Lowlights?  Having a card skimmed at an ATM and spending three days in discussions with Visa and my bank.  All sorted now though.

This adventure started with a full and surreal flight from Auckland, bursting at the seams with toddlers, tiny tots and families being pushed to the brink and falling into the bitching and biting that we all exchange when stress levels and altitude is high, and space is limited.

We stepped off the plane to collect our luggage and catch a Shinkansen (bullet train) to Osaka.

Every stop along our way has been like stepping into a different chapter of a choose your own adventure novel, written in a familiar but foreign language.  Basically, I have spent a blissful and beautiful week bowing, saying thank you in Japanese, and generally not knowing what the fuck is going on.  It’s been brilliant.  

Daniel’s friend Ben has been an absolute gem. He researched for months and has maneuvered us safely from one end of Honshu to the other. We’ve braved an observation conveyor (I hate heights) in Osaka on a grey evening with something between thick fog and light rain misting over our mystified mugs. We’ve eaten fugu (four days ago, we are all still alive) and A5 graded beef at a tiny family run teppanyaki restaurant in Kyoto that made all three of us cry it was so delicious. We’ve laughed until our ribs and faces burned from the effort and we’ve all battled through the inevitable pangs of homesickness and general travel related stress. I am going to miss our little posse when it comes time to head home and disband. We have a groove and a pecking order, and Daniel and I are not the alphas, his funny and fabulous friend Ben and his google app are (because both mine and Daniel’s google keeps shitting itself when we try to find anything).

Now, it is probably worth mentioning that both Daniel and Ben are introverted by nature.  This means they need alone and quiet time to recharge.  Traveling with the schedule we have does not allow for a lot of down time.  Ben, being the old soul that he is politely asked for some down time chilling in the room, and while he did that my son and I bonded.  I am talking tears and cuddles kinda bonded.

I suspect every parent questions their worth in the most important role that we all do our best to fulfil. I know that I am inconsistent and extra, and the way that I am has helped shape my kids into resilient, kind, honest and incredibly funny people. We use humour to defuse most situations. It is a coping mechanism that has served us as individuals and a family unit.

Walking around Roppongi with my brilliant and anxious son, I stopped at the top of the escalator, grabbed his hand, looked into his dark brown eyes and I apologised to him for being the hot mess that I am. 

“I see how grown up you are, and how you see the world, and I know that I could have and should have been more consistent Daniel. I feel like a stone-cold fucking failure and I wish you had a better mother sometimes, I really do.”  

And then the lip quivers and tears started on both of our faces, and Daniel hugged me with the earnest he’s hugged me since he was a sweet little refluxy baby so many years ago.

“I don’t want any other mother, you don’t seem to understand how lucky I feel.  I talk to my friends about normal family stuff for us and they all seriously think I am so lucky.  You’re not perfect, but you’re perfect for me.”

Queue the unfettered ugly cry.

“I run around trying to save the world, because it feels like you do better without me.” I confided.  “I don’t feel like I deserve you. Any of you.  You’re all amazing and I don’t want you to feel the way about me I do about your grandmother.  So I run away.”  I sniffled.

“You don’t have to run away.  We might seem ungrateful, but you’re kinder than anyone I know mamma.  I just wish you were kinder to yourself.”

And I snorted and snotted for a moment anf promised I would be home more.  That’s a promise I need to endeavor to keep.

Then we went to Cinnabon and got Ben and ourselves some diabetic coma inducing deliciousness.

We arrived back at the room feeling better after our Gilmore Girls moment and explained to Ben that every family has their stuff, and feeling all the feels and having big heavy talks and cries is how we roll.  

And we all went out to grab a bite, and had Ramen in one of the top 10 little places in Tokyo.  Thank you Ben, and thank you Google.

There’s so much more to cover, but the point of this trip was to celebrate my strong, silent, eldest child’s life so far.  We’ve had an amazing time, and I will share more of our stories later, but today, if you are like me, and parenting makes you feel overwhelmed and unprepared, I suspect you’re Loved just exactly as you are, and your kids are grateful for the magic and mayhem that you surround them with.

Thanks for reading.

