Where do you go to relax?

When Fam Fibro goes on holidays, we go. Around 1200km, round trip, in the car, to be precise. What began as a simple 'let's visit the family up north for a few days' turned into an odyssey. A few days at Chez Maxabella (sadly without Maxabella in residence) in the Big Smoke, where we visited Oma, visited the Harry Potter exhibition, visited cousins, visited friends... you get the picture.

Into the car for the short drive to the Central Coast, where we visited friends. Into the car for the longer drive to Port Macquarie (how boring is that stretch of highway between Buladelah and Kempsey... no, really? Something must be done), where we visited a carnival. Into the car, for the short drive to a small town near Coffs Harbour, rumoured to be the holiday destination of an Aussie supermodel, where we visited, not the model, but The Builder's brother.

Three blissful days in which the only visiting we did was to the beach.

Into the car for the shortish drive to Forster, which turned into a much longer drive when we discovered that there was no room at the inn. Any inn. So we visited Newcastle and granted ourselves the luxury of a night at the Grand Mercure, simply so we could stretch out and watch the enormous boats on the working harbour.

Into the car for the very short drive to our next stop - which became much longer once we decided we should visit some of the Hunter Valley's finest wineries. Now that was a visit.

One more night at a friend's house, in which we were visited by an enormous storm. And then into the car to head back to the Fibro, where we visited with the family members who'd been staying at our place in our absence.

Phew.

On the positive side, we did more socialising in 10 days than we've done all year. We visited amazing beaches, drank amazing wine, got to see the Sorting Hat in action, spent time with family and friends, sang a bit, laughed a lot. On the negative side of the ledger, Mr5* managed to split his head open, stand on a bee, and develop a serious case of Verbal Diarrhea (which, as everyone knows, can be fatal to anyone else within, say, the close proximity of a car...)

Somewhere around about Newcastle, Mr8* asked me how many more days on the road we had. "We'll be home on Friday night," I told him.

"Ah," he said, leaning back in his chair with a big, toothy smile peeking out from under his new Hogwarts cap. "Then we'll be able to relax."

Did you enjoy a family holiday this year? Where did you go to relax?

*new year, new names

[image: a photo I took whilst trying to keep my cover as an innocent tourist when I was really on Kerr Watch on the north coast]

Happy P-Day to Career Mums!

Start transmission....

Just popping in from my blogcation (weather is great, wish you were here) for a small happy dance to celebrate the fact that Career Mums hits the bookshops today! Huzzah! Happy P-Day (publication day) to our little blue book. My co-author Kate and I are very excited!

See you on the January 8. I'll have a cocktail with an umbrella in it for you. Assuming I can find one in at my non-tropical holiday spot.

End transmission...

(Read more about Career Mums here...)

The night before the night before the night before Christmas

Twas the night before the night before the night before Christmas, and all through the Fibro, not a creature was stirring... not even me, who should be, at the very least, wrapping presents. Instead, I'm eating festive red and green M&Ms and confessing my favourite karaoke tunes on Facebook. If that's not going to give me a virtual hangover tomorrow morning, I don't know what is...

I had big plans for my last post of the year. I could have done a Four-Corners-style 'Year In Review', with a month by month overview of Life In A Pink Fibro. Could have.

I could have done a Sunrise-style montage, little vignettes of the year that was, set to some kind of heart-wrenching, soul-soaring soundtrack. Could have.

Instead, I'm just going to say thanks for hanging out in the Fibro with me this year. I love it when you pop in to say hi and drink coffee. You are my very favourite style of visitor - the ones you don't have to clean up for - and I thoroughly enjoy your company.

It's been a big year, and 2012 is shaping up to be even bigger (even if Alla Hoo Hoo has moved to Sydney). Can't wait to share it with you.

I'll be back on Sunday January 8, 2012, full of beans and blogging mojo. For sure. I hope that your Christmas and New Year festivities are wonderful and that you also get as much sleep as you need. I have about a year's worth to catch up on, so wish me luck!

In the meantime, there's only one question left to ask...

What's your favourite karaoke tune? The song you bring out every time to bring the house down (or not)? Mine (after several thousand beers) is Son of A Preacher Man by Dusty Springfield. I know. I'm nuts!


[image: via Pinterest]

What's in a name? Quite a lot, apparently.

Every once in a while I write a story that really catches my imagination. That gives me such pleasure - nay, glee - to write that I can't believe people are actually paying me to do this job. This week, I had such a story, all about baby names, which, I have to confess is one of my favourite topics of all time.

I love names. I love the anguish that goes behind choosing a baby's name. I love seeing whether the baby grows into the name or the name grows onto the baby. I even love that illicit thrill when a friend or family member names their child - and all you can think is WTF? Seriously, you think you know a person, and then they name their children (not that I've ever had this feeling with regards to my own family and friends, I hasten to add).

