Tuesday, 17 October 2017

How to Divorce by Ali Murray (Webb)

I'm no expert in the matter of divorce. I've only been married once. Is anyone an expert in divorce though? Liz Taylor perhaps? Or was she just an expert in getting married?

To get divorced you need to be separated from your partner for 12 months and 1 day. And that's a fucking long time if you were ready to get divorced the second you split up. This time, however, is a super interesting time to reflect upon times of toughness, embracing your new independent life, getting to know who you are, making decisions and remembering who you were before you were a wife.

With exactly two weeks to go until D-Day, I've discovered that I've never felt this happy for a really long time. How is this?

Time
What I do with my time now is up to me and me alone.

Solo parenting
It's beautiful. My son and I are a dynamic duo. He is so like me in so many ways, but I can also see excellent aspects of his dad in him as well. My son is my best mate and as my absolute rock, he pulled me out of the hardest places in the past year - always resulting in dance sessions in our lounge room (mainly to The XX which seems to be his go-to record).

Food
It's the way to my heart and I want to cook for you.

Decisions
I make my own. I don't need to consult (except with decisions relating to my son) with anyone. If I want to get a tattoo - rad (just don't tell my mum), if I want to go on a sporadic road trip adventure, fuck it, I just go and have an excellent time. 

And the Ex?
Let's not call him an ex-husband. That's a bit negative and I don't like to live in a negative world. I prefer 'First husband'. I'm totally open to a second. Being married was fun. We see each other every week, I greet him with 'hey first husband'! Sometimes we drink beer or coffee together and chat about our kid. Yep, it's sometimes awkward, but this is life and I'm a totally awkward person - so I guess this is only natural. I've moved on. Life moves on. Our kid is what brings us together and it's up to us to show him how excellent life is and that we can be adults and excellent people.

And the future?
My son and I move to Kyneton in December. We have secured a radical home with a big garden. My parents are delivering my family table from my childhood just in time for Christmas. I can't wait to share meals around this table while records spin with friends new and old... and maybe a special handsome man.

I've also grown a nice set of balls - big ones - and I'm starting my own business. House of Webb has been registered and I will be freelancing my behind off from the bush. See more here: houseofwebb.com.au if you are seeking a publicist, communicator or just an excellent human.

Time is an absolute corker! So much can happen in twelve months. The only small bit of advice I can give to anyone going through a divorce, break up, life changing year is: listen to music - everyday, surround yourself with inspiring people, cook good food with good ingredients, be kind to yourself and your home - fuck off the plastic and the chemicals, and finally, say hello and smile at people. You might get a smile back.

Be kind. Kind is awesome.

With love, Ali Murray (Webb).

Wednesday, 6 September 2017

Finding a (hangover) cure

I woke up with a hangover. A deep, throbbing, truly embedded red wine stinger. I thought I’d been well behaved. My best buddies had joined me for dinner and had brought over a couple of bottles to enjoy with the beef. I had obviously got a little carried away with my cooking confidence, thinking my delicate sips were in controlled fashion.

If I had of been in my twenties, kid free and frivolous, I would have slept it off; escaping my bed because I was sick of it by 2pm. Brunching late into the afternoon, eating avocado because I didn’t have a mortgage and reading a broadsheet newspaper from cover to cover because I had the room.

But not this time, not this decade, not in this current climate. My hangover was welcomed to Sunday with a hardcover Richard Scarry book wedged into my eyelid and a cry of a wet pyjama pant followed by demands for breakfast and Octonauts and Lego and activity. Ouch. It was 6.07am.

Trying to hide my disappointment in myself, I made pikelets and demolished them as best as I could just so I could shovel some Panadol into my body. I drank tea. I drank Nescafe. I had a sneaky cup of cordial. I was on a mission to destroy this heavy beast that was consuming my body.

It was now 11.30am. The sun was bright. We went to Williamstown Beach.

For someone who grew up in country North-East Victoria, I find it such a joy to live so close to the beach. I mean, you can ride your pushie to the water from where I live. However, on this day I chose to drive. I had promised my son a sandcastle and we had packed three Tonka trucks – and carrying those metal beasts anywhere is a commitment.

We arrived and set up our spot: towel, lunch box, Tonkas, buckets, shovels. We were set for at least a few hours.

And hell, if there is anything to rid yourself of a filthy hangover, it’s Willy beach on the cusp of spring. That fresh sea breeze off the water is enough to lift your spirits (and lift any spirits seeping out of your body). Dipping your toes into the freezing water is a spiritual release of any toxins trying to escape from your winter-fied toenails.