Mother in Law

Some months ago, when I was finally on an upswing after a fairly dark couple of years, a dear friend and mentor suggested I should take a stab at writing a screenplay.  He sent examples and links to people talking about how to write a great screenplay.  That phrase “write what you know” came up a bit.

What would I write about if I were to take my hand to such an exciting and audacious creative pursuit?

You know what.  The first and strongest idea was my mother in law Nicole.  It’s not an exaggeration to say she’s one of the best friends I have ever had in my life.  She’s also, outwardly at least, one of the most earnest curmudgeons you’ll ever meet.  She’s got a propensity to see the worst in most situations, seems she does this to be pleasantly surprised when things aren’t the worst.  She laughs at the human condition and herself and is as much an Eeyore as I am a Tigger.  Our relationship, and my mother in law’s life are sources of strength, hope, and laughter for me and the very few people she allows into her space to tell her stories to.  Add to that the fact she’s funny as fuck, and quite the cutest mean old lady imaginable, and I think it would be a friendship movie to rival Green Book, Ya-ya sisterhood or even… dare I say it… Beaches!

Mum and I are an odd couple indeed.  She’s the Dean Martin, I am the Jerry Lewis.  She’s George and I’m Gracie.  

While there is an inarguable element of comedy to our odd pairing, in the 17 years of knowing this woman, she has never lied to me.  Infact, her honesty and absolute inability to speak with a silver tongue or sugar coat anything has been a comfort through many struggles and has kept me humble and grounded when things are on an upswing.

We have both seen some of our darkest hours over the past couple of decades, and while the whole world checks in on us, it seems her and I are always front and center for each other through any crisis.  I was with her in hospital when she got her stents (she’s a new woman) and I translated grumpy mother in law vernacular to charming “please tell us exactly what is going on, we are smart enough to understand” when the doctors did their rounds.  When I was hospitalized, she was the only person permitted to see me.  And she’s been keeping an eagle eye on me, along with our neighbours and dear friends who also live on our property, Bill and Eva.  These are my foundation.  These people and my sister leigh and a small handful of dear and honest friends, our children, and my soulmate (and Nicole’s son) Phteven are what keep me tethered to this earth when my mental illness makes it almost impossible for me to carry on. They are also the only people there when I stop functioning and am laid up in a tearful heap, for however long it takes to get back on track.

My mother in law is always there to offer tough love and get me back to health and whatever frenetic level of stability I can manage on any given day.  She’s actually my hero.  She’s miserable and mean and I fucking Love her more than my own eyes.

I’m crying with every syllable I type right now. Today is her Birthday.  I won’t say how old, but I know she’s got some good years up her sleeve yet.  We still travel together, and I rely on her council and honesty in every aspect of my life. And you know what, despite the fact she is a rockstar at pointing out the painful and being more than a bit mean to me at times, I suspect she’s actually proud of me and Loves the crazy, loud, needy, passionate hurricane who married her son.  

So.  On your Birthday Mum… I know you hate a fuss.  I know you HATE how open I am.  I know you hate my constant gushing and hugs and happiness, but everyone who knows us knows that I adore you and you’ve stood by me through some pretty spicy shit.  I just wanted to say thank you.

Happy Birthday, and thank you for my surname, the genes that made your grandkids geniuses, and being my friend even though I drive you around the bend.

Love you today, and every day, even the ones I don’t like you very much.

I Swear To You

Yesterday was a big day.  It started early and my phone and meeting schedule was unrelenting from start to finish.  Thoroughly enjoyed it, and even managed to sneak in a 90 minute Thai massage between work and kid commitments, because self-care is important, and never more important than when you are under the hammer.  

A small but strong therapist dug knees and elbows into my knots, and my joints snapped, crackled, and popped while he stretched and contorted me around the table.  It is funny how pain can feel so good sometimes.  It got me to thinking about the wincing some people do when I use my rather trademark colourful language.  I swear like a sailor a lot of the time.  It seems to be both a good and a bad thing. So, as ambient piano music wafted in the background, the chance to be silent got me thinking about a thousand different things, but strangely, kept coming back to swearing.