The best names always belong to other people. Who name their children - true stories, for these are all examples from a lengthy conversation on the Fibro Facebook page today - Chaos, Rowdy, Epiphany, Jesus, Sunshine, Handsome, Precious, Dolly Rockstar, Jonny Wolf, H (just the letter), Shanthony, Xanadu, Bluegum, Rubella, Shame and Waynette. And that's just a selection.

In the course of my story - you can read the whole thing on Kidspot here - I spoke to social researcher Mark McCrindle, whom I would add to my next dinner party guest list in a heartbeat. We talked about why the class of 2030 will be full of children named Kate, Will and Pippa. We talked about why biblical names are making a comeback (Hepzibah, anyone?) and why the top 20 names in Australia has remained fairly much the same for the past ten years. Nay, longer. We talked about why some names rise to the top and stay there, and others are merely flashes in pans (Britney?).

We discussed the fact that chasing a 'unique name' has become a trend in itself, perhaps a backlash from people who'd endured years at school as Melinda A, Melinda B, or Melinda C, and wanted their own child to have a name that stood on its own and would never be confused with anyone else in the class. We talked about how some of those names might be difficult to live with. Particularly in an era when our name is so much a part of our identity - it's everywhere (Facebook, email, everywhere).

Eight years ago, when the Builder and I were naming Mr7 (then not even with us), we endured the agony that is choosing a child's name. We ran the gamut of options - with girls he started at Charlie and I began with Audrey, so we had some ground to cover. We had a boys' name within minutes and a girls' name pretty much with just minutes to spare before the birth. It was HARD.

Now, as a writer, I get to choose names all the time. I have three different baby books and love to check out the 'popular names' sites on Google for inspiration. The beauty of those sites is that you can find names for characters from any era. All your characters born in the 1970s? The top 10 names is at your fingertips (Michelle, Nicole and Lisa, in case you were wondering).

I also get to use up the names that I loved but didn't quite make the grade for my actual children. Not Audrey, not yet, but soon....

Did you find it difficult to name your children? Did you have 'leftover' names?

[image: from BBLLSS/etsy]

Where do you write?

I am a creature of habit. I know this because (beyond the fact that I have written about it before) the slightest hint of change in my office throws me into a panic. Tonight, for instance, I am sitting here trying to write with my printer on my desk, the contents of my filing cabinet on the floor and a random feather duster under one elbow. Go figure.

I am also sitting to the left of my computer, not the right. With cords under my feet. And I can't write. Well, nothing useful anyway.

I have writer friends who can write anywhere. They blithely sit outside with their laptops. Or take them to cafes. Or libraries. Or on planes. And they make progress. I don't. I am easily distracted and if it's all not just 'so' it doesn't work. Mind you, just 'so' simply means just 'my desk', which is usually messy and ugly and all kinds of wrong. But I have, after many years of freelance writing, trained into my body a Pavlovian response. I sit at this computer and I write. That's what I do (albeit sometimes via Twitter and Facebook). When people talk about 'The Zone', this is it.

Which is good from a focus perspective, but kind of boring from a 'where I write' perspective. I'd like to be able to say that I sit in the garden, with the scent of orange blossom in my nostrils. But the truth is that I would be hot, and there would be glare, and the words simply would not flow.

Much like tonight. With a printer cramping my style (and my ergonomics). So I'll manage a blog post, and that will be it. Hopefully by tomorrow I'll have adapted to my new surroundings and a new habit will quickly form. Hopefully.

Where do you write?


[image: my desk looks nothing like this one from theroxor.com]

Do you have a signature style?

A friend of mine confessed via Facebook today that she'd had a perm. A perm. Seriously? First, I laughed and put a sarky comment on her status update. Then I posted a status update on the Fibro page, asking Friends of Fibro to share their own perm stories.

But even that wasn't enough. And so I'm blogging about it. Partly, I think, because I am in awe.

I am the most boring person on the planet when it comes to hair. I've had essentially the same hair for 20 years. Long, red, curly (okay, frizzy unless drenched in 1001 lotions and potions).

Prior to that, I had ... the same hair. Oh it was shorter when my Mum was in charge (because I wouldn't have wanted to deal with my mop either). There was a fringe. There was a moment of asymmetric madness in the late 1980s (all the better to show off my button earrings). A bob.

That's it.

I've never gone blonde, or brown, or black, or pink. I've had it straightened once or twice and it was nice for the 20 minutes it lasted but, really, not worth the effort to do every day. I wear it up every day and wear it long and curly when I go out. I colour it now to cover the greys, but I've finally found a colourist who can make it look close to what it looked like naturally about five years ago.

As I said, the most boring person when it comes to hair.

I put some of it down to being a redhead. The colour was pretty good, why muck about with it? The rest I just put down to me being boring.

The big problem, of course, is what happens next. It's probably time to cut it off. But if I cut it off, it's harder to deal with (much curlier and frizzier - no perm required). I'll continue to colour but at what point do I decide that I can't be a redhead any more?

Who knew that a lack-of-signature style would throw up such conundrums?

What's your hair history? Have you ever had a perm?

[image: if all else fails, I'm getting me one of these Rapunzel hats from Evermicha/Etsy]