I’m all alone.

Well, sort of. I am in the lounge at Brisbane airport after a wonderfully fun and productive day with our suppliers. Lunch was magnificent. I got through a little bit of work, found out that we have to travel to Munich mid October for a European conference. I adore the team here in Brisbane. We can speak candidly and I trust them. Beyond that, their product is beautiful and kicks ass.

So after a day of comfort, friendship, and social and business interaction, I find myself alone (except for my constant companion social media).

I like it.

People watching is the activity of choice. It is really quite fascinating just observing people living their lives. Airport lounges and airplanes have become like my natural fucking habitat lately, so I am almost watching my environment unfold like a skip on a record. It isn’t déjà vu. It is just mind numbingly familiar.

There’s a couple next to me, pre-kids. They look to me like they are about 18 years old but I guess they’d be around 30 or so. She’s playful and he’s got all the trimmings of a mega nerd. Watching her tease him is making me miss Grumpy.

I walked up to get some sparkling water and sweets, and overheard a large group of 7 or 8 people who were obviously on the third or fourth round of drinks. Sounds like they are at the pitch and finance stage of an interesting start-up project. I liked what I overheard very much:

“Listen, we just have to tell them that we aren’t fucking assholes. The world is full of assholes, and we’re trying to do something fucking amazing!”

I say that all the time. I liked him. Another day I’d have certainly introduced myself and joined them for a drink.

There’s also a woman who looks as though she’s in a lot of pain. She’s had a fair amount of work done and has expensive sunglasses and perfectly coifed bleach blonde hair. She also has a walking stick. I wonder what her story is. Perhaps she’s recently suffered a small stroke. The pain after such an event can be crippling.

Everyone has a story. Often, I muscle my way into that story in places like lounges and hotel bars. I find people fascinating. I’m fed by the connections I make as I crash, head first, like a bull in a china shop through this life.

I’m keeping myself to myself tonight though, and just watching. Watching, and fabricating stories for those people who pique my attention.

In a few hours I will land in Auckland, and arrive home to an empty house. I’ll sleep for four or five hours if I am lucky, then collect my daughter from the friends who are watching her while we are away. I’ll arrive in my office, feel loved and overwhelmed, and I’ll try and makes some useful decisions and observations. OH! And I will also be hosting our friend Zac, who I met years ago, standing in line for the key-note speech at a WWDC event in San Francisco.

The hours will melt into days, weeks, months and years. Adventure, heartache and euphoria will all be frequent companions.

For now, I’ll just post this train of thought and throw in my ear buds and listen to some Gorillaz, as that’s the kind of night this feels like. A Feel Good Inc. kind of night.

Thanks for reading.

XXOO

Cruising is NOT good for the environment. I totally get that.  They’ve made massive strides in energy efficiency and environmental policy, and some cruise lines have excellent corporate responsibility packages that encompass saving turtles and whales, and being decent to their staff and the places they visit, but really… it is pretty shithouse to ferry a bunch of fatties around the globe for no better reason than their leisure.

I am saying this as one of the fatties they frequently ferry around, so cool it if you’re feeling offended by my candor, I just wanted to make it clear that I realize that by cruising I am a special flavor of hypocrite, as between vacations I champion good energy and environmental practices and policies. I applaud any and all change to more intelligent and sustainable practices, and the cruise industry is moving toward sustainability and corporate responsibility in various ways and on with various levels of success.

So, with that elephant in the room out of the way, I’ll get on with a meandering review of our trip so far.

We started in Sydney.

People-watching on cruise ships is a particular kind of fascinating. I’ve been cruising the 7 seas for nearly a decade now. My first experience was a Norwegian Cruise Line (NCL) trip through the Mediterranean and Egypt for my 30^th birthday.   We missed our kids, and aside from one couple with a small child from Texas, who we are no longer in touch with, we only hung around with staff and crew while on the ship. It confounded us that guests couldn’t hang out with crew and staff then, and continues to do so now. There’s always a way backstage if you give enough of a fuck though, of this I can assure you. I’ll keep my sources and knowledge of this fact to myself for now though. So yes, fraternizing still happens across the divide, and it is more frequent on some ships than others. Guess it depends on how “tight a ship” the captain and officers choose to run. (Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.)

As was the case on our last cruise without my husband, I have the two Grandmother’s (and this time my dad, who the kids call Poppa as well) to help kid wrangle. That trip we had a super sweet suite on NCL. We did Hawaii and it was beautiful. I kept the baby while the grannies wrangled the three bigger kids. We saw volcanoes, turtles and felt very much at home as the Polynesian culture in Hawaii echoes so much of the Maori culture that is so sincerely dear to me.

Okay, so, back to people watching.

The boat is populated almost entirely by Kiwi and Aussie punters. You all know I adore Kiwis. Obviously.

I have to say though, I fucking LOVE Australians too. If you know me IRL, you’ll know that I take more than a bit of an exception to the racism and misogyny that can occur out in the open and behind closed doors on the big, red, desert, forest, and generally diverse continent across the Tasman sea from my doorstep.

