Pyrenees Si Vous Please!

We've just arrived in the Toulouse airport on our way to the Pyrenees in the South of France, cycling for 10 days. We'll be going here...

Carcassone via

And here...

Toulouse, via

And then here...

Pau, via

So that's it, that's what we're up to. I know what you're thinking: "How the bloody hell is this woman not a famous travel writer!"

Very interesting stuff about this trip:

*I cycled for two to five hours most days for two months (our Pyrenees ride will be up to 60km a day over mountains) - and I didn't lose an ounce. Actually I put on weight - all my jeans are tight. How did that happen? I would have submitted myself for scientific research but then I remembered - every day I stopped for salt and vinegar crisps and a 2000-plus calorie sandwich involving bacon.  Every night I would treat myself to a carb and sugar "soup" of frosted flakes, tinned peaches and cream. Dang, shouldn't have done that.

* My parents are flying in from New Zealand to join us. Mum, 74, will reign supreme in the Support Vehicle and  Dad, 75, will be leading the Peloton. Wonder if he knows that?

* We had to bring our bikes and all gear, but in fact the most necessary thing was this goo stuff for girls called Hoo Ha Ride Glide which you slap on your undercarriage. Andrea the Fabulous from Mike's Bikes (best bike shop in the Bay) suggested I also buy a manly version for my husband Kevin but it's more economical if he uses mine. I'm just always looking to save money.

* Cycling is terribly glamorous here in Oakland. On my training rides I started on Pothole Avenue, went up Used Condom Hill and through Broken Glass Tunnel and up Naughty Boy mountain, swerving away from youths driving their mothers' minivans and throwing half eaten McDonalds at me. Plus the padded lyrca shorts are just beaut.

Bloppy back-arse view of my beaut shorts

I'm going to miss you - see you in ten days time!

Redheads We Love

The redhead woman who works at garden centre at the end of our road, where I spend an inordinate amount of time, said to me today: "Oh that's your real hair colour, isn't it?" Since 18 years old I've faired my hair - which naturally wants to be reddish - but these days I'm going for the (red)gold. There was a spark of recognition in her eyes: "Yes, you're one of us."

Redheads clockwise from left: my kangaroo paw, my sister Pietra, Joan Holloway and Princess Merida from Brave


I'm not brave enough to embrace the bright red though (my skin is too ruddy) and I'm kind of disappointed in myself that I don't....I've only been really red in my Sun-In years.

My Sun-In Years...

Both husband Kevin and I both have loads of red hair in our families so I am chuffed to hear that Brave, the new kids' movie about the "feisty redhead" (why are those words always coupled?) is breaking box office records.  The NY Times even did a full page spread on all the hours and days spent considering exactly how her hair should look.

For the past two years my true blue redhead sister Pietra has been quietly filming a documentary about redheads "to celebrate my tribe. What is the point of it? Maybe I want to make redheads into super heroes, thereby exorcising my own demons of growing up a redhead."


Technically red hair is a chromosomal deficiency often coupled with white skin and freckles - making it the rarest (1%) hair colour in humans. It's this rarity that attracts the pain and the fame.

Throughout history, redheads were prized as chosen ones and feared as aggressors. In Polynesia red hair was seen as a sign of a a ruler and in Mediaeval times artists were obsessed with capturing redheaded beauties. Boudica, who led the British uprising against the Roman Empire was always depicted with flowing titian locks (my husband was so taken with the image he wanted to name our daughter after her - overruled.) Joan of Arc was red and Elizabeth 1 took the throne with a copper mane, later replaced with a vertiginous wig.


But redheads are also much ridiculed. Some of the insults my sister Pietra collected in her research: Gin-ga (with a hard "g" all the more damning) Orange Goblin, Piss Brindle, "Freckleface your Dad thinks you're a big disgrace!" "Carrot top, carrot top, catch her quick or else she'll pop" "Redhead, mad as a bar, 'cause the silly little thing has ugly hair!" And F.O.T (F****ing Orange Thing) - which is what redheads are called in the Australian Army.


There is the quiet denial. Recently I heard a mother insist her toddler daughter was a "strawberry blonde" while behind her a family portrait showed the child - with incandescently flaming red hair.


