I was sitting in a gorgeously green & lush garden café in Byron Bay with my beautiful bestie who was happily tucking into her second glass of Prosecco (I was on another kind of fizzy – water- as I had 5 more hours of driving to do that day) when she said something that jolted me like a cattle prod. “It is so good to owe nothing to no one. To be able to do whatever you like and not have to worry about any debts or upcoming bills or anything like that.” She sighed happily and ordered another glass of wine, while I buried my face in my water, hoping to all hell that she hadn’t picked up on the “oof” that came out of my mouth when her words hit me in the solar plexus or seen the flash of envy that turned my eyes bright green for a second.
I can hand on heart say that this was a defining moment for me. This was the moment when I said
enough is enough, this is where it all changes. You see, we’ve made a lot of money in the past 15 years, an awful lot, and probably way more than my bestie has, but she’s the one who is now debt free. She’s the one who can choose what she does and when she does it. She’s the one who is set up for life. I’m not. Because despite having created all of that income, we’ve also spent it all. We’ve never moved beyond the reality of living from paycheque to paycheque; if we were short of money, we just created more. We called it “expansion”. We told ourselves that we weren’t going to do the whole budgeting thing because it was all about restrictions and limitation and we didn’t do those things because we lived in a world of abundance. Instead of restricting ourselves, we’d just create more. And more. And more. Because we always lived to the very edge of our finances, we always spent just a little bit more than our income, we were always struggling for cash, feeling like we were always on the backfoot financially.
That kind of thing is fantastic fun at first; knowing that you have the ability to create at need is an amazing experience. For a while. Then it gets exhausting.
In 2014, a company we owned went into liquidation because a large debtor didn’t pay us. We’d sold everything to try to keep the company afloat on the constant promises that the money would be in our account soon. Then not long after, one of our creditors served a bankruptcy notice on John. Even with all our experience of creating large amounts of money and all the personal development work we’d done, it still wasn’t a very nice experience. At all. And it’s certainly not one I’d care to repeat. Yet each month, we find ourselves with no money to spare. If an unexpected bill comes along, we somehow manage to find the funds to pay for it, though we have no idea how we do it, but we have hardly any savings and retirement age is getting disturbingly close.
Robert Kiyosaki, the author of Rich Dad, Poor Dad, created a game - Cashflow 101 - that emulates the steps you need to take to go from being in debt and living from paycheque to paycheque to being financially free. if you haven’t played the game, I highly recommend you buy it: the things you learn about yourself around money are amazing but if you have played, you’ll know that newbies to the game always love getting the Doctor and the Airline Pilot cards because they have the highest incomes. Experienced players hate them because they’re the ones who take the longest to become financially free. We’re the airline pilots in real life: our income is huge, and our expenses are huge, and if there’s even the slightest glitch in our anticipated income, we’re screwed. Which is exactly what happened a few weeks later: a large deal didn’t come through and we found ourselves in a very precarious situation. Again.
That was the bottom of the slippery slope of debt for us; it’s time to sort ourselves out and finally get to be debt free. We have to change everything: the way we spend, the way we look after (or don’t, as the case may be) our finances, the way we think about money, the way we think. Because while the actions are very important of course, the most important thing is our thoughts, our beliefs about money, the things we say about money, the things we make it mean, the reasons we come up with for spending (I deserve this, I work hard; I want to cheer myself up; it’s only $xxx, it won’t make any difference/it’s a bargain). We have to change all those things. Permanently.
We decided to document this journey of ours along the path to becoming debt free. Partly because our lives are never boring and Murphy and his law run rampant when we’re around (in other words, things never go to plan), and partly because we hope that we can inspire someone else to do the same thing. Trust me, if we can get out of this hole that we’re in, anyone else can do the same thing for themselves.
So, me, my husband ,John, and my brother, Alan, got together to form Stop Being So Poor. We’ll share our discoveries, our highs and lows, what works, things that turn out to be absolute doozies, plus we’ll interview other wealthy people to find out how they got rich and what their best tips are.
We’d love for you to join us on this journey.
