I have readers! I may not have too many followers, but thank you to the lovely folk who email and FB message and tweet in response to what I write. I love you both ;)
A few folk have asked me what became of that lost earring that sent me into meltdown at the hockey, and although I did post a comment to my piece, it deserves a proper postscript.
It was found!
When it wasn't in my car, or bag, or underclothes, I had given up hope by the time I got to work the next morning that the delicate rose gold and garnet drop, given to me by my husband before he was my husband, would ever be seen again.
I put a message on our intranet and asked the GM's PA to send out an all points, in the hope someone had found it.
And behold, before she even saw the message, the lovely Eve Nesmith discovered the earring in the ladies loo! Saying to herself "this looks like Aly" she returned it to me, and had no idea why I sobbed and squeezed the life out of her until she got back to her desk and read the intranet message and my blog.
Just as the loss of the earring was symbolic of the loss of my marriage, so its recovery by Eve was symbolic of our friendship. Frequently coming to each other's rescue, we share a special bond forged over pub lunches and strolls in the mall. We take it in turns to be soothing sage and cackling mad woman. We laugh and cry and bitch and moan and eat gozleme and buy flowers. I'm lucky to have her.
And a postscript to the postscript: the poor girl who got whacked in the mouth at hockey (thereby diverting attention from the sobbing woman on the benchseat clutching her empty earlobe) is fine, but has had two teeth dislodged and will require a retrofit of her braces. Still, she's beautiful and nearly 16, like my own lovely, and has made it through another hockey game intact. She copped a ball in the neck, but I don't think her nervous mother saw.
Monday, 7 May 2012
Sunday, 6 May 2012
agent for orange
I love it that orange is making a comeback this season.
I bought three new tops today, and at least two should come with a volume control.
The brighter the better, come winter, I say.
I've always loved orange.
As a little girl I had orange curtains in my room (although they were not of my choosing) and the material made swooshy noises when you rubbed it between your fingers. It was most glamorous.
My first car was orange, a 1979 Escort, and I rue the day I sold it to an ungrateful acquaintance who quickly traded it in. He didn't love it nearly enough.
My favourite lipstick was orange, and tasted and smelled as good as it looked.
It was a Nutrimetics product, now long gone. Jasmine, I think it was called.
My favourite scarf is orange, a hippy thing with some tie-dyed pink and yellow was well.
And my new tops, well, of course they, along with my new tribal earrings in guess what colour, are already faves.
Sorry, colleagues and acquaintances, if it burns your retinas.
I need a little (alright, a lot) of colour in my life.
I bought three new tops today, and at least two should come with a volume control.
The brighter the better, come winter, I say.
I've always loved orange.
As a little girl I had orange curtains in my room (although they were not of my choosing) and the material made swooshy noises when you rubbed it between your fingers. It was most glamorous.
My first car was orange, a 1979 Escort, and I rue the day I sold it to an ungrateful acquaintance who quickly traded it in. He didn't love it nearly enough.
My favourite lipstick was orange, and tasted and smelled as good as it looked.
It was a Nutrimetics product, now long gone. Jasmine, I think it was called.
My favourite scarf is orange, a hippy thing with some tie-dyed pink and yellow was well.
And my new tops, well, of course they, along with my new tribal earrings in guess what colour, are already faves.
Sorry, colleagues and acquaintances, if it burns your retinas.
I need a little (alright, a lot) of colour in my life.
Saturday, 5 May 2012
My melting moments
I'm quite proud of how I've tidied up my act a bit since I've been in "open house" mode.
Dishes don't get left on the sink overnight, nor clothes and towels on the floor, nor dog poo on the ground. Everything in its place. I've even taken to cleaning. Windex is my middle name. The ironing basket is empty (except for six odd socks). The kitty litter is fresh.
I'll never become one of those perplexing people who irons sheets and undies, but I am pleased that I've overcome my slovenly ways, or at least overcome the slovenly ways of the people I live/d with.
The keeping up appearances has even extended to my own self (most days), when I've taken a bit more care with accessories and lippy. My eyebrows have definition. I've stopped biting my nails. I have a swagger.
But I let the team down tonight. And had to eat four Melting Moments as a result.
My own personal melting moment happened at Coles (which I still call B-Lo) at Elermore Vale. Out-of-towners can get a mental image based on its proximity to, and shared patronaged with, the Shaft Tavern. All class.