Yet, Australians are so fun-loving. So earnest. So friendly. So loud. So absolutely endearing.  It was “formal night” last night, and it takes on a completely different meaning for Australians and Kiwis than it does for Europeans or Americans.  Everyone looked well turned out, but colourful and comfortable as well.

Here’s a couple of snaps from the elevator:

The main foyer and all the spiffy looking Antipodean cruisers

James’ cutie little chubby fingers on the glass as we headed back to the room (we weren’t dressed up)

So yes, I adore Aussies, here is just one story of why: Standing in line to grab some food on the very first day, some woman was yelling at some kids to slow down as they rushed through in the buffet restaurant.

I asked if they were her kids.

“I don’t know who’s fucking kids they are, I’ll parent any kids I see though.” Said in a thick Queensland Wales accent.

And I beamed. A relaxed, maternal, sweary mum just like me. You don’t come across them as easily in the USA and Canada. I know they exist of course, but the thing about Canada and the USA is that the swearing ice doesn’t usually get broken until the second or third date, and almost certainly NEVER just standing in line to get some potato salad.

We talked for a minute or two, I found out she was a teacher, I told her I was really happy with the culture here as the staff don’t work for tips as we Kiwi and Australians don’t tip, and kids are free to be kids and roam the ship without being herded back to their parents. “Seems to me that North Americans give too many fucks in general, and they sure wouldn’t appreciate it if someone else yelled at their kid generally.” I said wide-eyed. “This suits me much more than the USA run cruises, and especially the Disney cruises.” I said.

So, back to a couple of stories about people watching:

Kids on this ship roam around in little gangs. The ages range, but I dare say they are left to their own devices to travel in packs from as young as about 8 or 9 (younger if there are a few pre-teen or young teenage kids to look out for the small ones as far as I have observed.) Kids are on an adventure on this boat. There’s hundreds of the little parasites, and they find friends and have ALL the fun. This is what childhood should be like! Not a constant stream of adult supervision and cotton wool wrapped scheduling!

What else is worth sharing with you? OH YES! There is a gorgeous little toddler who looks exactly like Phyllis Diller. It is equal measures cute and disconcerting. She’s very well behaved, and her parents look pretty chill. I wonder if they think she looks like Phyllis Diller, or if they know who Phyllis Diller is.

There’s a thousand other stories worth sharing, but I will leave it there for tonight.

Later, if I can stay awake, I will share a blog on our day in Lifou New Caledonia.

Here are a few more pictures, and I’ll see you back here sooner rather than later I hope.

Have a super week.

Thank you for reading!

XXOO

Dee

I guess it is a little like the flu.

You don’t have control over “catching it” aside from taking necessary health and hygiene precautions.

Yes, there are mental health hygiene precautions… I’m sure you can Google it, or we can delve into it in a different blog one day.

Perhaps it is also contagious, I think it may be, and I’d prefer not to spread it any further if it is.

So later today, I am removing myself from Facebook for a few days. As I am currently fighting the urge to put up those open ended “WHOA IS ME! GIVE ME LOVE” posts that we all adore so very much… So I shall spare myself the embarrassment and YOU the discomfort of that bullshit by removing the temptation for as long as it takes till I can trust myself to get back to my role as a social media speed bump, with more cheer than queer to share with the world.

I did want to share my depressive episode coping tips, particularly for the dozens of friends who have recently reached out to wish me well or have shared their own struggle with the beastly bastard black dog.

There’s a deep and unbreakable bond between those of us who battle this bullshit. Not having to explain, but being able to swap stories of sadness, is a sacred tie that binds us. Important drunk (or regular not drunk) dials and messages I have received (or given) in my adult life, with friends who simply could not fight the urge say: “hang in there”, or to reach out and share their struggles. I appreciate each and every one of these conversations. Cherish them even. It means that people know I am crazy and aren’t afraid to reach out to me when their own crazy sets in. That realization is one of the very few things that have raised a smile on my sullen face of late…

Too many people that I know and Love are currently coping with some level of sadness. One of them, who is very close to me geographically, emotionally and genetically, spent the afternoon with me yesterday. We are both waking up at 4:00am every morning without fail, and stricken with a sense of doom, and a deep and unrelenting anxiousness that sits in our stomachs like a brick. We do not, however, manage to get very far from our warm beds, despite waking so early.

She suggested we might all be suffering from some sort of mass depressive episode at the prospect of Trump. That’s the kind of quirky humour us basket cases can appreciate. Dark, raw, and maybe more than a little bit true. It feels like we are on the edge of something. Revolution, war, massive change, I have no idea, but I am not prepared for a major shake up of any kind.

One never does know how long an episode will last. It is also impossible to say how often they will hit. It had been well over a year since my last big shake up (or down would perhaps be more accurate). Sure there are triggers. Mine has been too much candle burning at both ends, and too many opportunities, and too much of everything really.

Too much kid stuff. Too much stimulation. Too much success. Too many failures. Too much, too often, too many, too loud, too busy, too hard to handle.

