10 Fitness and Diet Trends that are Bullshit

Handing the blog over to my friend Zoey from Operation Move today! She's tops. You should listen to her because she knows her stuff (she runs marathons - freakin' MARATHONS, people!) and isn't afraid to call bullshit.

Over at Operation Move we are all about fitness. I love being a part of bringing it into people's lives and I love helping people get started. What I don't love so much is all the fitness and diet myths that tend to be pretty persistent. Most of the time, those myths just set people back and erode their self confidence. So before you start (or continue) on your path of finding your awesomeness in your fitness, here are some myths that are total bullshit.

1) The Cleanse and/or Detox
Actually your kidneys and liver do a pretty good job of this. You can't cleanse or detox your body with a combination of stimulants, laxatives and diuretics. What you can do is lose a bunch of water weight that you will put back on as soon as you start eating like a normal human.

2) Superior Diets
There is no magic bullet. It doesn't matter whether you go low fat, low carb, paleo, macro, low calorie, atkins or 5:2 - the comparative success of diets is about the same. So you are best off picking something that you like and are going to enjoy sticking to. Make it part of your lifestyle, rather than a diet and your long term results are going to make you much happier.

3) Toning
Toning is a word that's pretty much exclusively applied to women because apparently women don't like muscle. But that's exactly what toning is, it's building muscle. And rather than challenging female stereotypes, people who use the word 'tonging' pander to it.

4) Lean Muscle
There aren't two kinds of muscle (bulky muscle or lean muscle) there is just muscle and there is fat that covers it.

5) Spot Training
This is a persistent myth because everyone wants it to be true. But you can't crunch your way to flat abs. Although spot training will strengthen and build muscle in the area that you are training, it won't necessarily burn fat from that particular area covering it as fuel.

6) 1,200 Calories
I'm not sure where the idea of 1,200 calories came from but it is the quickest way to slow down your metabolism and make weight loss or really any other activity nearly impossible. Your metabolism will think you are starving and it will horde your fat like no one's business.

7) Bulking Up
You really don't have to worry about bulking up in terms of exercise as a woman. It is really hard work for women to gain muscle because of hormone levels, so if you happen to see women who are muscular and bulky - believe me it's on purpose.

8) Coconut Water
Yes coconut water has minerals that aid in re-hydration but they are in pretty trace amounts. By all means continue to drink coconut water if you enjoy it but it doesn't really have any major benefits in terms of rehydration.

9) War on Carbs
Carbohydrates are not your enemy. They fuel most of your activities, they help manage stress levels and boost your mood. And they have a range of other benefits including heart health, memory and blood sugar stabilisation. What can benefit you is switching from refined carbohydrates to whole grains and vegetables.

10) More is Better
It can be hard to wrap your head around but more exercise isn't always a good thing. That's because all of the fitness adaptation happens during rest and recovery and often short bursts of high intensity activities have a whole range of benefits that longer endurance sessions don't. So instead of thinking in terms of more, think in terms of a variety of things that you are going to enjoy with plenty of recovery time in between.

So instead of worrying about all of that, think about what kind of life you want and go from there. I love to run, but I refuse to accept a life that doesn't involve Friday drinks, pizza nights or pie. Because what's the point if you aren't having fun?

Special Offer for Readers: 20% off Learn to Run which starts on the 7th March. Learn to Run is a 12 week online coaching program that supports you every step of the way with accredited coaches, a supportive team and a private facebook group. Just use the code glow if you are paying upfront or glowplan if you want to use the weekly option.

Of Man And Machine

This is a guest post by the one and only Map Guy. An unsolicited blog post. I know, I couldn't believe it either. And now you will all know that not only does the guy make maps, but he writes, too. And he writes well. None of the sweary, ranty stuff that I do. He needs a blog.

So we did it. We bought a new (to us) car. As I sit hear smiling at our shiny new set of wheels and pour over feature lists for hidden goodies from those talented engineers I can’t help but shed a small tear for the great lump of metal that carried our family around for the last 4 years.

That’s right, our big red Territory is the only car Tricky remembers as a family ride and it’s just a little bit special that we were all in there the day Bobbin triumphantly arrived home.

It makes me stop and think. Which car was I brought home in? What did mum use to drop me at school on that very first day? What underpowered machine was I lucky enough to learn how to drive in? Funny enough I remember that Toyota Corona station wagon; and if you were a kid growing up in suburban or regional Australia I bet you remember your milestone cars too.

The schoolyards were awash with badge-snob divisions. Kids riding in Camry sedans, Falcon station wagons and I’m sure I can remember playing a lengthy game of eye-spy with my brother on opposite seats in a Land Cruiser troop carrier on a 20 hour overnight trip.

We remember the clunky three speed manuals, the rattly non-turbo diesels and the lucky kids with their Bathurst loving V8 driving folks (ah, if only).

I miss my family cars. I miss my own motley collection of Aussie built Fords that have seen me through these first 14 years of adulthood. Taking a memory-walk past the Coronas, Cruisers and Falcons that peppered my life-shaping events I took a little time to just sit in the Territory. I soaked up a little of what we left in those seats and consider just what a hunk of rolling metal might mean to the little boy and girl in my life who don’t remember looking out from anything else.

Sometimes cars have more to tell us than their tiny scrapes, dents and lengthy odometer readings can attest.

Perhaps we all have an emotional connection to our first childhood cars? What do you remember about your family’s cars?

Glow: I remember being dropped at school in an orange Datsun Stanza with a tan roof. Retro, baby!

Craps, Caps & Chocolat… Holidays En France

It's Friday! This means I'll be in Albany and chilling out at my inlaws' house. Now it's either completely shit house timing or a sign that we're terrible company, but a heap of our Albany friends are in Perth this weekend... did they wait until they knew we were coming?!

