Harry Potter, Enid Blyton, Captain Underpants: One night at the book fair

If there's one thing that bonds my family together it's a second hand book fair. There is not a member of my clan who can pass up the chance to rummage around in piles of yellowing pages, searching for... who knows what? Which is how Sister B and I found ourselves speeding off into the night last week during my visit, leaving our combined offspring in the tender care of LOML (visit Maxabella if you haven't met him, he's a peach), en route to meet Sister C at the local charity book fair.

It was 8pm. The book fair was open until 9pm. Plenty of time, given it was but ten minutes up the road. Only it wasn't. By the time we'd missed the turn-off twice, squinting in the dark, and driven up the highway until we could find another right-hand turn (raise your hand if you've never been in that position in Sydney...), shrieking at each other between hysterical laughter because the whole thing was just so, so funny, it was 8.30pm before we screeched into a park near the hall in which the fair was held.

Or, sort of near. By the time we'd puffed up the hill, beside building site, around the corner and down a dark stretch of highway, it was 8.35pm. "I bet Sister C is inside, blithely browsing, not even thinking of us," muttered Sister B. I could almost hear the classical music playing as I pictured Sister C's serene joy. As opposed to the heavy metal thunder that would accompany our frantic run to the starting line.

"Good God, we've only got 25 minutes," shouted Sister B, throwing coins into the Donation bottle as she made a beeline for Children: Classics. I was right behind, emptying the silver from my over-burdened wallet. I was already loaded down by The Secret Garden, The Call of the Wild, a random Famous Five novel, and the Postman Pat Story Treasury (a classic??) by the time Sister C wandered over a few minutes later. "Did you even look to see if I was here?" she asked. Er, no, we had to admit.

Systematically, we made our way up and down the children's book tables. "Captain Underpants?" I asked, holding it aloft. "Mine!" said Sister C, taking it for Nugget. "Anyone seen any Zac Power?" asked a frazzled looking woman. "Not a one," said Sister B, sadly.

The organisers announced the 'last books' warning. Ten minutes to go. "I need a fire engine book," I said, muttering it under my breath, over and over. "I've got Inventors for Mr7," said Sister B. "Find me some Ladybird readers." Sister C pounced on a copy of the first Harry Potter for $1, touting it as the bargain of the day. Then she found me a different copy of The Secret Garden - "less girly cover and $1 cheaper," she said, handing it over. "Win/win."

By the time the organisers generously helped us out the door just after 9pm, we'd managed to collect a box of books each. Piles and piles of reading pleasure. Adding up to a princely donation from each of us to the charity in question. And we had not even made it out of the children's area. Sister B glanced longingly at the gardening books. "I saw a Paul Bangay over there, I'm sure," she said.

Then she looked at me. "Probably a good thing we only had 25 minutes," she said, hefting her foam box of books under her arm for the long walk back to the car.

[image: favim.com]

The road less travelled

I was all fired up to begin the new year with a zesty post full of vim and vigour. But a funny thing happened on the way to this post. I got all relaxed. Seriously.

Last week, Fam Fibro took off for an unexpected, unplanned (heavens, hold the presses) summer break with friends. To the Snowy Mountains. Yes, in summer. I've written a lot of articles over the years in my other guise as a finance writer about how the best budget family holidays are had when you go against the flow. To the coast in winter. To the mountains when the weather is warm. I'd never before followed my own advice (on this and a legion of other finance subjects). But, you know what? I recommend it.

The weather is cooler. The roads are clearer. Accommodation is plentiful and reasonably priced. The hills are alive - with wildlife, wildflowers and an occasional burst of song. We took Mr4 and Mr7* on a 4km hike up Australia's highest mountain and discovered that Mr4 forgets his weary legs and unhappy self when singing a song as he walks. (All together now: Oh The Grand old Duke of York...)

We arrived back home yesterday. Shattered. Our relaxing break had exhausted us so much that there was no movement in the Fibro, from anyone, until after 9am. The Builder and I are tired. We discussed this over breakfast. And came to the conclusion that this is what relaxation feels like.

We nearly didn't recognise it.

*Some housekeeping matters: to keep things simple, and because their birthdays are around this time, all children get new names. Mr6 is now the lofty Mr7; Mr3 takes a big step to Big Boy status and becomes Mr4. I'm going to miss Misters 6 and 3. They were such fun. But I'm sure the new guys will also keep me on my toes.

The things you do to get out of the Fibro #3: Getting social

Last night, I went to see The Social Network with a group of friends. Very social for a person who generally sees her movies alone and unencumbered. Margaret and David (At The Movies) loved it, and so did I. An absorbing, disquieting flick that stayed with me all of today.

