A love supreme?

Last night, I was invited to celebrate a good friend's 30th at a trendy pizza joint in Sydney's Paddington, a place so groovy there's not even a sign on the street indicating what kind of restaurant it is, just a pile of unmarked pizza boxes inside the front window.

I was excited to be going back somewhere I'd enjoyed many impromptu evenings with loved ones, savouring tasty pizza and having cheap bottles of plonk poured into reimprovised water glasses by attentive staff. One of my former faves, and now post-baby, it also symbolised a return to form.

With said babe tucked away in the loving arms of his granny, we coasted across the harbour bridge, night lights twinkling in the winter air, classic Michael Jackson tunes pumping and the promise of crisp bases and fabulous toppings in our mind's eye.

It was the same restaurant: same busy vibe, the same owners we eyeballed on the way in, same yummy pizzas. But something had fundamentally changed.

As I brought forth our wine, I glanced down the table thinking it looked barren. Everyone had been there some time, perhaps they'd all become teetotallers when I wasn't looking? Fat chance. A girlfriend whispered that the restaurant was now licensed and they were still waiting for drinks.

In fact, after querying a staff member, it transpired they were both BYO and licensed, and I could pay $10 corkage per bottle to enjoy our two bottles of wine (which probably cost me $25 to buy). Checking with the husband of the birthday girl that it was ok for us to pop the cork and unscrew the lid, he relayed that staff had already told him 'no BYO for large groups'. But this waiter had just OK'd it? Oh well.

I brushed the inconsistency aside, happy with a glass of sparkling in my hand and the promise of a great evening.

We enjoyed our pizza as it came forth in dribs and drabs, though we had to chase up the food and a waiter took our plates away, even when there was more food to come. Still, I knew there was a special chocolate cake to be enjoyed, which had been dropped off that morning as a surprise.

Sadly though, the surprise had already been blown.

After accepting the choccy cake, the restaurant decided to call the person who made the group booking to tell them there was a 'no cake policy' and that it would not be served that night. The person who took the call was the birthday girl.

Surprise! You're getting a cake, but you can't eat it.

When I found this out, my shitty customer service radar started tooting its hooter at an alarming rate. Looking around though, I saw the big cake sitting reassuringly on the table. We sang happy birthday, she blew out the candles with cameras flashing, and we cut the cake.

And then, the strangest thing happened.

We all left the restaurant and ate the cake on the steps outside in the freezing night air, napkins stashed in our pockets. We took a photo for posterity, and probably, to stick it to the owners, who I had politely asked on my way out about their confounding new approach.

He explained that it was about their bottom line, said there were desserts on the menu, and if they did plate the dessert they would need to charge us $8-9 per person extra. Oh, and that it was a health and safety issue. He did mention that BYO was still available but didn't argue the point when I mentioned $10 corkage per bottle was probably not conducive to bringing a bottle of plonk along.

Still, I smiled, commented that I found it very surprising for what used to be such an accommodating venue, that many other restaurants didn't appear to face the same insurmountable problems serving birthday cake, and departed into the night, never to return.

It was fun, eating our cake on the footpath like dessert renegades, but the problem with venues who have been in business a certain amount of time is that they can become smug and run the risk of alienating their most loyal customers.

Sadly, I am no longer a loyal customer. There are too many venues in Sydney to enjoy without returning to the ones that have decidedly lost their shine and charm.

Now, with an unpleasant taste still in my mouth, how else am I to speak of the experience? And since many of us also socialise with our friends and networks online, what could these poor standards mean for a business's bottom line? If each of the twenty people at that table mention it to ten others, that's a couple of hundred people. But what if five of those at the table also Facebook, tweet or blog about it? Suddenly, thousands of people could be in the know.

After all this, perhaps it would have been easier for the restaurant, having accepted the cake, to have gone the extra mile and let us eat it. As a venue that prides itself on word-of-mouth marketing, they have taken customer service to new lows.

A love supreme? More like a no-name experience. And what a shame, too.

ASIDE: We ended up being charged $44 corkage, for two bottles that cost about $25 to buy. Go figure. 


Have you had a bad dining experience? Leave a comment and tell us what you did about it!