We’ve operated on debt our whole lives so far and now it’s time to try something different. It’s going to be…
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'Playful' and 'adult' don't generally go in the same sentence and put together, they might even be considered (by most grown-ups) to be an oxymoron. But here I am, learning how to be just that: an oxymoronic playful adult.
Click here to read the story on Vivia Maridi...
The universe recently presented me with a very interesting moral dilemma. A big one. It’s really, really fascinating to see what went through my head.
And, by the way, my kids are going to be mortified when they read this, but that happens sometimes in life, doesn’t it?
I don’t want to name anyone or point to anyone here, so I’m going to name the child that I was having the conversation with as W (a letter with is not related in any way to any of my children) (and it isn’t X, it’s way cooler).
I heard the ping of a new text from one of the kids; I glanced at the message on my phone, but decided to answer it on my iPad because it’s easier to type. Only I couldn’t follow the conversation on there because it went like this:
Child W: [the message that I’d glanced at on my phone about our recent phone call]… followed by a string of other messages that didn’t make any sense and which I didn’t remember sending:
I’m avoiding things. I’m not procrastinating, of course not. I’m simply avoiding. I’m doing things that are easier, things that I don’t have to think about, things that involve automatic doing, not things that require me to switch my brain on. Actually, it’s less about switching my brain on, because it’s definitely on, as evidenced by the fact that I‘ve hardly slept in a week and I’m waking up at 5.30am with thoughts zinging through my head. My brain is on and the command console is ablaze with lights, it’s just that it’s switched to the wrong mode. I’m in doing mode, also known as Busy mode, Preoccupied mode, Flat-Chat mode, Can’t-Sit-Still-For-A-Minute mode, Running-On-Adrenaline mode and Pusher mode, depending on who’s doing the describing. But, whatever the title of the mode, it’s a mode that doesn’t allow creation. Not creation from scratch, anyway. Things like writing, playing piano, painting, anything arty at all, are all a big no-no when I’m in this mode. And it’s so difficult to switch off.
We put up a video on our YouTube channel – Stop Being So Poor - last week about John’s recent rock climbing experience (you can check out the video here) and I wanted to tell the story in a little more detail. Actually, let me rephrase that: I want to put the story into my words.
Back in the eighties John was a pretty hot shot rock climber who spent every weekend and most evenings of his youth, down at the local quarry, Pex Hill, honing his skills so he could venture out into the rock-filled world of the Lakes District, Snowdonia, South Wales and then further afield into France (in particular Buoux). This is a man who, when we started seeing each other, would do one finger pull-ups on the architrave over the door every time he went through it. Given half an opportunity, he’d “traverse” the lounge using the Victorian dado rail as his finger hold. There was no foot hold. Heaven knows how it didn’t fall off! He climbed with the glitterati of the British rock climbing world of the time: Joe Healey, Gerry Peel, Tony Mitchell and Phil Davidson. John stopped climbing in the 90’s. But I know he misses it and I’d love to see him get back into it. John, however, felt that he was too old now to do something like that.
I’ve always loved horses, so it was only natural when Kira expressed a desire to learn how to ride, that I enrolled the kids into riding lessons.
I have to go onto a bit of a side track here: if one kid did something, then most of the time, they all did it. Extra curricular activities were just too tricky to handle if all four kids were doing something different, so while they all did something they really wanted to do, they also had to do things that maybe they weren’t so interested in. In this case, Kira really wanted to learn how to ride and the boys were interested (and turned out to be great horsemen, just not interested in riding as a long-term prospect). Keeley, aged 2 or 3 at the time, just loved it.
Like anyone who’s been around horses for a while, we’ve had some complete doozies. There were horses who were great but totally unsuitable, there were horses that were great, but they didn’t like their owner. There were horses who were perfect in every single way. Most of the time.
Between you and me, since I was a teenager, I’ve actually been looking forward to getting older. I mean, the whole sagging bits, aching joints and grey hair don’t intrigue me one iota but there are other aspects of ageing that I’m definitely looking forward to. I have to admit that feeling this way could entirely be the result of my innate contrariness...
Read more here...
I’ve just finished my first “Abs, Butts & Thighs” class. You know you’ve had a good leg workout when you have to hang on to the handrail to get down the stairs. Tomorrow is going to be interesting, to say the least.
