Part 3 of the Mama’s Escape with Woog diary. Part 1 is here, Part 2 is here.

The best thing about being on holidays with a bunch of mothers is being on holiday with a bunch of mothers. Like a seasoned gambler they know when to hold them, they know when to fold them and they know when to walk away.

Over cocktails, mocktails and wine we’ve discussed health, boobs, family, boys, toys, jobs and most importantly left each other alone when it mattered. Having outgrown the Contiki tour decades ago (which was actually never my thing, truth-be-told) solo time was primo on this holiday. Each and every one of the women I’ve shared this week with have had their own holiday in their own way and yet, have rallied and supported each other when the need arose.

In my case, that was the soft knock at my door yesterday morning with a handful of the cold and flu drugs I’d neglected to pack for myself. Then after lunch I was offered more of the same, but from a different source…being the over-the-counter drug junkie that I am I gleefully accepted anything that my dealers proffered…it would seem rude not to. Alas not even the deepest, hardest hit of pseudoephedrine would stop the strep throat that woke me at 4am this morning. So much for the (also available over the counter) Valium knocking me out for 12 hours.

My type of souvenir …alas

I’ve had strep throat before. Anyone who has had it knows it’s hideous. Swallowing razor blades that have first been heated in the hell of hades is the only way I can describe it. So I knew it wasn’t going to get better without serious intervention. Rather than wait out the next two nights and risk losing my mind in pain during the overnight flight ahead I did what every mother does. I asked Dr Google.

To my utter delight I discovered that, like Valium, antibiotics were readily available over the counter here. Hallelujah. May the Lord Open. Imagine that, being responsible for your own medical treatment with no expensive middle man just validating what you already know because, you know…you’re an adult and you’ve been around this block a few times, but sure, go ahead and give me permission to treat my own body!…Sorry, where was I. Oh yes…pharmacy. So off I trotted for my third visit to the pharmacy over the road. I guess some people shop for rip off Gucci in Thailand I shop for pharmaceuticals!

I was determined to get those antibiotics into my system ASAP so as not to delay my increasing discomfort. Which is the exact opposite to how I approached selecting the bathers we were each generously gifted by Sequins and Sands in preparation for this escape.

Shopping for bathers is almost as painful as this damn strep throat. Almost. It sucks the life right out of me. So even though the offer meant shopping online only (with personal advice and assistance should we need it) I still delayed. And delayed. And delayed.

When I finally put some time aside to decide on my purchase I started scanning through the colourful, flowing options thinking I’ll make the most of this gift and will not buy black. I always buy black. It’s the law in Melbourne. I can buy black anytime. The Sequins and Sands website is full of colour and women wearing colour and looking like the magnificent creatures they are (you should totes check it out!). I marked up a few options and then life got in the way (and by “life” I mean child and requests for food). So I book marked it all to come back to. Two days later I knew I had to order my bathers or I’d miss out on my gift – and that would be ungrateful. And I knew that everyone else would be sporting new togs and I wanted in on that club!

I returned to my list and in my haste my resolve to be fearless went out the window as I chose what I always choose. A black. One piece. Just couldn’t bring myself to buy two colourful pieces. Even when it was free I still chose something predictable. Why? Bloody habit. And fear. What if I didn’t like it? What if I couldn’t wear it when the holiday came around and then I’d have to explain to everyone why and that would seem ungrateful – particularly since it was a gift.

Not me…OBVIOUSLY…but it coulda been

So my black one piece arrived and it IS fabulous and it IS comfortable and it IS supportive in the right places but you know what? I don’t like it that much. It’s just too much fabric sucking me in and covering me up when I actually want to be wearing less in this heat. I knew I’d want less but still I chose more because I wanted to hide. I’m a bit disappointed with myself; I should have taken a risk and selected a bikini. Not even a tankini. No. A fucking BI-KI-NI. Obviously I’d need some scaffolding for the girls because I’m no Bond Girl but still…two pieces. This was the perfect holiday to take that risk. And I blew it.

My husband has been telling me to buy a bikini for years! Bless him. He says I look better less covered up (he would, right?). But at forty fucking five I’m still coming to terms with full exposure. So while I’m sucking back my antibiotics and swearing like a sailor at the bad holiday ju-ju that’s come my way I’ll be reflecting on what’s holding me back. I think it’s time this mama learned how to play the cards she’s been dealt and drop the fucking poker face.

Samuel Johnson has a big heart. This is something that anyone who has had anything to do with him learns pretty quickly. He’s a man who listens with his arms wide open. He talks like every man but with the style and passionate words of a poet. He’s an eloquent hippie and I like to think that he’s one of the crazy ones that Steve Jobs talked of. He’s here to make a difference. He’s here to bring change. A job his big heart propels him to do now more than ever since his sister Connie died of cancer in September.