Ten things I wish they’d told me about breastfeeding

Firstly, and for the record, I really don't like those articles or blogs that begin 'As the proud mother of a baby boy,' so I won't go there. Suffice to say that going through breastfeeding as a complete L-plated newbie, I'd read every manual, book and pamphlet there was to read and I attended as many 'breast is best' classes a reasonably sane girl can handle.

Following is what I didn't find in any of those forums or media, but rather discovered in real time, feeding my boy, usually at some objectionable hour of the night, when I used to be stumbling home from a trendy wine bar – back in the day. Anyway, I digress...

For all of you gals out there who can stand some home truths and insights into breastfeeding, or if you are simply right into reading about your boobies at the moment, here's what I now know:

Number One. Breastfeeding is a game of snakes and ladders – get used to it

One day they're perky and bolt upright and, the next, they're sideways with gallons of milk dispensing with abandon. These are the artists formerly known as your erogenous zones! Now because of these constantly shapeshifting conditions, each and every time you feed your baby may be different. So, here's an important safety tip: try not to take it personally if your bub rejects your boobs or gives you blisters. Just remember, these little cherubs grow fast, and for now, you are their lifeline!

Number Two. Embrace your inner milkmaid

In the very first weeks of your baby's life, you will spend more time with your bangers out than all your wild nights out with the girls put together. Now, your significant other will most likely not mind this one little bit – mine certainly didn't. You, however, will feel like the local milkmaid.

Number Three. From boobies to... well...

Now, apparently, after years of breastfeeding your once beautiful, sexy nipples will likely look like elongated teats. This, told to me by my sister-in-law with three kids! Sigh. I might as well put this early on the list so there are no surprises after you've breastfed five children. Look, on the upside you won't have to buy many scarves during winter.

Number Four. Is breast really best?

Well, of course it is but breastfeeding is not always possible for every new mum. So, beware: breastfeeding zealots do exist. You'll normally find them in the form of your local, friendly lactation consultant. Obviously, most lactation consultants espouse the adage that 'Breast is Best'. Why wouldn't they? That's their job. However, if you happen to find a consultant or nurse who can actually acknowledge that there are other ways to work it, dip them in platinum and place them in a luxuriously appointed, gilded cage – oh yeah, not before milking them for every single bit of advice and information you can. And yes, I wrote 'milk' deliberately.

Number Five. Top her up, love! Have you got the bottle for it?

You may find this hard to believe but there exists among us a scurrilous subculture of breastfeeding mums who (OMG) top their kids up with – I struggle to even say the word – formula! I mean, these women actually breastfeed and then supplement their baby's diet with the bottle! The culprits only admit to this scandalous behaviour in hushed tones and with guilt oozing from every pore. And yes, absolutely right, I'm one of them. Trust me , there's no need to feel bad at all, it's perfectly fine. Just like it's fine to feed exclusively from formula if that's your situation. It's your body and it's your baby. So, do what's right for you.

Number Six. Hitting the bottle (Mark I – Baby)

Following on from number five: formula is pretty amazing these days. It's got absolutely everything that your bub needs. My husband was brought up on it decades ago and only occasionally shows signs of well, we don't like to call them problems so much but... :)

Number Seven. Did I ask for your advice?

As you wander through the murky waters of the breastfeeding academy, I guarantee that the advice you receive from friends, family, and complete strangers will conflict with every other piece of superfluous information you've ever heard. Try what you will, but remember to use that nifty thing you got when baby was born, your motherly instinct!

Number Eight. When the going gets tough

Yes, it is possible to endure Olympic-level bouts of mastitis, cracked, blistered and bleeding nipples, under and over-supply, problems latching on etc etc etc ... and still come out at the other end breastfeeding your bambino. But it's no crime or shame if you eventually throw your hands in the air and scream 'enough is enough'! After all, a distressed mummy does not make a happy baby.

Number Nine. Hitting the bottle (Mark II - Mummy)

After a day of baby joy, you are entitled to a bucket glass of your favourite wine. Enjoy... you deserve it. Most of my new mum friends say it's an indispensible part of their routine. And don't I know it!

Number Ten. Take the pressure down

A warm shower or bath is a marvellous tear buster when the going gets tough - and combines well with or immediately preceding point number nine!

