Credit where it’s due (aka Trumpet-blowing)

This might surprise you as I’m not usually one for blowing my own trumpet (or maybe I am....?!), but today’s post is a smug self-congratulatory one about stuff I’m doing well. It doesn’t happen often and I’m not sure if that’s because I’m not usually doing stuff well, or because of the whole trumpet-blowing phobia, but either way this kind of post is rare for me.


And in fact, this part onwards is a second draft because – despite starting with that upbeat paragraph – the rest of it was full of tales of woe and self-pity. Despite feeling glad that I restarted tracking my food and exercise this week (as promised in my ‘Game on (bitches)’ post) I tempered the rest of the original post by going on to confess that I had popcorn for dinner Monday night (cos I forgot to get the fish out of the freezer). And then Tuesday night I actually ate two pieces of fish (with salsa) instead of one. Then last night I had red wine. There were trade-offs for each of those and Tuesday and Wednesday in particular, I kept below my 1200 calorie limit. I just made some bad choices.


So... what started as a self-congratulatory post quickly descended into my usual ‘Aren’t I bad?’ twaddle.


So (forgive the language), fuck it! Back to the trumpet-blowing. I’m going to ignore the negatives and refocus on my good news stories for the week because I need to get some perspective. Sure I have a long way to go, but I need to remember that just four months ago I was binge-eating caramello koalas, bags of corn chips and hot chips while avoiding people and spending my life on the sofa.


But now... I’m a different person. Well, not entirely cos I’m still me. Obviously. However, not only did I start tracking my food and exercise on Monday as promised; but I also upped the ante on my exercise. Last week you will recall that I ventured into a Zumba class for the first time ever AND I went to a ‘Move and Groove’ class. And this week I went back for more. AND, on top of that I went to a Body Pump class. I know it’s shocking, but Monday, Tuesday AND Wednesday I took a lunch break and attended classes every day. I surprised even myself as I thought I might get to one or two classes a week. Rather, I made a concerted effort to ensure I was free and to not feel guilty for taking a lunch break on those days.


Better still, I enjoyed all three classes. I’m loving Zumba: the music is amazing and instructor fabulous. Move and Groove (aka Body Jam – sort of) is still a bit strange with a Hip Hop-dancing instructor making it up along the way. But... again – great music and some funky moves. And finally, attending my first ‘Pump’ class in about seven years wasn’t as scary as I thought it might be. Of course I paced myself fearing the shock my body might go into after having to suddenly lift ambitious weights (in addition to carrying my excessive weight about).


With busy workdays on the remaining two days of the week I’ve planned to rely on my faithful rented exercise bike at home – previously much-hated and dreaded, although now I get some variety I suspect it will be quite handy.


So there you have it. Whereas four months ago I couldn’t walk without getting shin splints I’m now mixing up my exercise and trying new things. On Saturday I’ve booked into a pilates reformer class and am already considering trying some boxing classes at the gym next week. Just to keep me on my toes. Literally!

The 'journey' or the destination?

About 16 years ago I was feeling bored and unfulfilled with my life (I know, you’re shocked... me, a malcontent?!) so joined an overseas volunteer program and went to work in the wilds of Africa. Well, actually it was the capital city of the south-east African country of Mozambique.


Before I went I participated in a number of training sessions and briefings. We were told that things worked differently in developing countries: corruption could be rife and seen as the norm; and people had to struggle for necessities so their values and expectations may be quite different to our own.


Very importantly we were told that the working environment ‘could’ also be quite different. In our jobs here in Australia, we’re used to moving and working at breakneck speed. It’s all about achieving and outcomes. In the developing world - we were told – things can move slowly; there are competing priorities; and EVERYTHING is harder, and we should prepare for that. Our placements may well be more about the journey than the destination. So they said.


At that time I was working in community development, but studying for my Master of Business Administration to move out of the social/community sector. I’d had my ‘fill’ of that world and an overly-strong focus on ‘process’ to (I believed) the detriment of deliverables. I was tired of an all-talk and no-action world.