Anywho, the delightful Catherine is the next guest poster. She knows a few French words. So do I. Except mine are all from that Lady Marmalade song. Vive le France!

. . . ___ . . . ___ . . . 

I grew up in the south east of England… (shhhsh Essex) home to rolling green fields and ancient hedgerows, quaint little pubs, winding country lanes and er… the Lakeside shopping centre. I suppose it would be fair to say we enjoyed a typical middle class lifestyle; two cars, Chinese take-aways and an annual family holiday… abroad.

Due to its convenient location, just a hop skip and jump across the English Channel, we often visited France. We would drive to Dover, board a ferry for a short (albeit choppy) crossing to Calais and then merrily drive on to our destination. If we were holidaying in the North we would plod on until we got there, but if we ventured further South we would break the journey staying the night in various hotels along the way.

I wasn’t terribly keen on the ‘road trip’ element of the holiday. I suffered dreadful travel sickness and despite trialling a variety of antidotes, invariably ended up vomiting into a polythene bag. Such happy times.

When I started learning French at school my parents encouraged me to speak up and practice, I would stumble over the words embarrassed and self conscious, probably getting it all wrong, but having a go anyway. I don’t remember much French at all now. Just the really important stuff like…

“J’ai voudrais un glace au chocolat*’’…

and

“Ou est le plage**?”

I have so many memories of our holidays in France… we ate chocolate crêpes in Arles at the very same Café Van Gough captured forever under a starry, starry night. We strolled along the promenade in Niece. We climbed to the top of the Eiffel tower (we didn’t really, we got the lift… have you seen the Eiffel tower?). We traveled down the Seine passed Notre Dame and took a tour of Monet’s house.

Cafe Terrace at Night

Of all our holidays in France the trip that stands out most was the week that we spent at La Petite Maison Blanche. It wasn’t the best holiday and it certainly wasn’t the worst… nothing remarkable happened and it rained… every… single…day. But we were together. Just hanging out. Enjoying a glass of wine (my father very much embracing the philosophy... when in Rome… (or in this case… ‘when in France’) and playing endless games of gin rummy.

We visited a town called Ginggump… just because it had an amusing name… Ginggump? No? Just me then… I insisted that I needed a traditional fisherman’s cap and spent the rest of the holiday wearing it with the sort of pride I now reserve for Chanel. I fell face first into a sand dune (much to the amusement of my younger sister) and we even had snails for dinner. Ok, Dad had snails for dinner… I had a cheese omelette…and it was delicious!

Ooh la la!

Now that I live in Australia trips to Europe with my little family will be slightly harder to arrange. But I know that one day my daughters will tread those same steps, stumble over the pronunciation of ‘crêpes’ (hint. It’s not ‘craps’), enjoy French food and have a très jolly time indeed. Although, if I’m totally honest, I could do without the Fisherman’s hat next time round.

* I would like a chocolate ice cream
** Where is the beach?

. . . ___ . . . ___ . . .

Catherine Rodie Blagg Lives in Sydney with her husband and two small daughters. In her free time she blogs at Cup of Tea and a Blog about the challenges of modern motherhood. She can also be found on Facebook and Twitter. She drinks an alarming amount of tea.

Travel fails and awesome stories are one and the same

Hey hey! So today I'm supposed to be in Bridgetown. If there isn't a bridge there I will be mighty pissed off.

Next up for the guest posts is Bree who will regale us with stories of criminals and condoms.

. . . ___ . . . ___ . . .

I've travelled a lot. 16 countries and counting and if there is one thing I've learned, it's that memories of hard travel times fade and often become the best stories post-trauma, I mean post-trip!

I remember travelling through Paris and being stalked by a snivelling teen who was intent on picking my pocket. Several times, I looked at him and gave him my "I know what you're doing arsehole, now back off look", but he persisted unsuccessfully, which pissed him off tremendously. He ended up pursuing us from the overpass where Lady Diana was killed, down into the Metro Station, where he hit my Godmother over the head with a half empty plastic bottle filled with Fanta. To my surprise I stood up and mouthed "F*@K YOU".

Apparently the F bomb is a universal language because he lunged at me, but was thankfully held back by his equally snivelling friend, who dragged him away.

Traumatic experience yes, but groovy story no?!

So I went on to become a breeder and still loving to travel we packed up our 10 month old, aka Squishy, and took ourselves to Greece. Travel with a 10 month old brings a whole new set of challenges and sometime trauma.

We visited the Island of Mykonos (awesome place), and one day we decided to take the bus around the island to Agios Ioannis beach, which is the location where Shirley Valentine was filmed. We found the bus that would take us there, it was a 1960's flash back that smelled like 50 years of second hand Greek smoke and urine and off we went.

Sometime later we were dropped off in a cul-de-sac at the end of a cliff near a dumpster full of rubbish and the bus drove away, not to return for two hours. We humped the Squishy into his backpack and we started off up a road to nowhere, hoping it led somewhere. It led to a beautiful secluded beach and the only access was to scramble down the sheer cliff face on your backside which we were not doing with a 10 month old.

So there we stood in the middle of nowhere, unable to access this beautiful beach and unable to leave for another two hours. To top it off the Squishy had a poo explosion. With no place to change him, we lay him on a change matt on the rocky road while he cried his little heart out and changed his bum.

It was only when we were done, we noticed we had changed him about 5cm from a used condom - aah! With nothing else to do, we trudged back up the road, singing Monty Python's "Always look on the bright side of life" and waited for our bus. Waste of a good day in Mykonos yes, but groovy story no?!

. . . ___ . . . ___ . . . 

Bree is the author of Twinkle in the Eye. Bree shares her experience of motherhood and allows others to do the same. Twinkle in the Eye features great commentary, interviews and oh so fabulous home cooking. You can also find Bree on the bird and the book.