My internal dialogue is not nearly as sweary as my speech. I can trace my affection for shocking vocabulary to my pre-teen years.  Growing up in an ultra-conservative oil/farming community, my grandparents Carl and Edna were pillars of society.  They sat on committees and were invited to all the pot lucks and bible groups, and greeted with smiles and nods as they meandered around our sleepy little hamlet. They did not drink, smoke, or swear. They fulfilled their traditional roles as bread winner and baker, farmer and home-maker with absolute Austrian precision.  My grandmother would not say shit if her mouth was full of it, and was always in total control of her faculties and put on the finest of faces.

I fucking hated that buttoned up bullshit so much. I was a weirdo from the word go. My path was, although not yet clear to me as a child, going to be paved by an over-active imagination, severe social awkwardness, a stal-worth desire for justice, and the gift of gregariousness and not having any more fucks to give after being placed firmly on the fringes of basically everything until I found my feet in a small island nation at the bottom of the planet.

The simple fact of the matter to me is, that swearing feels good.  It creates a social construct that explains in absolute terms that I do not think, nor do I want, to be stoic or slotted into a social station or class above salt of the earth.  As my best friend for well over two decades often reminds me; “Dee, you can win any award, climb any mountain, and have all the wealth in the world, but you’ll really never be anything but a cashed up bogan.”  I find that quite comforting.  I am what I am and that is all that I am, and I have a potty mouth.

After my massage and my mind meandering through my many meaningful moments dropping expletive bombs like a boss, I went to collect the kids and their friends.  Strangely, the fruit of my loins do not swear, nor are they prone to rule breaking of any kind.  I guess it isn’t that strange, as they have been raised in chaos and crave routine, in the same way I was raised in a bubble and craved chaos I suppose.  Their friends are comfortable dropping the odd expletive in my presence.  But really, they are all amazing kids with humour and manners, their social circles are seriously academic and often smart and sassy.  They spend some of their time learning to correctly say seriously cringe phrases in a variety of languages.  Then, they attempt to teach me and seem to relish the shock that shows on my face, as I am not easily surprised.  

There’s no doubt that language is a very powerful thing. What we say, how we say it makes a huge difference.  Swearing is so often shocking and I like to shock.  Swearing is a kind of verbal armor I carry around, that separates the wheat from the chaff very early on in the piece.  

There’s quite a few articles that sing the praises of the swearier types in our social circles.  As is often the case, I do not only meet, I exceed the parameters of being extra in the swearing stakes.  This time last week, I was having a 20-minute discussion with some near strangers at a conference on the use of the C bomb across different countries I’ve travelled. 

I know that when I meet someone, if they pepper the conversation with some well-chosen and appropriately placed expletives, I tend to feel more at ease. 

Regardless, I think the swearing, along with several of my other vices, will need to be re-examined and maybe shelved a little bit. 

So.  Have an excellent fucking Friday wherever you are, and thanks for reading.

Tusen Tak Norway

Norway eh. Smug bastards reminding the rest of the world how clean, healthy, sustainable and low crime they are. Yeah, the rest of the world gets it Norway, you’re better at most things than most other countries. You can actually shut the fuck up. You smug, tall, incredibly healthy, and good-looking-winter-sport-winning mother fuckers.

OBVIOUSLY I jest.  I absolutely Love Norway.  I adore Scandinavia in general.  Iceland is a firm favourite, but Oslo has been in my top 20 and always feels a little like coming home.  The way it used to feel in Seattle, and still feels when I fly into Wellington or Buenos Aires.  Every city has a feeling, a vibration, a spirit?  Most I like, some I do not.

So my tribe up in the North had some questions, as they were all well aware that last year was as stone-cold cluster fuck from start to finish for me. Someone at this conference suggested it was because the year of the dog is a shitty year? I don’t think it had much to do with dogs. At any rate, one of the best things about the Norwegians I know, and Love is their absolute zero tolerance for bullshit. Magne, Stalle, Erik, Christina, Mikkel, Natalie, Petter, and various other Scandinavian shining stars in the vast and varied sky that hangs over my head are always there to offer a sound smack down and some real talk. “You are the one who needs to give less fucks Dee, you always tell everyone else to.” Or “You must learn the rules of poker (analogy for business) because you will never have a poker face.” Or “Dee, you cannot retire, because your passion actually scares people into submission. I will tell you when you can retire.” And “I think you would be much happier if you followed even a little of the advice you give others.” And all of this was delivered with an absolutely delicious sing song scandanavian accent, and deadpan facial expression. Oh, I do Love a good Nordic pep talk. Straight shooters the lot of them. What’s not to Love?