So, as I listened to the well-meaning, though experienced cross-cultural trainers I KNEW that I wasn’t going to be one of those people whose two years overseas achieved sweet fuck-all, but who learned a lot about themselves and the world. Nope. No siree.


Of course I arrived in Africa to discover that I was one in a long line of expats to work with the women’s non-government organisation to which I was attached. It was my first foray into international development and a useful lesson for me. The organisation itself had HUGE potential. The women (activists) working around the country (and being paid in beans, oil and rice from the World Food Program) had their hearts in the right places. But in central office, the women I worked with were paid fairly well (in comparison to others). Their focus was on getting more money to do the things they were already doing, rather than identify new needs or commence programs not in existence, such as those to address domestic violence. Essentially I was the tokenistic expatriate who was their ticket into the international and UN donor systems.


My colleagues didn’t spend a lot of time at work. They had a myriad of other commitments and everything took time. Each payday they disappeared for half a day to do their banking and an appointment anywhere took a day or two. Although I enjoyed the visits to the women’s groups around the country, meeting others working there and learning about what they did, I spent A LOT of time clock-watching. My working days dragged. I was bored silly, and worried I was de-skilling.


But... I loved it there. I loved the people and the place but I yearned for a job that would be more fulfilling. In the end I finished up my two-year placement just over 6 months early because another opportunity popped up. But I remember going to the same training sessions for my next placement (which was Cambodia). This time I joined in when the trainers talked about the work often being more about the ‘life’ we spent there, rather than our contribution to work outputs. Although I hate to admit it – and despite my fear of sounding like some wanky reality television show contestant – it was (at the time) very much about the journey rather than the destination.



In the years that I have passed, however, I have again become more cynical and pragmatic. I spent many more years in international development, but in a different context where I had opportunities to leverage more change.


And now, as a project manager and someone who’s managed a lot of reporting, for me it’s again more about the end products - the deliverables.


I’ve been thinking about this today having overheard a conversation on the train this morning. I blame the fact that I left my iPhone at home and having nothing to occupy my hands or mind during the 30 minute commute. As a result I looked out of the window (in a zen-like trance) and eavesdropped on those around me.


The conversation centred around this person’s child – who hadn’t finished some project they’d spent the weekend on. The mother claimed that the child had learnt a lot through the process... so believed that the teacher shouldn’t punish them for not completing the piece of work.


But like I said, I coordinate a lot of reporting nowadays and, frankly, I don’t want to hear about processes. I want to know what’s been achieved. Sure, sometimes the journey itself is important, but learning something along the way isn’t much good if you don’t actually achieve what you set out to do.


We learn a lot about ourselves when we go through change. I'm participating in a weight loss program at the moment. Each time I go on a diet, try to eat healthily, exercise, or challenge my behaviour and thinking in some way, I learn something new about myself. That in itself is a good thing. And it’s great that the very process of dieting and eating healthily gives us tools and resources to better-manage everything that is thrown at us. But... I want (and need) to get to the end point. I want to reach my goal.

Emerson says that “Life is a journey, not a destination...” That’s true. But if we don’t know where we are going; how will we know if and when we get there?

Toddlers, teens, tiaras and tantrums - Part two

Pageant day dawned and I was relieved not to have a hangover - thank god I didn't open the bottle of red wine in the mini bar after polishing off the champagne! I was feasting on my room service breakfast when my sister-in-law and niece arrived and greeted them warmly with bacon and egg breath. The Divine Miss Em already looked stunning, in a dress that I apparently paid for compliments of some birthday cash, though it wasn't one of the three outfits to later grace the Pageant stage.

The beautifully divine Miss Em

Her hair was mostly done and her mother set about doing her makeup while I continued to munch my way through my bacon and eggs. I'd already had a bit of a run-down on the day's program. The three categories were: beauty, which involved wearing something pretty and sparkly. For the toddlers this usually reflects the short sequinned cutesy outfits which typify pageants. As the girls get older the dresses get longer and a bit less sparkly. The hair is always well-coiffed and hairpieces are often added to provide extra pizazz. Or something.