This year I've seen red fast become a by-word for glamour, with rise of actors Jessica Chastain, Bryce Dallas Howard, Emma Stone and lately Damian Lewis (is he the first redhead leading man ever?) in Homeland. Redhead models are all over the magazines, a far cry from when 80's supermodel Angela Dunn was dismissed with the line: "Redheads can't sell yoghurt - or even the fridge to keep it in."


Redhead Joan in Mad Men has paved the way too, as a sure and sexy but most importantly three-dimensional character. Traditionally, the Hitchcock blonde (in this case Betty) emerges as the likeable protagonist. But here Joan steals all our empathy. Funnily enough, in real life actress January Jones is taking a visible break from Betty by dying her hair a very bright red, below.

This is because red has come to mean authenticity. Nicole Kidman lost a certain amount of intrigue when she bleached her red curls to an almost wig-like patinum, Lolo always goes back to her roots when she wants to be taken seriously. Julianne Moore, ever authentic, famously proved she's a real redhead in Short Cuts.

Who's your favourite Red?

What I know for sure (kind of...)

Another school year has ended and once again no one asked me to give a commencement speech...might it have something to do with my being an achievement-free zone? No offense taken - if anyone asks next year, I have some ideas scribbled down... just a few pearls I wish someone had told me when I graduated high school and university.

Me as an exchange student graduating from New Canaan High CT, 1979 

Graduation Day with friends (me at right) 1979

*Rotten peas and bagging spuds:
Find a summer job that's mind-blowingly boring or  bloody hard yakka.  Some of my Uni friends worked 12-hour days at the Wattie's factory plucking out the bad peas on the conveyor belt.  They are now running New Zealand. For three summers I worked in the back of my parent's fruit shop bagging potatoes. I now run a household (no... it doesn't have the same ring does it?)

You learn humility. The other day I overheard a 20-year-old turning down a job at Neiman Marcus because it was in the kids' shoes department, "There's no way I could help them" she said. Whaaa?

* Learn some stuff, then bugger off:
Take two years off to travel after high school or university. I don't mean one of those ten-day trips to three countries paid for by your parents. Or one of those incredibly expensive programmes where you are supposed to teach school or build a village in a third world country but you end helping kids set up their Facebook page. Grab a Lonely Planet guide to Buggeroffland, strap on a backpack and head off. Most countries need strawberry pickers and waiters so you can make some money on the way.

At age 27 I spent five months traveling by myself through Egypt, Syria, Jordan, Israel and Turkey...not much scares me now. Except PTA meetings.

* Sort out the good sorts:
They laugh at their own problems and will help you laugh at yours. Don't confuse positive people with competitive people who rabbit on for hours about how great their lives-kids-eyebrows-abs are.

*You can't climb ivy:
Your friend went to a better school, that doesn't mean they'll have a better career. Sure, a top school will get them an enviable first job, but it won't help them do well or propel them to their next job. You get to decide your own success.

*Ask for what you want:
Tricky if you're bought up in a culture (NZ) where modesty is everything and any sign of "pushiness" is frowned upon. I was chatting the other day to a ex-colleague, too embarrassed to come to the point and finally she said: "You don't want to get back into journalism, do you?" Yees, I replied. She commissioned me to write something soon after.

Research in Six Degrees of Social Influence shows that people like you more if they help you. Rejection stings but "wistful despair of ....letting the opportunity fade" will haunt us forever.

*Finally, when you get a real job:
Show up to work. Every day. Stay there. All day. That's a good start.

Me being admitted to the Bar, NZ, 1986, pink lippy and all

What would you add to this list?

Beer Pong Party!

Were you a nerd, headbanger, jock, sorority girl or slacker at College? Or something less definable? There was much discussion of this on Saturday night at our Beer Pong party, a peculiarly American university game steeped in tradition.

Beer Pong Party in our backyard

Beer Pong, also known as Beirut, is a drinking game where players throw a ping pong ball across the table with the intent of landing it in the beer-filled cup on the other side. The loser has to drink. Our rules were much more sophisticated, natch, whereby mixed doubles play ping pong and try to land their ball in the cups on the either side. Because this was a fundraiser, we did not make people drink, decorum is always maintained at our parties.