Sam’s hand next to mine. Told you..BIG HANDS

He also has very big hands. Which is a good thing because as the self appointed ‘head of vanquishment’ for cancer he’s got a big job ahead. He’s going to need all the BIG to get that job done.

I’m thrilled that his passion has been recognised by being awarded the Victorian of the Year, last night. (Although I do have a big girl crush on Magda, so a dual award would have been totes approps in my eyes!)

Reading the news of his recognition has reminded me of the first time I met Samuel and the impression he made on me.

A long time ago I was helping out on a student film. Someone, somewhere had passed my name around at the VCA (The Victorian College of the Arts) as a producer who could help. A producer who was working in the real world which meant I had experience and knew a thing or two about something or other. Truth-be-told I was just someone who knew someone that was asking around if anyone could help out some kids with no money on a film shoot. I could. And I did. It was also true that I was working for myself at the time producing corporate videos and making a living with my words. Well, not my words…but my ability to make the words of others not suck so much.

So, there I was, making 5-kilos of green chicken curry one night (as you do!) in readiness to feed a small film crew the next day.

The thing about VCA student films is that they encourage students to work in many of the roles that are required to make a film. So even if you want to be the camera guy (DOP) you probably have to help out your student buddy by being their sound guy on their film. So everyone has a first hand experience of each job on the set. Which is great in theory but even the best teams still need a leader, or a wrangler of sorts. Not the one calling the shots necessarily but a person who anyone can run to for a band aid or a debrief when stuff gets hard (and it always does when there’s no money and emotions run high). Somehow, in 2007, I got a reputation as being that person and ended up working on half a dozen films just because I wanted to help. I’m good with hosting, organising and helping. It’s what I like best. I’m also good with the band aid stuff.

Anyway, I turned up to this particular set early one day with my 5 kilos of chicken curry and set up a space in the tiny kitchen for everyone to use as their base (Unit). About an hour later the actor that the student director has convinced to star in his film arrives. Right on time (actually, early if memory serves). I go down to meet him in the street and he jumps out of the car with a small child, who’s about four or five and quickly asks, “He’s busting! Do you mind if we quickly use the toilet?” Naturally I say “Sure!” and usher them both upstairs not at all convinced that the toilet is accessible amid the film gear in this tiny apartment film set.

Once we’ve dealt with the small person toilet emergency and he’s been safely returned to his mother who’s been waiting in the idling car, our director goes about introducing our main man to the rest of the crew who are all pretty ensconced in whatever task they’ve been allocated for the day.

It’s then that I realize how tall this guy is and that he quickly fills any space he’s in and not just because we’re working in a tiny apartment in St Kilda. There’s something about this guy that fills a room more than his physical stature. It’s just him. He’s Atlas-esque. He could carry the world on his shoulders. The more I work with him (and learn about him in the years ahead) I realize that he has in fact carried a great weight and remained dignified and wonderfully flawed in his public life.

So we roll tape and the film day goes on. I run between the kitchen and the lounge room making sure everyone has what they need to do their job. During a break in filming I sit down next to our actor and we get chatting. Our conversation swings from his recent purchase of sex toys for his girlfriend to the suicide of on ex-girlfriend (a story he illustrates by flashing the tattoo of her name over his heart to me) and the fact that we share a love of Australian film-royalty Charles ‘Bud’ Tingwell (who told him never say No to anything, which is why he was working on this student film) and Melbourne maestro David Bridie, who is scoring the play he is currently in rehearsal for. He also tells me some out of school tales about his time on the last big TV show.

We go into great detail about some of these things when I have to shake my head to break the spell of our conversation. There’s work to be done and we’re yacking as if we’re in the local pub, beer in hand. “I’ve just opened right up to you haven’t I?” he laughs. Yeah, I think…knowing that I have a knack for that type of chat but also thinking this guy just has a way with people. He’s genuinely interested which makes people want to connect with him. He’s also incredibly flawed which makes him instantly relatable.

A few months after the shoot a CD of the soundtrack to the stage play “Weary” arrives in my letterbox. The original David Bridie score, with a huge note from Samuel scrawled in black texta telling me that he knew I’d love it and was sorry that it had taken him so long to get it to me. I had completely forgotten that during our chat on the couch in that tiny St Kilda apartment that he promised to send it to me. He signed it with a smiley face and reminded me about his mobile number.