I love feeling physically fit and being physically tired, it’s one of the reasons why I’ve exercised my whole life. When I did the interview for the Daily Mail recently, about women who’re the same weight now as they were in their 20’s, the quote about me was that I “take inspiration from Kate Moss”. No, I don’t. What I said was that I relate to what Kate Moss said about nothing tasting as good as skinny feels. I’m at least 15 years older than Kate Moss, how can I possibly used her as my inspiration since she didn’t come onto the scene for years after I was on my path to health & fitness?
I had a surprising conversation with a friend yesterday when she said, “How are you? And I mean, how actually are you, with the whole menopause, hormonal thing? We say ‘how are you?’ but we never really get specific.” And she’s right.
I am now the proud author a monthly womens' column for the wonderful well being magazine, Vivia Maridi.
Click here to read the latest article entitled Certifiably Insane, a tongue-in-cheek look at pregnancy and ultrasounds
I could never quite understand my cousin Julie (I've changed her name. Regardless of the fact that she lives over the other side of the world, I'm still not going to invite her wrath). She is a week younger than me, we look similar - same height, same kind of weight (back then, anyway), same dark curly hair - but we were totally different. I grew up in the countryside, surrounded by animals, playing in the dirt, watching horses & cows giving birth, being chased by donkeys and geese. Julie grew up in inner city Salford (now part of Manchester) among the cars and the noise and the overwhelming number of people. She is also one of seven kids. I loved going down to their house during the school holidays because it was so different to my house. Well, I loved some aspects of it, I didn’t love the fact that they were limited in how much they could eat and drink, for example.
The lengths I go to to keep my husband alive and in one piece (and hence able to earn a decent crust for the family)...
While my husband is unconcernedly swinging on the end of a rope ten metres up in the air, having gracefully ascending a climbing wall, making the whole thing look ridiculously easy, I'm at the bottom of the wall on the other end of said rope, trying, with increasing desperation to lower him just as gracefully to the floor.
I wrestled with the descender with increasing desperation, but to no avail. Try though I might, the bloody thing wouldn't release the rope in any kind of controlled, slow manner and John got more and more alarmed as he jerkily dropped three or four metres, pretty much in free descent, every ten seconds or so. After plummeting the final few metres so quickly that he couldn't get his feet under him, he picked himself up off the floor and, swearing like a pirate, demanded to know what on earth I was playing at.
“I need help!” I said to my brother, “I’ve got these programs sitting there, ready to go and I feel bad because they’re just going to waste. You’re good at selling, and I hate selling, so can you give me a hand?”
I had a kind of vague , wishy-washy, airy-fairy idea that Alan (former radio presenter, master salesman, sports commentator and general all-round gasbag who could talk himself onto a mars-bound spaceship) would maybe do all the talking for me and somehow sell my programs. Honestly, I really had no idea what it would look like at all.
And I certainly didn’t expect what I ended up with: several hours of me and my brother laughing and poking fun at ourselves, each other and the world in general.
As I write that title, I’m beginning to wonder something: our bodies reflect our minds (so the new age, mindset kind of books say), in which case, is what’s going on with my body a reflection of what’s going on with my mind? Am I mentally becoming an intolerant old bag and that’s why my body is becoming intolerant and baggy? The body is a reflection of the mind? It’s an interesting and not very appealing thought.
I’ve been a bit quiet for the last few weeks, at least as far as blogging goes, and that’s because I’ve had to spend my time learning how to cook! At my age! Like I haven’t been cooking for forty-odd years! It’s been a bizarre and overwhelming experience. I’m used to just being able to open the cupboard & fridge and make some kind of dish out of it. I rarely do a shopping list anymore, I don’t need to. But now? Now, I have no clue what I can or can’t cook, how to cook it or anything.
