This makes me so happy

Thank you so much Jenny. You sure know how to make a girl feel good about herself!

Are you waiting on mail from me?

I’m working on it, I promise! Please refer to the above picture, taken early this morning, as evidence.

It’s been a long time since I made a link post, so I thought I’d share some lovely discoveries from around and about the Internet today.

* Chicken lays an egg * People switch on light bulbs * Hobbit houses!  * Books in a car * Man talks to himself, across decades * Beautiful plant vessels * New York in the 1980s * Are we there yet? * Loving this haunting song * Another homemade white bread recipe * Ice cream crawl! Anyone want to do one of these with me in Melbourne?

Grey Gardens

First of all, thank you thank you thank you for all the lovely, kind, encouraging, wise comments and emails you guys left me after my rather self-indulgent complaint about work and life and motherhood the other day. You got me through AND I made all three deadlines. I promise not to be such a wet blanket again. (At least, not in the near future). (I hope).

I just watched the documentary Grey Gardens. Have you seen it? You probably have, I'm a little behind the times since it was actually released in 1975...

It goes inside the lives of mother and daughter "Big Edie" and "Little Edie" - both of their names are Edith Bouvier Beale - in their once-magnificent but now derelict East Hamptons home, Grey Gardens.

Their bigger story, of which the documentary is only a moment, is that they are "fallen from grace" socialites (and also the aunt and cousin of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis).

I say "fallen from grace" because once upon a time they were both very rich and very beautiful, but Big Edie was an amateur singer and wanted to be an artist, of the kind that was pronounced artiste. Socialites cannot also be artistes, apparently, and that was part of what led to her husband eventually leaving her (so I've read).

Little Edie was her only daughter and was encouraged and schooled by her mother in artistic pursuits. Growing up, she wanted to be an author, a poet, a singer, a dancer. She went to New York and pursued a possibly promising career as a model and as an actor on Broadway, before her parents put paid to that. First, her Father smashed a window in which a picture of Little Edie was displayed, because he refused to see her in the public eye (I think it was gauche, or something like that I imagine, for a socialite to do modelling).

Then her parents' marriage ended. Her mother had Grey Gardens but little else, and could no longer afford to send Edie food parcels to support her life in New York. She called her back home.

Little Edie gave up her New York dreams in 1952 to live with and care for her mother in Grey Gardens. In 1974, when the documentary was filmed, they were both still there, living with about a bazillion cats and apparently some raccoons.

I watched the whole thing with a sense of unease. From the little I'd read before I saw it, I was prepared for the squalor (it's awful) and the mother-daughter arguments (frequent), but I was also ready to celebrate the joyful way the women embraced their eccentricities, and the underlying love between the two.

Those elements were there but, honestly, I couldn't get past the sense that I was intruding. It was as though both Edies were desperate to be seen in a certain way, and didn't realise that the broader context of their life in that house created a very different impression. They performed for the camera: both sang, and Little Edie danced. They pulled out old photographs of themselves to show the documentary-makers. Both women were indeed once breathtaking, but it was as though they were locked in the past. I think Little Edie said something along those lines near the start of the film, that past and present were blurred, and hard to define. I got the sense that inside her 56-year-old body, Little Edie was still 19.

Watching these ladies in their crumbling prison, I couldn't shake the feeling that Little Edie, in all her optimism and confidence and faded-but-still-evident beauty, was being exploited without knowing it.

I mean, I can watch something like Real Housewives or The Bachelor and feel kind of ick sometimes about the way these women are portrayed, and think "Why would anyone put themselves in that position?" - on TV I mean - but I don't feel too bad because, you know, they chose to do this. And these shows have been going for a pretty long time, so you can be fairly sure they knew roughly what they were getting into.

But Little Edie, locked away with her controlling/loving/controlling mother, among all those put-downs and all those cats? No, that just didn't feel right.

But then again, perhaps I need to watch it again. Because maybe Little Edie WAS being exploited but, on the other hand, maybe she was finally getting exactly what she wanted, which was to perform, at last, for an audience. I am very tangled up in my thoughts about this film!