Given the outbook theme, the second outfit was 'western' in nature. I found it interesting that all of the costumes very much reflected the US cowboy scene, with no akubras, drizabones or wifebeater singlets in sight. Whereas in the beauty segment the girls walk in a poised manner across the stage, the other sections seem to allow a bit of personality to seep through with all contestants preparing routines to music. And - thank god my niece was a bit inventive and went for Will Smith's Wild Wild West - cos if I'd had to listen to Cotton Eye Joe or Boot Scootin' Baby one more time I may have had to asphyxiate myself with hairspray fumes.


Finally there was the outfit of choice. My niece had gone with a dress worn by her grandmother 50yrs ago, boofy hair and a song from Hairspray. I mentioned before that she can dance. Well, it serves her well in pageants and she got a big cheer after that performance in particular.


I was expecting it to be a bit more like TV's Toddlers & Tiaras, but perhaps US pageants aren't like that either. I know it may shock you, but possibly, just possibly, the reality TV show is a bit less 'real' than it espouses to be. Just possibly.


Like the US show though, the event was held in a room at a hotel, with a tiny stage up the front and rows of chairs behind the judges. The organiser hails from the US (or possibly Canada - I mean, who can tell?) though wasn't quite as OTT as some of the organisers and emcees I've seen on television. What surprised me most were the low numbers. There were only 13 competitors across the four age groups. The organiser though, is slightly between a rock and a hard place. With pageants having SUCH a bad name here at the moment, it's not a case of 'any publicity being good publicity' so promotion is minimal.


But I wasn't disappointed. There were toddlers. Four littlies competed in the 0 - 3 year age group. Despite their lack of professionalism (hmph, amateurs!) they were almost the most entertaining. One little one refused to leave the stage. Another performed like a trooper and was particularly expert in blowing kisses. One was a baby who slept through one of the sections (the mother carrying her on stage....) and the final girl was the spitting image of the US pageant-Queen Eden Wood.


There were tears. Of course. Though not because of anything pageant-related. One of the littlest ones just screamed and cried a lot. Bizarrely she won a lot of prizes in her age-group. Perhaps it was a case of 'the squeaky wheel'....


Before we arrived I asked my niece if I had to 'woo-hoo' cos I'm not much of a 'woo-hooer'! But I'd seen that on television. The chubby mothers or fathers who cheer and 'woo-hoo' their kids. I think the Divine Miss Em merely rolled her eyes at me. I also kidded that I would leap about behind the judges demonstrating what she should be doing and pointing to my mouth as a reminder to smile. That drew another look of derision. Possibly because she holds dozens of dances in her head at any one time and doesn't need prompts. Or possibly because I can't actually dance.


Some of the mothers did prance about though, reminding their daughters of their routines. I have to admit that's the only time I cringed a little.... some of the mothers being a bit overly engaged in the whole thing. Who are they doing this for again?





My niece was stellar. Absolutely beautiful and her choreographed routines were great. She's a good little actress so played her characters with exaggerated ease. The judging was a bit of a surprise, though of course it must be SO subjective and I MAY be biased. Just maybe. The Devine Miss Em narrowly missed out (by only 4 points we believe) on another Grand Supreme title, instead winning Miss Teen Queen. She was a bit disappointed, but stoically talked about looking at her performances and what she should do differently in future.


Pageants have had a lot press here recently. Frankly I think anything that involves too many women is prone to bitchiness. Netball used to be the same. But yesterday I didn't see fake tans or toddlers dressed inappropriately. The mothers had all done their daughters' makeup and hair and none looked like they were heading for trouble. And everyone won SOMETHING. In fact, I've never seen so many tiaras and sashes in my life.