One of the other mums I went with admitted (at school pick-up) to have spent considerable time today Googling Mark Zuckerberg. We all agreed that Justin Timberlake was a revelation (who knew that Sean Parker was such a fakeozoid? And so pasty?). Jesse Eisenberg, who plays Zuckerberg, was so good he made my skin crawl and my mind explode at the same time. I don't know what Zuckerberg is like in real life, but I suspect we would not be friends. Not even on Facebook.

I admit that, much as when watching The Wire, it took me a while to get my 'ear in', so to speak. The opening scene - which Margaret and David have labelled an 'instant classic' - initially felt like it was being acted out in code. They talked fast, they talked quietly, they spoke in apparent non-sequiturs, and the bar was loud. It's worth hanging in for Aaron Sorkin's writing, though.

It also took me a while to get my eye in once the Winkelvoss twins (both played by Armie Hammer) appeared. At first, the thought that there could possibly be two such ridiculously good-looking men in the world scattered my thought processes. Once I worked out there was probably just one, I spent a lot of time trying to work out how 'it' was done, and trying to count the shots where they were on screen together. I know. I need to get out more.

As a person who has spent a lot of time on social networks this year - more time than ever before, thanks to this blog - one moment stayed with me. As Zuckerberg wrote his drunken blog post, calling his ex-girlfriend a bitch and comparing her to a farm animal, my friend K, sitting next to me, leaned across and whispered: "Do you think it will be this bad when our kids are older, or do you think it will get better?"

"Worse," I whispered back, fiercely. "Much worse."

I thought about what that ex-girlfriend's mum thought when she saw that blog post (I'm assuming she did). I thought about the wide, broad and many avenues for misadventure on the internet that await the unwary, the unknowing and the plain unlucky. Facebook may connect the world in a big, cool hug, but it also lays open lives.

Mark Zuckerberg is often quoted as saying 'the Age of Privacy is dead'. He said, in an interview with TechCrunch founder Michael Arrington (January 2010), that Facebook's raft of security changes (which essentially made every user's information public unless they chose to follow a long list of instructions on how to make it private) were in response to what the company perceived as 'changing social norms'. In other words, we're all so comfortable sharing our lives online that we're happy to leave privacy behind for an open, public future.

I'm wondering if he feels the same now that an unauthorised, dramatised version of his own life has been played out on screen?

Don't you love a movie that makes you think?

Just to be social, I'm flogging my blog with Lori at RRSAHM this fine Friday. Pop over and join in!

The Red Badge of Courage: Fibrotown edition

If you read this blog on a regular basis, you'd be under the impression that I spend a fair amount of my time at the supermarket. I've been lost in there. I've witnessed lost love. Today, I left inspired.

I know. From the supermarket. There's more to Fibrotown than meets the eye.

It all occurred at the checkout. Again. (Really, you've got to spend more time there.)

My checkout chick and I were making small talk. Laughing at the holiday-makers who'd just spent $978 for a weekend's worth of food.

"$978!" I shrieked. "Were there 20 of them?" She laughed. No, just the four.

"They made me feel kind of bad about myself, actually," she confessed, eyes down, scanning away. Blip, blip, blip.

I looked at her. Fresh-faced. About 18. We've spoken before. She's always bright, friendly and perky. And always, it seems, there.

"How so?" I asked.

"Oh, just in that talking down way that people have with us sometimes," she replied, waving one arm around to indicate her fellow workers. Blip. Blip.

I channelled Eleanor Roosevelt. "No-one can make you feel bad about yourself unless you let them," I said. She smiled and looked at me like I needed to get out more.

Our conversation moved on to how those crazy holidaymakers should have shopped with a list. "Do you always do that?" she asked.

I responded in the affirmative, outlining all the reasons why a list is a good thing (I don't write finance stories for no reason, you know).

"I try to do that," she said, setting me up for EFTPOS. "I cook a lot of my meals all at once and then freeze them. It's hard to fit them in with studying for my HSC and working here, otherwise."

I looked at her. She froze them? She must have seen the questions in my face. "I live by myself," she said, still smiling. "I go to school, work here and then go home and study for my HSC. I've always wanted to be a police officer."

Suddenly I remembered a previous conversation we'd had. Six months ago, she'd taken her pre-HSC police exam. I remembered her telling me, incredibly enthusiastically, how it would save time when she got her exam results. She'd be able to go straight off to the Academy. At the time, I admit, I listened with one ear, smiling and nodding, as she relayed just a little too much information. (Now I realise that maybe she told me because she didn't have anyone else to tell.)