The winners!

This was a fundraiser party for our kids' school and 25 couples bid $400 to attend. Six hosts, including us, pay for all the food, drink and entertainment. Your head is probably spinning with all our school fundraisers  - the reality of an Oakland public school where parents have to make up for the financial shortfall. (Other themed fundraisers:  New Orleans, James Bond, Mad Men, Vikings, Saturday Night Live and Peace, Love and Green.)

The day begins: loading off five table tennis tables

Me baking 200 cookies for the party

Grog: Our two barmen from Paschal's Events invented the "Peanut Butter and Jelly" and the "Dad I need more money for books" cocktails. The keg of beer was suprisingly popular too.

Aaron makes the "Peanut Butter and Jelly"

Tucker: One of Oakland's most popular taco trucks was parked out the front of our house serving a selection of filled soft tacos. Celeste's family has been in the same spot for 25 years, long before food trucks became part of the roadscape in California. Followed by late night pizza, ice cream bars and cookies.

Celeste serves from her taco truck

Prize: Our co-hosts were MacGyver blokes who can fashion anything from a 2X4 and a No 8 wire, as we Kiwis say. They strung up lights so we could play to midnight and fashioned this trophy.

Handmade trophy

Hosts wear: Party, Sleep, Repeat t-shirts. I had a confused style at Uni which I tried to re-capture.

Your hosts

Random memory...I cleaned a lot of houses to support myself at law school.  I was a brilliant cleaner but a poor to indifferent law student -  if the lecturers knew me at all it was because I had repeated their class or I was always in their office begging for extensions on my assignments.

One day I was called into the Dean Of Law's office. I assumed I'd been found out...was it wrong to "collaborate" with a brainy friend on the "How to Use a Law Library" assignment? Everyone averted their eyes as I walked the aisle of shame to the Dean's office.
Once in his office I recognised the Dean -  I cleaned his house.

Dean Of Law: Would you like to be one of my research assistants for the summer?
I was astounded  - this position was only offered to the brightest and keenest in the class and was immensely prestigous.
Me: I think you've made mistake - have your seen my marks?(grades).
Dean of Law: Yeees...I wouldn't normally offer you the position. But....you're such a good cleaner!
I couldn't even use the library, how could I do this job? I had visions of hiding in the law library loos all day.
Me: I'm so sorry....That's very flattering, but I've already accepted another job.

Friends, that's how I came to be cleaning the toilets in a campground all summer long.

Dear Jody, my best friend ditched me on my birthday

Lately I've been getting a lot of letters asking me for advice. This leaves me feeling chuffed but gob-smacked. Let's face it - I was the person at school voted most likely to drive a dented mini-van ...and here I am, all expectations realised. This letter is about a party.

Me with the Slim Aarons crowd, the party we all imagine we're going to. Photoshop: The High Schooler

Dear Jody,
My husband and I decided to go all out for my 40th Birthday - caterers and a DJ. 50 people came and we had a blast, dancing until 2am. I remember thinking during the evening I hadn't seen much of one of my best friends. I found out the next day she and her husband left early for a party down the road, a party they hadn't even been invited to! Worse, they tried to recruit some of my guests to come too!
Susan T, Slighted in Arizona.



What is it with parties these days? It's like pulling teeth to get people to RSVP and you still never know who's going to show. My friend in LA turned up to a catered brunch for 30 to find she was the only guest!

*I suspect what annoys you is not that you didn't have that special boogie together, it's that her early exit said: "Your party is lame, we're outa here." But your party wasn't lame, 49 people loved it and you have to focus on that.

*She's still a friend (she turned up!) but is clueless and unlikely to change. (I know Mitchell in Modern Family said people can change 15%, I think more like 8%) There is no point into doing a Dr Phil on her, but you should tell her  - without emotion, as if you were a doctor: "I was disappointed you left early." That's all.

Don't expect everything from one friend and not all friends will be close ones. There are friends who meet you at art exhibitions and for lunch but they don't like crowds and won't turn up to your parties. Other friends will only join you at parties over bobbing-for-apples-in-vodka and three-legged races round the neighbourhood.