The whole thing was over by lunchtime and with a sigh of relief the mothers and families packed up their gear to get back to their lives. My niece and sister-in-law were remaining in town for ballet eisteddfods, but I had a finale party to attend for my weight loss program. Attending the pageant had meant I'd skipped a group training session (though as about 800 were there I suspect I wasn't missed), but I was super excited about meeting participants on my program from across the country. I'd been communicating with many of them via Facebook, Twitter and program Forums for the entire 12 week round and keen to see them face-to-face.


So I began the trip back to my hometown.


I bet you've been wondering about the tantrums. Yes? Sadly it wasn't a two or three year old toddler throwing tantrums, but rather a 43 year old woman. Me. Yes me! I'd already had a meltdown about the hotel room on Friday night and proceded to have two more during the three and a half hour logistical nightmare it took me to travel the 100km home.


I decided to catch a bus to the train station so waited for about 20 minutes at a bus stop near my hotel. I was about to give up and get a taxi when the bus arrived. Having paid my fare I settled back looking forward to getting onto the train and heading home. But then in response to my query the driver explained that the bus I was on takes a roundabout route to the train station and it would take about an hour to travel the few kilometres. WTF?


So I alighted to catch a taxi instead. Trains departed half-hourly and I had 20 minutes until the next one. Finally a taxi arrived and the driver told me we'd EASILY make it to the train in 15 minutes. About 20 minutes and $40 later we arrived at the train station just as the train was leaving. FUCK! Not only had I wasted the money on the taxi, but now I had to sit at a cold windy train station for 30 minutes until the next train. I was furious. I called my mother.... as you do when you are in a foul mood. And if you are me. Between sobs I told her that I was now going to be much later getting back to my place and wouldn't have enough time to prepare for the finale party that night. She attempted to calm me down - which almost worked, though I suspect it was the idea of railway station staff seeing a grown woman cry which did the trick. "I'm not going to the finale party," I told my mother. She - as mothers do - told me not to be silly and reminded me I'd regret not going. "It's all just too much," I sooked to her. It sounds ridiculous even to me. And.... sure I knew that it wasn't really the 30 minute delay which worried me. It was just EVERYTHING. Not knowing what to do about my place and the stress of the past few weeks. I just felt incredibly overwhelmed.

Finally I got on the train and we were on our way. I knew it was an hour trip and was relieved that I'd make a connecting train and be home a couple of hours before I had to dress and go out again. Except... there was a delay. So I missed the connecting train. Just. Again I was going to have another 30 minute wait. But this time I was closer to home, so I decided I'd go and catch a taxi. With my new taxi company iPhone App I searched for the nearest taxi rank. Bloody useless piece of shit! It suggested that the nearest rank (in my capital city) was in another town hundreds of kilometres away. WTF?! Again! So I started walking assuming I'd hail a cab. Taxi after taxi (some empty, some carrying passengers) passed me and NOT ONE stopped. I lugged my bags for over 20 minutes before contemplating whether I could return to the train station to get the train I initially decided not to wait for. Feeling a tad overwhelmed yet again I ended up standing on this busy road with tears running down my face. Shameful, I know. I had no idea where the nearest rank was and had no location to give a cab company if I called them. Just when I was about to throw myself down onto the bitumen pavement and sob, a driver stopped. I suspect my hysterical and effusive thanks scared the shit out of him. But... finally I was home.


Feeling even more exhausted than I thought possible, and not having eaten since breakfast, I realised I only had about an hour to bathe and prepare for pre-party drinks. So what did I do? I poured myself a glass of champagne and spent 30 of the 60 minutes in the bathtub wondering how the hell my day had gone from the blissful time with family that morning, to tears and tantrums about public transport. Of course the champagne - or the idea of champagne - made everything better, so I dressed, got in YET ANOTHER taxi and went to party with people I barely knew. And I had a ball!

Toddlers, teens, tiaras and tantrums - part one: the backstory

I don't usually post into my diet blog on weekends. You know... one shouldn't work on the Sabbath and all of that. Actually being cheerfully agnostic it's actually more cos I'm lazy and get tired of sitting at a computer on my fat butt more than I should.... but the first reason sounded better.