The anti-honeymoon: Featuring expelled bodily fluids, but not like that yo

If I've done this properly, today is Wednesday and by now I'll be in Donnelly River. Apparently there are cottages, a mill and, unsurprisingly, a river there. 

Today's fab guest is Georgia. I might add that I've seen this woman spew and I can attest to the ladylike quality of her up chucks.

. . . ___ . . . ___ . . .

After three quick, ladylike, attractive spews in the garden outside the chapel, I made my way in and got married.

Bring on the honeymoon - nudge nudge, wink wink - as they say.

But first there was the wedding reception. Which started with a minor spot fire as I leapt up from my seat to avoid a drunken guest spilling a bottle of red wine over my cream dress, sending the candelabra behind me into the tulle behind that.

I made my way through the night running off to our bridal suite for a few quick chunders and an arsenal of drugs. Not Viagra.

Finally, at the stroke of midnight, we farewelled the guests and sped back to our bridal suite to ride the porcelain bus - each of us for different reasons.

What followed was the worst 5 hours of my life, vomiting, delirious, and absorbing my new husband's alcohol by close body contact, while suffering from a nasty virus myself.

5am the following morning we hit the airport, our first day as husband and wife, heading to tropical Bali for our loved up honeymoon.

We boarded the plane and an announcement about our newly married status was made. We were asked to stand and smile, wave and nod. It was excruiciating.

Then we were presented with an enormous chocolate mud cake and a bottle of warm bubbly. At 7am.

Three Garuda Indonesia flight attendants and both pilots stood and grinned expectantly, waiting for us to dig in.

Super.

The cake went down badly - although I doubt very much the other passengers believe we were making a mad dash to the loo for a spew, judging by their smirks and winks. One even offered Hubby a high 5 as we rushed past.

The bubbly was popped and went everywhere. Reeking of cheap bubbly at 7:30am when he's severely hungover, and I'm in the midst of some god awful virus, simply delightful. Then we had to drink what wasn't sprayed over our person.

Oh. Dear. God. Warm, cheap bubbly at 7:30am while we are both verging on vomit.

Flash forward 3 1/2 hours of stickiness, reeking of booze and constant nausea, and we arrive in Bali.

We checked in to our gorgeous resort and went straight to bed. Again, to the nods, winks and smirks of staff.

My new husband slept most of the afternoon and evening in the bath, head in the toilet. It was totes romantic and stuff.

Finally, the following morning we were both feeling 100% again.

We celebrated by heading out for lunch. Hubby was raring to go and ordered a local prawn curry.

He then spent the next 3 days on the toilet.

As he recovered, we moved to another hotel in a different area. It had a beautiful pool set out next to the bar and restaurant.

I promptly settled in for some sun baking, and asked Hubby to keep an eye on my back and wake me up if I fell asleep.

He promised to do the husbandly thing and look after me...but then he found the bar.

At one point I must've rolled over in my sleep, as I woke at least three hours later completely red raw all over, as if I'd been in a rotisserie. My new husband was at the bar dribbling shit to his new soul mate, an equally pissed English guy. It appeared to be true love. I daren't interrupt and come between them.

I went to bed with severe sun stroke. Shivering, faux vomiting on account of my still empty stomach. I was an entirely alluring, retching, glowing red oompah loompah. Why was my husband not attempting to ravage me? Probably for fear of radiating burns if he got too close to my steaming person.

I recovered a couple of days later, sort of.

Just in time for a room service delivery of apple pie and cream. Is there any better dessert to enjoy as a couple?

Maybe, maybe not. But who else can say they've shared a romantic piece of apple pie and cream and mould, with their beloved?

A great whopping layer of mould beneath the pastry top, which we only found at the very last minute when we crossed spoons and fought over the final piece.

You guessed it, cue further illness....

Nothing brings a newly married couple closer than having to share one toilet in a confined space while both suffering from food poisoning.

Again, we recovered. Eventually.

I won't lie and say something poetic like the sun shone brightly as we emerged from our hotel room, ready to enjoy the last remaining days of our honeymoon....

Because it was raining cats and dogs and elephants and giraffes and every other bloody animal to have ever walked the earth.

The rain was so heavy, in fact, that the resort had flooded. All the way into the rooms. And so it was, that we spent the raminder of our honeymoon holed up in our lovely suite, wading through ankle deep water, not seeing the tropical paradise we had hoped to enjoy. No electricity. Nothing but 4 walls and a shit load of rain.

To say that we were relieved to head home, is as much of an understatement as saying saying I very rarely don't mind a little sip of booze, but only on special occasions.

The universe was clearly feeling sorry for us, as we scored an upgrade to business class for our flights home.

It was all very fancy, and they served a lovely prawn dish for lunch that we both wolfed down.

Until we got home and realised that the prawn dish was not quite so lovely....but at least we had a toilet each at home....

. . . ___  . . . ___ . . . 

Parental Parody is about surviving parenting one wine/whine at a time. Rather than improve on her poorly parenting skills, Georgia prefers to blog her frequent and epic parenting fails with maximum sarcasm. This blog is the place where other parents go to feel superior. She also swoons drunkenly at Dennis Lillee given half a chance.

I went to Smiggen Holes and all I got was this lousy spew bucket

While I'm on our giant South West WA road trip I've got some guest posts lined up. Let's all pray to the Google gods that I've scheduled this stuff correctly and it works.

Today we've got Kelly. On a side note, Smiggen Holes is the best holiday destination name I've ever heard.

. . . ___ . . . ___ . . .

In June we decided it was time we introduced the kids to The Snow. Isn’t it a bit silly how so many of us call it The Snow, as if it’s the name of a suburb? Snow happens to fall in many places... But anyhoo.