She's all of 18. She's doing it on her own. She's still smiling.

Next time I see her, I'll ask her how those exams are going.

{image: TheExtentOfSilence/Etsy}

Romeo and Juliet: A Fibrotown Fable (II)

Fibrotown is a place of opposites. Like many country towns, it is a holding station for the young and the old. The middle is not as well represented. Young love tends to be very young. Old love tends to be heartbreaking.

The checkout at the supermarket is the last place you expect to end up in tears. Unless you're not in one of those confectionery-free zones and you're with a two-year-old. But who does that to themselves?

Today, Mr3 and I made a quick dash through the aisles before 9am - we had a park-date to make. Precision shopping over with, I went in search of a checkout. When I spotted one of what Mr3 calls 'The Ladies' - those middle-aged women of extreme competence who make the checkout experience a complete pleasure through their sheer scanning skill - we made a beeline for her line. I don't know her name. We chat about our lives but, even though her work requires that she wears a name tag, I would never presume to use her name without introductions. Respect.

The gentleman in front of us was elderly. A quick scan of his shopping trolley confirmed he lived alone. Five packets of cream biscuits, baked beans, meals for one. She began the scanning, blip, blip, blip, and asked him how he was. There was history, you could tell, from her tone of voice. They weren't on first-name basis either, but he sought out her checkout, as I did.

When she asked her question, he started to cry. Without asking, I knew that he was recently bereft. That the woman who'd spent a lifetime telling him that two cream biscuits in one sitting were enough, was gone. The transaction took a while. But I didn't mind. There are some things that take time.

When he'd gone, picking up his few bags of shopping and departing, tears still in his eyes, she turned to me. Her eyes were red-rimmed, tear-filled. "I'm sorry," she said. "I couldn't rush him."

"Don't worry," I replied. "Neither could I." Tears stung my own eyes. I wanted to take that poor, lonely man home for a cup of tea.

His wife had recently died, she explained. Every time he came in to do the shopping on his own, he cried. She'd always done the shopping. Made his tea. Dragged him out to visit people. Without her, he was adrift.

"It's so important to stay connected," said my checkout friend.

I don't know the love story of that man and his wife. All I saw was the epilogue. Romeo without his Juliet.

It's heartbreaking at any age.

Why write when you can talk?

A few years ago, I found myself in command of a workshop on how to make a living from freelancing. Fortunately, my co-pilot, one of my lovely A friends (I’ve realised since I began writing this blog that nearly all my friends’ names begin with the letter A – clearly I need to work my way up the alphabet a bit more thoroughly), had done this kind of thing before and so did most of the talking. I think I was just there for colour and movement. And perhaps a little interpretive dance when required.

Anyhoo.

All was going well until a very nice lady in the middle of the fourth row put up her hand and asked if one – and she was a ‘one’ kind of lady – had to speak to people to be a freelance writer. I paused mid-whirl in my interpretive dance. “Well,” I said, “a lot of contact is done via email these days…” I paused.

“Yes,” she said, somewhat impatiently. “But can you do interviews like that as well? It’s just that I’m a bit shy.”

“Ummm,” I said, breaking the first rule of public speaking – they’ll never let me into Toastmasters now. “One does actually have to talk to write professionally.” Her face collapsed into disappointment.

I was thinking of this little exchange on Friday as I made the train journey to The Big Smoke for what The Builder calls Coffee. With a capital C.

Writers tend to be people who like their own company. I’m quite open about the fact that I’m much better in writing than I am in person (which is probably why I love Twitter). But that doesn’t mean I can get away with not trying.

So I try to do Coffee at least two or three times a year. It involves meeting up with the editors with whom I work regularly, those with whom I’d like to work more regularly and, even, those who’ve never heard of me before I ring them out of the blue to say hello. It serves to remind them who I am (or introduce them to my charms), allows me to find out if there are any direction changes for the publication or website, and gives me the opportunity to pitch a few stories in their direction to see if anything flies. Even when I lived in the inner city I tried to get as many as possible done in one day – now that I’m in Fibrotown, that’s essential.

It doesn’t always result in work. Not straight away anyway. But it does result in a connection. And like everything else in the world, freelancing is about relationships.

When you freelancing, it’s very easy to disappear into your own parallel universe. You forget what it’s like to have colleagues and bosses and people who simply don’t like the shoes you’re wearing on any given day. You sit in your vacuum and come up with ideas and wonder why none of them are finding the mark. So sometimes you have to leave the bubble.