As it happens, today's post isn't in keeping with the usual theme of that blog, so I figured it's okay. Plus I'm a bit hungover so sitting in front of a computer feels better than moving in general. And... as the post wasn't diet-related and doesn't reveal anything terribly embarrassing about myself I figured I'd post it here as well.

Anyone wanna buy a townhouse?

I've had a pretty interesting week or two. The 12-week weight loss program I was on finished up with last chance exercise sessions, final weigh-ins and measuring. I'd started a 'learn to run' program so was trying to fit that into my working week. I had an interview for a promotion at work; and spent a long long weekend away visiting my parents. I returned this week to play catch-up at work and just in time to attend an auction to sell my house. Because I usually stress about the small stuff, I'd been very zen-like about the house thing. Naturally... because packing for my trip away and getting to the gym was WAY more important.


I'd been horrified to discover I had to attend the auction and (hopefully) watch people bidding on my pride and joy. The notion of being judged or my value measured was a tad daunting. My place was 9th out of 10 being auctioned on Friday morning so I sat patiently watching others mostly not-selling, daunted by the knowledge that only one person was registered to bid on my place. Of course, the bidder in question didn't match my reserve and my house was passed in. I wasn't overly shocked and was mostly okay, but got hammered by my Real Estate Agent and her boss after; double-teaming me to make sure I knew how insane I was; thinking I'd get the price I wanted and why I should just take what was on offer rather than holding out for more.


Cap in hand, I headed back to an important work meeting I'd had to sneak out of to partake in the humiliating-debacle-that-was-the-auction.


I made it through the day and then jumped directly on a train to commute to a nearby coastal town where I was overnighting. My niece was participating in a beauty pageant there and I was thrilled she asked if I wanted to go and watch. I don't travel much any more so the idea of my ocean-view room was appealing and I fantasised all day (including through the humiliating-debacle-that-was-the-auction) about sitting on my verandah imbibing in more champagne than sensible.... as the stress of the day and week slipped away.

My view. Ocean somewhere to the right. Apparently.

But... the 'ocean-view' room that I'd upgraded to was actually on the highway side of the hotel, rather than on the ocean-side. It was true (in daylight) I could see the ocean, but it wasn't what I'd expected (having paid an additional 40% for the aforementioned room). So, I felt deflated and may possibly have had a mini tantrum, spending the first few hours of the evening seething, grumbling and issuing grumpy tweets - until the room service champagne arrived (of course) and I started drinking the comforting elixir.


With nothing on TV and no appealing in-house movies I actually read an entire novel in the large spa-shaped bath as I knocked back my champagne.... interrupting my reverie only to partake in some room service dinner - which, incidentally was delicious.


The hotel I was staying in was hosting the outback-themed pageant so we'd arranged for my sister-in-law and niece to come to my room early the following morning which would be converted into a dressing room for my niece who required three changes of outfits for the competition.


It was to be her second pageant. I suspect it was because of the reputation pageants have (thanks to television show Toddlers & Tiaras and surrounding media) that she kept her participation in her first pageant a secret, only revealing it to a few friends and family after she'd competed. My niece, the Divine Miss Em dances a lot and I suspect that both her beauty and stage presence contribute to her success in pageant world, and she was crowned Grand Supreme in her first competition. For those who think I'm talking about pizza, the Grand Supreme is the highest award you can win and is given to the overall winner across all age groups.


And for those thinking that the Divine Miss Em is a 5yr old toddling about a stage in sequins, a fake tan and false teeth, she's actually (now) 15yrs old, whippet-smart and eminently sensible for a teenager. And her mother though not unsupportive of her desires, was happy for her to enter pageants, providing it involve minimal out-of-pocket costs... so not like the pageant moms you see on US television.


I saw the photographs of her in the first pageant and she looked absolutely stunning. A worthy winner that's for sure. So this pageant, the third of its kind in Australia, was about to be her second and this time she had some experience and knowledge of the world under her belt.


