Gabrielle Gassin

A mother’s musings on life

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  • The Chocolatey Truth

    This is a piece I wrote last year and didn’t publish…for some obvious and shameful reasons. It ends rather abruptly – probably I got caught typing it up (haha). Needless to say, I don’t remember abstaining for four weeks…Enjoy.

    There’s a certain fact about me that some would say I am in “denial” about. Ha! Denial, me? I am a person who is capable of admitting her mistakes and accepting her imperfections (this did take a very long time to put into practice, though). But this little fact has been gnawing away within the realms of my mind for some time now, and is particularly evident now that I spend a lot of time at home. You see, when I’m home, I am at the mercy of myself. And it is this that has helped me realise that I am my own worst enemy.

    I have an addiction. Tell me I don’t after you’ve read this, and I’ll advise you to research the definition of the word. It really came to a head one afternoon when my husband took our little boy and two dogs out for a stroll down the street. I knew I would have 15 minutes absolute maximum to go and grab the washing from outside, clean up the kitchen from the lunch I’d made, and do a quick tidy up of everywhere else. However instead of making the most of these minutes straight away, I became possessed. Some invisible force took over my legs, and walked me into the pantry. This same indiscernible energy forced my right hand from it’s dangling position, to surge forward to the shelf. Unknowingly, my fingers latched onto something silver in colour and retracted to safety, in front of my stomach. My legs reversed the rest of my body from the pantry and before I knew it, I was at the kitchen bench again. On it, were the remains of a block of 70% dark chocolate, and a small plastic jar with a chocolate hazelnut spread inside. NOTE: This spread was NOT Nutella; I do not condone the use of palm oil in any products because of the devastation the production of it causes. I don’t recall collecting said jar from cupboard, but it obviously happened at some point.

    Now, like an addict working hard not to be caught, I got started.

    Two pieces of chocolate into ceramic dish. One teaspoon of chocolate spread dolloped onto chocolate pieces. Microwave, 30 seconds. Check with teaspoon. Microwave, 30 seconds more. Check…perfect. Add broken up biscuit, mix.

    EAT. How long before they’re back?

    The moment I knew I had a serious problem was when I checked out the kitchen window more than three times to see if my family were returning. What was I even worried about? It’s not like I would be in trouble for indulging in this little treat. That’s when a second realisation occurred…it was judgement I was hiding from. Did I enjoy my little treat? Yes. But it was tarnished by the fact that I was working to a clock, like a sneaky criminal doing a nasty deed. What even, is that dessert? And, how about this for some accountability. I have done this more than once. Last week it involved some cream mixed with the chocolate to make a ganache. And you may well be wondering, (as am I) why I would choose to share such a shameful and hideous truth. Why not maintain the wondrous façade that some people believe, that I am indeed perfect in every way. It’s because I know that change needs to occur. I can’t live like this, secretly wishing there were no forms of chocolate in the house as I pile a fourth tablespoon of milo into the milk.

    Husband suggested we take on Dry July this year and I succumbed. But in fact, there is no challenge for me in abstaining from alcohol for four weeks. I have an eleven week old baby, for crying out loud. I can’t exactly go crazy on the drink anyway… I think we all know what I really need to do.

    That said, I am going to attempt a whopping four weeks without ingesting a modicum of chocolate or anything chocolate related. When I think about this challenge and the fact that it will actually be a test, I know I am doing the right thing. I have shared this information with you in order to hold myself accountable. Why else would I allow myself to be seen in such a light, likened to a junkie feeding her disgusting little addiction?

    – unfinished –

  • The Nail Experience

    It’s a Monday afternoon, and I’ve decided I deserve a treat. How friendly of me. Well done, self.