So I am at Oslo airport on my first leg home.  I miss my babies and wish that fucking hyperloop thing that I saw on the first day of the first show in Amsterdam was in operation so I could just get home, emission free, fast, and without too much fuss, at sub sonic (ultrasonic??? I don’t fucking know) speed.  But no.  I will be on the road for nearly 72 hours as I have an overnight stop in the Dam before continuing on to Hong Kong then home.  Hong Kong is home to one of my favourite things in the whole world, my soul sister Krissy, and she is another straight shooter who doesn’t mince words or fuck around with niceties.  I think, I am beginning to see a pattern perhaps?

Bidding a fond farewell to the country that undeniably kicked off the international EV industry, I am not even the slightest bit sad because I know I will be back.  As long as there are things to learn and share and the people I have grown so fond of here to dryly and frequently take me down a peg or two and remind me to calm the actual fuck down, I will keep returning.  Natalie and Mikkel just returned to Oslo after being in the faaaaarrr north where they were treated to a spectacle of Aurora Borealis.  Of course, they filmed it and it looks amazing, but Natalie explained in her usual earnest and magical way, that the lights absolutely convinced her that everything was going to be okay.  Her big beautiful brown eyes twinkled as they looked into mine and said; “You know what Dee, it was magic.  As if nature and the universe was putting a show on just for me, and now I know that everything is going to be okay.”  So yeah, I need an injection of that magic as I can feel myself veering ever so slightly into self-destruct mode.  This mode is best avoided when possible.  It is usually possible.

Sat at the airport, there are lots of tall people wearing really great warm winter clothes.  Someone said that Norwegians don’t smile much, I don’t agree.  Trundling my suitcases from my apartment to central station I was asked three times (with a smile) if I needed help, and it’s little more than a 5-minute walk.  As I sit here writing this there is a group of four Norwegians sipping coffee and laughing among themselves.  Most Norwegians I know have a big, round, full belly laugh.  

Exhausted, overwhelmed by the work ahead, but feeling resolute that the universe can actually be on our side if we let it be, I am looking forward to a magical year. We are about to enter the roaring 20’s.  This is going to be the part in the narrative of our planet where a culmination of climate change goals and infrastructure plans will ensure the industry that we have chosen (or perhaps chose us) will continue to grow and evolve, displacing decades of greed, waste and lies.  This will be a decade of disruption, change, rebuilding and rethinking the way we live and work.  Norway is well past many of the goals and milestones laid out for our island nation.  So, thanks for paving the way you fantastic Nordic nerds and activists.  But most of all, thank you for being home to such wonderful, warm, and welcoming friends.  Tusen Tuk. 

Thanks for reading. 



2019 has been a stellar year.  It feels like there’s been dividends from dues paid, and a solid home, where I feel safe, because some sturdy foundations have been laid.  The universe has spoken, perhaps screamed at me, that I must slow the pace and patience pays in incredible ways.  For the first time in a couple of years, I’m content and aware that magical and meaningful things are so much more gratifying when there is some effort, planning, and yes, patience, involved.

I’ve been dancing on moonbeams for a few weeks now. Full of joy and hope.   Trying to be patient, and TRUST me I gotta try pretty hard, as this is not a virtue that I was freely blessed with.

Thousands of people pontificate on the things that are proven to stabilize anxiety and mental health, and the reason we hear/read so much about it all, is because it actually works.  So, the hot mess mama that is Dee, is choosing , mindfulness, meditation, deviation from drama, yoga, laughter, nature, and pausing a lot more.  I had a massive social streamline and am seriously surrounding myself with people who not only lift me up, but have the courage to make me aware, as well as accountable for faults, foibles, and even fantastic fuck ups.  They all piss me off from time to time, that’s how Love and friendship works.  But I am determined to have better, and be a better friend.  That means more focus, focus, focus, and plan and follow through. Many people have been incredibly patient with me, and it is incomprehensibly nice to be actively be flexing patience and the ability to prioritize.  