Weekend? What weekend? Oh, you mean the last two days? The ones that normal people, with normal Monday to Friday jobs spend doing things like the weekly shopping, mowing the lawn, washing the car and getting drunk? THAT weekend? Oh, I spent those days doing stuff for the accountant, you know, updating spreadsheets, downloading data from the bank, checking and cross-checking everything, filling in gaps, making sure everything balances and adds up, that kind of thing. And I really don’t enjoy doing it. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that it’s one of the things in life that I truly loathe doing. I get a small satisfaction from seeing everything add up and reflect what’s on the bank statement, but that’s just the OCD side of me getting a hit of Dopamine and going on a restrained little gambol of joy around the living room. I spent my weekend doing the accounts so that I could have this week free and clear, happy in the knowledge that all of the detested bookkeeping work is completed for another year. Now THAT is cause for celebration. I felt so good when I finally not only sent off last year’s info to the accountant but I also updated the current year’s info to match how he’d suggested I do it. I am on top of my game! Watch me and turn green with envy. I am where everyone wants to be, I have it handled, it’s all done, sorted, completed and put away. I am Organised, the Queen of the Annual Accounts. I went to bed last night feeling incredibly smug and proud of my achievement.
I’m in this bizarre space where I’m flitting between pride, excitement, severe worry and sleepless nights. And we’re nowhere close to the time of The Event.
Last November, Keeley asked if she could go on exchange with school this year. “Sure!” says I, keen for her to spread her wings and experience the world in all its diverse glory, “Where do you want to go?”
“Somewhere warm,” says Keeley, who’s a cold-blooded creature like myself, “So I’m thinking maybe Fiji or… what about Colombia?”
Okay, Colombia is a bit left field, I didn’t expect that. Fiji I can understand, it’s close to Australia, she’s been there before and she likes it. England I’d expect, France definitely, possibly Canada, but Colombia? That's an interesting choice. Why Colombia?
Ryan sent me a video to watch the other day by a guy called Simon Sinek, who’s talking about how Millennials are struggling with forming relationships, having rewarding careers and life in general. I shared the video (and I’ve put the link at the bottom of this post or you can click on the picture on the left) with the intention of putting up this post to go with it. Unfortunately, I got sidetracked. Several days later, I’m picking up where I left off. Well, kind of. I also had several conversations about the video with Ryan and my Uncle and I thought it would be an interesting exercise to get their views on the video, too: three generations of commentary.
At the start of the video, I was intrigued; Simon makes several great points. But I don’t agree with his ultimate point at all, because he’s saying that Millennials are the way they are and it’s not their fault, poor them; they’re victims of poor parenting and the narcissism of today’s technological lifestyle.
I went to the laundry twice on holiday. Hoping to forestall at least some of the post-holiday pile of washing. But no matter how hard I try, no matter what hopeful strategies I put in place, a few hours after we’ve arrived back home, my laundry looks like a volcano that’s spewing smelly, slightly damp, filthy clothes, whose aroma indicates that new life is beginning to burgeon within its mass.
I met a lovely young woman on holiday recently, who proudly announced to me that she does an average of five loads of washing a week. FIVE! Most of her friends have two loads of washing a week maximum, but she has five. I think she mistook my stunned silence for admiration at the amount of washing she produces, and I was definitely admiring, but not in the way she thought, just in a more wistful, wouldn’t-it-be-wonderful kind of way. Five loads of washing A WEEK! It’s unimaginable. Three days of hard work and approximately 18 loads of washing later, I got to the bottom of this weeks’ pongy post-holiday volcano.
One of the wonderful things about living in Perth is the Fremantle Doctor. Every afternoon… actually, I’ll rephrase that, MOST afternoons he comes to visit the sweltering suburbs, bringing relief in the form of what the Sand Gropers (Western Australians) call “a light breeze”. It quickly became blatantly obvious that my idea of a “light breeze” is completely different to that of a Western Australians’. Personally, I’d describe the Fremantle Doctor as anything from a brisk wind to a howling gale, but it’s just an opinion.
Since we lived on the escarpment overlooking Perth, we received the full benefit of the doctor almost every afternoon. The only days the doctor doesn’t do his rounds are during a week in February when, like every other doctor in Australia, he decided to leave his patients to their own devices and go on holiday. Unlike most other doctors in Australia, though, the Fremantle doctor only takes a weeks’ holiday. Most specialists seem to leave their patients for six weeks.
Unfortunately, the Fremantle Doctor’s holidays coincide with the hottest summer temperatures and I can only conclude that the incessant 45 degree daily highs finally get the better of him and (heat) exhaustion force him to take a short break, leaving the rest of us to sizzle and suffer in the scorching heat.