The 6hr drive with a 4year old (J), 2year old (H) and 3 month old (A) was a dream. I’d packed an eski full of drinks and snacks, a potty (no the potty was not IN the eski), 2 portable dvd players, an iPod, some books, there was plenty to keep them occupied. There was a music festival on this particular weekend so between snowman building, exploring, eating and listening to music, our days were full and so were our hearts.

The second night there, the boys wanted to go to kids club so Hubby and I took the opportunity to have a nice, slow, 3 course meal. A was pretty well behaved and let’s face it, when you have 3 kids, ditching just 2 of them feels like a holiday. When we picked the boys up from kids club they were so happy, they’d had a great time and told us that they wanted to go back. This is heaven, we thought. We should go away more often.

After a shower, we tucked all 3 kids into bed. We couldn’t believe what an amazing time we were having. Everyone was so well behaved, the weather was perfect. Bliss.

Later that night H climbed into bed with us. “My belly hurts!” he moaned as he snuggled into me. After a while his restlessness was annoying so I sent him back to his bed. Within 10 minutes we heard a godawful noise, ran into their room and switched the light on. Vomit. EVERYWHERE. This kid was like a burst water main, and he was spraypainting the room with the contents of his stomach. Hubby quickly scooped him up and stood him in the shower. Genius, right? I was impressed. When he finally finished, we showered him, brushed his teeth and gave him a drink of water.

Then he started again.

And again.

And finally it was over.

We now had a stinking pile of sheets and towels in their ensuite, a huge wet patch on the carpet, and one stripped bed, but reception didn’t open until 9am – there was no one around and the laundry was locked. The room that the boys shared had 3 beds so we moved H to a different bed and finally got him to sleep.

In the morning we gave H some dry toast and water for breakfast, but it seemed he couldn’t keep anything down. Suddenly our mini break had turned to shit. I took a deep breath and approached the reception desk...

“Um... my 2yr old seems to have picked up a stomach bug, and... ah... there’s spew all over our room. And we need some more towels. And sheets. And I need to do a load of washing. And our room smells really bad. And do you have a bucket we could borrow?”

Lunch time came and H complained that he was hungry so I made him some noodles. He started to pick up, and it had been several hours since his last vomit, so when he asked to go outside and play in the snow, we thought it was safe. We were wrong. We had to bury vomit in the snow. Apologies to those at Smiggin Holes in June. The yellow snow was not what you thought.

We were stupid enough to brave the restaurant for dinner. He’d kept some biscuits and water down so we figured it was over. But, just like John Farnham, calling it the Last Time did not in fact mean that it was THE LAST TIME. We made it through 2 courses with A asleep on my lap and H asleep on Hubby’s lap. This isn’t so bad we sighed, finally starting to relax. Then H got a little restless, so again my quick thinking husband grabbed him and headed for the door, while I waited at the table for the bill. 

They made it all the way to the door that led from the restaurant to the bar. And it was there, in the door way, that H finally had his last spew. I sat at the table, mortified, pretending for a moment that this child didn’t belong to me. Until I saw Hubby proceed to remove spew-boy’s vomit covered shirt right there, in the doorway. I grabbed A and ran toward them...

“Take him back to the room!” I whisper-yelled at Hubby.

“But his clothes are...”

“People are trying to eat,” I interrupted “and they don’t need to watch him regurgitate the same four cheese pasta that they are consuming!”

I apologised and paid the bill. I was mortified. I was THAT parent. The one with the spewy kid. I have judged THAT parent many times. As if you would take a spewy kid to a restaurant. As if.

We tucked the kids into bed, it was our last night in the Snowy Mountains. Before long, J wandered into our room. “My belly hurts...” With the reflexes of a cat, Hubby ran and grabbed the bucket from H’s bedside, placing it under J’s chin just as he began to heave. We stared at each other, words weren’t necessary, we knew we were both thinking the same thing. You better not start too.

Long story short, both boys woke up good as new in the morning, but we did ask for a second bucket for the long drive home.

. . . ___ . . . ___ . . .

Kelly is a sarcastic perfectionist who suffers psychotic outbreaks in her endeavour to be a Superwoman. She blogs at Handmade Tears and Triumphs about glorious victories and epic failures, appropriate social behaviours, recipes, and the odd fiction piece about a woman named Stella. She can also be found on Twitter and Facebook.

Holidaying with the parents... as an adult

While I'm gallivanting around the South West I've got some guest posts lined up. Let's all pray to the Google gods that I've scheduled this stuff correctly and it works.

First up is the lovely Tegan. I shudder at the thought of holidaying with my parents... even more so after reading this!

. . . ___ . . . ___ . . .

I'm 24 and I have a 3 yo. I'm insane and a glutton for punishment because I still holiday with my parents. In a small unit. Usually sharing a room with my now 13yo brother. These holidays make me want to stab someone. Usually my mouthy 13yo brother.

The most memorable holiday as an adult with a child however was 3 years ago. We were going to the Gold Coast. Staying in a beach front highrise at Coolangatta. The parents paid for everything, including trip to Dreamworld. Sounds great right? It would have been if the universe didn't hate me.

First issue. I completely fucked my hip somehow. It hurt to sit, to stand, to lay down and to generally do anything that a good holiday entails. In hindsight I should have gotten myself a walking frame and be done with it. I already had the completely outlandish limp, grey hair and bad temper so why not throw in a walking frame just for shits and giggles.

Second issue. Some arsewipe decided that it would be totes awesome to hack and drain my account. The first day of the holiday. A Saturday. No banks were open. I had to ask for everything. Like a child. Cue 21yo limping, in a bad mood: "uh mum can I have a drink". Oh yes I felt like I was on a 'real' family holiday. I couldn't even get rip roaring drunk, taking advantage of the free baby sitters that are 'Nanny' and 'Poppy' because I didn't have any money. You know, because it's the 21st century and everyone uses plastic. Our hotel was right next to a night club and I couldn't go!