I really enjoy Coffee. In some ways, it’s exhausting, dragging your sociable self kicking and screaming into the light (or maybe that’s just me). But mostly, it’s exhilarating. I always come home with lots of new ideas and inspiration, along with a healthy dose of motivation. Of course, the five or six cups of coffee that I take in over the course of the day may have something to do with that…

A Women's Conference: boots and all.

Today I found myself at the Fibrotown Women’s Conference. The location: the auditorium of one of the area’s many Bowling Clubs, complete with requisite swirly-patterned, muck-hiding carpet. The theme: Inspired. The point: well, as I sat there this morning, drinking my instant coffee, I wasn’t entirely sure.

A friend had invited me to along and I’d accepted with gusto. Six hours with grown women, drinking coffee, eating cake? What’s not to love? Then my mum asked me this morning what exactly it was all about. I couldn’t answer.

“It’s a Women’s Conference,” I said, admiring my reflection in my brand-new, shiny black knee-length boots. I mention these because I am so damned pleased with their purchase. It’s rare for me to have a shoe love-in, but these are a dark, dangerous affair. They are, it must be said, a whisker too elongated through the toe. Which is why they were on sale – big sale, huge sale, the kind of sale that makes you feel a million bucks every time you wear them because you know what a bargain they were. The sales assistant in Fibrotown’s one – I repeat, one – shoe store (which is fortunately a good one) told me blithely that they’d marked them down because they were ‘last season’.

I took a good look up and down the main street, festooned as it was by Crocs, thongs and runners, and said ‘I’ll take them’. Last season is the height of fashion round these parts.

But I digress.

I was dragged back from the examination of my glorious (cheap) new boots when my Mum continued: “Yes, but what will you do?”

I was stumped. “We’ll, er, confer about stuff, I guess,” I said, slinking out the door before she changed her mind about babysitting.

I went with no expectations – the best way to go to anything – and came home with this report. Firstly, we did confer about ‘stuff’. Women’s stuff. We learned that $2 can buy a birthing kit to be sent overseas to help save the one woman who dies every minute in childbirth. We learned that unimaginable tragedy need not kill us, it may make us stronger. We learned that seaweed can become a passion, that origami can capture a heart (hence the crane pic), that inspiration comes in many guises.

As a roomful of women, we did not hold back. We cried. We laughed. One of us even sang – a heartfelt rendition of Happy Birthday to win a prize.

Being a roomful of women, we also queued. For entry, for lunch but, mostly, for loos. I ran into my neighbour, a beautiful young woman who seems to spend her life on a horse. I ran into one of the mums from school. I ran into R, promoting her PASH business. My hairdresser was there. The local paper was there. The elegant women representing Dairy Farming were there.

That was the point. An excuse to get together, to network, to learn. To inspire and to be inspired.

I left with a smile. In my new boots. Which I’d like to point out were supremely comfortable over the course of a long day. In the way that only a true bargain can be.

{image: Woodward + Rick, via TheKnot.com}

A post about The Last Post

Today was ANZAC Day. Day of Remembrance. Day of marching. Day of The Last Post.

The Last Post is one of the saddest pieces of music ever written. It brings tears to my eyes every time I hear it. Particularly when played inexpertly at school assemblies. There is something about the random squeaks and blasts produced by a teenage bugler that conjures up for me the endless baby faces of young soldiers.

The bugle at Mr6’s school ANZAC Day service last Thursday (Friday was a dreaded Pupil-Free Day so we had to get in early) was played by a young man from the local high school. He had the windswept supermodel hair that defines his generation, an earnest expression and a bit of difficulty with the high notes. He reduced me to blinking back tears.

Beside me, on the asphalt, behind the colony of school hats carefully paying attention under the principal’s nose, was an elderly gentleman. Someone’s Grandfather. Who stood to attention through the entire service. Stiff, upright, proud.

He reduced me to tears proper.

Today we took the boys and some friends visiting from The Big Smoke over to my mum’s house to watch the march. Every parade of any description for the past 30 years has stomped past my parents’ house. Our friend C remarked that she’d never actually been to an ANZAC Day parade that went past someone’s house before. In the city, it requires two train changes and a packed lunch to attend the march. Here, we munched on homemade ANZAC biscuits in the driveway and waved to the veterans as they went past – many of them in taxis.

One of the reasons that I love ANZAC Day is those beaming faces in those taxis. It’s the one day of the year when our oldest citizens feel all the warmth our community can bestow. When we remember that they were young once. I know that the Day is about remembering fallen soldiers, but I love that it’s also about remembering (and acknowledging) the ones that survived.

Afterwards, we retired to the Fibro for a barbecue. We had a few drinks, ate some sausages, shared some stories and lots of laughs. The children rampaged around the garden like Wild Things. After a few wines, I found myself wondering if perhaps we shouldn’t be a little more… reverent.