Have you seen Grey Gardens? I'd love to know your thoughts if you have. Here it is in its entirety on YouTube, if you want to take a look:

ps. And now... The Gilmore Girls watching Grey Gardens (scary parallel alert!)

pps. And apparently Grey Gardens was also made into a film starring Drew Barrymore in 2009, and also a Broadway show, but STILL I hadn't heard of it until this week

Work and life

Right now I’m supposed to be working. It’s Saturday afternoon and the sun is shining and everybody else in my family packed up the car early this morning and went out for the day.

Scout was sobbing her heart out. “Why – hic - do you want – hic – us to gooooooo?” she wailed. It was heart wrenching. Like I ever want her to go. Like I would ever happily sacrifice precious weekend family time to sit alone in my windowless office (a converted wine cellar / cupboard) to type words for somebody else.

(Also, I just made raisin toast and when it popped up one of the pieces of toast actually sailed into the air and onto the floor... and I buttered and ate it anyway. That's how pathetic I am today.)

But bills gots to be paid. I’ve turned in two deadlines out of the three I needed to complete today, but I’m running out of steam. I’ve got to do it. I’ve just GOT to. Otherwise, what was the point of making that little girl cry? Right. Back to work for me. I just wanted to check in with you so I didn’t feel so… alone. I hope your Saturday is better than mine.

Sometimes being a freelance writer and working from home is amazing. Other times, no. No, no, no.

Image credit: Anda Ambrosini, licensed for unlimited use under Creative Commons

Dusk & stuff

As I write this the dusk is settling over Melbourne on what was an absolutely glorious summer’s day. We have just returned from a lazy stroll out for family dinner, and then home to put two very tired kids into bed, wiping chocolate ice cream from their faces and hands (and necks and elbows) and not even bothering with baths. I’ll wash the sheets tomorrow. Le sigh.

I am sitting at the dining table typing while Mr B sits opposite me signing letters for work, and he is looking very smug because he has just found a channel on the Internet radio called “Always Elvis Radio.” Lord give me strength.

Next to me is a pile of research for my snail-mail book, and some wonderful interviews with amazing “mail heroes” that I need to write up, plus a fantastic tutorial on how to make envelopes from magazine pages, without using a template.

Also I’m intermittently flicking through my Internet browser because I’m half way through researching a particularly interesting “fact” about mail that I need to verify before I share and expand on it in the book. Also, I am reading Tavi Gevinson’s earliest blog posts (she is only 11) and they are fascinating! She is so small and sweet and vulnerable but also so smart, and it’s really interesting watching this little girl trying to find her way in life through fashion and the fashion-blogging community, knowing how she and her writing will grow and where it will take her and all of us…

All in all this has turned into a rather pleasant but not particularly focused evening, and then I figured why not spread my attention even further afield, and write to you.

So this is just a little letter to say hello to you, dear friends known and unknown, to say thank-you for reading this little blog of mine. I hope you are having a lovely evening, too.

Naomi xo

ps. Mr B and Emily just went out onto the grass verge at the front of our house to play Uno, so I have taken the opportunity turn OFF Always Elvis Radio, and the silence is golden.

GOLDEN.

Image credit: pug pic by Matthew Wiebe, licensed for unlimited use under Creative Commons

The royal family

Not so long ago, Scout's career aspiration was to become Father Christmas, and then a doctor... and then a duck. These days she wants to be a queen. Not a princess, my daughter will have none of that: she is going straight to the top.

"I LOVE queens," she tells me. For Christmas, she asked Father Christmas for "a queen dolly." (Father Christmas found it more challenging than you might imagine to convince the elves to make such a thing).

"Why do you love queens so much?" I ask her.

"Because queens are Mummys and I love Mummy." Be still my heart.

"What do queens do?"

"They wear crowns and dresses and high heels." Of course.

"But," I prompt her, "what else do they do, after they get dressed?"

She looks at me with the air of a person patiently explaining something to someone who is a bit slow. "Well, we will just have to wait and see, won't we?"