    This “treat” is going to come in the form of a renewal of my toenail shellac. I walk purposefully through the mall and stand, paradoxical to my walk over, awkwardly in the shop entrance.
    “Kai help yooh!” The lady says at me.
    “Oh, I’d like my toes shellacked please.”
    “Have seat.” She flicks her head in the direction of five wheelie chairs and four massage chairs. Perplexed, I wonder where she actually wants me to go. I take a seat three chairs away from the head-flicker.
    “Choose colour.” I am dealt two plastic containers with a million colours on painted plastic nails. After much deliberation, (would I dare to have blue again?) I have decided on a turquoise; number 101. The usual routine transpires…envelope the nails in acetone saturated cotton buds and aluminium foil those bad boys until the shellac is curling off. After five minutes, my lady comes over and proceeds to unwrap and grind my previous polish away with a machine that I feel, if I make any sudden movements, will take the skin off my foot. By this stage, she has obviously examined my toes and decided that I need a pedicure.
    “You want pedicure?” I am too afraid to say no.
    “Um…yes. Yes I do need a pedicure, actually.” So easily persuaded, I amble over to the aforementioned massage chairs. Naturally, I sit down. I get comfortable, and then have to relocate; my chair is broken. Repositioning complete, I settle in for the pedicure. At this time, I whip out my laptop with the very responsible aim at getting some reports written (“do all the things!”). Unfortunately, I am appropriately pre-occupied by the Disney Classics piano soundtrack playing, and continually catch myself smiling obtusely as my back is pummelled by the chair. Inherently, I wonder if the assault this chair is hurling is going to cause the loss of skin and/or the entire foot in front of me. It doesn’t. I survive.

    I sit, quietly. I ponder on the likeliness of my lady enjoying her job. It seems always to feel, like in fact; it is unmistakeably rude that I have come here. I don’t just mean me, personally. I think the ladies that work in these nail shops, hate us all. The only communication exchanged between us is through the selection of polish colour, the ankle-tap that occurs each time she needs the other foot, and the thank you that I have no doubt, she sees as blithe and insincere. I wonder what she is thinking, as a corporately dressed, alleged professional sits in front of her, her supposedly judging gaze on the woman who is gainfully addressing the cuticles and callouses of her feet. I can confidently say I speak on behalf of nail-shop clientele about tending to feel especially categorised when the language barrier takes hold. A quick exchange of something foreign (to me) between the women forces The Ego to make hostile assumptions…what could they possibly be saying about me?

    Of course, they probably aren’t talking about me at all. And really, it’s characteristic of me (all of us, really) to believe that I’ve made a big enough impression on these people that they’d have to have a discussion about me. There goes The Ego, again.

    Recently, I have struck up a bond with my very local salon. I was impressed, when upon sitting down to have the toes re-done, the owner wanted to do my hands for free. She struck up a conversation and was extremely pleasant to chat with. Since then, I am loyal to her services. No more free cosmetic treatments, but I leave each time feeling like it was. It’s a wonder what a good attitude and a smile can do.

  • avec l’âge

    And so finally, the nature of time has exposed itself directly unto me. And here I was, thinking I was one of those lucky young women who would defy it; one who would sidle through unscathed, unaffected by the hideous truth that time changes everything. This is not a realisation of the alterations in my psyche, though it truly is a beast that devours change and thrives on it. In a far better way than what the body does. The mind grows with time, it adopts and adjusts and allows for external happenings to influence it. Without growth and change, it would trap us. If humans did not embrace change, we would not be here today, we would have suffocated under the reluctance to expand the mind and thus the earth. A mind that rejects change is not one that is fit for a world that is developing at such an expeditious pace.

    But the vehicle within which we transport ourselves undergoes a far less meaningful, far more unsightly change itself. Actually, let me rephrase. It most certainly is meaningful change. When one has long espoused pride, and established a sense of self-identity based on the way her body looks and functions, it can provide a source of amazement to realise that no longer is it the body it once was. I mean this in the least egoistic, narcissistic way possible (is that possible? The mere expression of this concept implies my ego has taken control; though that is another notion all together).