That was my first holiday as an adult with a child. An experience I never, ever want to go through again. I'm still a glutton for punishment though and usually go on holidays with my parents at least once a year. I still want to kill my brother, I've just got an ally now who is a 3yo with his mumma's feisty streak.

. . . ___ . . . ___ . . .

Musings of the Misguided is the ranting and general bullshit ramblings of a mum to a toddler. What makes it so special? I have a mental illness thrown in just to shake things up a bit. I have a 3yo who loves me to death (aka drives me up the wall) and a partner who thinks he knows it all but lets me wear the pants because they fit better ;) . I write about everything from mental health awareness to smelly boys. Life is rarely sunshine and lollipops around here so join me as I have fun taking the piss and refining my expertise in sarcasm.

The Hairy Chef {guest post}

I met The Hairy Chef a few years ago on Australia Day through a friend of a friend. A big group of us played cricket, drank beer and listened to the Hottest 100... well they did the beer and cricketing, I just waddled around with my big pregnant belly pretending to be awesome in front of these young, funky people. The best part of the day though was all of us trying to reassure his vegetarian girlfriend that the bird boo that had just landed IN HER MOUTH did not mean she had jeopardized her morals.

So who is The Hairy Chef? Well, The Hairy Chef is a swimmer, a baker, a photographer, a writer, a teacher and really hairy. Originally from Perth, he is currently teaching English as a second language in Bogota, Colombia, drinking too much coffee and thoroughly enjoying the prevalence of anatomical augmentations in Latin America. Follow the (surgically enhanced) adventure at www.thehairychef.com, but get your first taste of it right here, right now:




10 Reasons why The Green Grass is not all that green:Traveling Is Never As Much Fun As It Should Be

1. Intestinal Parasites
No matter how hard you try, any extended period overseas will result in extended periods on the toilet and various moments at which you realise you might not make it there in time. Of course, when the toilet on the overnight bus doesn't work, and the only place to go is on the street behind the bus, you come to appreciate the luxuries of toilet paper and throne-style toilets. But when the bus driver pulls away while you're squatting in the street behind the bus, you come to appreciate the luxuries of stable bladders and solid stools.

2. Repacking your suitcase
Nobody likes packing. There's always too much stuff, there's never enough time. And you never use the things you packed in the time you didn't have.

3. THE Conversation
The Hairy Chef: Hi, where are you from?

Tourist: I'm from America. You?

THC: Perth.

T: Blink.

THC: In Australia.

T: Ooooh. Nice.

THC: Blink.

T: So. Where are you going?

THC: North. Via city A, place B and up to C.

T: Blink. Blink.

THC: You?

T: South. Via city D, place E and F.

THC: Sweeeeet.

T: Have you done G yet?

THC: Yeah.

T: It's like a total waste of time, huh?

THC: I loved it.

T: How much did you pay for it?

THC: $10.

T: Blink.

THC: You?

T: $350.

4. Not realising that you don't need to visit everything in the LP
You know that by the time you've spent 3 hours looking for the Automotive Historical Museum that it's high time you started looking for thrills in other places.

5. Not appreciating experiences because you're concentrating on taking the coolest Facebook profile pic to make your friends jealous
Nothing quite beats hiking 5 days up a mountain through snow and rain on 7 packets of instant noodles to get to the top so you can plank for your latest Facebook update.  

Planking on Mt Kilimanjaro

6. Eating rice and meat for weeks on end
When you don't know the local words for "I'd like a medium-rare steak served in a bath of jus-de-calf-milk" eating rice and potatoes for 3 weeks makes for a very long, and arduously constipated 3 weeks.

7. Ordering the chicken and getting the sheep's kidney
If you had paid attention in class, you would have avoided ordering a bowl of "vagina soup" in front of a group of nuns, or asking if you can "fuck the bus all the way to town".

8. The "helpful" local
"Yes the museum is three blocks from here. Yes it's open until 6." You arrive to find an stationery store that specialises in varieties of post-its, and is closed.

9. Breaking Cultural Customs
Learning the hard way that certain things in certain places equate to telling a parishioner what you'd like to do to his daughter.

10.Dealing with other travelers who NEED to tell you shit you don't want to know (my personal favourite)
"I left my ex-girlfriend behind. She was a whore. Now I'm here to sleep with married women because a witch told me it was my destiny." (Andre, The German)

Tell me your worst travel story... the grosser the better. 

Find The Hairy Chef on Facebook

Postcard to Tricky

Aunty Penny arrived home safe and sound from her Nepalese adventure yesterday! She sent Tricky a blog-card (like a postcard but in blog form). And just like all postcards, it arrived after she left Nepal. Enjoy.

___ . . . ___ . . . ___

Namaste Tricky!

It’s your Aunty Penny here, and I’m on a big adventure in Nepal (get your dad, Map Guy, to show you on the map where that is – it’s a long way away).

I came to teach English to kids here, as a volunteer, and for a holiday. The teaching part didn’t really work out like I’d expected. The kids here are way different from at home. There were 50 kids in each of the classes I was teaching with another volunteer at a Government school. 50! When you go to school there’ll only be about 30 in a class. And my goodness, these kids were sooo naughty! They’d run around the class, hit each other and pull each other’s hair, stand on the desks and put their hands in the fan. They copied off each other constantly, so there wasn’t much learning going on. The local teachers didn’t seem to care. And the noise! All the kids screamed and yelled, nearly all the time. It was pretty bad. I didn’t like it. After a while we told the school we wouldn’t be coming anymore – the kids weren’t learning, and we were wasting our time.

So instead I taught a conversational English class every day for blind university students, to help them improve their pronunciation. They loved learning and were very fun and enthusiastic. So that made me feel really good.