Ralph, in the meantime, is VERY into castles. Essentially, any building that is more than two stories high is a castle.

"A castle! I see a castle!" he runs on the spot with excitement, every time we pass the construction site of an apartment complex on Sydney Road.

So on the last day of Mr B's holidays we decide to indulge both passions, and take them to Kryal Castle, the only "castle" within driving distance of Melbourne.

Say what you like about this place, my kids absolutely love it. Scout mixes potions and makes her own perfume. ("This is powdered goblin teeth," says the potions lady. "No, that's flour!" corrects Scout, despite being by far the youngest participant in the potion-mixing class. That's my little baker.) They are riveted during the jousting display (refusing to leave until the end, despite a bitter wind blowing); take turns gleefully playing "following the leader" in the maze; and Scout spends the entire drive home speculating how Merlin will rescue Queen Guinevere from Morgana.

Also, she wears her crown all day.

Mysterious mail

You might remember that a little while ago I wrote about a cute little snail-mail themed film that was being crowd funded about a woman who suddenly started receiving hundreds of letters addressed to a total stranger (Mr Eduardo Munez).

I'm thrilled to share that the film has been funded and will go ahead, and now the production team have invited you and me to be part of it!

Will you write a letter to Eduardo for the team to use as props in the film? Make it as creative and fun-looking as you like, and imagine Eduardo to be any kind of person you like! Here's how they explain the challenge:

We are looking for mail artists and snail mail lovers to get involved in our project by sending us letters which we can feature in our film. We are looking for letters, particularly drawn envelopes, mail art and plain envelopes - not postcards.

We will have to change the real addresses on the front to the 'fake' address of the character in the film so please leave the address section fairly clear of decoration.

In our film the letters to Mr Eduardo Munez do not get opened - so inside you can write whatever you like. You can use your imagination - who do you think Eduardo Munez is? What kind of mail would he receive?

Once shooting on the film is completed we will video the team opening all the letters we have received! We'll provide everyone who contributes with a password protected video link to watch them all being opened. All letter writers will also receive special thanks in the credits too... Please, be sure to write your sender details on the back of the envelope as the letters will not be opened until after the film is completed! With each letter's writer's permission - we will also publish them on our film Facebook page and our website.

The address to send your mysterious mail to is:

Mr Eduardo Munez 272 Waterloo Street Newcastle upon Tyne NE1 4DJ UNITED KINGDOM

I'm definitely up for this. Are you? There's more info here if you'd like it, and here is a blog displaying all the letters that have come in so far.

Image credit: photo by Gabriele Forcina, licensed for unlimited use under Creative Commons 

UPDATE: The deadline has been extended so you have until 21 March to write to Eduardo

How to stay alive this summer (and all the other summers)

There's no getting away from it that the sun in Australia is mighty powerful, and mighty dangerous. For Australians, the sun is like some kind of god from ancient times: equally worshipped and feared (and equally benevolent and destructive).

Have you seen the new TV ad by the Cancer Council of Victoria? The whole message is that it's not just those marathon sun-baking sessions or the unexpected "first of the season" sunburn that can cause skin-cancer; even little moments in the sun - walking the dog, rushing out to buy milk, cooking the BBQ - can add up. And your skin, the ad tells us, forgets nothing.

This is no toothless scare campaign. Australia has the highest incidence of melanoma in the world, and two in three Australians will be diagnosed with skin cancer by the age of 70. It's frightening!

My father-in-law died from melanoma. I didn't know him then, but I'm told it wasn't pretty, and the suffering was immense. Mr B and his mother and siblings lost their husband and father much too soon. Both of my parents regularly have skin-checks, and small cancers (thankfully benign) removed, and I know my own skin-future is probably not great. Throughout my childhood and teen years, I would spend all day every day outside without any kind of sun protection. "I don't burn, I tan," I'd tell people. Oh boy.

So anyway enough of the miserable stuff. The whole point of this blog post was to introduce you to a fantastic, FREE app I recently discovered: the Cancer Council of Victoria's SunSmart app. I use it every single day!

