Diary of a Crap Housewife

by Jessica Rowe

  Early on in my courtship with Peter, I often wore wondrously padded bras under white angora polo-necked jumpers. He still teases me about my ‘false advertising’ during those days of getting to know one other. When my bra, which was a marvel of engineering, unclipped from the front, all it revealed was my AAA-cup breasts. Once I became pregnant, I managed to let go of my body hang-ups. Those stretch marks, old and new, became the songlines of my body. During both of my pregnancies, I was able to briefly experience the joy of having bigger breasts and I found myself frequently transfixed by my cleavage! Much of those nine months was spent looking down at my D cup that was frequently flowing over. I’d never had that line between my boobs before and previously to get that effect I had to wrap my arms around my body and give myself a hug!

  # CRAPHOUSEWIFE

  Okay, so I’d ruled out long ago having plastic surgery on my body but was I now being a hypocrite for deciding to have some cosmetic treatment on my face? Grappling with my conscience meant I kept my botox plans to myself. Instead of researching medical textbooks, this time I found myself studying friends’ and strangers’ faces as well as googling every conceivable article on injectables. Eventually, I decided to talk to my dermatologist about the treatment. He had been treating me for adult acne and after each appointment I ended up grilling him about botox too. On top of my own research, I had been sneaking the brochures from his waiting room about cosmetic procedures into my handbag, to study them more closely at home.

  The first time I had botox done was just before Allegra’s first birthday. My dermatologist calmly explained the procedure to me and then got me to sit very still while he carefully drew spots of a medical-grade permanent marker onto my face as a guide for where he would inject the botox. Despite the numbing cream he had rubbed onto my face, it still hurt. But I wasn’t going to complain as I knew the pain was totally self-inflicted so I just closed my eyes, took deep breaths and tried my best to relax. But the strong smell of the antiseptic, alcohol-impregnated towelettes the nurse used to rub the black marks off my face quickly brought me back to my senses.

  Looking in the small, oval-shaped mirror that I’d been handed, all I noticed were little red pinpricks on my forehead, around my eyes and between my eyebrows where I’d been injected. The doctor explained that I would probably start to notice a difference in a week or two. Apparently everyone responded at different rates to the treatment. The redness disappeared quickly and over the next week I noticed my brow looked tighter and those fine lines around my eyes didn’t look so deep.

  However, I was still able to raise my eyebrows high as I helped my blonde-headed daughter blow out her one pink candle on her Barbie-doll birthday cake. That first year of your child’s life is all about survival, and this party was also a milestone for Peter and me. Licking the sweet buttercream icing off my slice of cake, my heart was full as I watched my husband snuggle our firstborn in his arms. She was dressed in a white tulle fairy dress and giggled as her father paraded her through the party.

  ‘Isn’t she the most beautiful girl you have ever seen?’ he said as he gently stroked her damp baby curls around her forehead.

  Earlier in the morning, I’d clipped back part of Allegra’s longer fringe with a small, glittery butterfly clip. While I secured it gently into her fine, blonde hair, I spoke softly into her ear.

  ‘Oh my baby girl, we have come such a long way, my darling. Thank you for being patient with your mummy.’

  # CRAPHOUSEWIFE

  Mentally I was back, after surviving post-natal depression with the help of medication, my psychiatrist and family, but physically I was still exhausted. I was tired and anyone with small people in their lives understands the exhaustion that seeps into every pore of your being thanks to the culmination of not enough sleep night after night. Sleep became my obsession and the ultimate aphrodisiac. I found myself frequently engineering games that involved me lying down on the floor while my energised little daughter played around me.

  ‘Mummy is just going to rest her eyes and pretend to be a sleeping giant. She cannot wake up until the princess has stacked all of her blocks on top of Mummy’s stomach! No, I don’t mean whack them into my eyes! Princesses have to be gentle as well as strong …’

  Another good game was playing ‘operations’. A game that we played a lot as Allegra got older. It was especially handy when I was pregnant for the second time. Now it was harder to get rest so I was desperate for any excuse to be horizontal. The ‘rules’ of this game meant Mummy had to lie down with her eyes closed because of the ‘strong medicine’ she had been given by the doctor/daughter.