But I’ll focus on the kids I’ve met, ‘cause you’re a kid. Man, they are very different here. In many ways good, in some ways bad. There’s lots of playing outside with neighbours, unlike in Australia, and most kids don’t have a TV in their house (which I think is a good thing). It’s such a poor country though, that the kids don’t have many toys or books or clothes, or anything really. I bought stickers with me for the schoolkids and they were crazy about them. The other volunteer bought balloons and one day we blew them up and gave them to the kids that lived in our street. They loved them! They played with them for hours, or until they popped. Kids here really appreciate the things they are given and look after them, because they have so little. That made me a bit sad, but it’s really sweet too. They also make a lot of their own games and toys. Kites are really popular here at the moment. They make them out of bits of plastic bags and things like that. And they’re so good! One day I walked past a little boy who was about 7 and he had a string in his hand. I looked for the kite and it was so far away I could barely see it! It was amazing!

I met a little boy called Shivaraj at a support centre where the mother from the host family I stayed with worked. He had been a child labourer. He was about 8 years old and walked with a limp. My host mother explained to me that Shivaraj had been a dish washer in a restaurant, to support his father who wasn’t able to work, and his mother was gone. One day Shivaraj fell and broke his leg badly and so he couldn’t work anymore. His leg didn’t get properly set at a hospital because he was so poor and the government is so poor too that they can’t give free medical help to people like we get in Australia, so now he will walk with a limp for the rest of his life. But the positive news is that the centre where the host mother works tries to help kids like him, and get him back into school and get help for his family so the kids don’t have to work. Their aim is to stop child labour completely.

A lot of people speak a little bit of English here, and kids have to learn it at school. Speaking English here can help people get better jobs, especially in tourism. One day I was hiking up a steep hill to a lookout with my friends, and I got so hot and tired I decided to go back down after only a quarter of the way. A little boy called Arum (who told me he was 11, but I think maybe he was 9) saw me and invited me in to his neighbour’s shop to buy a drink, and told me that I could get a taxi up to the lookout instead. He spoke good English for his age, and he came with me to find a taxi, and told the taxi driver in Nepali where I wanted to go. Then he got in the car to come with me! He brought along his little friend, who didn’t speak English. All the way up Arum chatted to me and told me interesting things he knew about. At the top of the lookout he pointed out places we could see. When we got back to the bottom of the hill I wanted to check my emails at an internet shop, and asked if Arum and his friend wanted to go on the internet too and I would pay for it, to say thank you for being my ‘little guides’. He looked a bit shy, and said they would like to. So they sat next to me as I checked my emails and they watched YouTube videos of animals. They really liked one of a tarantula vs a centipede (spoiler alert: the centipede doesn’t come off too well). It only cost me 25c for internet for an hour, but it made them really happy.

I’ve got so much more to tell you, and I’m missing you and your mum Glowless and look forward to seeing you again soon little one!

You wouldn’t have seen Fraggle Rock yet, but it was a popular show when I was little. In it one of the Fraggles gets postcards from his uncle from around the world, and they’re signed ‘Uncle Travelling Matt’, so I’ll sign off now….

Love

Aunty Travelling Penny

Click to view larger image

She Did What!? Wednesday - By The Bloke in the Shed

It's Not Me, It's The Baby - By Julian aka The Bloke in the Shed

Earlier this year, there was university research released supposedly showing “baby brain” does not exist.

We all know baby brain _ the condition pregnant women face whereby their unborn eats away at their brain cells causing incidents where mobile phones are placed in the fridge and a block of cheese is plugged into the phone charger.

Well, some uni geek spent time and no doubt taxpayer money trying to disprove this “supposed” condition when all of us husbands/partners have been compiling evidence for years.

In fact, since the birth of now six-month-old Princess Holly (a sister for three-year-old Princess Ella), I’ve been working on my own research to prove “baby brain’’, in fact, lives on long after the birth.

Yes, six months on and I think Holly is still causing the condition in my good wife, Princess Kel.

In fairness, my studies have concluded the probability of the lack of sleep our party animal baby is causing Kel is only causing the baby brain to be more acute.

Nevertheless, baby brain it is.

Case in point: grocery shopping the other day.

We’re standing at a crowded and cramped checkout with a handful of groceries and Baby Holly is starting to throw a wobbly (cue: grunting, squealing and general unpleasantness).

I tell Kel I’m heading out of the store to wait outside with Holly and make a hasty retreat, leaving her with the well-behaved three-year-old and three light bags of groceries.

Minutes later, I’m standing cuddling a now entertained and happy bub when Kel and Ella walk blissfully from the store.

It’s as they stroll happily up to me I notice there is something missing ……….. the groceries.

Seconds later, out of the building comes a red-faced shop assistant screaming at the good wife “you forgot your groceries’’.

The looks of peace on Kel’s face turns suddenly from “wtf, how did that happen?’’ to “omg, I’m such an idiot’’.

I can’t help it but to break out in hysterics.

What follows is plenty of excuses “I thought you’d taken them earlier”, “I was getting them home delivered” and “they were going to email the groceries to us’’.

Yeah, right. Baby brain, guilty as charged. Take that, uni geek.

___ . . . ___ . . . ___ 

Julian blogs in The Shed, a virtual room inside his wife Kel’s blog Three Li’l Princesses. Known as the Bloke in The Shed, he is also a newspaper deputy editor and dad to Princesses No. 2 and 3. 

He is married to his iPhone and is finding a thinner version of himself via the Nintendo Wii. You can sometimes find him hanging out on Facebook, but refuses to join Twitter.