But then I thought, no. What were all those young men fighting for if not for their children and their children’s children to enjoy the freedom of an afternoon just like the one we enjoyed today.

Lest we forget.

{image: Dawn}

And the song goes on and on and on and on

I’ve got a song stuck in my head. Going round and round and round. Last time this happened, it was the Star Wars theme (just mentioning it brings me out in a sweat). But this one is even worse.

To set the scene for you: last November, Fam. Fibro went on a South Pacific cruise with 36 of our closest friends. You read right. Forty of us. On a floating palace of pleasure in the south seas. Blue skies, blue seas, cocktails with pink umbrellas.

I’m not sure where you sit on the whole cruise debate. You’re either into them, or you’re not. I’m not. I wasn’t before I went and I’m definitely not now. Which is not to say that I didn’t have a good time. I did. We were with great friends, we sang karaoke, played bingo, ate too much, drank too much and told the same stories over and over. Good times.

I’d just never do it again.

Something about arriving at a deserted island with 2000 people with matching towels just didn’t work for me. Or perhaps it was just chasing Mr3 (then two and not – I repeat not – old enough to go to Kids Club on his own) around and around the unfenced pool. Or the fact that the boat got smaller and smaller and smaller as the days drifted by…

Tick that Cruise off life’s To Do list and move along.

(Are you now beginning to wonder what my song is? “Theme from the Love Boat’ perhaps? I wish.)

Every group of friends has a recorder (by that, I do not mean a woodwind instrument learned in second grade). The guy with the camera. Our guy, M, is fantastic. He not only captures every unforgettable (and some you’d rather forget) moment, but he takes them home, edits them and sends every family a DVD copy. I love it. They are funny, touching and will be an invaluable jog to my memory when I forget all about our cruise (next week, probably).

Unfortunately, M is a one-track soundtrack kind of guy. Every single DVD he’s ever made for us features, for example, Summer of 69. Every one. Despite the fact that the main players in our action flicks were either born in 1968 or somewhere south of 1999.

The cruise DVD arrived in the mail on Tuesday. Fam. Fibro watched it together, reliving every moment (and some we’d forgotten – see, it happens so soon), and survived the inevitable onslaught of begging from the boys to go on another ‘big boat’ soon. (Did I mention they loved it? Loved it.)

Along with the inevitable Bryan Adams track, this DVD featured a selection of sailing-related tunes: Sailing by Rod Stewart and, um, others. I’ve forgotten because every single one of the music receptor thingies in my brain has been engaged in replaying Cruisin’ over and over again.

Yes, Cruisin’. That smash hit by Gwyneth Paltrow (pre-haircut) and Huey Lewis. “This is not a one-night stand… We’re goin’ to fly away, glad you’re goin’ my way, I love it when we’re cruisin’ together…” You with me?

Why am I sharing this? I’m working on the theory that if I tell enough people about it, the song will magically transfer itself from my brain to yours. So right about now, you should be humming along with me.

Sorry about that.

It could be worse. It could be Summer of 69. Oh, wait…

PS: The ‘What I talked about’ post will be back next week when I resume regular scheduling. Have a great weekend!

And so I opened The Suitcase…

Taking a deep breath – but not too deep in case I asphyxiated on the dust dancing off the suitcase – I unbuckled, unzipped and peeked inside. What did I find? A lot of trash, and just enough treasure to make the journey worthwhile.

There was the note, on a hastily torn out sheet of lecture pad, written by the only red-haired man I ever desired. I met him one night at a Uni college. We spent the night lying on the dewy grass, in the middle of a rugby oval, under a blanket of stars, talking about life, the universe and everything. I was 18, he was 22 and engaged to be married. The sun came up, we returned to our rooms and, much later, I found the hastily scribbled note shoved under my door. I still owe him a kiss.

There was a letter from my brother TICH. Only he wasn’t an Inner City Hipster. He was eight or nine, had just had his stitches removed and wanted to know if I knew anything about deserts. He signed his name with impossibly curlicued majesty.

There was a mint copy of the May 1991 edition of Countdown magazine, in which I, cadet journalist in floral frock, socks and lace-up brogues, interviewed James Reyne in all his dishevelled, denim-clad glory. It begins: “I once stood around for five hours in the pouring rain just to see Australian Crawl play…”.

It contains the answers to such hard-hitting questions as “Do people recognise you in the street?” (answer: Yep), “What would you be doing if you weren’t making hit records?” (answer: I don’t know) and “Do you live in a mansion and drive an expensive sports car?” (answer: No, I don’t own a car).