 
So tell me, what has been your experience of breastfeeding your baby that you never read in a book? Leave a comment and let me know.

On Autumn

I love autumn. As I tweeted recently, it’s by far my fave season. The beautiful Indian summer days, the chilled nights that call for the winter jammies and warm sockie-wockies, sunset-coloured trees and leaves that crinkle and swoosh, inviting you to stamp through the streets without a care with dramatic flair.

But this autumn has near passed me by.

 Why?

 Well, I am a new parent, and not savouring early sunsets over a glass of red as much as I used to. As we know (all too well these days!), with parenthood comes a whole new set of joys and priorities. I have exchanged leisurely conversations for energetic bathtimes, lazy cuddles for exploding nappies and one pot screamers for, well, one pot screamers. Fortunately, I’ve still been able to walk little Morgan in his pram enough to know that autumn is in full bloom.

The problem, though, is this:

Since baby Morgan arrived, and I became a stay-at-home-yummy-stroke-sleep-deprived-mummy-who-works-occasionally-and-also-considers-herself-a-lady-who-lunches-somewhat-sporadically ... well, I’ve become addicted to admin.

You heard me.

Admin. As in, administration.

What?

This from a gal who used to delight in letting her parking tickets pile up until there were enough to start a small bonfire! A gal who had no trouble in waiting until the dishwasher AND the sink were full before putting an exquisitely manicured hand into the dishwater!! A gal who preferred to let the car and the poodle self clean!!!

These days I catch myself eyeing off a glass-top table not unlike a coke addict, except armed with Windex and a roll of extra-absorbent paper towel rather than a tightly rolled C-note. I take the baby and dog for a walk, only to wipe down the pram wheels and dog paws before either are allowed back inside. And I considered for a full minute yesterday whether to start asking people to take off their shoes before entering the house, before realising this was THE DEFINITIVE SIGN that I had lost the plot.

I’m no clean freak now, I mean, who has time with a small, demanding, full-time dictator who must be obeyed? But I feel this anxiety over admin. An all-consuming, OCD-like sense of anxiety.

I jokingly have become known as the ‘Temptress of Admin’ around my house. I call my husband at work to announce triumphantly that the garbage has been collected. I delight in writing letters that challenge and complain about poor service standards. My skin starts to itch when I see a coffee mug mark on a white bench top.

I’ve finally realised though, it has gone beyond a joke when autumn is in her full regalia, Morgan is babbling gorgeously in his pram, Coco is bouncing and wagging alongside as only a poodle can, and I’m too busy considering the pros and cons of vacuuming, tidying or paying bills once I get home to enjoy it all.

And thus, this blog serves a solemn purpose: to invoke the gods of the admin world, exorcise them from what used to be a reasonably educated brain, and get on with enjoying life as it happens.

Here goes...

Away, God of Obsessively Putting Away Clothes!

Begone, Floor Fluff Picking Up Demon!

Disappear, ye evil Bench Top Wiping Behemoth!

Vamoose, thine Pernicious Bathroom Tidying Strumpet!

Stop There, Naughty Goblin Rearranging the Cushions!

You know, we enjoy a golden existence and now have this beautiful baby. I’m all too aware that life is short, and as my dear dad says “it’s a one way trip”. So the last thing I want is to look back on our happiest times and remember an all-pervading sense of anxiety over... well, the everyday. And in the final analysis, does a generous covering of dust on the piano really matter?

I read recently a quote that life is about the moments that take our breath away. Personally, I feel like it’s about those little things that create happiness: a smile and chuckle, little fingers tickling my arm, a big sigh after a job well done, waking from a good night’s sleep and the first sip of a yummy bottle of wine that makes me want to bathe in the stuff.

So, please, may the Temptress of Admin take a long hike and the God of Small Things return? Allow me to take on one task at a time and leave the rest. Most importantly, pretty please, release me from the unattainable ideals of perfection and instead allow me to fully appreciate the small but perfectly formed child we call our own.

Signing off now, as I can hear that Captain Morgan has gurgled himself awake. It’s time to dance cheek-to-cheek with him to jazz tunes until his Daddy arrives home – ignoring the glass tabletops, leaving the rugs unstraightened – just enjoying a little slice of heaven in our lounge room.

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