I'd come home from netball, had a cuppa, and needed to restock the larder. Feeling the chill in the air, I swapped my free-flowing leopard print overshirt for a purple tracky top, and my caramel wedges for caramel uggs. The jeans were the same, but didn't look it. My hair was a bit on the tired side, and I had panda eyes. But, it's only Bi-Lo, right?
Well, I pulled up, and began my saunter in (its hard to saunter in uggs) when next to me appeared a vision in black and white.
Tall, slender, sunnies a la alex perry, she wore a white woolen trench, cinched ever so at the waist (she had a waist!), black skinny jeans (the stylish kind, jodhpurs almost) and black riding boots. She carried a white leather bag, just right for ducking to the shops, and an iPhone in a zebra striped case. There was the right amount of bling, the right amount of blush, and a hint of gloss to the pout.
She was not young, but she was beautiful.
She turned heads.
I did not.
I dragged my uggs through the isles, bought the Melting Moments, forgot the teabags, and fled for home. The first three Moments didn't hit the sides. The fourth made me feel sick.
Note to self: tomorrow, try harder.
Dishes don't get left on the sink overnight, nor clothes and towels on the floor, nor dog poo on the ground. Everything in its place. I've even taken to cleaning. Windex is my middle name. The ironing basket is empty (except for six odd socks). The kitty litter is fresh.
I'll never become one of those perplexing people who irons sheets and undies, but I am pleased that I've overcome my slovenly ways, or at least overcome the slovenly ways of the people I live/d with.
The keeping up appearances has even extended to my own self (most days), when I've taken a bit more care with accessories and lippy. My eyebrows have definition. I've stopped biting my nails. I have a swagger.
But I let the team down tonight. And had to eat four Melting Moments as a result.
My own personal melting moment happened at Coles (which I still call B-Lo) at Elermore Vale. Out-of-towners can get a mental image based on its proximity to, and shared patronaged with, the Shaft Tavern. All class.
I'd come home from netball, had a cuppa, and needed to restock the larder. Feeling the chill in the air, I swapped my free-flowing leopard print overshirt for a purple tracky top, and my caramel wedges for caramel uggs. The jeans were the same, but didn't look it. My hair was a bit on the tired side, and I had panda eyes. But, it's only Bi-Lo, right?
Well, I pulled up, and began my saunter in (its hard to saunter in uggs) when next to me appeared a vision in black and white.
Tall, slender, sunnies a la alex perry, she wore a white woolen trench, cinched ever so at the waist (she had a waist!), black skinny jeans (the stylish kind, jodhpurs almost) and black riding boots. She carried a white leather bag, just right for ducking to the shops, and an iPhone in a zebra striped case. There was the right amount of bling, the right amount of blush, and a hint of gloss to the pout.
She was not young, but she was beautiful.
She turned heads.
I did not.
I dragged my uggs through the isles, bought the Melting Moments, forgot the teabags, and fled for home. The first three Moments didn't hit the sides. The fourth made me feel sick.
Note to self: tomorrow, try harder.
Thursday, 3 May 2012
Farewell Margaret Goumas
Have just heard the sad news that Newcastle cinema doyenne Margaret Goumas has passed away.
So many in Newcastle, and in the wider cinema community, will be shocked and saddened today.
My thoughts go out to Theo, who despite being called "a difficult man" on more than one occasion by Margaret, loved and needed his wife.
Who can forget Margaret holding court at the Showcase, dog Carmella as support act. Welcoming, knowledgable, opinionated, the height of a style and fashion all her own.
The battle, ultimately lost, to keep her valuable and vibrant city cinema open. And then her presence, often, at the Greater Union, where so many sought her out for her conversation and her movie critique.
Who can forget her time in local government, the objection to those uneven pavers in the mall (they ruined your heels) and her objection to breastfeeding in the cinema foyer.
The tumultous time that she and Theo split and the AVOs that made the front page.
And the reunion; living together again in a city apartment, seeing movies, going to dinner, walking along the waterfront.
The last time I saw Margaret was at Margin Call. Gorgeous as ever. I told her I had separated from my husband (she knew him well too) and she patted my arm and said "Look at you, you're strong and beautiful, you will be fine.We'll both be fine."
I was talking about her yesterday, suggesting we do a profile on her for a new women's website that is being launched, and recounting her response when I asked her to be the subject of a profile for Weekender last year.
"Oh, yes, there are stories, Alysson," she said, smiling. And without a hint of malice: "But many will have to wait until Theo is dead."
And now Margaret is. Farewell.
So many in Newcastle, and in the wider cinema community, will be shocked and saddened today.
My thoughts go out to Theo, who despite being called "a difficult man" on more than one occasion by Margaret, loved and needed his wife.
