She's Gone and I Have Nothing to Wear

Though I'm still no style icon, back in my teens and twenties (and, er, thirties) I really had no idea how to dress. I tried, but I constantly got it wrong - you know, the right pants with the wrong top, or the right dress with the wrong shoes, or the right shoes with the wrong everything else.

My sister, on the other hand, always looked great. She had a very particular style - sort of casual, just-thrown-together cool. She wore a lot of cargo pants and brightly coloured singlets and little skirts and the occasional gorgeous patterned dress or top. She loved purple. She had so many purple singlets we all lost count.

I remember her wardrobe; it was basically a portarobe in the sunroom off her bedroom, absolutely chock full of clothes in no particular order.

Tanya laughed at my fashion choices. She laughed at a lot of my choices. I recall her once going through my CD collection which, admittedly, was rather woeful - lots of  Michael Jackson and Madonna and Smiths and Kate Bush (to represent both my upbeat and contemplative sides). And then she noticed one rogue, totally hip album, and pointed and cried out, "Oh look! You have some Massive Attack by mistake!"

Anyhow... every now and then she would let me go through her extensive wardrobe and pick out things I liked that she no longer needed. It was the best fun. I know she was the younger sister but it felt very much like a kid raiding her mother's wardrobe. Tanya bought a lot of stuff and discarded a lot of stuff and so I always came away with some new things to wear. Sometimes I'd want one of her newer outfits and she'd protest, but I nearly always got what I wanted. I'm persuasive that way.

And the thing about Tanya was.... She loved giving me her clothes. She loved it when I looked nice. She genuinely wanted the best for me.

She would have been so proud of all I've achieved, and she would have loved my youngest daughter so much. SO much. My baby turns eight on the 26th of November, three weeks to the day after Tanya will have been dead for eight years.

Today. The 5th of November. It's been eight years.

She was awesome. You would have liked her. All of you. You would have liked her. Most everyone did.

Eight years today. I miss her. And I miss her wardrobe.

I have nothing to wear.

Finally... An Excellent First Date

I had a brilliant date this week. One of the best ever.

We had connected online - on Twitter, to be precise - after corresponding about a project my date had been involved with. Unfortunately we live in separate states, but when my date travelled to Sydney for work we arranged to meet for lunch.

Often you meet someone and they look different to their photos, or the connection you had in the written word doesn't translate to a real life chemistry. In this case we just clicked. From the moment we saw each other in the assigned location, to the moment I had to leave an hour and a half later, we did not stop talking.

Our time together was too short. I'm so looking forward to seeing her again.

Yes, she's a her. A female friend. And no, this post is not about coming out - it is about the joys of female friendship, and the strange reality that it is so much easier to find a connection with another female than it is with a man.

This Saturday night I have a date with another new friend. She's a bit younger than me, absolutely gorgeous, and fabulous fun. We met through work, and our interactions are super easy and relaxed. Another dear friend of mine is the sister of a friend, and when we were introduced at the party we both knew we'd be in each others' lives forever.

Of course I don't connect with every woman I meet. But in the last couple of years I have formed several real, rewarding connections with female friends, and yet - despite dating regularly - I have not felt it with a new man. And I'm not the only one. My single/divorced female friends report exactly the same thing. They meet women they connect with all the time, but not men. And it's baffling. Are men and women really so different? And if so, how can we bridge that gap?

"How could I have met 30 or more men and not one was right?" a friend asked. I couldn't answer, because my experience has been the same. And don't tell us we're too choosy, because all we are looking for is the same resonance that we feel with female friends. That feeling of inhabiting the same emotional landscape. Would you settle for anything less?

As my date this week agreed, true connections fill up our cup. And my cup is largely being filled by women (metaphorically, not literally, see 'not coming out' comment). I cherish my female friends. And girl dates really do lift my soul.

Ageing: Are You Ready To Finish Your Slice?

Sometimes when I am pottering around my house I interview myself. Some people would call that 'talking to themselves' but it's far more formal than that. I pose myself questions, think about them, and then carefully articulate my answers.

If that makes me weird, well, wait till you hear about my faux cooking-show demonstrations.

The other day, during one of my probing interviews, I asked myself how I feel about ageing. After all, if I was a celebrity I would get asked that question all the time. Any female celebrity over the age of 30 is asked how she feels about getting older. Male celebrities aren't asked until they hit 50, but hey, I've interviewed myself about gender inequality many times and it's really not at all surprising.

So how do I feel about ageing?

cake: a metaphor

Well, I'm glad I asked.

At 46, the physical stuff doesn't bother me too much. Yes, I have wrinkles, blah blah blah. Yes, I have stretch marks, blah blah blah. But what do you expect at this age? Quite frankly, I get more upset about my occasional pimples than I do about the Visible Signs of Ageing.

And yes, I feel more Comfortable in Myself now than I ever did as a younger person. That all is true. I feel much more me than I did as a younger person. I am more confident, less concerned with what other people think. I know how I want to live my life, and am making that life happen.