  ‘Mummy has to stay asleep for a long time, like the princess from Sleeping Beauty,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not a princess, I’m Allegra!’

  ‘That’s okay because you’re a doctor and doctors have to work very hard to make their patients better. And it’s going to take a long, long time to make Mummy better, so I’m going keep my eyes shut just in case.’

  Not surprisingly, Allegra would get bored with this game pretty quickly. However, I would try to stretch it out, which meant sometimes being covered in permanent marker, bandaids or lipstick. Any amount of short-term pain or stain was worth the chance of closing my eyes for just a few more minutes. Apart from being physically exhausted, I was also over seeing my weary face in the mirror, and not just because it was covered with red felt-tipped pens. So I tried to ignore my skin-deep concerns and made a point of not spending too long peering into the bathroom mirror. I felt guilty wasting time on my wrinkles, as I kept remembering Mum’s refrain to my sisters and me when we were growing up.

  ‘No Prince Charming is going to come along and rescue you. It’s up to you to make something of yourselves. And that’s not going to happen by looking in that mirror! Go and do your homework. And once that’s done, please clean the kitty litter. I don’t want to have to leave it in your bedroom again, Jessica.’

  Now as a ‘grown-up’, cleaning the kitty litter (and cleaning in general) still isn’t one of my strong points. One of my friends still gives me birthday gifts of scented candles each year to combat the ammonia smell of the litter! My nose was still immune all these years later but my eyes had become sharper at noticing the wrinkles on my face. However, part of my 37-year-old self was embarrassed about ‘wasting’ time over my looks as I remembered those lectures from Mum. So I didn’t tell anyone what I was getting done. I was too embarrassed to tell my husband as he also didn’t have much time for people who spent too long looking in the mirror.

  # CRAPHOUSEWIFE

  For the next few months I was doing some fill-in news presenting on Channel Seven. I’m sure the make-up artists who pencilled in my eyebrows and carefully applied my liquid eyeliner each morning could tell the difference. Those beauty professionals would have noticed my smoother face even though they were tactful enough not to mention it. These miracle men and women kept much more ‘shameful’ secrets. They regularly clipped in the fake hair of female presenters and artfully blow-dried the hair plugs that hid the balding scalps of many male television types. Many of them also saw the plastic surgery scars hidden in hairlines and behind the ears of some of the presenters who sat in their make-up chairs every day.

  One person I couldn’t hide my refreshed appearance from was my eagle-eyed mother. She was the first to quietly comment to me, joking that she would like to come along to the next appointment. And I was relieved she didn’t give me a version of her old lecture. My sisters also noticed my slightly smoother appearance. Not surprisingly, my husband didn’t notice the difference but the game was up when he beat me to the letterbox one afternoon.

  ‘Pussycat, what is this receipt from the dermatologist?’

  ‘What receipt?’ I said, trying to buy myself some thinking time.

  ‘The receipt that says $500 for botox treatment!’

  ‘It was for botox …’ I replied, knowing that there was no getting out of this.

  ‘But that is such a waste of money,
and so vain and stupid! Why?’

  ‘Well, I wanted to get it done. And I like the way it looks.’

  ‘You look beautiful to me. You don’t need it.’

  ‘Thanks, my darling. I do it because I want to.’

  Now Peter just rolls his eyes when I tell him I’m due for another appointment with my dermatologist. And I’ve come to realise that there is no point hiding it from anyone else. Honesty has always been important to me and the older I get, the less I worry about what ‘everyone else thinks’. Although we all know what matters most is on the inside, I know that I feel stronger and tougher if I feel good on the outside too. And I don’t believe I’m erasing the experiences from my face as it’s all still deep inside of me. My heartaches, my joys and my dark times. Just look at me, talk to me—those gloriously sad, bad and mad times are etched into my being. I’ll always carry those experiences in my heart and in the way I live my life.