Who can forget Margaret holding court at the Showcase, dog Carmella as support act. Welcoming, knowledgable, opinionated, the height of a style and fashion all her own.
The battle, ultimately lost, to keep her valuable and vibrant city cinema open. And then her presence, often, at the Greater Union, where so many sought her out for her conversation and her movie critique.
Who can forget her time in local government, the objection to those uneven pavers in the mall (they ruined your heels) and her objection to breastfeeding in the cinema foyer.
The tumultous time that she and Theo split and the AVOs that made the front page.
And the reunion; living together again in a city apartment, seeing movies, going to dinner, walking along the waterfront.
The last time I saw Margaret was at Margin Call. Gorgeous as ever. I told her I had separated from my husband (she knew him well too) and she patted my arm and said "Look at you, you're strong and beautiful, you will be fine.We'll both be fine."
I was talking about her yesterday, suggesting we do a profile on her for a new women's website that is being launched, and recounting her response when I asked her to be the subject of a profile for Weekender last year.
"Oh, yes, there are stories, Alysson," she said, smiling. And without a hint of malice: "But many will have to wait until Theo is dead."
And now Margaret is. Farewell.
Going commando, and other underwear choices
My post on Facebook tonight that I love Commando, and subsequent discussion, got me thinking about underwear.
The Commando I was referring to was the gorgeous tank, inked creature on The Biggest Loser, who started out as the pseudo-military trainer from hell, hidden behind dark glasses, but is now, with baby blues revealed, the losers' best friend. And he's a delectable yet calorie-controlled treat of eye candy for the viewing public to boot.
But one Facebooker assumed the commando I was referring to was the practice of, how did she put it, wearing one's shorts without undies. Also known by the male part of my household as freeballing.
Now, I'm as liberal as the next tertiary-educated, recently separated, feminist, middle-aged working mother, but I do like my undies. And, sad to say, the bigger the better.
Not quite Bridget Jones mummy pants, but, when there are acres to cover, you won't do it with anal floss.
I have been known to "go commando" on occasions; skirt-wearing occasions where a visible panty line would be too horrific, or some serious action was anticipated (and I can hardly remember those days!! perhaps I'm making them up?) but mostly I do keep my knickers on.
And it would be unseemly to freeball wearing anything with a seam, surely?
Even the G-string is surely a contraption of torture.
I suspect it, and not merciless hunger, is the reason for the misery exhibited by Posh, and her supermodel ilk.
They really need to hoik out their undies, but someone's always watching.
To live life with a wedgie, truly perverse.
The Commando I was referring to was the gorgeous tank, inked creature on The Biggest Loser, who started out as the pseudo-military trainer from hell, hidden behind dark glasses, but is now, with baby blues revealed, the losers' best friend. And he's a delectable yet calorie-controlled treat of eye candy for the viewing public to boot.
But one Facebooker assumed the commando I was referring to was the practice of, how did she put it, wearing one's shorts without undies. Also known by the male part of my household as freeballing.
Now, I'm as liberal as the next tertiary-educated, recently separated, feminist, middle-aged working mother, but I do like my undies. And, sad to say, the bigger the better.
Not quite Bridget Jones mummy pants, but, when there are acres to cover, you won't do it with anal floss.
I have been known to "go commando" on occasions; skirt-wearing occasions where a visible panty line would be too horrific, or some serious action was anticipated (and I can hardly remember those days!! perhaps I'm making them up?) but mostly I do keep my knickers on.
And it would be unseemly to freeball wearing anything with a seam, surely?
Even the G-string is surely a contraption of torture.
I suspect it, and not merciless hunger, is the reason for the misery exhibited by Posh, and her supermodel ilk.
They really need to hoik out their undies, but someone's always watching.
To live life with a wedgie, truly perverse.
Wednesday, 2 May 2012
Number one in sex ed
We had a meltdown of the scholastic kind in the year 7 camp tonight, prompted by deadlines looming and past. Past is the deadline for returning the accelerometer that only got worn during war games on Playstation.
Looming are the speech on road safety (that almost got eaten by the dishwasher), the performance in a group of four of the original 64-bar drum composition (that may as well be performed by the dishwasher) and the graphic presentation of rules in the textile room (do not stick pins in your arms, or in other students arms etc).
Plus there are decimals coming out our decimals.
But there is one subject I'm not behind in, says Gabe, grinning. PE theory. Which in the old days was called sex education.
Ohh (nervous laughter from mother).
Today we talked about periods, and the girls were nervous so Dale and I read the whole section out.