I’m beginning to see why Rolling Stone never called.

What else? A letter from the shearer who was the great unrequited love of my late teen years. Gen Y may have come up with the cute term ‘Friends with Benefits’ but they sure didn’t invent the concept. I also unearthed the truly appalling poetry that spilled onto my page during that time. I would burn it, but I’m fascinated by how neat my handwriting was in those days. Now I could challenge a doctor to a Duel of Ultimate Indecipherability. Back then, I was practically copperplate.

I blame journalism. For that, and the swearing I can’t seem to lose.

Invitations to weddings (some of the resulting marriages are long over), invitations to birthday celebrations (my own) I can’t remember attending, tickets to Geoff Lawson’s Testimonial Dinner (go figure).

And, of course, the photos. So many pictures of so many faces that were so important to me at that time. Some of them I looked at and wondered why we’d lost touch. The beautiful redhead who inhaled life and dragged me along with her. The bohemian brunette with the curly hair, the flashing eyes and the Doc Martens who lived around the corner and was always up for an adventure. The flatmate I loved but lost in the ‘property settlement’ when my longterm relationship broke up. She knew him first.

Some of them I looked at and struggled to remember their names. Endless snaps of young men in tuxedos, mugging for the camera. Countless shots of gorgeous young women with big hair, big earrings, big smiles.

Then there was the inexplicable. Why would I have ever imagined I’d need the 1990 Sydney University timetable again in this lifetime? There must have been a reason, right?

Yes, there were letters from [insert name of former boyfriend], but only two and not the ones I was dreading. I was right in thinking I’d destroyed those. The two I read made me smile. More travelogue than sonnet, they described in detail a Contiki tour he’d taken, right down to the percentages of nationalities on the bus. They reminded me why I’d liked him so much in the first place – sweet and down-to-earth. I read them, then recycled them.

So now the suitcase is empty. Much of what it contained went straight into the bin. The rest is now tucked away, in a box, to be forgotten about for another 20 years. By that stage, I won’t recognise even myself in those pictures.

The things you do to get out of the Fibro #2

Last week, I got one of those email jokes. It went like this: Three friends meet over a cocktail and decide they need to spice up their love lives. One is a girlfriend, one is a mistress, one is a wife. They decide they will each buy sexy black lingerie, black stockings and seductive mask.

One week later, they meet again to report on what happened. The girlfriend has had a wild, dirty weekend involving 5-star hotels and declarations of love. The mistress has been treated to diamonds for her trouble. Then it’s the wife’s turn.

“I got a sitter, turned the lights low, put on romantic music and then waited at the end of the hall in my lingerie, mask and high heels,” she says. “When he came in the door and saw me, he said ‘What’s for dinner, Batman?’”

I relate this joke not only because it made me laugh (and it’s a rare email joke that does that), but because it replayed itself over and over in my mind as I made my way over to my friend R’s house last night. R has just begun a new business as a PASH consultant. She’ll be taking lingerie and Love Toys to the homes of women all over the region. I’d been invited to see what she was up to and, being the supportive (and curious) friend that I am, I was on my way. On a Tuesday.

Holy Party Plan!

It’s not my first run-in with Love Toys. When I worked at CLEO we called them Sex Toys and used to have meetings about which would look best on the page. Because that’s important in a Sex Toy.

It was, however, the first time I’d been expected to sit and, um, handle them in front of a group of women I didn’t know. At CLEO, we were professionals, handling them professionally. This would be different.

I had visions of us sitting around a formica table, under harsh, fluoro lights. My biggest worry was what I would do if someone actually ordered one. Right there. On the spot. Under the fluoros. Where would I look? Once you have a picture of someone with a large purple vibrator in her hand, it’s difficult to undo. Like, when you run into them at the post office.

But it wasn’t like that at all. It was, in fact, hysterically funny. Particularly after three glasses of champagne. On a Tuesday night. Of course, it was awkward at first. The one thing about a party consisting only of women is that everyone spends the first half hour in the kitchen. Making snacks. Like you can’t get to the fun without doing the chores first. Once we’d got through that and played a few party games, things kicked off.

I have learned quite a lot about sexy lingerie. Like the fact that it all seems to come with a Gee. It’s been a while since I’ve been on intimate terms with a Gee, and I have to confess I’m not unhappy with that situation. So no Batman moments for me this time around. Holy Bonds Hipsters!

In other news, corsets are fashionable. Best story of the night went to the gorgeous F who admitted to chasing the chooks in hers – well, what’s a girl to do when the rain’s a-comin’ and you’re caught in your smalls?