I’m not talking about leaving your lunch behind when you head off for school or work here, I’m talking about vomiting. Puking. Barfing. Chundering. Praying to the Porcelain God. Regurgitating. Spewing. Upchucking. Throwing Up. Doing the technicolour yawn.
I have been blessed with a child who can do all of these things WITH STYLE. The girl has class. She can hit a moving target at three paces with a steady stream of highly toxic, foul smelling, stomach contents, the stench of which no washing machine or cleaning compound has ever been able to remove. This girl is a Master Hurler. Literally. She makes the kid in the exorcist look exactly like what she is: a kid. A mere novice in apprenticeship to renowned Masters of the High Art of Expelling One’s Lunch With Velocity.
It’s Christmas, the time of year when all my angst and anxieties about money are dusted off, dragged into the spotlight, dressed up in tinsel and baubles, and sprinkled with glitter. I buy too many presents for too many people who don’t really matter to me, there’s always those little (or not so little) things I get for our loved ones even when I’ve already bought all the presents that I planned for them, I buy in enough food and drink to end a small famine and we all spend the next week (or two) eating leftovers. As time goes on and the preparations for the Big Day get more frantic, I grow more anxious and stressed, and there’s this underlying feeling of overwhelming guilt and fear lurking just beneath the surface of my seasonal cheer, that I desperately try to pretend isn’t happening.
I’m very lucky in one way because I don’t have to do the whole invite-people-round-that-you-don’t-get-on-with-but-you-have-to-because-it’s-Christmas thing. We live in Australia, a long way from most of our family members, and people tend to stay with their families or go away for the holidays over here. I am heartily glad that I don’t have to invite people round that I wouldn’t normally see, just because it’s Christmas.
My youngest daughter, Keeley, is very, very clever, with a wicked sense of humour and a knack of seeing the absurdity in people’s behaviour, but she also has a few areas of… let’s call it confusion.
We were in the car on the way back from our diving trip, salty, tired, thirsty and in dire need of a shower, but Keeley was on top form, entertaining us with stories of school and life in the boarding house. “I love Ms P [the boarding mother who’s now moved to another school], right, but I won’t miss the prayers she used to do. [Keeley’s voice drops a couple of octaves and takes on a solemn, sonorous tone] Dear God, thank you for all the girls in the boarding house. Thank you for Annabelle and her English exam. Thank you for Jessie and her Maths HSC. Thank you for Lucy who played really well in hockey this week, she did an amazing job [pause], even though we didn’t win and we’re bottom of the table. Thank you for Sophie, who washed the dishes for the first time on Tuesday without being asked…”
I made a half-hearted commitment to myself that I’d kind of journal/write every day during these holidays so I could record what’s happened better. I haven’t managed it yet. Been too busy. This is Club Med, there’s a gazillion things to do all the time! In fact, in just sitting here, writing this piece, I’m missing yoga. Okay, that’s not something heartbreaking for me, I must be one of the few people in the world who doesn’t find yoga relaxing and rejuvenating. Personally, I just find it boring and dull. That’s not very enlightened of me, I know, but I suspect that, all things told, I’m not very enlightened anyway, so we’re all good, I can miss yoga and my soul will still be just as unenlightened as it was before.
Just over a year ago, I decided to write a book about how we went from having ordinary jobs to being property developers and turning over a hefty amount of money annually. I wanted to explain to people, maybe “tell” people is a better expression, what we did to make the necessary changes in the way we think that allowed us to make that transition.
Before we started doing all this wealth creation stuff, we thought it was all just about making money, having a business, lots of employees, sell stuff and somehow the money will come. It isn’t about that at all. It was very hard to believe for a long time, but it’s actually about the thoughts we have about money that make the difference. That sounded really bizarre and we felt like we were being totally led astray and up some fairy garden path for a while, but enough books & people said the same thing that we began to pay attention and eventually give the whole “money mindset” thing a try.
Hi! I’m Karen O’Connor, hormonally-challenged, menopausal writer, blogger, self-confessed sarcasm enthusiast, mother of 4, wife of 30 years, destroyer of souls... no, wait, that's just in the mornings...