But you know what I don't like?

I don't like the fact that time is running out. I don't like the fact that I am half way through my life. I feel keenly the sense that my years left on earth are limited. I know that we all have limited lifespans. I know that a twenty year old isn't going to live forever either. But I didn't feel my mortality at 20. I didn't even feel my mortality at 30. It hit me for the first time at the age of 45, and I suspect it will get stronger with each passing year.

I know it's not fair to feel this way. I have lived 46 years already, and many of them well. I am like a child with only half a slice of cake left, resenting the other kids who haven't started theirs yet. We all get our slice, I am halfway through mine, and I mustn't be greedy.

But I am. I want more cake. I like eating it and I don't want it to be over anytime soon. Or even in another 46 years.

I've interviewed myself, and now it's over to you. How do you feel about ageing? Will you ever be ready to finish your slice?

Look! You can totally be a perfect parent! Just follow these easy guidelines! (sponsored)

There is SO much pressure to be a perfect mother….. but happily, it seems that things are changing. Recent research by Ski D’Lite found that only half of Australian mothers now try to be perfect parents, with the rest of us settling for ‘good enough’. It seems like ‘practically perfect’ is the new idea.

And this is awesome. We shouldn't aim for perfection. So why are half of all women still trying to get there?

I don’t at all understand the term ‘perfect mother’. It has never made any sort of sense to me. Being a mother is not a task that can be performed to perfection; it is a relationship between two people, a parent and a child. And no relationship can be perfect, because no person is perfect. There is no such things as a perfect child, and certainly no such thing as a perfect adult, so how can there possibly be the perfect relationship?

To be ‘perfect’ at motherhood makes as much sense as being ‘perfect’ at any other type of relationship. We can’t be perfect at friendship or perfect at love. It is impossible. And it shouldn't even be a goal.

What’s more, it doesn't need to be. We don’t choose our friends because they are perfect at friendship, we choose them because we love them even with their flaws. And we don’t love our partners because they are perfect, we love them because they are perfect for us.

We don’t need to be perfect parents for our kids to love us, nor do we need to be perfect for our kids to thrive.

But we can still be ‘perfect’ at many important aspects of mothering. And when you go through the checklist, you’ll be surprised at how many you get right.

This is totally me. You can't see it but I am holding the selfie stick in my teeth.

For example:

1.       Birthing: A perfect birth is one which results in all four limbs and the head of the baby being expelled from the mother’s body by the end of the birthing process. The birth may involve pain relief, water, a surgeon, a midwife, meditation, chanting, or pretty much whatever the hell you want as long as you get the baby out.

2.       Feeding your infant: Perfect feeding occurs when the infant ingests nutrition by some means. This can involve a breast, a bottle, an eye dropper, a drip, or a fairy princess with a magic cup.

3.       Feeding your older child: A perfect meal for an older child includes food that will stop them from feeling hungry. Whilst ‘healthy’ food is ideal, and organic food is lovely and all that, it is not required for every meal, and ‘food’ can include juice, meats, Vegemite sandwiches, plain noodles… anything that has calories, really.

4.       Teaching your child to sleep: A child has been correctly taught to sleep if they spend periods of each night unconscious.

5.       Potty Training: A child has been perfectly potty trained if they learn to use the toilet some time before their twelfth birthday.

6.       Dressing your child: A perfect outfit includes clothes that more or less keep the child warm/cool/protected from the elements. Style, colour, and co-ordination are utterly irrelevant.

7.       Cuddling your child: Any cuddle is a perfect cuddle.

Check out the video below... it is seriously gorgeous and a huge relief to imperfectly perfect parents like me.

This post is sponsored by Ski D’Lite yoghurt, which I buy all the time for the kids because it is delicious, now has 25% less sugar, and doesn't require cooking, spreading or dicing into small pieces. Perfect.

My Secret Life as Candid Admission

Yesterday on Channel 7 I was outed as a high class escort named Candid Admission. It was a busy day for me. I had waved my kids off to the bus stop in my flannel PJ's and singlet top before dashing out to the supermarket to stock up on groceries and sex toys, and then changing into my leather crop top with metal zip detail and gold hotpants for a few hours work at the brothel. You can imagine how exhausted I was by the time I got to the studio for my Big Reveal. My cab ride took longer than expected because we did a contra deal, so I didn't even have time to change my clothes. Luckily, I was only filmed from the mid torso up so you can't see my hotpants and thigh high fishnets under the table.

The response to my disclosure was incredibly positive. My mother was very proud, telling me she just wished that my dear grandmother Pussy Yum Yum was still alive to watch my triumph. The kids' school asked me to come in and talk to the Year 12's at Careers Day. And my LinkedIn account was flooded with requests to connect on a professional level.