As for the Love Toys, things have moved on since my CLEO days. The Rabbit (made famous in Sex and The City) is still popular, but it looks kind of clunky now (wouldn’t make ‘the page’ these days, methinks). A Swedish company is making the world’s best vibrators. Sleek, stylish, functional. It’s not only flat-pack furniture those Swedes do well. No allen key required.

Update: The Suitcase will be opened over Easter. Stay tuned for update next week.

{image: FiftiesWeb.com}

The Suitcase lurking in the shed

Should you open a time capsule? It’s a question I’ve been asking myself for the past week. Ever since my parents decided to do some cleaning up. One minute I’m laughing at them because they’re up to their ears in tax returns that date back to sometime before God was a boy. The next they’re handing me a suitcase.

“We think this is yours,” said Dad. “We had to go through it to see. There’s pictures of you and sister B, but there are letters too. Letters from [insert name of former boyfriend].”

Oh. Weird. I still haven't opened the suitcase.

I’d like to make it clear at this point that this is a relationship that’s been over for twice the seven years it lasted. Not recent. Not festering. Not even thought about for years. But I haven’t opened that suitcase.

When The Builder and I packed up our Sydney house, home for nearly ten years, I remember thinking that I didn’t have many photos. He has albums full of pictures of his travels overseas, his friends, his girlfriends, his full (but not full enough, clearly) life before he met me. I had nothing. The two years I travelled overseas were well-documented, but there was nothing before and nothing much after.

I didn’t think too much about it because I’ve never been a snap-happy person. I like to experience moments rather than waste them trying to capture them for posterity. I have clear memories of watching in disgust the tourist couple in Venice as they floated past – him hanging out one side of the gondola with a video camera, not wanting to ‘miss’ a minute for their friends back home; her sitting, hands in lap, staring into space. Why go?

In hindsight, given that I have a memory like a sieve, I probably should have taken more pictures in my youth. I’ve made up for it in the past six years though – the combination of children and digital technology has increased my output to about 3000 images a year. (Most of them hiding on my hard disk. Why bother?)

Anyway, it seems that the lost chapter of my life has reappeared, magicked out of the back of Dad’s shed. Noone can remember when it was put there. Given the chronological markers – we’re looking at taking a core sample of the artefacts around it – it’s been there for at least 15 years.

And now it’s in my shed. An obstacle to be worked around when I get the pram out, or the bikes in. For a week now I’ve been looking at it. An innocuous brown vinyl suitcase, buckled and tagged. I’m curious, I admit. But part of me also wonders whether it’s a chapter that needs re-opening.

I’ve lived without its contents for a long time. Haven’t missed them. And I’m on a whole new page these days.

Do I just go with that and throw the whole thing out, buckled and tagged? What would you do?

{image: Wingnut Designs}

A beautiful life (and some waggling)

When you say goodbye to an old life and move into a new one, there are some tearful goodbyes that need to be said. Friends, family, blah, blah, blah. These are hard, but, you know, they’ll visit.

Some relationships, however, are over. The tyranny of distance is too great to bear. It’s a rare person who travels hours and hours up the freeway to see their dentist, doctor, hairdresser or beauty therapist. But sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t be one of those rare people.

Surprisingly, the whole hair thing was sorted in minutes. We met through friends, she was cheap, she was good and she was easy. Sold.

It took me a year to find a new dentist. We’ve had our first date and so far things are going well. He’s the kind of guy who’ll tell you if there’s spinach in your teeth. I like that in a person.

I rushed into things with our doctor – sometimes needs must, right? I had a need, he was there, and it’s not easy to find The One when potentials are thin on the ground. Just ask the women of Sydney. Down here, it’s not a matter of choosing a doctor, it’s a matter of finding someone, anyone, with room on their dance card when push comes to shove. So I dove in early, put all my cards on the table, and, fortunately, it seems to be working out.

The whole beauty thing, however, is another kettle of fish all together. I thought I’d cracked it. Things were going well and then… let’s just say that I’m thinking that this may not be a longterm affair.

When you are fair of hair, pale of skin and freckled of hue as I am, you need brows. They need to be shaped, darkened and not destroyed. In the big smoke, I had one trusted soul who'd looked after my needs for seven or eight years. But she didn't want to make the move with me.

I should have tried harder to convince her.

My last visit to what had become my regular salon here ended with me looking not unlike Mr Potato Head. Wearing his Angry Eyes. The Builder tried hard to reassure me, but found it difficult. Every time he spoke to me, his eyes were invariably drawn upward, fixated. I couldn’t even be offended. I kept catching sight of my brows in mirrors and startling myself. I even found myself waggling them. Waggling. This was not good.