Ohh (more nervous laughter from mother).
When I first tried to put a tampon in it only got halfway and got stuck, so I ...
Ohh (nervous interjection from mother) It must be because you have older sisters that you and Dale are so knowledgeable.
Yes, and we had to list the points for and against pads and tampons, and the girls only got three and Dale and I got 17.
Ohh (slighter braver mother, never show you're afraid). And what were some of them?
You know, you can't see them and you can go swimming and stuff.
And (before mother can even blush), we had to write these definitions and for "genitals" Dale wrote "smelly nut sacks" and (mother gagging now) there was this crossword and the only word we spelt wrong was masterbate (sic) (mother giggling now), and we didn't get 20 across which was "noctural emission". (mother puzzled now). Derrr, it was wet dream. And then the girls read out this passage: "I woke up and my sheets were all sticky...:
Mother, near faint, sighs with relief. If there's a gap in the knowledge, it probably means the experience is not yet first hand.
Why don't we watch some telly, little one.
Looming are the speech on road safety (that almost got eaten by the dishwasher), the performance in a group of four of the original 64-bar drum composition (that may as well be performed by the dishwasher) and the graphic presentation of rules in the textile room (do not stick pins in your arms, or in other students arms etc).
Plus there are decimals coming out our decimals.
But there is one subject I'm not behind in, says Gabe, grinning. PE theory. Which in the old days was called sex education.
Ohh (nervous laughter from mother).
Today we talked about periods, and the girls were nervous so Dale and I read the whole section out.
Ohh (more nervous laughter from mother).
When I first tried to put a tampon in it only got halfway and got stuck, so I ...
Ohh (nervous interjection from mother) It must be because you have older sisters that you and Dale are so knowledgeable.
Yes, and we had to list the points for and against pads and tampons, and the girls only got three and Dale and I got 17.
Ohh (slighter braver mother, never show you're afraid). And what were some of them?
You know, you can't see them and you can go swimming and stuff.
And (before mother can even blush), we had to write these definitions and for "genitals" Dale wrote "smelly nut sacks" and (mother gagging now) there was this crossword and the only word we spelt wrong was masterbate (sic) (mother giggling now), and we didn't get 20 across which was "noctural emission". (mother puzzled now). Derrr, it was wet dream. And then the girls read out this passage: "I woke up and my sheets were all sticky...:
Mother, near faint, sighs with relief. If there's a gap in the knowledge, it probably means the experience is not yet first hand.
Why don't we watch some telly, little one.
Tuesday, 1 May 2012
Why I don't change banks
On the day the Reserve Bank delivers good news to home owners, my bank delivers quite the opposite.
My mortgage will increase from May 30, albeit only $3 a week.
I wonder if by the time that increase takes effect, I'll have another letter saying a decrease is about to take effect. I live in hope.
So why don't I change banks, I hear you ask?
Well, it's not that it's too difficult to change banks (well, it is a bit, but not impossible and easier than it used to be), it's just that it's too easy not to.
Inertia is a powerful force. So is kindness.
I had the same bank manager for 25 years, who I could call or email 24/7. Rod used to share a house with a friend of a friend and married another friend of that friend. And he is a nice guy, and now a lovely family man. Recently, because he was on leave and I needed help immediately, he pointed me in the direction of Brenda, who is equally obliging, and, in fact, going through a similar seismic shift in life circumstance to me. I fell in love.
Financial adviser, counsellor and member of the sisterhood rolled into one. We'd become besties, but that would be unprofessional.
Try as they will, call centre workers interracting with you as a customer reference number can't come close to that.
My mortgage will increase from May 30, albeit only $3 a week.
I wonder if by the time that increase takes effect, I'll have another letter saying a decrease is about to take effect. I live in hope.
So why don't I change banks, I hear you ask?
Well, it's not that it's too difficult to change banks (well, it is a bit, but not impossible and easier than it used to be), it's just that it's too easy not to.
Inertia is a powerful force. So is kindness.
I had the same bank manager for 25 years, who I could call or email 24/7. Rod used to share a house with a friend of a friend and married another friend of that friend. And he is a nice guy, and now a lovely family man. Recently, because he was on leave and I needed help immediately, he pointed me in the direction of Brenda, who is equally obliging, and, in fact, going through a similar seismic shift in life circumstance to me. I fell in love.
Financial adviser, counsellor and member of the sisterhood rolled into one. We'd become besties, but that would be unprofessional.
Try as they will, call centre workers interracting with you as a customer reference number can't come close to that.
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