And it was a true relief to get it off my chest and to finally live my truth. Kerri is a lie. Candid Admission has no lies. I am ready to go out into the world and be Candid. One chapter of my life has closed, but a new chapter is beginning. 

As for the escort work making me a better mum, that was just a line to sell my story. Naps and earplugs and a nightly gin and tonic make me a better mum. But you already knew that.

Disclaimer: I am not really an escort. I was discussing the escort Samantha X on The Daily Edition when this caption came up. Still, it's nice to know I have career options.....

Dr Sexville Is In. Today: What is up with foot fetishes?

Dear Dr Sexville*,

What is up with foot fetishes? How did that become a thing?

Toey

Dear Toey,

When I was 15, I dated a boy who had a foot fetish. Except that I didn't actually 'date' him, I pashed him a few times at the pub (where I shouldn't have been, because I was underage, so let's just say I was 18.) Oh, and except that he didn't call it a foot fetish, because he was only 16 (or 18, if we're still at the pub); he called it a 'foot fallacy'. Clearly, he was either not very well read, or he was prone to constructing elaborate, invalid arguments in which feet played a key role in the flawed logic. But I digress...

The point is, he liked to play with my feet when we kissed. Which means that foot fetishes have been around since at least my teens, which was approximately 70 billion years ago.

Fetishes occur when a persona becomes sexually aroused by any thing or body part that is not specifically genital, like feet, earlobes, bunny costumes, or a really clean living room floor. And fetishes are very common, even if the object of the fetish is not. There are fetishes for elbows, morbid obesity, the Eiffel Tower, even harpsichords. All of the men I've dated have all had fetishes, for objects as diverse as Lamborghinis, Porsches, Ferraris, and Honda motorbikes.

Foot fetishes, or podophilia, are the most common type of fetish, and they can be excellent fun. I slept with a man once who liked sucking my toes, using 'once' in the sense of 'many, many times' and 'toes' in the sense of 'yes, I mean toes' and it was thoroughly enjoyable.

The only thing to remember about foot fetishes is that, like other objects to be sexually enjoyed, they are best experienced clean. So if there's a chance your partner will be want to get dirty with your feet, perhaps a little wash with some nice peppermint foot scrub followed by a pumice and some soothing cocoa butter moisturizer wouldn't go astray. Unless your partner is a purist, and likes that straight-out-of-the-shoe smell, in which case rip off those socks and get into it.

And remember, a foot fallacy is something completely different. But we can talk about that another time.

Dr Sexville

*Note: I am not an actual doctor, though I have performed the occasional minor self surgery, only once with catastrophic results

Leave your questions for Dr Sexville in the comments, or send to k.sack@live.com

why no-one will ever truly know you... but that's okay

The other day, I was imagining a scenario in which a mad scientist took my consciousness out my mind, and then offered me several different minds from which to I had to identify my own. (It was late. I'd been drinking. Just go with me here....)

Of course, I'd be able to pick my mind immediately. Any of us would be able to pick our own minds. We would recognise our minds by our thoughts, fears and desires. Your thoughts would look very different to mine, or my mother's, or my friend Mandy's, or my cat's.

Which demonstrates to me that we all know who we are. We may not be able to clearly articulate who we are, because defining our own uniqueness in language is remarkably difficult. But we do, at a very profound level, know ourselves, far more than we may believe.

cristy johnson 'thinking too much'

But how well can other people ever know us?

We define ourselves by our thoughts. Sure, you may be a 'mother' or 'father', a 'son' or 'daughter', a 'writer' or 'accountant' or 'stay at home mum' or 'surgeon', but these are all just indicators of the things you think about all day.

I am a writer, sure, but this is because a lot of my thoughts are about writing. I am a mother, definitely, because my head is filled with thoughts and memories of my kids. But, while these are easy ways to explain who I am, they don't adequately describe what I feel like inside my own head.
I am my thoughts. I am a conglomeration of the thousands of things that cross my mind all day.

"I am worried about..."
"I miss her..."
"I love him..."
"I'm so uncomfortable about...."
"I wish that..."
"I'm scared to..."
"I'm excited about..."

These thoughts are what define me. These thoughts make me who I am.

And these thoughts are the reason that no-one else in this world will ever fully know me. Because no-one else will have access to all my thoughts; others can only know me through my actions and words.

And the same goes for you. You can never be known in your entirety because no-one else can ever get into your head. Unless you walk around offering a running commentary into your most private thoughts - in which case other people will most likely judge you to be psychotic - you can never be fully known by another.

And this is fine. It is how it is. But we need to remember that - just like no-one else will fully know us - we can never fully know another. Every single person you know has endless thoughts. They have a secret inner world that matches up only to a degree with the outside persona to which you are privy. And being aware of that reminds us that no-one is better than another, or more valuable, or more worthy.

We are all just thoughts. We are all just minds.

And my mind was clearly feeling a bit profound the other day. Right now, it wants to stop thinking altogether and take a bath.