Feeling back in the game as I so obviously do (long may it continue), I have also mustered up the courage and strength to get back to work.  Also, thrown myself back into socializing in New Zealand again.  A lot.  After hiding in my room or running away overseas.  For the most part, being social has filled up my cup and kept me smiling.  I went to my first EV event in months, and it was challenging but clearly convinced me that is time I went full throttle back into the scene.  There’s so much work still to be done, and I Love nothing more than our community and the quirky characters who keep me on my toes and give me plenty to do and hope for.  I’ve bowed out of the distraction of Tinder (yeah, that was me you saw on there recently) it’s a rite of passage and I MUST write under a pseudonym soon to share the seriously strange, and sometimes beautiful stories.  But it’s time to bid a fond farewell to superficial distractions, as I was dating to manage my self-hating.  Basically reaching out for attention and validation.  I’ve made some incredible connections, and those friendships will continue, but I know what I want now, and patience has and will be a huge part of finding out if the universe will meet me halfway and deliver it.  I’m quietly confident it will work out.  It took 40 years to figure out what I truly want romantically, and it’s worth waiting for.  So my travel, and work, friends and family will be the focus while fate figures out what it has in store, I’m willing to wait for it.  I really do not want to end up like Aaron Burr though sir (shameless Hamilton reference).

So here’s my list of shit that really seemed to work, you can take what serves you and disregard the rest:


Occam’s Razor – Take a breath.  Everyone is NOT out to get you.  Everything is NOT your fault.  You will likely find that if you stop and remind yourself that the simplest explanation is the most likely, and simple explanations do very seldom involve conveluded passive aggression or planning from the people involved.  When you stop overthinking shit, you’ll find you’re much freer to be patient and seek solutions with the time you once wasted worrying.  I haven’t mastered this yet, but I am getting HEAPS better all the time.

Sleep – get enough decent sleep.  Feeling rested and being kind to your body and mind may mean you have to step out of your life for a bit to get the rest you need.  So do that, find a way.  Arrange someone for the kids, and get somewhere peaceful so you can catch up on clean and nurturing rest.  Your brain (and likely your friends and family) will thank you for making the effort.

Breathe – Get yourself onto YouTube and get a breathing tutorial and apply that bad ass motherfucking strategy whenever you feel you’re on the verge of losing your shit.  Breathing also means not talking, texting or further fucking up already freaky situations.

Nature – Get outside.  Put your devices down, if you have kids or pets, get those perfect little parasites involved.  The sight, sound, smell and and serious magic of mother nature is healing AF.  Get amongst it.  It’ll calm you down and help you make better decisions.  True story.

Forgiveness – Just let shit go.  Patience comes from knowing that the universe is going to sort you out.  Terrible things happen to good people, and good things happen to terrible people and none of it, seriously… NONE OF IT will be made any better if you stew and freak and fly off the handle.  

Laughter – My family is undeniably nuttier than squirrel shit.  Both nature and nuture play a part in that.  We use humour to defuse and deal with almost everything.  We convey pain through jokes and the time it takes us to belly laugh and hug it out when shit gets real is enough time to cool the brain and slow down our hearts enough that we’re more likely to show patience than say or do hurtful things that can’t be taken back.

Embrace Not Getting Your Way – This may sound counter-intuitive, but so often, things we really want or think we want are just not meant for us.  You can have a plan, it can be a really fucking good plan, but you are not guaranteed success and patiently dealing with disaster and disappointment will mean you get to embrace the shit out of the things that go right when they do. Sometimes these things require patience and planning, sometimes these things just require the patience to wait it out and let magic come to you.  Either way, if you always get what you want in short order, you won’t be a very good, nor a very happy person.  Also a true story.

There’s more, but I have been patiently procrastinating from stuff I seriously have to do so I will wrap up.

Have a great day, and a wonderful week.

Thanks, as always, for reading.

I’m Not Going to Write You a Love Story… Okay, Maybe Kinda.

Travel is something I feel blessed and obsessed about. I could happily own no home and just walk the world, provided there was regular family visits or, even better, the hobbit tribe were all in tow.  They refuse to stop their lives and leave the comfort and familiarity of friends and family to meander around the planet with their eccentric wee mother.