And there’s Dee off the deep-end for an indiscernible length of time.

Comparison truly is the thief of joy. The thing is, I look around at people and things, and read those fucking uplifting motivational memes all over the place. “Keep going” or “You’re powerful”. Well fuck that. We all keep going, and going, and going, but sometimes we need to stop and recharge, and there’s no shame in that.

Plus, I am constantly reminded that I could never do all the things that I feel like I should or could do, even if I had 3000 years in which to do them, as well as kick ass time management skills.

I do not have kick ass time management skills.

So there’s that.

And then there’s watching people who can prioritize and feeling absolutely jealous. Everyone on the planet seems better at holding their tongue than me. Everyone on earth seems more in control of themselves than I feel (even children!)

Worse than jealousy is the self-hatred that comes from worrying that anyone may take a peek into my life and be sad about any aspect of theirs.

THEN there’s the realization that there is true suffering, and the utterly self-induglent and pointless incapacitation is just, well… embarrassing really.

So here’s a few things that I have learned (and admittedly do not always put into practice) in the nearly 3 decades of dealing with depressive episodes:

• Booze and drugs (aside from prescription obviously) must go, go, go until your joy returns.
• Up the water and herbal teas, down the caffeine and sugar.
• Force yourself to move. Walks in nature are the absolute best, but even a trip to get groceries or forcing yourself to get out of the house and run errands. I implore you to keep moving. The gym or swimming or a jog or bike ride would be absolutely amazing, and are a bit to ambitious for me this week, but if you can, then DO!
• Seek help. There’s no shame, many organisations have an EAP, or call on one of the many support networks including lifeline (0800 543 354) and there is a wealth of resources at depression.org as well.
• Self care. Don’t be afraid to say no to extra things, and find the time and money for a massage or to get your hair done… a little bit of self care can go a long, long way.
• Laugh if and when you can. Even if it feels hollow and fake, even the act of smiling releases some good endorphin things apparently, and I can assure you the joy will return.
• Talk about it. Find a safe and trustworthy person (ideally a professional) that you can offload onto. And let it out. You’ll find that you aren’t as weird as you think, and if you are weird, they can help you to manage that in a systematic and encouraging way.
• Hang. In. There. I mean it… Stay with us. Even if you need to take a little bit of time away from work to cry and let the illness work its way through your system. Stay with us. Stay safe. And if you are in a position that you cannot trust yourself for any reason, you must find a safe place with people around, or have someone you know and trust with you always. Do this. Because you are worth it (even if you do not currently feel that you are)
• Know your brain is not on your side right now. The self-speak that you are shoveling through is probably mostly bullshit. We’ve all got baggage and we’ve all been on a journey, and when you are on a genuine down swing you CANNOT trust the bullshit your brain is feeding you.
• Spirituality.  Seek it, embrace it, meditate on it… The knowledge that there is something bigger than our own understanding can be very healing and helpful when the depression flu comes to call.

There’s more advice, but I have a personal goal to never go over 1200 words on a blog, and I’ve passed that already.  Hope this was in some way useful to someone.

It is just a smidge after 6 months since Chelsea took her life.

I’ve taken a screen shot from her Facebook wall, which her daughter keeps updated.

Chelsea was AMAZING at Facebook.  She always made me giggle, and she had so much to give and share.

I woke up after dreaming about swimming through warm, dark water… and I needed to write down the empty that I feel thinking about her.

New Years day 2016 I was on the banks of the North Saskatchewan river with my four children and soulmate (husband) Steve.

Snow. A huge bonfire.  Babies, cousins, laughter, and a text message from Australia:

One of my five best friends on the planet sent me a message, which I received while transferring clothes from the washer to the dryer at my aunt’s house.

“Chelsea killed herself.”

And now, there is no more rolling laughter (cackles) from her belly.  Now her beautiful, vivacious daughter is left to navigate what I remember as the toughest times in my own life, without her single favourite human.  Now there is no more Chelsea selfies.  Now there is no more her when I visit Brisbane.  Now the planet is a somewhat quieter, and absolutely a less wonderful place, because one of the many angels on this earth couldn’t fight anymore.

I realise how mellow dramatic this may sound. But fuck.  I miss her, and I do not for a second hate her for taking her leave.  I wish every day that she could have held on, because I know she had more to do here on earth.  And the absolute rock bottom she was feeling would have passed… And then it would return… And I just wish she was still here because the world was better with her in it, even if she never felt that it was.

Now I am reaching out to anyone who might stumble onto the words I write and imploring you to hang on, because death is really, really, really permanent.

The very last time I saw Chelsea was a few short weeks before she left this planet.

I told an amazingly funny story about how my beloved husband sometimes wakes me up to initiate sex.  Oh my word, did Chelsea laugh at this story… She had a great laugh.

She didn’t want to die.  She just wanted to stop all the pain and suffering and be free…

Chelsea honey.  I am so glad I knew you.  And I miss you, and I hope that you know that the world was richer with you in it.

If you are in New Zealand, and you need to talk, call lifeline on 0800 111 757 to talk to a trained counsellor.