And though I didn't know what to expect I was stoked just to be there and part of it all. And Friday night, having indulged in the champers and the book, I wrapped myself up in the soft bed linen and prepared for the early arrival of my guests and an action-packed morning complete with toddlers, teens and tiaras.

Things you may not know about me....

Some bloggers I follow recently posted lists of ‘things we may not know about them’. Although completely unrelated to the usual theme of this blog, I enjoyed reading their confessions; and - because I know you all find me so interesting - I thought I’d share my own secrets. 


My childhood best friend (and neighbour) and I wrote a book while at primary schoolThe book was called Tania and we wrote alternating chapters. I was unhappy with the ending (she’d taken something out of a Mills and Boon novel which was a bit OTT to a pre-teen like myself) so – in a fit of temper – I ripped the entire thing up. Unbeknown to me my friend, Michelle, got it out of my bin and pasted the pages together (it wasn’t that long obviously), made a cover and presented it to me. Years later I gave it back to her as a gift. I would like to think she still has it. The book, incidentally, was a pre-teen romance type thing. Of course. Much of the novel was spent describing the clothes; and naturally Tania, the novel's namesake wore attractive pantsuits and muted makeup, whereas the school bi-atch (and Tania's rival-in love) wore lime green and purple and too much makeup (which back in the 70s was just not done in polite society)!


My childhood best friend (same one) and I used to stage showsIn our pre-teen years my bestie and I staged a couple of shows for our friends (one of which was captured for posterity on Super 8 film and features a number of us performing plays and dancing for a small audience of friends sitting on plastic chairs in my backyard). I recall another show staged (in our carport) for our mothers. I remember that the latter involved Abba songs as, back then, I had a particular penchant for Tropical Loveland. Although not a natural performer, as a youngster I used to climb onto a large barbeque structure we had in our backyard, using it as a stage. So much so that another neighbour presented me with an old silver non-functioning microphone he found at the local dump (in the days before toy microphones were readily available. Obviously.) By the way, it's important to understand at this point that: I cannot dance; and I cannot sing!


For such a heathen I had a relatively-religious upbringingYou wouldn’t know it now, but my brother and I both attended Sunday School as youngsters. I followed in my mother’s footsteps and even taught there briefly but really only recall getting the kindergarten kids to colour in pictures of Jesus, wise men, donkeys and the like. For his sins (Hee hee!) my brother was briefly an altar boy (and we have the pictures to prove it!). I now class myself as agnostic, but my brother probably would say he’s an atheist. My mother still attends church religiously. (Hee hee! God, I’m on a roll today!)


I loved (loved loved) Barbie dolls.I had a few other dolls (but really only remember one or two of them – including one whose auburn hair grew out of a hole on top of her head when you pushed a button - but was mad for my Barbie dolls. I inherited some from my aunt or someone, but scored them as presents on a regular basis.


My mother, who occasionally made my clothes back then, also made me a heap of clothes for the original dolls. As a result, my collection of Barbie dolls and their wardrobe was impressive!


Better still (given my love for all-things-television) I also had a Steve Austin (Six Million Dollar Man) doll – purchased as a surprise gift after becoming inconsolable when Jamie Sommers (the Bionic Woman) died in the TV show. Little did I know she came back to life (a couple of times) and later had her own TV show. I also later got a Jamie Sommers doll. I loved that you could roll up the skin on their arms or lift the flap in their legs to see their bionic bits. And... just as amazing (and in retrospect, tragic!) I also had a set of Charlie’s Angels dolls, including the three originals from the TV series, and Cheryl Ladd as Farrah Fawcett’s replacement.


I had a ‘thing’ for Rocky Balboa in my early – mid teensI know, I know, WTF was I thinking? I now agree, but at the time I LOVED Rocky. Not Sylvester Stallone of course, as I was possibly in denial that there WAS a Sylvester Stallone, who was significantly older than the teenaged me but by the time Rocky III came out I was besotted. My brother (who was much nicer to me way back then and who lived in a capital city with non-tragic radio stations) actually TAPED a radio ad for the movie when it came out. I listened to the 30 second ad so much at the time I still remember the lines!