I’ve been in or around airports since 10pm Pacific time yesterday.  That’s well over 24 hours of the faint smell of kerosene (also known as NavGas) and the roar of jet engines as the faded background music in my rather strange and inarguably interesting existence.  I’ve met new people, sucked back more than 5 litres of bubbly water (they have the same taps in the Air Canada lounges that give you sparkling water as in the Koru lounge) and eaten my body weight in simple carbs.  You may think that not much can happen while you are in transit, but I’m struggling to pick a story to share with you, as so much cool shit has gone down, from the moment I woke up… erm… yesterday, until the point that I started writing this blog to share with you now.

I think I shall tell you a Love story.

Where shall I begin?  Let me think. 

Okay, I have been on the dating scene for well over a year now.  I’ve opted to only coffee or cocktail or hook up with people who do not live in New Zealand, for obvious reasons.  I have very much enjoyed being single and ready to mingle.  I’ve met so many nice and intelligent people and only a small smattering of absolute assholes.  I was out with my dear friends having Korean BBQ and we were swapping war stories of single days, and my friend told me a story of dating an astrophysicist. Apparently, the relationship met its doom when he couldn’t handle her asking what was before the time before time, as in, what was there before the big bang.  I thought on this for a moment. Seeing as I really don’t have an opinion or much idea about astrophysics, instead, I quite earnestly contributed this fact: “I think most, perhaps all of my relationships break down or end because I am proper fucking nuts and incredibly needy and emotional.  Or I ghost people.  Which is proper fucking nuts actually, so yes.” 


So I have met some really nice people online and IRL. I have almost absolute zero desire to be shipped out or settle down again.  I Love my Phteven more than the moon and the stars, even though we’re both feeling much better in the friend zone after a very tricky last couple of years indeed.

I do wonder though, about soulmates and true Love and the one.  I think there are a lot more than just one of the ones.  But, what if you meet and miss one!  What if the time space continuum delivers you mr. or mrs. Or ms. or zee zi so who knows RIGHT for your timing is just off?

Well.  I suspect that may have happened to me tonight.  Buckle in, I have a story to tell you.

I slept in this morning so had to rush out without even showering from the airport hotel I stayed at last night.  I met a couple of well-dressed men at the entrance, and asked them if they were waiting for the shuttle (which only comes every 20-30 minutes).  They had ordered and Uber and offered to let me tag along.  So I did.  I found out that they’d had a killer night and were feeling rather like cups of cold sick. We had nice chats and connected on LinkedIn and I gave them coffee/vitamin shots I had picked up with Dan at the bulletproof coffee lab.  They were lovely and wouldn’t even let me chip in for the Uber.

Then I found out my flight was cancelled.

Met lots of strangers, a couple of celebrities (I will NEVER tell… kidding, happy to share the goss but not write it down so ask me sometime if you see me) and generally had a fairly decent time just people watching and being the friendliest fucking person on the planet as I am prone to do most days.

Then the moment finally arrived, it was time to line up to board.

Here is where the Love story begins.

I was hiding from some ridiculously attractive and charismatic millennials who had been exchanging witty quips and champagne complaints in the lounge earlier. They were standing around by the airbridge entrance with their designer scarves and perfectly quaffed hairdos, kinda the way the mean girls in any high school guard their territories in the quad or lunchroom or common room.  ANYWAY, they were gross so I was keeping a low profile on the other end of the gate waiting area.

That, is when I saw him.  

You know when you do that thing, when you kinda feel like someone is watching you, so you look in that direction, but they aren’t. Then it happens again, a few times perhaps, and eventually you make eye contact.  Yeah.  That happened.  It was kinda nice.  

Quick Segway:  

I’ve just had three days of being mercilessly chatted up by countless people across LA.  My self-esteem is soaring pretty high currently, and my new campaign mantra is: Dee goes to California, she’s… wait for it… Making. America. Date. Again.  HAHAHhahaha.  I am so funny it actually hurts.

Anyway, back to brown eyed sweater guy.

So the look up look away game ended when my name got called over the PA as they had changed my seat from 1A to 4F.  Bastards.  I missed out on having the fish because I was in the last row, and that cod looked good on the menu.  Grrrr.