Hang on.  Because the feeling you are feeling will give way to joy again, it really will.

The day of Chelsea’s funeral, I was driving to and fro with my God daughter Olivia, who adored her Auntie Chelsea.  The day was a blur, and I remember sitting in Chelsea’s favourite seafood restaurant, looking over the water to the island where she was when she took her life.  I sat with Steve, and I remember reading that David Bowie had died.  That day is burned into my brain.  Her funeral. Her friends.  Her family.  Her pain.  They are a part of each and every person who shared that day.

While I was driving around running here and there, Chelsea sent me a song on the radio and I wept:

My daughter and I listen to this song often, and I don’t think the tears that come when I think of her will ever run dry.

Brie Honey… I am sending you so much Love.  Angela… I don’t know what to say or do, and I know that you are grieving so hard and I can’t do anything but let you know I am here if you need me.

Shaun.  Thank you for being my friend, and thank you for the intertwined lives we have lived for well over two decades.  Please hug your beautiful girls, and I’ll see you in a few weeks.

Chelsea.  You are missed.  You are Loved.  You are a part of us all forever.

I allowed my long suffering husband to choose my latest hair colour.

It is red-purple.  I am not happy.

The fact I can be so affected by something as superficial as hair dye is not a great realisation on a crisp Monday, after a brilliant but fleeting weekend of fun and family.

My hair comes second only to my substantial bosom when it comes to physical attributes that affect my self-confidence.

So there it is then.  Undeniable proof I am vapid, and vacuous and vain. When it comes to my hair and boobs at least.

It seems to me that when a woman reaches a certain age the fucks she gives about her appearance take on some sort of phoenix-like transformation.  I do not look anywhere near as fresh, young or dewy as I did 15 years ago when Grumpy Husband first met me at the tender age of 23.  He often reminds me that he thought I was a little chubby when we first started seeing each other (mere weeks before he proposed) as I weighed a hefty 55kg at the time.  There’s considerably more of me now, and I very much doubt I’ll ever see those lean little numbers on the scales again.

Yet, it seems strange to admit that I have never felt more confident or at peace with how I look, or who I am.

I still hate this fucking hair colour mind you, but the whole package of me is pretty well worn and I am happier living in it than I can ever remember.

One of my heroines, Jane Fonda, is recently and famously quoted as saying:  “You couldn’t pay me to be 20 again.”  I couldn’t agree more, and I couldn’t be more impressed with her poise, appeal and stunning appearance as she nears 80 years of age.

My gal pals of a similar age often talk about looks and sex appeal and professionalism.  We sometimes lament the struggles of our younger colleagues, and their need to balance the two.

That struggle is real, kids.

So here’s my take on the whole sordid affair.

By the time you are pushing or past 40, you may feel as if you have flown over the clear and present dangers of being asked out by clients or lurid looks from colleagues.  You can wear your wrinkles and muffin top as signs of surviving the trenches of life and perhaps even parenthood.

Do some women pine for prettier days?

Probably.

Do I crave a world where age, gender and attractiveness are totally eclipsed by the meritocracy of performance, experience, skill, enthusiasm and integrity?

You bet your fucking ass I do!

Do my own behaviours, preconceptions and actions sometimes contribute to the status quo of women having to fight tooth and nail to be seen as equals?

Sadly, I think yes.  I might be a part of the problem and not so much the solution.

All this self-reflection stemmed from a bad bottle of hair dye.

I don’t have to be concerned with how attractive people think I am, as I am happily coupled and enjoying the spoils of toughing it out through the trenches of marriage and parenthood.

My husband is my business partner and my biggest client.  So keeping him happy personally and professionally is in my best interests.  I don’t think that’s where my self esteem stems from though.

I am well worn, curvy and kind.  I am full of joy and enthusiasm, and keen to share this energy with any willing recipient.

And I think that it is the joy that bubbles over into conversations and relationships that makes me whole.

So, if you’ve taken the time to read this, and you are, or you know a woman who struggles with her appearance and the ageing process, here’s some advice for free:

Do what works for you.

Make small or large changes if you want to.  Be it botox, or yoga or hair dye or a pair of Spanx.  Or don’t change a single thing!  Wear your yoga pants and puffer jacket with pride. You are already beautiful without a shred of make-up.  Just own the fuck out of who you are and what you’ve been through, because every mark and millimetre on you is part of your story.

So I will continue to hide behind a thick mask of cosmetics, because I like to play with make up and it does affect my self-esteem.  I’ll suffer through this painfully purple hair colour and feel a bit silly every time I see it until it fades.

You be you, I shall be me, and together we will fight our battles with or without the war paint of rouges and contouring creams.

Have a good week.

Home.  Safe, sound, and extremely tired, but we are definitely HOME!

In my room, and I have exactly 60 minutes to write a blog before I get to go and pick up my two middle children from school and take them to music lessons.

Three of our four children have given us welcome home hugs, and there’s just our eldest son left to see since landing back in Auckland after THE MOST AMAZING FUCKING MONTH OF AWESOMENESS IN RECORDED HISTORY!