 Next Week: See if The Calm Blue Blogger remains calm with projectiles

Send your S/He Did What!? submission to Glowless@wheresmyglow.com

___________________________________________________

Glowless rocked the Aussie Bloggers Conference thanks to

HealthyChart and Baby Goes Retro and Simply Colors

He Did What!? Wednesday - By Darkly Wise, Rudely Great

I Did What? - Guest post by Darkly Wise, Rudely Great

He is a new father. We’ll call him ‘Damon’, if only because this is his name.

He is idealistic, proud and dedicated to parenthood. He wants what Zorba the Greek called ‘the full catastrophe’: marriage, children, and the thick knot of entangled lives.

When his son wakes, he wakes. When his wife sleeps, he dotes. He cooks frittata, buys tubs of King Island Dairy yoghurt, cleans the house, helps with breast-feeding. (By prodding his son’s chubby chin to wake him up, mid-feed.)

And he is a master of that arcane midnight art: nappy changing.

Or so he thinks.

On one evening, after three hours’ sleep (not consecutive, mind you), he is practicing his craft. His son is on the change table. The new nappy is ready. The old nappy is off. The boy is clean.

But not clean enough.

Mad with sleeplessness, the father decides to keep wiping. There are specks. There are dots. He will clean them. He keeps wiping.

THEN HE PEERS CLOSE TO THE ANUS, TO CHECK HIS MASTERWORK.

(O hubris, scourge of heroes.)

And then it happens. A hot stream of stinking saffron squirts from his heir’s squirming bum. It burns his eyes. It clogs his nose. Yes, it drips past his lips.

He is literally shitfaced.

He wants to run away to a hot, purifying shower. He cannot – a small nappy-wipe must do. He holds his son steadily on the change table, who is now smiling like a crowned king. He changes and dresses his baby boy, and puts him to bed.

Minutes are centuries. But finally the boy sleeps.

Then he runs away to a hot, purifying shower, which restores pink skin but not dignity.

To paraphrase Nietzsche: sometimes when you stare long into an abyss, the abyss craps all over you.

___ . . . ___ . . . ___

Damon Young is a philosopher, writer and commentator. No, I don't mean a backyard philosopher, I mean he has a PhD in philosophy... that's right, Where's My Glow? has just featured Dr Damon.

He has already published one book and a second is due out next year. His writing has been published in the The Age, The Sydney Morning Herald, The Australian, Herald-Sun, and on the BBC and ABC. He's a regular radio guest, has even been on Channel 7's Sunrise and is also one of the minds behind Reservoir Dad's Most Mentally Sexy Contest... in other words, he's ultra smart and a bit of a media whore junkie.

To find his work, ranging from fiction to poetry to philosophy, visit his website and if that's a little heavy going for you, then check out his blog for bite sized snippets.

Next Week: The Bloke in the Shed spills the beans on Princess Kellie

Send your S/He Did What!? submission to Glowless@wheresmyglow.com

___________________________________________________

Glowless rocked the Aussie Bloggers Conference thanks to

HealthyChart and Baby Goes Retro and Simply Colors

She Did What!? Wednesday - By Super Daddy

SHE Did What!? - Guest post by Super Daddy

The first ever SHE!!

In my house the stereotypical male - female roles are reversed.

I’m the one that does the cleaning and cooking. Sure my wife will step in from time to time, on a Saturday or Sunday and make breakfast for the kids.

I am the stay at home parent. The kids and I are accustomed to a certain routine, and if it is altered very much, all hell could potentially break loose. Breakfast at 8am, snack at 10am, lunch at 12pm naptime 1 - 2:30 pm, snack 2:45pm dinner at 5pm, story time at 7pm, kids in bed and asleep by 8pm. Okay so the kids asleep by 8pm hardly ever works out, but it is a goal.

We’ve been having a lot of severe weather here in the U.S. lately. One particular severe storm that was threatening an outbreak of tornadoes was set to hit town at 3am. So, I decided to stay up and keep an eye on the weather. I’m paranoid about such things ever since my home was destroyed by a tornado twenty years ago.

Anyway, I stayed awake until the storm had passed. My wife let me sleep in that morning, being it was Saturday and she didn’t have to rush off to work.

I awoke to the sound of screaming kids and my wife yelling, “It’s breakfast time”.

I checked the time, 9am; I staggered out of bed made my way to the dinning room to find the kids eating hotdogs for breakfast. Please keep in mind there was a number of breakfast items in the kitchen my wife could have made; oatmeal, cereal, eggs, pancakes, sausage, bananas. Okay you get the idea. Hotdogs, she chose hotdogs.

I haven’t bought hotdogs in a long time. I just happened to purchase this package of hotdogs for putting on the grill for a cookout. Instead they were used for BREAKFAST!

I poured myself a cup of coffee and returned to the dinning room, biting my lip, because what was done was done. My wife turns to me and says, “Kids are eating breakfast. I gave them hotdogs so they’d have some protein.”

Yeah, protein. Nothing a sausage link, strawberries and eggs could have given them.

8 points for trying and for the conviction in her voice about the protein.

___ . . . ___ . . . ___

Kevin is a stay at home dad and the author of Super Daddy, a bloghe where he writes about parenting, being a stay at home dad, politics, dandelions, Sid the Science Kid and nothing in particular.

He is the first ever contributor to submit a She Did What!? Wednesday (hurrah!) and says funny words like oatmeal instead of porridge and cookout when he obviously means BBQ.

You can get more of your Super Daddy fix on Facebook and Twitter.

 Next Week: We learn that a shower doesn't cleanse everything

with Darkly Wise, Rudely Great 

Send your S/He Did What!? submission to Glowless@wheresmyglow.com

___________________________________________________

Glowless rocked the Aussie Bloggers Conference thanks to

HealthyChart and Baby Goes Retro and Simply Colors

He Did What!? Wedesday - By SawHole

Some Men are Bastards - Guest post by Sawhole of WoogsWorld

When my Mum died from cancer in 2001, we all went to Lithgow for the necessary arrangements. 