And if that’s not enough, tucked right at the tip of the bay is Kiosk D’Asporto; a delightful, sunny, super-happy café that will turn any hangover frown upside down. Cakes, donuts, milkshakes, gelato, pulled pork sandwiches, salads and seriously THE BEST fish and chips you can find westside.

On this particularly ‘difficult’ day for me, I was super grateful for the smiley, stunning owner handing over a small cup of red jelly to my son who almost wept with joy at the treat. It was a top distraction for the anticipation of the freshly fried lunch goodness that was coming our way.

We ate our treats and watched the footy players wade through the fresh water, the pooches splashing about with sticks and balls and a weird fish-looking thing and a couple of hotties on their skateboards proving that being in your late thirties doesn’t mean you can’t smash out a few grinds along the esplanade.

With the lunch in our bellies, the hangover well and truly forgotten (except for reciting it word for word in this column), we built a mega sandcastle, collected some shells and blessed the sunshine and sea for making us feel so jolly good. We headed back home to Yarraville, sand still between our toes and our jean cuffs damp and sticky from the ocean.

With tea well and truly on my mind along with the downhill slope to bedtime on the horizon, I decided to not be a parental hero and cook up a storm but instead give the new local pizza joint, D’Asporto, a go.

The same owners as my lunch time haunt of the day, the pizza – just like my lunch - was unforgettably gorgeous. Traditional in all the right ways, with toppings to top off any hangover day and a base so textured and balanced, it can barely be described, just illustrated with a fine tip pen in an archival document for future generations to study.

My son and I demolished two pizzas (as takeaway in the comfort of our own home), we bathed and were in pjs by 7pm. It had been a big day, but the seaside had reset it and our D’Asporto pals had fixed it. It was perfect.

Treat yourself to a double decker D’Asporto Day this week. You will be a better human for it.

You can find The Kiosk D’Asporto at 99 Esplanade, Williamstown and Pizza D’Asporto at 2-6 Ballarat Street, Yarraville (in the Village Green).


This article first appeared in the September issue of The Westsider.

Saturday, 26 August 2017

Dates With a Single Mum

Ah. Yes. Dating.

It's so much fun.

My 'dating space' is limited to one night per week. Funnily enough, I'm not short of dates, being the dorky self that I am.

I do, however, think it's important to define what I mean by 'dates' though.

A DATE: By Ali's definition
A date is a glorious human being, someone who I have recognised as kind, warm, funny and entertaining. Someone who enjoys an ale and a laugh, who is honest and accepting.

I go on dates with excellent gents who I've met through Tinder or through beautiful friends. I also go on loads of lady dates with my gorgeous girlfriends. Dating isn't always about sex.

Dating should not be hard, but sometimes it is. Sometimes the conversation doesn't flow (and I get awkward), sometimes a date doesn't turn up (and I get awkward), sometimes the date cancels at the last minute just after you've touched on your Myki ready for a night out (and I get awkward).

But, most of the time, the date rocks up and they are super awesome. We chat about everything from music to food to disliking Brendan Fraser. We always talk about dating.

I have met so many stunning humans through dating - people I would never have met twelve months ago when I was soaked in what I thought was domestic married bliss.

I talk to my pals about dating all the time. It's an interesting topic and so many people are curious about what happens on 'dates' - especially my blissfully married friends. There are a lot of skeptics out there though, people who comment on how dangerous it is. I totally get that, yes you need to be aware and safe and tell your mates what you're doing and where you're going.

The one comment I hear a lot though is 'all men are bastards'.

If there is one thing I have discovered during this wonderful dating time is that this statement is so far from the truth. I have met the most wonderful, intellectual, daringly entertaining, insightful, hilarious, gentlemently gents over the past few months. Men with heart and soul and compassion and a desire to hold hands and cook feasts.

I don't know where this statement comes from, but what I do know is that my son will be growing up to be a delicious young man. Through all of these divine men that I have met recently, I'm learning so much about what makes a man great and I'm taking these elements and throwing them into the wild mix of learn-as-you-go parenting that I'm so accustomed to.

And what a delightful journey this is.

So if you are keen on a date, all it takes is a little 'hello' to get the ball rolling.

Monday, 7 August 2017

F#@k It Days.


I woke up feeling a bit crummy today. I don’t know if it was a hangover from last night’s beers, the 20 hour return flight from Indonesia or post-tour blues. But I felt the need to pull my shit together, grow up, drink green juice, pat puppies, donate to charity, become an excellent human being.

I’m kid free until Wednesday. It’s weird being kid free when you’re a single parent. There’s not a great deal of stuff that you HAVE to do when you’re on your own, but there’s plenty of things that you can totally do because you are on your own.

Like brunch. And brunch I did.
Like cooking food that doesn’t include ‘hidden’ veggies. And cook I did.
Like go into a bookshop and make book choices based on recommendations and peruse in your own time, rather than purchase a tale on getting rid of night-time nappies (for my kid, not me) at 11pm using my phone with only one eye open. And bookshop I did.