  Of course some of you may think, Oh, she’s so shallow, or How absurd to talk about cosmetic surgery. It probably is—but it’s a choice I’ve made. And my brand of feminism is all about supporting women and the different choices they make, even if it’s not the choice you might make for yourself. Who are we kidding if we simply pretend we just wake up looking a certain way? My doctor is cautious and conservative, which is good as I don’t want to look like some of my favourite characters in The Real Housewives of New York. However, I’d be happy to look like Erika Jayne, otherwise known as ‘The Pretty Mess’, from the Beverly Hills franchise of the show. She is very open about her cosmetic procedures. My fantasy has been to join her ‘glam squad’ for a week in Los Angeles.

  During my five-minute interview with her on Studio 10, I managed to borrow her diamond-encrusted Cartier panther knuckleduster, which sat ever so snugly on my finger. Who knew that panthers had green sapphires for eyes?

  ‘People underestimate you. You’re a successful pop star and you’re a really smart businesswoman. That’s what I really love about you,’ I gushed, not being at my objective journalist best during this segment.

  ‘Thanks very much, that’s very kind of you …’ replied Erika.

  ‘May I have the ring now?’ I pleaded.

  ‘No, you may not!’

  Later on camera, Erika invited me to be a part of her show in Beverly Hills. Well, I’m still waiting by my phone for her to call! But look out, Hollywood—I’m already hoarding my frequent flyer points. However, my husband has told me that he’ll divorce me if I even consider joining the Sydney version of the show.

  # CRAPHOUSEWIFE

  Like Erika, it’s refreshing to hear other high-profile women owning their appearance. And that’s what leapt out at me in some recent interviews with these Hollywood stars. Actor Charlize Theron has revealed that she credits her fresh face to ‘tons of botox. And vodka’. I wanted to high-five the House of Cards star Robin Wright, who said the ‘secret’ to her skin is botox.

  ‘You bet. Everybody effing does it. It’s just the tiniest sprinkle of botox twice a year. I think most women do 10 units but that freezes the face and you can’t move it. This is just 1 unit, and it’s just sprinkled here and there to take the edge off. Perhaps it’s not wise to put that in a magazine? But I ain’t hiding anything.’

  How about we all stop hiding it! And in the interests of full disclosure, I also get botox in my armpits. Not because my armpits are saggy and wrinkly but as a treatment to stop excessive sweating! Now I don’t mean damp underarms, I mean heavy sweating that marks your clothes and is impossible to hide. For me, this problem became especially noticeable when I began reading the news on Channel Ten over 25 years ago. It was the nineties and the age of the pastel power suit. Despite keeping my arms firmly by my sides, the heavy perspiration marks would still show through my suits every evening while I read the news bulletin. Adrenaline combined with nerves conspired to reveal how much I was struggling to keep it all together beneath the heavy make-up and strong lights on the news set.

  For some time, I looked like a startled gazelle reading the news. My father used to leave a message with the station switchboard every evening during the news bulletin. He would put on a variety of accents ranging from Indian, Italian to Irish to disguise his voice, praising ‘that lovely new girl reading the news. She’s doing such a good job!’ However, his ‘accents’ were wasted each night because he would end up leaving his real name with the receptionist at Network Ten. It became a regular joke with her. Each night, after I walked out of the studio, she would tell me, ‘Your dad has been ringing again!’

  As well as the moral support from Dad, my mother gave me some more practical advice. She suggested using sanitary pads in my jackets to absorb the sweat! Each evening before the news, I would jam these super-sized pads into the armpits of my blazers. It wasn’t successful and instead I just looked like I had huge, fat armpits. During the commercial breaks I would rush into the make-up room and use a hair dryer to disguise the wet marks. It was embarrassing and I tried every deodorant on the market. Nothing really worked, so to deal with my shame I ended up choosing darker suits and avoided silky, light fabrics that would show up the sweat. This was something that happened during all my jobs on television. And there were a lot of jobs.

  It wasn’t until I started having botox on my face that my doctor explained that botox could also be used as a treatment for excessive sweating. Although you need a lot more units of the product in your armpits, the cost was worth it. Not only did I save on clothing and dry-cleaning bills, there was no longer the added stress of worrying if the sweat was showing through my clothes on television. No longer did the long-suffering wardrobe staff have to wait on stand-by with the hairdryer, ready to blow-dry my armpits in the commercial breaks.