So my ex sat in my former bedroom and watched cricket most of the day.

The only time he was proactive was when he told me he had to go back to work the next day.

I attempted to unleash all hell but I did not have the energy.

All right. Just go. Leave me here alone.

He stayed in Sydney until the day of the funeral, when he had me drive him home after the wake so he could play touch football.

His Mum and sister were with us and I caused a stir he said when I freaked out when I got stuck down the wrong way at Pitt St.

Mother-in-law-to-be made comments about me crying and freaking out.

My reply to him was: "Fuck her. Did she have to cart someone around on the day of her mother's funeral?"

It is almost 10 years since this event and I still strongly believe this - you Mitchells can all go fuck yourselves.

Ahhh feels better.

___ . . . ___ . . . ___

SawHole is the inimitable unprofessional Agony Aunt at WoogsWorld. She is the changer of kitty litter, the singer of karaoke, the bomber of photos and the mopper of dance floors.

I had the pleasure of sitting next to her (and learning her real name!) at the Naughty Table at AusBlogCon and was able to witness her shenanigans first hand until she had to leave to go and wash Mrs Woog's feet.

To hear more from Australia's most famous blogger without a blog, stalk her on Twitter - she Tweets while autographing and kissing photos of Mrs Woog to send out to readers.

Next Week: The very first SHE Did What!? thanks to SuperDaddy!

Send your S/He Did What!? submission to Glowless@wheresmyglow.com

___________________________________________________

Glowless rocked the Aussie Bloggers Conference thanks to

HealthyChart and Baby Goes Retro and Simply Colors

He Did What!? Wednesday - By Eat, Roam, Shop!

Weddings, Parties, Anything - Guest post by Eat, Roam, Shop!

Back when I lived in Sydney and first met my husband I worked full time at a hotel doing shift work and ran a catering business part time.

I met my husband and was super in love, he knew I loved cooking and we were in our getting to know you stage. He also knew I liked to throw parties, I even suggested I throw a small party for his work colleagues so we could get to know each other.

He also knew I was busy with work and had my biggest catering gig coming up, a sit down wedding with cocktail appetisers and four courses. Not only would I be prepping all the food for this wedding but I was also arranging hire, delivery and set up of equipment, washing and ironing linens, staff hire, decorations and floral arrangements which I would be putting together myself.

So with juggling work I had a pretty tight schedule and was pretty stressed about the floral arrangements, I had done one or two arrangements as presents for people but this was a wedding and I would be putting together a ton of flowers and preparing a ton of food and coordinating deliveries.

So what did my then boyfriend do? Well he announced to me a few days beforehand that he had invited everyone around from work, for a party to be catered for by yours truly, no pressure but "I told the boss what a great cook you are..." The night before the wedding!!!

Husband said I seemed so relaxed about the catering gig it didn't occur to him it would be a problem.

Grrrr! 

___ . . . ___ . . . ___

Jen brings an International flavour to He Did What!? Wednesday this week: she's an ex-pat Aussie, is currently living in Brussels, and is so obsessed with Japan that when she went there on exchange she "went crazy with sticker photos, collecting kitsch, wearing majorly big socks and waking up at 4 am to practice Japanese sword fighting".

At her blog, Eat, Roam, Shop!, she has dedicated entire posts to her love of hot chocolate, the precise art of shoe maintenance and her obsession with her iPhone.

She's an avid Tweeter but has only just started up an account for her Blog Tweets, so be sure to check it out.

Next Week: Who's on SawHole's Shit List?

Send your S/He Did What!? submission to Glowless@wheresmyglow.com

___________________________________________________

Glowless rocked the Aussie Bloggers Conference thanks to

HealthyChart and Baby Goes Retro and Simply Colors

He Did What!? Wednesday - By Mumstrosity

Reg Grundies, Nanna Style - Guest post by Mumstrosity

When I was in hospital after having [insert kids name, theres so many kids I can't remember whose birth was whose], I wanted new underwear. I instructed DP to go to the supermarket and buy a pack black, size -- knickers that were Bonds brand, exactly the same as 98% of my other jocks, low waist in either boyleg or 'normal' style.

I figured this wouldn't be too hard a task as he has seen my knickers many a time, as 3 babies would show, so off he went, determined to be helpful.

He comes back later with my parcel of jocks (not literally jocks, I call them jocks), I asked him - Did you get black? - Yes, Did you get Size --? - Yes, Did you get Bonds ones? - Yes again. Oh good, I thought he actually got the right ones.

I opened the magical jock parcel to find 3 Black, Size x, Bonds jocks - in some sort of 'Nanna Cut' like I've never seen. Waisties. Not only that, but they had a seam that down the middle, front and back for that "oh so comfortable" Wedgie/Camel Toe combination that all Mothers enjoy wearing after labour..

*sigh* and I had to wear them. 8 points for trying DP.

At least I could tuck my entire Mummy Tummy into them.

___ . . . ___ . . . ___

The super fabulous Liz is the evil genius behind Mumstrosity. With the tag line of "Sometimes Mum Fucks Things Up" you know it's gonna be an awesome read.

She's been blogging for a year (at Mumstrosity since January) and, by her own admission, divides her time between drinking coffee, blogging, changing nappies and shopping... probably in that order.

As a 20-something mum(strosity) to three kids, I have no idea where she finds the time to blog about everything from techie stuff to anxiety to debt reduction and of course, fucking things up.

You can often find her lurking on Twitter and tagging people on Facebook, just because she can.

Next week: We cook up a storm with Eat, Roam, Shop!

Send your S/He Did What!? submission to Glowless@wheresmyglow.com

___________________________________________________

Glowless rocked the Aussie Bloggers Conference thanks to

HealthyChart and Baby Goes Retro and Simply Colors