Alone time is rad time. As a permanent over-thinker of life, it’s made me think about what happens next when life goes back to normality and I’m a 35 year old single mum divorcee again.

I was explaining this to the bespectacled man behind the bookshop counter and we workshopped some life tips. It was an inspirational thirty minutes. Actually life-changing. So life changing, I need to share my new curated life tips with you:
1.       Know your boundaries. Respect them and respect others.
2.       Brush your hair daily.
3.       Find the origin of your anxiety and embrace its roots. Chill.
4.       Don’t overthink tomorrow today.
5.       Go outside.
6.       Don’t put yourself down. You are rad.
7.       Say ‘thank  you’ instead of ‘sorry’.
8.       Be positive in your position.
9.       One thing at a time.
10.   Other people’s reactions are not your fault.
11.   Drink water until your wee runs clear. Clear wee equals a clear mind.
12.   Ask people questions about life. Learn along the way.
13.   Pack a lunch every day to look forward to.
14.   Get soaked in nature, not screens.
15.   You deserve good bed linen. Make the investment.

The Bookshop Boy sold me a copy of The Life-Changing Magic of Not Giving A Fuck. This is where I’m at right now. Wanna do this together? Let’s not give fucks together. 

Love Ali.

Tuesday, 1 August 2017

Karma Chameleon

The old saying rings true: It takes a village. For years I had no idea what this meant. It takes a village to… to do what exactly?
Last year friends and neighbours and kind friendly faces dropped off prepared meals, chocolates, and flowers after an unexpected traumatic event happened in my life. These sweet generous people were not being nosy or obtrusive, but caring, injecting a big shot of good old fashioned kindness and wellbeing into my home.
More recently, following a car accident, I received a similar reaction – offers of babysitting, meals, cuppas, milk and bread collections, a neighbour even brought my bins in for me. My heart melted behind my fractured ribs.
Weird, hey?
It’s weird to think of this as weird, because it is anything but weird. However in this crazy fast-paced, time-poor world in which we live, these random acts of kindness can seriously stop you in your tracks.
I have often declined kind offers of generosity. Not because I am too proud, but because I don’t want to put someone out, have someone waste their precious time on me.
There it is again, the mention of the word ‘time’. Oh it’s such a juicy buzzword that’s used just as much as the word ‘busy’! We’re all so time poor now; I myself am a sucker for being flat chat, a busy beaver, diarised to the doorbell!
But then, last week happened. I was forced to slow down and it was oh-so-good. My son was sick, I was unwell and it was cold.
There was no rushing in the morning to get out the door to get somewhere. There was no alarm clock, no traffic to beat or miss, no schedule to follow (except the TV guide), there were no rules. Just survival.
I must admit, the first two days I felt a little stressed, out of control. I wasn’t sure what to do with all the time I had. My son and I gently played with Lego, drew some pictures, watched some movies, baked some treats and when we felt up to it, we walked to our local shops.
We took our time and spoke to the butcher about her day and what kind of cut we needed for the slow cooker recipe we had in mind. The butcher gave us some tips and my son a Frankfurt sausage. We went to the chemist and were greeted with a ‘Good morning Ali and Alfie’ – our first names. I didn’t even know the first name of the guy who was greeting me. We went to our favourite café, Feedback, where my son chose a toy to play with while the owner discussed Lightning McQueen with him in detail as though he was my son’s kinder bestie. A stop in the local op shop saw volunteer Wendy comment on how big Alfie was getting and as we walked home through the park, we saw a few friends who asked how we were doing and we shared a coffee and some sweet gossip on my dating life.
I didn’t realise just how much of a community I had created for myself, or more to the point, how much of a community it was that I lived in.
Upon returning to my home, my son and I curled up in our sickly state on the couch – me crocheting a blanket for a friend, he watching a nostalgic Disney film – all with the sweet smell of local produce cooking away on the stove top.
When we heard the knock on the door, we had no idea who it could be but the thought of a cuppa with a neighbour was calling.
It’s common place for us now to have sweet treats ready for a visitor, tea caddy always full and the kettle running hot and heavy all weekend. But I didn’t realise it until now, just how important a community is.
It certainly does take a village. A village to make a home.
I totally recommend checking out your local village. There are plenty of them in the inner west. Say hi to the shopkeepers, introduce yourself, meet some new people, have cuppas and share garden produce with your neighbours. And when you feel ready, offer a hand to someone who might need one. You never know, there could be a hot cuppa and a freshly cut slice waiting for you in the kindest possible way.
This article first appeared in the August edition of The Westsider.