Steve and I reconnected and got pretty real with each other.  To say I Love that man and his enormous heart and brain is feeble and words can’t begin to describe how lucky I feel/am to have found him.  He’s still an asshole in a lot of ways, but I am no prize pig myself to be fair. Together we work. I have no idea what the reason for this formula is.

We got to see friends and meet new and phenomenally intelligent people.

Sadly, we missed seeing some very special people including Eva and Bill and Alicia in Denver (flights grrrr) and my wonderful family in Livermore… And just missed seeing a handful of other friends by mere moments as the power of social media informed me that I was very close to dozens of new and old friends as I galavanted around the planet.

Landing at home was perfect.

We timed the trip through customs and immigration just perfectly it seems, as there were no lines and it was a breeze to get through without any children in two.  Didn’t even stop for duty free and sailed through straight to the X-rays (that I wouldn’t have to bother with if I bothered to get my Kiwi passport… DOH!)

Arrived in our drive to tears of joy from our daughter Stephanie, and excited bounces and squeals of joy from Adam our five year old.

Steph came out for a super quick breakfast at our local cafe, where everyone knows us, and beamed to see us back.

Returned home and our friend/nanny Lou arrived moments after we arrived with our baby James.  He’s changed so much.  He is no longer a baby.  Prior to leaving I was concerned about his speech, as he is two now, and the other three children were all speaking in complete, if not, broken sentences by this age.  I needn’t have worried.  He knows his colours, he talks, he’s secure and happy and content and has thrived under the watchful eye and warmth and nurturing of Lou and her family, as well as his weekends with my parents and his three older siblings.

He did not cry or make strange when he saw us, he just beamed and craved cuddles and asked for mummy and daddy to pick him up and his requests were gratefully fulfilled.

He also counts.  But there’s something about his counting that hit a chord and piqued my metaphorical sensibilities.

If you say:  1.2.3… He jumps in and says: 8!-9!-10!!!!

And you can correct him, and tell him that he missed 4-5-6, and he’ll sternly look at you with his two-year-old-toddler-resolve and say:

“No! 8-9-10!”

Here’s the thing about that.  I have no idea what this year is going to bring.  I have no idea what battles I will need to fight personally or professionally.  It feels like as a family, as a business, and as a human being I have set the foundations for some really cool shit to happen.  So with lots and LOTS of help, I have made it through the 1.2.3.

I know what the goal is.  I know what 10 looks like.

I want to hug my kids, fight with them, listen to their stories, hold them and stroke their hair when things get tough, or they are sick, or the inevitable broken hearts that loom on their adolescent horizons occur.

I want to stand with Steve and all of our friends and partners and build a better world however I can.  If that is fighting greed and stupidity with sensible solutions, transparency and kindness, then that’s what I want.  If it is improving air quality and encouraging energy independence for New Zealand by doing everything we can feasibly think of to help expedite the uptake of green technology, then LET’S FUCKING GET THAT SHIT DONE!  If it is fighting misogyny and discrimination by trying to embrace a meritocracy and constructive conflict and growth that is going to make the world a place where my boys can choose to be nurses and my daughter can decide to be an engineer and NOBODY even BOTHERS to talk about traditional fucking roles… then BRING THAT SHIT ON!

I am not entirely sure what the next bit looks like.

I know it is going to be busy, tiring and there will be times I want to give up and move to our little off grid patch of paradise north of island and stop pushing ahead with our many personal and professional projects.

So 4-5-6 is upon me and my entire family.  So in good faith I shall take the metaphorical lead from my absolutely delicious two year old son James, and I will just keep smiling and reaching out to grab hold of 8.9.10.

Hope that all made sense.

I am going to go collect my children.

Thank you for reading, and if you’re one of the many people with their eye on the same prize as us, THANK YOU for your strength, and idealism and effort.  We will get there by working together, I’m pretty confident about that fact.

XXOO

Dee

I PROPERLY ADORE the Netherlands!  My beloved soulmate Phteven is half Dutch.  He seems to have held onto some of the quirks and characteristics that seem to be aligned with this colourful culture.  His humour is pretty similar to the standard humour around here it seems.  Intelligent, but plenty crass, with a liberal seasoning of shock value.

Where do I begin… Germany was lovely.  I am so grateful that I got to attend the Tech show that I went to Berlin to be a part of, but I must say, German culture is a bit too fucking precise for this hot mess of a Hobbit.

As soon as I stepped onto the KLM flight, populated with many MANY Dutch people, I felt more at ease.  The flight crew were warm, friendly and gorgeous on so many levels. They smiled, joked, flirted a little bit even (with everyone, not just me!).

And then I arrived at my hotel and had a perfect check in.  Everyone speaks impeccable english here.

After dropping off my gear I headed into town to just be a tourist.  The coffee houses (hash bars) and bars and restaurants had super stoned tourists pouring out of them everywhere I went.  The locals rode around on bikes and smiled and laughed together.