*But close friends turn up to big birthdays, major anniversaries and weddings, barring illness death or treacherous seas.  Or a three-hour special of  Downton Abbey featuring John Hamm as an imperious Earl in riding pants -  then all bets are off . 

She's a friend, just not a best friend. At the next party consider sidling up to her and doing the Elaine from Seinfeld jerky dance. Or even better the Peter Garrett from Midnight Oil stiff dance. You'll feel better. (And thanks to Janet and Hannah for reminding me of those dances...)


Gentle readers - please feel free to send in your questions.

Finding your lucky shoes

There is a peculiar melancholy that washes over me this time of year. Despite the bright busyness of school end (kids' parties, frantic emails, projects brought home, two birthdays - Tallulah turned 11, Jackson, 13 -  teacher gifts to be bought, signing up for summer camps.) Or maybe because of it...

Tallulah back from her week-long school camp

Back garden after the rain

Jackson's birthday A's top

It's not the melancholy of eating watermelon out of the drizzling rain.

Or the wistful dream of life in a Lilliputian town...

Jackson showing Cy and Tallulah his Mediaeval Castle project

Back garden ...

It's a pensiveness that allows you to doubt your actions and mull endlessly over small interactions. How much time do I spent hashing over real and imagined slights at the schoolgate, strange or seemingly out-of-place words that I have taken personally.

The wonderful Katie of Goodnight Irene, an actress and yoga teacher in Orange County, wrote recently about learning not to take everything seriously and to "grow some big-girl branches."

"two weeks ago i offered a homeless man 5 bucks and he refused, and i immediately went into 17-year old katie mode:

he thinks i’m stupid, ugly, fat, weird, snobbish, bitchy, annoying, a pest, precocious, bold {a favorite of my mother’s}; the typical, insecure, john hughes-unlike soundtrack that plays in my head during these situations.

it’s a very narcissistic way to think, in my opinion. it’s not all about me, and i need to remember this, although my hair was kind of jacked up that day…."

Lately Cy, 8, has been wearing what he calls his  "lucky" pink socks (which he's nicked off Tallulah) together with "lucky" pink sneakers (also nicked off Tallulah)

I asked him this weekend: "Does anyone laugh at you for wearing pink stuff?"

Cy replied: "Of course! But it gets them laughing -  that's good."

Me and Cy, 8, comparing pinks

How do you turn those negative re-plays in your mind into what blogger Katie calls the "tickle-me-Elmo happy" moments.  Do you have a pair of lucky shoes to help you?

Photoshop my life, baby!

What do you think about the controversy over excessive Photoshopping of celebrities,  actresses and models? Do you think it puts pressure on the rest of us to strive for unattainable perfection? The latest furore is over the three models on the cover of the June edition of Glamour magazine. 

Alessandra Ambrosio, Crystal Renn and Brooklyn Decker in real life, posing. Source

Same models on the cover of Glamour. Source

Pah! - anyone can slice a chunk off their thighs and boost their boobs.  I've decided to one-up them and Photoshop my life.  This weekend I'm going to be the fab-est mum, wife and friend.

1. Fab Mum: Darlings, I've missed you these last five minutes, let's play rounders on the beach.
Kids: Oh Mother, we just want to hug and smile all the time.

Me and my kids. Photoshop: The High Schooler

Real Mum: Could you smile for the camera for just one second without fighting? Then it's back to the bloody Kid's Club for you!


2. Fab Wife: Darling, I know how concerned you were about the birds eating your strawberries. I thought I'd ward off the birds while you were at work.
Husband: You're the best wife ever. Let's spend some quality time together this weekend building a bird cover.
Fab wife: Lovely.

Me guarding my husband's strawberries. Photoshop: The High Schooler

Real Wife: Spend the weekend putting planks together?  Waste of good drinking time - I'll call the handyman first thing.



3. Fab Friend: Greetings Peeps - guess what happened to me today?
Friends: Another fantastic anecdote? Jody, you're so fun and talented, we'd hate you if you weren't so nice.

Me and my "friends." Photoshop: The High Schooler

Real friends: Oh brother, what a pompous old wind bag, we only put up with her because her husband's so sweet.

What would you like to photoshop into your weekend?