You tell the app where you are (in Australia) and it gives you advice on UV levels, in real time. The idea is that you know when to wear sunscreen, protective clothing and a hat, and to stay in the shade; and when you can be free to play in the sun and soak up some of that vital Vitamin D.

You can also create a "skin profile" (I created one for my children) by answering a couple of questions, that will tell you how much and how often to apply sunscreen. If you think you'll be out of doors quite a bit, you can turn on regular reminders to reapply sunscreen.

I use this app every day to watch the UV index rates, sending my children outside in the morning and late afternoon to get some healthy rays when I know it's safe, but bringing them in or covering them up when the UV index climbs. One thing that has been interesting for me to learn is that UV doesn't seem to necessarily correlate with clear skies, OR heat. There have been times during drizzling rain when the UV index was "extreme," and the other day it was 39 degrees but the UV was only "moderate," compared with an "extreme" rating earlier in the day when it wasn't quite so hot.

That's been an education for me and now I rely on my little app all the time. If you're concerned about sun safety this summer, I highly recommend it. For me, I feel a whole lot of peace of mind that my family can now enjoy the sun in a safety that is educated, rather than based on guesswork and estimations.

Photo credit: Cole Patrick, licensed for unlimited use under Creative Commons 

Aftermath

Burnt out sparklers are bundled on the table outside. Two champagne glasses sit in the washing up.

The drying Christmas tree is outside on the front porch, awaiting its scheduled Council pick-up. A thousand pine needles have been swept from the lounge-room floor and two hand-painted nut-crackers, 60 tiny sleigh-bells, one giant musical snow-globe, three china Santas, two tangled ropes of twinkle-lights and a sizeable stack of Christmas-themed story-books and DVDs have all been packed neatly away, to hibernate for the next 11 months until we are ready to start breathing pine and cranberries again.

It feels cathartic. After all the chaos that was December, and all of 2015 really, I couldn't wait to pack and discard and clean.

I didn't love 2015, to be honest. Which is unfair to all the great things that happened and all the wonderful people who populated my year. After all, I am incredibly blessed and I have the kind of life and home and family and friends that people dream of having. The kind of life that, once upon a time, I dreamed of having.

But my dad once told me that, psychologically, you needed to hear 10 good things about yourself to negate just one criticism you might receive. I feel like maybe the same could be said about a perception of a year. Plenty of good things happened during 2015. But some pretty awful things happened, too, and maybe my subconscious needed them to be outweighed by good things 10 to one in order for me to feel like this was a "good year." It's not smart, it's not logical, but the bad things that happened do seem to dominate my memories and emotions when I think about the past 12 months.

Aside from that, I kind feel like I spent most of 2015 trying and failing to catch up. The whole year spiralled out of my grasp and I spent every other day feeling like a failure, with ever-stretching deadlines, ever-mounting work briefs, to-do lists un-ticked, big work-events in our home (the washing up, oh! the washing up!), and rushing and herding my over-tired children from one engagement to the next, running late for daycare late for ballet lessons late for music lessons... late for life.

I don't want 2016 to be the same.

I want to notice more things, appreciate more good things. I want to really commit myself to doing the things I love, and to get better at saying "no" to the things I don't love. I want to help, love, play-with, inspire, educate and just watch my children grow up. Even when sad things happen, I want to take the time to grieve.

I have some thoughts on how I might work towards this in the coming 12 months, and I'll share them on here shortly. But in the meantime, I just wanted to stop by and say hi, and to share these thoughts of mine, for what they're worth.

Happy New Year to you and yours! Love, Naomi x0

ps. I thought this was a pretty great start on preparing for the New Year

And so this was Christmas

So this was our Christmas. I hope yours was beautiful. And now it's time to say, see you next year! Can you even believe that?

Love, Naomi xo

ps. I've been on an unexpected blog-and-Internet break due to the sad demise of my modem (which I didn't discover for two days until I was suddenly out of data on my phone - grr!). All things considered, it was the perfect time of year to take time off. I'll be back in the New Year feeling refreshed, and very much looking forward to all the year will bring for us.