It all felt like I went through some sort of joyful vortex and escaped the dull and stuffy seriousness of Germany to be delivered to a much more Dee-friendly universe.

I met up with our friend Anne who is a rockstar in the EV and conversion game.  He and two of his old friends had to tow a large electric truck through the narrow streets of Amsterdam to his shop as he will be kitting it out and pimping it out to the max.  The large vehicle is destined to be the Netherland’s first FULLY electric food truck.  I’ll be spamming all y’all with news of that journey as it happens.

We got to chat at length about how SERIOUSLY FUCKING LUCKY we both feel to be working in Green Tech and emerging technologies.  We get to hang out all day, every day, with SUPER smart, gloriously geeky, sincerely connected humans.  Thanks to technology, we have found each other.  Eccentric early adopters are able to meet up online and IRL and just shoot the shit about how awesome life is and how fabulous breakthroughs in Electric Vehicle, energy, and battery storage technology are!  Everyday is like Christmas morning for me working alongside these people, and he feels jus the same way.

The Dutch seem a passionate and fun-loving bunch in general.  All the guys that helped move the ducktruck.nl from point A to point B have families who they are very proud of and take great pains to maintain a good work/life balance.  Big respect for them and their stories.  And seeing them talk about their wives and kids was pretty magic.  It did, of course make me miss Grumpy!

I do not know how two crazy different kids like him and I ever managed to run into each other at just the exact correct moment, but I am forever grateful that we did.  He’d suck without me, as I would if he were not by my side and sincerely invested in my happiness.  Yay for Love.  It is a very VERY good thing.

So where was I?

Ah yes.

After celebrating getting the truck safely to its destination, I asked if I might try some of Amsterdam’s world famous marijuana.  And I did.  And I couldn’t feel my face.  And it was awesome and I don’t want to do it again in a hurry!

I made it home at a somewhat respectable midnight-ish.  I was invited by the cab driver to go and smoke some more hash, to which I very firmly responded: “HELL NO!”

The ride from the bar to the airport where my hotel is seemed to take a million years.  It was super strange. Figured it was pretty safe to give it a spin in this beautifully tolerant city.  I won’t be making partaking a regular event however.  I have enough vices, no need to add to the mix.

So here I am on day 2 in this fabulous city.  I’d better finish my lunch and head out so I can see a few things before it is time for dinner.

Thanks for reading.

I have spent a good chunk of my adult life in airports.

I adore travel for business and leisure.  My beloved husband agreed to attend an EV and technology tradeshow in Berlin for my birthday this year.

Rather unfortunately, beloved husband had to stay back in New Zealand this week as he’s speaking at a conference and attending a very important meeting thing that I am not allowed to talk about.  (Eye roll)

ANYWAY!

I am footloose and fancy free for a couple of weeks in Europe.

I attended the IDTechEx show and met some wonderful people, and got to know three Kiwi colleagues a lot better over the days that we were hanging out together.  Very fond of all of them, and we all got a lot out of attending the conference.  Admittedly, one of the things I got was a massive hangover as I stayed out till 4:00am drinking on the eve of my Birthday. A couple of days later and I am feeling quite human again.

I am here at the Berlin Tegel airport, hours ahead of catching my flight to Amsertdam because I mistakenly thought I was booked on a star alliance flight and would therefore have lounge access.  WRONG.  I am flying with KLM and they are sky scanner not star alliance, so I am sitting here at a table in a crowded terminal catching up on Blog posts.  I’ll also be writing to the potentially soon to be ex-travel agent to inquire as to why I am not booked on star alliance.  I could have done all of this myself with less hassle.  Grrr.

The trip to the airport was fraught.  I don’t fully grasp the german rail ticket thing so the four single trip passes I bought when I landed (enough to get me to and from the airport I thought as I had to take one bus and one train each way) were not validated and no good.  I managed to score a nice shiny $60Euro ticket for fucking up something as simple as buying a train ticket.  Admittedly, it was all quite comical, as the German ticket collector fella was SO GERMAN and there was no way he was going to let me get away with this, even though it was obvious that I had made an earnest attempt to do the right thing and purchase the correct ticket.  He did, however, assure me that the German government probably won’t care enough to send me a ticket to New Zealand.  I guess we will see.

Shortly after receiving my nice big infringement notice, the train I was on stopped and we all had to get off and wait for a new train.  The new train was VASTLY overcrowded and I was squeezed into the carriage like a sardine.  There was a couple of other women, one who looked Chinese, and one who was Italian, trying to get to the airport.  They asked me for help.  I explained that I am probably not the right person to be asking, but I did know that we had to get the TXT bus from the station to get to the airport.

It was nice to make a short but real connection with some strangers, as I’ve become very acutely aware that I am very reliant on human interaction and connectedness.  I’m missing my husband and children, and I am missing my friends and workmates as well.

I won’t let this put a damper on the amazing opportunity to explore Europe and connect with some of our EV and green tech colleagues.  I am feeling pretty blessed and pretty deflated all at the same time.