    It was a slap in the face for me to realise on Monday night that after two to three months of wondering why my healthy eating and regular exercise routine, that has always been one of my strongest suits – “you can eat whatever you like and still have a body like that!” {jealousy disguised as a compliment; obvious to the naked ear} no longer seemed to be working. Was it my recent adjustment to no longer eating mammals? {It can’t have been, that was a year ago} So my brain took hold of this perpetual question *what is happening to me, I haven’t even given birth to any babies yet* when on Monday night the answer arrived during shower time. Shower time is a sensational time for thoughts to take form, I think it’s because we step inside a one by one rectangle and everything that keeps us contrived and cluttered throughout the day ceases for a few minutes, as hot water cascades the ripped soft lines of our bodies. It’s no wonder the concept of “short showers” is often ignored.

    This realisation was that, like many before me and more to come, time affects the human body just like it does to anything else that is not manufactured by a machine. The vital, superbly-functioning organs begin to slow, and the body begins to react accordingly. It’s a funny feeling, to have to acknowledge that something beyond your control is taking place. At the same thing, it’s empowering to accept that change can actually occur. It’s empowering because it has to come from me, though. Taking control is the next step in making adjustments… enforced change. And that is better than having a saggy butt.

  • Bangers

    I wrote a cinquain about Bangers. Here it is.

    Dachshund

    Long dog

    Lazing in the sun

    Freckles gathering on his belly

    Sausage.

  • The Matriarch.

    It was obvious from the beginning, exactly the type of person she was. She’s the matriarch. The one who has been around for so many years that they’ve turned to a blur. She’s previously been the head honcho, so feels a sense of entitlement that is so obviously present when she speaks to others. She is predictable in other ways, though. She wears the navy blue trousers of a 60-something year old – tight around her bottom, but for no good reason. Exercise is a thing of the past, so her behind itself is barely existent. The worst thing about the pants is the line of her knickers; plain to see as it cuts into what is left of her butt cheeks. The top half is usually clothed in a knitted cardigan of some reticent colour, nothing exciting, and most definitely nothing provocative. The neck remains concealed behind a scarf of the same genre – dull, monotonous, etc, etc.

    Upon consideration of her mouth, thoughts opposing luscious transpire. It seems that reflection on this most important aspect could draw, at most, the notion of an older lady who considers anything and everything below her, and “young people” fundamentally rude. We all know who she is. The same woman who looks down her nose upon you in the bank line, the one gripping her bag and making judgements – her silence but a whisper; her verdict loud and clear.

    Her attitude is not at all surprising, in fact she conforms perfectly to the stereotype assumed by her very nature. Plenty to comment on, her opinion is eternally valid. Especially to the younger ones. The newest one – but a girl!, obviously needs it. Being young, apparently, is in line with having little knowledge of the world. She is the matriarch – self-righteous, discerning in her years of experience. Little does she know how out of touch she truly is.

  • it was all a dream

    I woke up this morning at 4:15 hyperventilating in sadness. I grabbed my notebook and scribbled down the images in my mind that had caused me so much angst, even in my unconscious state. It has only been altered slightly in terms of syntax.

    …And with the realisation of what had transpired between the Russians and the Americans – a deal gone sour and the loss of fortune and a way of life, in slow motion the lives of the people present diminished in front of her eyes. And it was something that happened quickly – one minute she was at the help desk asking for someone who spoke English to assist her brother with booking a room for the night, the next she was watching from the peaceful position of a train window, overlooking the bridge and the river, and all that happened down below.

    The men from both sides climbed down the stairs and merged at the dock. The detectives traced their every move – one step in front yet physically one step behind. As the snow began to billow furiously and the wind began its winter course, the train jerked forward unexpectedly, those who remained lurched to grab something to steady their bodies; they truly needed it now. Through the front window the wind and snow altered her perception of everything, but it wasn’t too late – the snow hadn’t yet fallen enough to submerge the figure of a little white dog trotting happily, unprepared for the fate about to befall her. The girl screamed from the depths of her very soul as the little dog was left behind – the train pulling away unknowingly from all that connected her to what was once a beautiful life. IMG_9848

  • The Adult Party Pie

    I don’t think I’ve met a person who doesn’t thoroughly enjoy a party pie. And I’m not talking that “traditional” party pie you had at every single children’s birthday that’s piled into a silver tray and tepid by the time you get off the jumping castle and fill your plate…I’m talking about, The Adult Party Pie.