Rocky to Adrian: “Nothing is real if you don't believe in who you are."


Mr T (Clubber Lang) to Rocky: "I’m gonna bust you up.”
Rocky to Clubber Lang: “Go for it.”

So there you have it - a few things that (unless you were there at the time) you didn't know about me. Obviously I haven't delved into any childhood traumas (other than the mistaken perception that the Bionic Woman died) or uncovered any deep dark secrets in my past... but I tried to think of tidbits that had previously remained hidden. The more embarrassing secrets (pissing on the stage during a dance performance when I was 5yrs old; or TV commercials I did in high school) will have to wait until another time!

Reflections

Ratings season must be over as I notice that a few new shows are hitting our screens here in Oz this week as the regulars end their seasons. I am hoping they hang around for a while as I am rather tired of becoming enamoured with shows and characters only to discover that the program was - in fact - axed before it even graced our screens or while it was still being promoted here as 'the next big thing'.


Most recently this has been the case with Outcasts, Detroit 1-8-7 and No Ordinary Family. I learned my lesson fairly recently as one of our digital channels commenced telecasting a show called October Road which I got kinda involved in... only to be left in limbo when the end of Season 1 cliffhanger became the last ever episode. Note to self: Google new shows to check for longevity before coming addicted.  Fortunately, in the case of October Road, there was (apparently) a wrap-up mini episode included on the DVD when released, which I didn't see, but was able to read about - so I did get my 'closure' after all.


Law & Order LA* has just premiered here (not so fussed, give me Law & Order SVU and Criminal Intent any day). And this week, Criminal Minds Suspect Behaviour* and Body of Proof start, with Suits due to hit our screens shortly (according to the relentless ads).


Although I'm looking forward to the treat that will be the v.gorgeous Gabriel Macht in Suits, it is Body of Proof that has my attention, not least because its star, Dana Delany, graces the cover of the local TV guide this week. But also, and more importantly, because I haven't seen any of her work for a while.


I must admit that I know she was in Desperate Housewives, but gave that show a wide berth after Season 1 as most of the female cast appeared to have had so much surgery they'd become plastic caricatures of themselves and - in my mind - beyond taking at all seriously.


So, this will essentially the first time I have seen Dana Delany in action since her China Beach days in the late 80s - early 90s. And... I LOVED that show. Love love loved it! In fact, if anyone ever asks about shows I don't have on DVD, but would love to own, China Beach and Thirtysomething would be the two I would choose. Both were shows that - from the moment they started - (for reasons unknown) gave me great comfort and contentment.


I'm not sure how realistic the show was when it came to the Vietnam War, though it was certainly more confronting and realistic that it's comedic Korean War medico predecessor, Mash; but either way, at the time it gave me some insight into a world to which I had not been privy. And, even better, it was fairly brutal in its honesty and gave us some excellent female characters, from the ambitious journalist, to the hardened hooker, to Delany's flawed but passionate Nurse Colleen McMurphy.


It didn't sugarcoat the lives of the American medical staff, or the cases they worked. And it didn't downplay the impact of what they saw each day had on their minds/emotions. I still remember being surprised that the characters basically all got pissed every night. And, of course, we see the impact of that in later episodes. It's all been said before, but I believe Delany was A-M-A-Z-I-N-G in the show. In fact the entire cast was great and the writers and directors gave us a believable and complex ensemble of characters.


I'd love to be able to watch the show nowadays, to see if it still pulled the same punches now I am older and more jaded. It felt authentic, so I suspect it wouldn't have dated too much. But I read somewhere that, the reason it isn't on DVD or available via cable etc is that the show used such great music from that era, that the rights to it all would be too expensive to buy. A bloody shame!


After my extensive research (Google yet again), Delany's now show Body of Proof, appears to have been picked up for a second season which bodes well and means I can watch it this week and allow myself to get a little attached.


* Both shows cancelled in the US in May 2011