Mr3, who is in the habit of telling me when I need to ‘get my brows on’, thought they were wonderful. He kept patting them, like pet caterpillars.

That was more than six weeks ago. Which means it’s time to ‘get my brows on’ again. But now I have a decision to make. Do I risk my regular salon again, knowing I could end up looking like an extra in Toy Story 3? Or do I branch out and try someone new?

Which means all that getting to know you chit-chat again. Baring my brows and other body parts to another stranger. Waiting to see how it all turns out.

The dilemma.

All I can hear in my head is Eddie Vedder singing ‘She lies and says she’s in love with them…can’t find a better brow’.

More conversations from The Fibro

WHAT I TALKED ABOUT THIS WEEK: I’ve decided that every Friday I'll share some of the topics of conversation that came up through work or play (I'll leave it to you to figure out which) in the course of life in a pink fibro.

The colour of Yoda’s lightsaber, how to use the caps lock button on the keyboard, roofing materials, interior design, the local paper, Council’s potential new bin system, the new Principal, my sister’s carpets, decking boards, my B-I-L’s new business, Tony Abbott, losing weight, learning to run (decided not to), life in Italy, wine, lack of wine, Mr6’s new readers, how to hem trousers (answer: get someone else to do it), twitter, Angus & Robertson, Children’s Panadol, doing a budget, cleaning out the fridge, insulation, Peter Garrett, investing in classic cars, the Edinburgh Tattoo, the rain, the rain, the rain, the heat.

Can you renovate - and keep your relationship?

Yesterday I bought the new issue of House & Garden. I confess I haven't bought an issue in ages (despite having worked on the mag for many years in a different lifetime), but it looks great and... I had an ulterior motive. This month's mag comes with a Kitchen & Bathroom special attached. And I'm in a place in my life where that looks attractive (I know, I need to get out more).

One thing about moving into an older house is that you have a good idea about what's in your future. You know there'll be dust. You know there'll be tears. You know there'll be fights over whether a particular colour is 'greige', despite it's exotic moniker (calling it Tahitian Sand doesn't make it any less boring). Yep, it's renovation time. In my case, I can add AGAIN. Because, just like childbirth, I forgot the pain of the first time around and have signed up for a second bout.

The Builder and I have decided that this will be the year to drag the Fibro into the 21st century - probably kicking and screaming. New bathroom, new kitchen... the nightmare begins.

Last time we did this, I wrote a story about it (surprise, surprise...as with most writers, my life and everyone in it are all fodder for the machine). It wasn't about colours and benchtops and whether the paneled doors were worth the extra cost. It was about the insidious cost of renovating. Not the budget blowout (everyone knows you need to add a 20 per cent 'contingency' fee to any estimate), but the sheer stress of the whole enterprise.

There’s no doubt that renovating places a huge strain on even the strongest partnership. When you find yourself poring over colour charts for the 900th time that week, arguing whether to go for the Crescent or the Baroque or the Lancelot (who even knew that green could be called so many things?) and, worst of all, really, really caring about the tonal differences between the three, it can be an eye-opening experience. Are you aware of your partner’s preferences in tapware? You will be after you’ve been dragged through eight different plumbling supply shops and he’s still searching for “one with less curves, I’ll know it when I see it”.

Considering that many of us can get away with making about three decisions every day - will I get up?, what will I wear?, what will I have for dinner? - the renovating process is mind-numbing. Not only are you choosing colours, fixtures and fittings, you have to choose tradesmen, check contracts, decide if you’re going to oversee the work yourself, find someone to draw plans, decide how much you can spend (and try not to get too upset when you go over...) and the list goes on. Is it any wonder that we feel consumed by it – to the exclusion of all else?

And then there’s the question of taste: if you want to create a Balinese haven and your partner is picturing a New-York-style warehouse, you’ve got more than geography to sort out. One couple I’ve heard of got to the stage where he would paint the hallway pale blue every time she left the house and she’d repaint it cream while he was at work. Eventually, she did a final coat in black, just before she walked out for the last time.

Fortunately, The Builder and I have similar thoughts in interior design and decorating. We followed the rules - poring over magazines so we could show each other what we had in mind (rather than just trying to describe it), being prepared to compromise when one of us felt really strongly about something, and organising our space so that the dust during renovation was corralled as much as possible.

We managed to get through a full renovation of a brick Federation cottage in the city. Surely a basic kitchen/bathroom update in our nothing-in-particular fibro in the country won't be as stressful? Oh wait - we didn't have children last time. Now we have two.

Who am I kidding?