    Yes. You know exactly what I mean. The Adult Party Pie is an upgrade from the minced beef thing. It’s crunchy crust, it’s gourmet fillings, it’s tenderness and warmth compiled into a little container of tasty pastry goodness. It’s the type of pie your company provides you with on a professional development day. You look forward to this moment from the instant your computer notified you of mail the week before, and the agenda was received. You scanned the itinerary for that one bold, blissful sentence: “lunch provided.” You know deep down, that the best part of this day that is void of actual work, will be the minute session four ends, and it’s time to eat.

    There are some challenges associated with The Adult Party Pie, however. It could be said that one of those challenges is the scrutinising stares you cop from fellow staff members standing in the line watching as you fill your plate with 2-3 of The Pies…but the look isn’t because they think you’re being greedy. It’s because they are still 4-5 persons away from the plate of Pies, and the risk of missing out is threatening and imminently looming.

    The second noted challenge associated with eating The Adult Party Pie is the part where you actually consume it. That glorious moment that it travels, steaming, from the tiny openings where pastry has become overwhelmed with heat and popped open, from the plate to your expectant mouth. You open up for The Pie to enter…you take the first bite…and this slow motion moment comes to an abrupt halt as your mouth registers the temperature of the dang thing. It’s too late. Your teeth entered the lid of The Pie and progressed downwards. The roof of your mouth came into contact with the gourmet filling, and it, along with your tongue, is now a burnt up mess. You can fill the skin peeling slightly, it is a funny type of painful…and your pie eating experience has ended. No longer can you take pleasure of the crunchy-bits-in-all-the-right-places. No longer can you indulge in the pleasures of a grown up Party Pie. And the admin lady featured earlier is smirking at you from two tables away as she peels off the lid of her Adult Party Pie and blows on it to cool down the contents.

  • on Greed. 

    At our recent group adventure to Groovin The Moo Bunbury where our ears were glossed with the magical sounds of many an artist, something unique was going down. It was in the form of an environmental initiative, where festival punters were being encouraged to clean up after themselves and others. This is a really good and fabulous thing to do for our environment, especially with the amount of rubbish having thousands of people crammed inside a fence for ten to twelve hours would accumulate.

    Although I very enthusiastically (too enthusiastically?) played a role in this cleanup, I went about it with a heavy heart. You see, there was a catch. Punters were able to exchange one whole dollar for every can or bottle collected, with a limit of five per transaction. An excellent way to get people to clean up after themselves…prey on their greed. I was disappointed to see people cleaning their own rubbish up for the sole purpose of being paid for it. Not because it was actually their rubbish, but to earn a buck. This event, and the success of the whole scheme, thwarted my belief in the goodness of people, and challenged the ideals even I possess, about why people do the things they do.

    And I can’t bathe in the glow of self righteousness and glory here, because although I am not (never have and never will be) a litterbug, I wouldn’t be going around picking up other people’s garbage for the sheer joy of it. “Oh look, another piece of dirty chewed gum stuck to a food wrapper. How exciting! I’ll pop that in the bin.” That doesn’t happen. Unfortunately for my ego, I can be counted in amongst the masses here – only trying to minimise harm to the environment because the possibility of earning back the money I spent on the day would increase significantly; the more I collected.

    I thought a lot about this on the day and since then too, and was reminded this morning when I saw my bathroom tap running. A slim yet steady stream of water was tumbling through the grate; clean, unused, fresh, cold water. All I could do was let out a sigh as I closed the tap a little tighter.