So I’ll wrap this little whinge session up now I guess.  I’ll be boarding the plane in a little more than an hour, and until then I will try and catch up on some actual work.

Once I arrive in Amsterdam (my next stop) I think I will venture into the city and walk along the canals and maybe stop at a hash bar and read a book for a couple of hours.  Whether I can be bothered venturing out at all…

Better go and catch up on some other stuff.

Hope you are well, whatever you’re up to over the weekend ahead.

I do not know if it is the jet lag, or the emotional rollercoaster of the past few weeks, or maybe some sort of hallucination as I am on day four of a 500 calorie per day diet (mostly on purpose, but also because I am just too exhausted to be hungry).

But today, All my plans were reduced to dust and I ended up in one of my favourite places on earth.

I am here now, in a room in Hotel Muller where I have stayed twice before.  This is my fourth trip to the castle.  I always come alone, except once when I was here with my wonderful mother in law and Adam when he was in a front pack, just a baby of less than a year old.

I love this place.  It might be my Austrian blood, as I am predominantly Austrian thanks to my father being exceptionally German/Bavarian/Austrian/Czech or whatever he is.  It might just be my active imagination and huge heart.  I don’t care really what the reason is, but this place is one of those places that holds a special kind of magic for me.

I am in two minds about sharing it, because part of the magic was that few people took the pains to come here when I first started to visit.  Now, the place is always crawling with people.

I digress (as I am so often prone to do!)

While I was walking up to the castle, a familiar feeling washed over me.  I was angry at all the tourists and visitors for invading this sacred place.  I felt like somehow the eccentric genius, shrouded with mystery, King Ludwig was being defiled with their presence.  And of course I never think of Ludwig without thinking of Sissy… And that’s how today’s super wave of crazy inspiration began.

“This is NOT your fucking castle!” I felt like saying to anyone not showing an appropriate amount of reverence for this place. “Show some fucking respect!” I wanted to huff at the joke-cracking jackasses on my tour.

So that’s a wee look into my crazy for today, but the REALLY important thing is this:

There’s a book in me, and the chapters, the literary tools, the characters, the plot and the narrator have been invading my senses to the point I fear my heart and head might actually explode.

So here is the first little taste of the first chapter of the book I’ll give myself a year to finish.  Feel free to offer feedback.  This is first draft, zero edit, zero changes.  It kinda just flowed out of my fingers like words and laughter flow out of my mouth…

I’ll also share a few snaps of the day today…  Just because more people read my fucking blog if I include pictures.

OKAY!  Ready?  Here it is:

Soundtrack chapter one:

Enigma – return to innocence; Natalie Merchant – Wonder;  Propinquity (I’ve Just Begun to Care) – Michael Nesmith (1971); Something is Worrying Me – Otis Redding AND the MOST important song for the first chapter is: 

Wagner – ‘Parsifal’ – Act I Prelude

So it begins:

My name is Kathryn. With a K and a Y. Like the lubricant jelly.  I am not Kathy. Sometimes Kate. Most often Katie.

I’m the narrator for the story you’re settling in to read. I’ll be telling you this story from a second person omniscient perspective just to fuck with you and push the limits of your logic. Basically, what that means is I am intimately and completely immersed with, and entirely knowledgeable of all the characters and events you are about to get seriously fucking attached to as this story unfolds.

This story, or at least hundreds (if not thousands) of stories just like this have been told through the ages.  The only thing that sets this apart is that I can swear to you that every word is true, as queer and confusing as the story appears, it is all as real as you are.

What I can assure you as you go through these pages that lay before you, as yet undiscovered is this:

Love and passion are eternal and unbreakable. They are also powerful forces for harm or healing, and sometimes the love that filters down through our human experience gets steeped in tragedy unless the right kind of magic comes along to change the cycle.

Hate can also be a pretty powerful and unbreakable force, but that’ll become dreadfully clear in time as well.  And fuck hate.  Hate is not what I am here to convince you of.  It is destructive and cowardly.  I’m here to prove to you, once and for all, that true Love is immortal and eternal.  Time is not what you think it to be, and magic is a force far greater and more common than you can currently imagine.  

This is a story about Cecilia Maria Jamieson. One of the best bitches to ever walk this earth. It is a story about her lover Stephen, her husband Mark, Mark’s many lovers (one lover in particular being Mrs. Cassandra Church), and at least one incarnation of her life lived in the 21st century, to heal the hurt of the 19^th century tragedy she once endured.

If you’re already confused, you might want to trade this book in for some Fifty Shades of Grey smut; or perhaps even some self-help bullshit, because it only gets weirder as we delve into this delicious, destructive, inspiring and absolutely true story.

Before I acquaint you with the characters in this story, let me tell you a few things:

First, I regularly practice appalling language. Unlike the pristinely perfect protogaonist CeeCee, who wouldn’t say shit if her mouth was full of it.

You’ll see me slip in and out of story-teller mode, and you’ll notice me telling you about things I could not have witnessed because I was not there. Trust me when I tell you that every detail is accurate and honest.