Samuel Johnson is a solid human whose life path has, so far, been a rich and intricate tapestry of generosity, love and tears. He’s weathered a lot as we’ve come to learn with documentaries about his life and that of his sister, Connie. The Johnson family have let us all in to that tapestry in their quest to raise funds for cancer research; the disease which took Connie’s life on September 8…and my mother’s, my husband’s mother and a million other mothers, sisters, daughters et al around the globe every year.

Connie’s death had a big impact on me. I never met her. But I was in awe of how she died so publicly and how she shone a light in a dark place.

When she died I grieved for my mother all over again. As anyone who has lost their mother too soon will tell you, it’s a grief that is never far from the surface. And Connie’s death scratched mine. So when a friend of a friend called to ask if I could help out at Connie’s memorial  I didn’t hesitate. I’m was glad to be a small part of the village that those big hands have helped to build.

Congratulations Samuel, you eloquent hippie. You deserve the recognition. Here’s to the crazy ones. May your crazy change the world. x

Part 2 of the Mama’s Escape with Woog diary (Part 1 is here)

Not long after breakfast on my first day in Phuket on Mama’s get-me-the-fuck-away-from-my-life escape I found myself lying almost naked on one of three massage beds in a tiny room filled with tiger balm, religious offerings and bunch of tiny Thai women who each had the strength of an ox (as it turned out).

Lying next to me was my escape host and champion non-fuck-giver Kayte who swiftly whipped off her togs declaring she had no shame. It took me all of 30 seconds to follow suit and acknowledge that I too was down with that approach. I was in the bosom of the sistahood after all.

Relaxing is hard work. Particularly if you aren’t very good at it. And I’m not. I fill up my cup of expectations with visions of peace and tranquillity and then struggle to reach that place in my head to actually let the calm in. It’s something I have to work on. Much like the bike shorts and chafing cream I always pack for tropical holidays I really should learn to pack a little bit of chill-the-fuck-out too.

Having spent the better part of a day actually travelling to get here, two days in and I am still a little bit frayed around the edges. It is universally agreed that the worst part of holidays are without a doubt the getting to and from (unless you have that whole private jet thing and an army of staff going on of course). It always takes me a few days to fall into line with the local lay of the land. I spend a fair chunk of the start of every holiday going a few rounds with my inner critic, my princess-needs-a-different-room conversation with myself and generally trying to deep breath my way through things I whole heartedly acknowledge are white privilege issues.

It didn’t help that on the plane trip over I also chose to watch the ridiculously OTT Sex & The City 2 movie…the one where they Abu Dhabi all over their Manolos…because that’s the way normal people travel.

We arrived at our hotel well after dark reeking of eu-de-travel and were greeted with the standard-resort-issue fragrant cool towel, and the oh-so-gracious and welcoming Thai people. The check in after long travel is always something that rattles me. The reception staff want to bend over backwards to welcome you (because they are gorgeous humans) but they do this by dumping a tsunami of information on you when your brain is mush. I tend to thank them profusely and just stash all the maps, the paperwork, the vouchers, the tour guide information and any other bloody thing away until my brain has de-fragged. I am in no condition to deal with information.

Once we’d dealt with the paperwork we were led down stairs, up some stairs and to a lift that would take us to our room with a balcony overlooking the Andaman Sea and, in my case, the breakfast bar. Which was exactly where I met my escapee companions just 10 restless hours later. Despite being fatigued and most of us strangers to each other, it was easy welcoming conversations, hugs and coffee. Lots of coffee. Praise be.

Available at Chemist Warehouse. You’re Welcome x

It took all of 10 minutes for the chats to turn to tips on managing the heat when you aren’t Carrie Bradshaw. Hallelujah. Real women. Real sweat. Real chafing cream! The conversation continued in the same vane as we all waddled down to the pool in our new bathers (generously gifted by Sequins & Sand ). We marvelled at the rigging that sucked all the bits in and kept the girls contained, bobbing up and down as we forgot about life for a while. Bliss.

Which brings me to being naked next to our host, Woogie. The full day of airline travel coupled with the departing gift of a cold from my darling 4 year old meant my bones and muscles were all a little bit crap. Lucky for me there was a $10 massage place right across the street that specialised in dealing with that crap (Yes, there’s also a spa at the hotel we’re ensconced in but I wasn’t about to waste an actual spa treatment on a remedial rub…there’ll be time enough for that later.)

So there we were. Boobs down, bum up muffling into the massage table about creaky old bones when a Thai girl wearing a t-shirt that said “Bangkok City Bitch” in diamontes slapped my butt as she exclaimed ‘ooooh sexy bottom’. Only in Thailand right? I laughed until she started pounding into my shoulders and stretching my arms into places that they just don’t go to easily any more. Damn, Bangkok City Bitch knew her stuff! There’d be no happy ending for me in this massage, that was for damn sure.