I must take a moment to describe brown eyed sweater guy. I thought for a moment he was that Zac Effron guy.  Not him in Hairspray or even Greatest Showman, more the one from that dark comedy with Seth Rogan as the neighbor of the frat house look about him.  I figured out fairly quickly it wasn’t.  But boy did I think he was cute.  And his sweater was that deep shade of merlot that has become my signature colour over the years.  I had a pastor wearing that colour in Edinburgh some months back and we are firm friends and I suspect always will be.  That colour is a great omen for me.  

ANYWAY.  Get through to the airbridge, and who is standing three people away from me??? THAT’S riiiight.  Brown eyed sweater guy.  So we exchanged sheepish smiles and I sat down and started texting my son Adam to make it look like I was very important and busy, because looking at sweater guy made me all gooey.

The line finally started to move and there was no sign of brown eyed sweater guy.  I did get to listen in on a very interesting conversation about screenplays and personal tragedy from the quirky middle-aged creatives infront of me.  I wanted to join in like ten times but it was obviously very much an intimate conversation for them.  Not intimate enough that they chose not to have it on an airbridge, but it had some pretty deep shit going on so I left them to it.

I finally got to the plane, and who is sitting next to me?!?!  Not brown eyed sweater guy.  There was a very nice property developer with a NYC accent next to me, think his name was Mike.  

However… Directly infront of me was.  YES!  Brown eyed sweater guy.  He even turned to look at me once or twice while he could pretend he was shuffling around to settle in.

Anyway, long story short, nothing much happened all flight, I had to have the ravioli because everything else was already ordered by the people who didn’t have their seat changed from 1a to 4f.  But something, I have no idea what, perhaps a panic attack or respritory issue?  Brown eyed sweater guy needed a doctor and quick!  SERIOUSLY, this drama actually happened y’all.  The man sitting next to him alerted the crew and he had a chat with a doctor and his blood pressure wasn’t right and I tried very hard not to stare, but it was happening right in the seat infront of me.  I turned to my neighbor and asked if he knew what was happening, and he just shook his head with concern and said; “He’s not doing to great.” And we had a short chat and tried not to stare.

When we landed brown eyed sweater guy walked off the plane with the paramedics.  He had an English accent and was polite without being sheepish or obsequious.  I turned to Mike again to ask him if he had overheard anything about how brown eyed sweater guy was doing, and he shrugged his shoulders.  I then smiled and said to Mike:  “well, it was most likely the fact the poor guy was overcome by my beauty.”  And Mike open mouth gafawed.  Just one big chuckle, but it was a great sound.  “Yes, I’m sure I overheard that this was the issue when he was talking to the medics.”  And we smiled.  “Yes, it happens all the time.  It’s a curse.”  And with that, the line had started to move and we shuffled off the plane, now engaged in a conversation. 

I diverted my stare as Mike and I talked and walked toward customs and immigration together. 

Nearly two hours later, I was downstairs talking to a retired woman named Dawn who really REALLY hates Trump.  As we sat and chatted and discussed the horror of climate change and the injustice of wealth distribution, who appeared in the corner of my eye?

Yup.  That’s right. It was brown eyed sweater guy. Again.

He was looking a little tired but all and all pretty good.  I caught his gaze and squealed “Oof I was worried about you!  Are you feeling okay?”  And bounded up and hugged him as I do with just about everyone everywhere all the time.

He said he’s feeling much better and thanked me for the concern.  I patted his shoulder and said my goodbyes and headed back to sit down and continue my discussions with Dawn.  He turned back to me and asked if my shirt (which is an oversized grey sweater with the words “rise up” on the front) was from Hamilton.  

I nearly cried.

“No, it’s just a shirt, but I do so fucking very much LOVE Hamilton.”

And we smiled.  And he turned and left.

And that is probably the last time in my whole life I will see brown eyed sweater guy.  

And that, is my Love story for today.  And it really isn’t a Love story at all.  Brown eyed sweater guy could very well be married or gay and not for a moment feeling the same way as I did.  But the what if thoughts make me smile.  And I will keep being me around the globe in search of the aha connection that I’ve heard people talk about.  

Thanks for reading.