  These wardrobe warriors are the unsung heroes of the media. They have to wrangle egos, dispense the best outfits to hide any number of flaws and enhance your good points, as well as be ‘on call’ therapists. One tolerant wardrobe girl I knew had the unenviable task of cutting perfectly positioned holes into a presenter’s Spanx so she could use the toilet without having to get undressed! This person also insisted on having her ‘body control garments’ laundered at work instead of taking them home to wash. Television is so glamorous, isn’t it?

  # CRAPHOUSEWIFE

  Beauty is only skin-deep. Some of the most physically flawless people I’ve met have also been some of the most unhappy and self-absorbed individuals, held hostage by their looks. By comparison, the most beautiful people I know are self-confident, compassionate and funny. One of my hopes for my daughters is that they love who they are, and realise what beautiful souls they are growing into. Like my mum, I want to steer them away from spending too long in front of the mirror. Hopefully, I’m showing them that the most beautiful part of someone is their heart and the ability to seek out joy in the big, wide world. However, I’m a long way from being perfect, having recently buckled under the demands of my United Nations-style peace-negotiator eldest daughter who is now the proud owner of two Kylie Jenner lip kits.

  HONEY AND SOY CHICKEN WINGS

  Mum used to make chicken wings for my sisters and me when we were little, and I remember the four of us would sit around our kitchen table licking the sticky marinade off our fingers. Now it’s my turn to make chicken wings for my daughters and Mum, when she stays with us once a week.

  Ingredients

  1 kg chicken wings (you could also use drumsticks)

  ½ cup honey

  ½ cup soy sauce

  2 tbsp of vegetable oil

  1 packet microwave rice (you can choose from brown, basmati, jasmine or long grain—this is the best and only way to cook rice)

  Method

  Preheat oven to 200 °C. Marinate the chicken wings in the soy sauce and vegetable oil. (I put mine in a foil barbecue tray as it saves on washing up!) Roast for half an hour, turning the wings regularly.

  Then tip the honey over the wings and cook for 15 more minutes. This stops the wings from turning into charco
al! Neesy gave me this tip, and ever since I’ve added the honey at the end it has saved batches of wings.

  Moments before the chicken is ready, cook your microwave rice. (I’m always looking for shortcuts and this is one of my favourites!)

  Serve the wings on a bed of rice.

  Success rate

  Three out of four family members love this! My husband made it clear from the start of our relationship that he won’t eat chicken wings or chicken drumsticks as, ‘There’s not enough meat on them, Pussycat!’

  4

  Friends

  My friends are my estate.

  EMILY DICKINSON

  ‘Can I ask you a favour?’ I asked, leaning across the narrow table in the coffee shop.

  ‘Sure, what do you need?’ replied my friend Pip, craning her neck to hear my unusually soft voice.

  ‘I need you to check my hair.’

  ‘It looks great, I love the colour …’

  ‘No, I need you to check my hair,’ I paused. ‘For nits!’

  ‘Absolutely,’ replied Pip, as we both started scratching our heads.

  ‘Not here, but can you do it in my car?’ I asked.

  Without missing a beat, Pip paid for my coffee and together we walked back to the nearby supermarket carpark. For half an hour we sat in the back seat of my car while my dear friend carefully looked through each strand of my hair. And that, for me, is the definition of a true friend.

  The power of female friendship is a force to behold. So I wasn’t surprised by the results of a recent Harvard study that found having female friends is scientifically proven to improve your health. The study found that the effects on the health of women without female friends can be as toxic as cancer! Having my girlfriends—my own tribe of warrior women—has been a lifeline that has kept me sane. This tribe of women has shrunk in size the older I get through a combination of factors: for example, my conscious decision to surround myself with good people and let go of those toxic friends who suck all my energy. But what I’m less proud of is that my circle has contracted because of my own sloppiness around maintaining some healthy friendships. I’ll start with the relationships that I regret letting slip through my fingers.