Second, you’ll see that there’s a list of songs at the top of each chapter. You can play these while you read the chapter, on repeat or in the background. You can also listen to the songs after you’ve read the chapter and let it all sink in. You’ll get a taste of everything form Wagner to Black Sabbath throughout this story, so I am hopeful that this journey together will expand, not only your faith in magic, Love and reincarnation, but also your musical knowledge. If you don’t want to listen to the songs at any point, I give exactly zero fucks. But trust me when I say, the soundtrack for each chapter will have meaning and multiply your enjoyment if you just suck it up and trust me on this shit.

Shall we begin?

Okay… there’s heaps more but that is all anyone is going to see until it is finished.  Except Phteven and a few other mad keen reader friends and editors.  Good God I hope I can finish this, because it feels like it is going to be a very, VERY good story.

I might just be delirious from hunger and lack of sleep though, so please throw your feedback right at me if you have the time and inclination.

XXOO

Dee

I’m a pretty fucking lucky little princess.  I have health, wealth and I laugh loud and often with good friends.  Fights and disagreements are almost always swift and help me to evolve.  I am well fed, well loved, and (usually) well groomed.

I should be the happiest fat little pampered pussy cat on the planet.

Yet, somehow, I always feel like it is all going to end any moment.  Worse perhaps, I want to run screaming into the hills away from this idyllic life, career and family.

There’s a genuine psychological affliction called imposters syndrome.  I’ve taken the liberty of diagnosing myself with it.

There’s a good summary of imposters syndrome on Wikipedia, but I prefer the CalTech Website information, which you may expand upon by clicking, or is summed up with:

Impostor Syndrome

Impostor syndrome can be defined as a collection of feelings of inadequacy that persist even in face of information that indicates that the opposite is true. It is experienced internally as chronic self-doubt, and feelings of intellectual fraudulence.

You know what is really interesting about imposter syndrome? Women are extremely over-represented as suffering with it.

This pisses me off.

So why can’t we all just be proud of our achievements, no matter how great or small?  Why can’t we feel so confident in our skills and talents that our efficacy overflows and infects those around us with greatness?!?!

No matter how many times I hear positive things (and admittedly, I almost ALWAYS dig for any compliment I receive because I am very needy) I never believe that I have earned, or deserve any of the great stuff I am privy to.

I had an amazing marriage counsellor a few years ago, his name was Richard.  He saved my marriage when it was in very real danger of dissolving.  I’ll always remember one conversation with him about my intense and almost indulgent self-loathing.  The fact I feel grossly inadequate and generally like a fake or an intruder in the amazing social and professional circles I am lucky enough to frequent, means I need to assuage my middle-class guilt constantly.  The only thing that truly fills up my empty is doing shit for other people.  True story!  Like small things or large.  Smiling at strangers or moving heaven and earth to help someone or get behind a cause I feel is worthy.  Richard pondered this for a while.  A few weeks in fact.  And he came back to me with this:

“Dee, I’m not meant, in my professional capacity to encourage people to be actively self loathing… but, if it is the fuel that feeds all the good shit that you do, then have at it.”  or something very close to that at any rate.

There’s a down side to all of this needing to help people shit of course.  Phteven wanted me to mention that people walk all over me; like, a lot.  Sometimes my efforts to help are more of a hinderance.  Sometimes people hurt me because I am a very visible and easy target.  But when something good works, and when I find something useful to do that seems to help, my self hatred abates for long enough that I can think straight and keep carrying on with my crazy, busy, wonderful, life…

So now, I am sitting in the Koru Lounge, having finished a few reviews, written some overdue copy, talked to dozens of friends on several social media platforms, bought some noise cancelling headphones, and pondered how unbelievably lucky I am to be jetting off for a whirlwind adventure in Europe and the USA connecting with other Green Tech and EV enthusiasts.

I do not have any chance of understanding how I ended up with this life when most people struggle.  I will NEVER feel like I’ve earned any of it, and I will spend every day of my life trying to assuage the guilt and insecurity I feel because this is the life I lead.

I will, however, relish every amazing moment and grab every chance to enjoy and experience life with both fucking hands!

And maybe, just maybe, I can figure out how to STOP feeling like everyone in the whole world knows that I am just a loud, awkward, selfish, crazy, needy, over-the-top TRAIN WRECK!  If I am successful I promise I’ll share all my learnings, and help to encourage other women who I know are suffering from terrible imposters syndrome to overcome it as well.

I look at the people I know and see so much that I admire, and Love about them.  People who have their priorities right.  People who seem to walk the talk on sustainability and kindness so much more than I do.  People who never utter a bad word about anyone and bring so much joy and comfort to those lucky enough to know them.  And, I also know that many of these people who I so greatly admire, suffer from the same self-doubt as I do.  Especially the women.

So, if you’ve taken the time to read this, thank you.  And if you are one of the people I speak of with imposters syndrome… STOP IT!  You are amazing and WONDERFUL and POWERFUL and GREAT!

I wish I could hug all the self doubt right out of you… but I am just boarding my plane.

XXOO