Two days into this mama escape I’ve learned that it’s not just my arms that struggle to go to places they used to years ago. Getting to paradise city is much harder than I thought it would be this trip. The older I’ve gotten, the more life I’ve lived and the more stuff I have in my head and the harder I find it to just let it the fuck go (And with a 4-year-old who has just had a Frozen party you’d think I’d be all over that ‘let it go’ shit, right?).

So I’m not in paradise yet, but I can see it from here. And thankfully, being in the bosom of the sistahood is an excellent place to ask for directions should I struggle to find my way.

Sometime in the mid 80s my mother started wearing slip on sandals that had spikes on them. I was horrified. Not only because they looked ridiculous but also because surely they hurt to wear and why on earth would anyone want to inflict pain on themselves with every step they take? My mother was an early adopter of health and wellness methods that we consider mainstream today. In the 70s and 80s she was more or less a hippie with a Phd. She was a meditator, a whole-foods cook and had regular acupuncture or chiropractic care whenever she needed it. She also smoked off and on and drank a lot of red wine. So I guess the rule-breaker gene is strong in my family!

Fast forward 30 years or so and I find myself making the same health and wellness choices that she was making at my age. Holistic health is not a freaky way to live anymore. It’s not relegated to the weirdos who don’t wear deodorant or care to pay taxes (gross generalisation I know!). Living well in 2017 means taking into consideration every element that impacts the way your body works. And you don’t need a health science or physio degree to know that good food and exercise is key to keeping things tuned up; as is regular therapy of some kind for your mind and body. Therapies like massage, physio, chiropractic care, acupuncture, yoga, counselling…or my current favourite – online shopping!

I’m only half joking.

In the last two weeks I’ve purchased a swag of things to help get me tuned up. I wrote about brain fog a few weeks ago and all the products I’m trying out. I made one trip to the health food store but truth be told I put that off for a few weeks because I just couldn’t be bothered. I am inherently lazy – which accounts for my daily exercise routine, or lack there of!

However when it comes to online shopping and home delivery I can work up a sweat with the best of them. Which brings me to my bed of nails.

I am highly suggestible, meaning when I see or read about a product that is getting rave reviews, or let’s be honest, even just one review from a person I trust, I reach for my credit card just as fast as my swiping fingers can go. Having said that I’m not frivolous …I don’t own too many things that I don’t actually use, enjoy or gift.

Last week I saw The Natural Nutritionist (one of my go-to health gurus) using and promoting the Shakti Mat…or as it’s lovingly been referred to a “the bed of nails”. It was a sponsored post, which is exactly the type of advertising that works for me. I trust Steph not to promote something that is crap. It immediately reminded me of my mother’s Maseur sandals and I knew it was something that I would benefit from. So less than five minutes after reading Steph’s post I’d placed my order online (and I was probably still in bed when I ordered it too).

About seven days later my little package of nails arrived from New Zealand. The original Shakti Mat that I purchased comes folded in half in a little tote bag. Neat.

“The Shakti Mat is an acupressure mat designed to relax the body and calm the mind,” says the brochure that came with it. The brochure also told me that it is a Gratitude Temple Factory product, handmade in Varanasi, India by women who are paid well, work in good conditions and are provided meals each day, sick pay and free health care for their families. Something I didn’t know when I bought the product but that just added to my joy of having purchased it. Like I said, Steph doesn’t promote crap.

As soon as it arrived I busted it open and lay it out to test it. It worked exactly like I hoped and trusted that it would. It was uncomfortable to start with but within moments I could feel tension easing and a sense of calm over take me as I relaxed into it. Just like a massage that hits the right knots.

I’ve used it every day this week for 10 minutes here and there. I’ve gripped it with my hands for a few minutes to help release tension (I type a lot so my hands and forearms are always up for some TLC).  I’ve had the mat flat on the floor to rest my shoulders and neck, which has done a magnificent job of chilling me out and easing tension. My feet are resting on it now under my text as I write this post. I can’t tolerate standing on it just yet. It definitely takes time to get used to it and experiences will be different for everyone (because we all have different levels of tension & stress) but the discomfort is worth seeing through because the results are fab!

If therapies like this are your thing I can recommend a touch of online shopping to try it out. You’ll be doing good in more ways than one.

• Read all about them and buy them here > https://www.shaktimats.com.au/
• I also quite like this review of the Shakti Mat 
• And if you want to know who this Steph is that I bang on about check her out here