Announcing … ta-dah … book giveaway winner!

Being fifty-something, I love a giveaway … whether I’m on the giving OR the receiving end of it!

Thanks to everyone who showed interest in winning a copy of Calling Invisible Women by Jeanne Ray in my recent giveaway. And a big thanks to Random House New York for providing the prize.

Given the umber of entries wasn’t overwhelming, I decided to go old school and write a slip for each entry.

I then asked Mr P to draw a winner from the ~~hat~~ bowl. (Do you like his nail polish?)

Ta-dah! Congratulations to Deb Hadskis. I will send you an email shortly, Deb, so you can reply with your postal address. I will get your book in the mail to you on Monday. Happy reading!

Again, thanks to everyone for your interest … wish I had a book for each of you!

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Lego, window-leering, lunch and lollies

Jun25

Being fifty something I leap at any opportunity I can to feed my inner child.

So it didn’t take much enticing to get Mr P and moi down to Point Lonsdale on The Bellarine for the Queenscliff Bricks (Lego) exhibition. (We never need an excuse to take a drive to this beautiful part of the world.)

I was hoping to see some truly creative Lego masterpieces, maybe in the style of Nathan Sawaya, the creative genius behind this compelling piece of blockery:

Yellow lego creation By Nathan Sawaya http://www.brickartist.com

Check out Nathan’s website gallery … you don’t have to be a Lego fanatic to appreciate his work.

At Point Lonsdale, I found something entirely different. Well, same … but different. The weekend’s exhibition comprised replica pieces.

Replica space ships:

Replica Eiffel tower:

Replica Buckingham Palace (complete with a bustling crowd of Lego men and women):

There was a replica Yoda, a replica Government House, a replica-just-about-anything-you-can-imagine.

The hall was buzzing with little Lego-lovers and big Lego-leerers. It takes a shipload of Lego and even more concentration to put these massive works together.

The Rotary Club had the place running like clockwork. Don’t they know how to run an event? Crowd control, ticket scanning, people counting, catering … even a donut van waiting at the exit for Mr P.

Lunch in nearby Queenscliff was a given, but not before the obligatory wander up then down the main street … always a window shopping winner in this funky seaside locale.

I fed my inner child some more with this behind-the-glass creation:

Apparently my inner child was skipping hand-in-hand with my inner wannabe upholsterer … these beauties were enough to lure me (and my inner alters) inside for a closer inspection:

Lunch at the Beaches Cafe didn’t disappoint. Nor did a swing past the Seaside Lolly Shop to bag some sugar before heading home.

Fully satisfied. All of us. Inner child included.

Mammogram musing …

Jun22

Being fifty-something, I’m eligible for all sorts of government freebies like regular screening mammograms.

The letter arrived today, heralding that my mammogram time has cycled around again.

I should be pleased.

I should be grateful.

But every time I have to work my way through the process, thought by thought.

The Waiting Room photo by Topeka & Shawneee County Public Library

When I phone the clinic to make my mammogram appointment, I’ll think about how fortunate I am to have a clinic within walking distance of my home, and one staffed by such lovely, compassionate professionals.

On the day, when I’m seated in a waiting room full of nervous-looking women, I’ll scan around and wonder how many of us are lucky enough to be here for simple routine screenings. Definitely not the twenty-something and thirty-something women. What are their stories?

I’ll think about my sister-in-law, my cousin-in-law, friends, acquaintances and strangers. Those who’ve survived or succumbed to breast cancer. And those who have yet to go into battle.

When I’m standing top-half-naked in a beige room with only a massive mammography machine and a stranger for company, I’ll think about the women living in homelessness, in third world conditions, in war zones. They won’t receive mammogram reminder letters.

When I look down embarrassed by my white, shapeless boobs and the shortening distance between them and my waistband, I’ll think about the women who miss the breasts (and more) they’ve lost to cancer.

And, when the lovely compassionate stranger asks me to lift my saggy boob up onto the cold hard slab before she entraps it with another cold hard slab and squeezes it until I’m sure it’s going to burst … and then squeezes it some more … I’ll grin and be grateful for this pain that might just save my life.

How lucky am I?

Book Review and GIVEAWAY: Calling Invisible Women

Jun20

Being fifty-something, I love a great read.

I love it even more when a great read just falls in my lap. No prevaricating over the “just returned” shelves at the library. No trawling through the “people who bought this also bought this” recommendations at Amazon. No hoping to luck onto a pre-read gem at the goodwill store.

It was pure, girl-giggly delight when Random House offered to send me a review copy (plus one to giveaway) of Jeanne Ray’s new novel, Calling Invisible Women.

I was even more giggly when the parcel arrived containing two mint hardback copies. Win!

Inside a little voice was warning: “what if it’s crap?” What if I have to pen a review about a mediocre (or worse) book?

I didn’t have to face that dilemma.

Calling Invisible Women turned out to be quite the page-turner.

I admit to some early reservations. The synopsis began with: “Calling Invisible Women is a delightfully funny and clever novel about Clover, a mom in her fifties who wakes up one morning to find that she is quite literally invisible.”

Could I (would I) suspend my disbelief for long enough to connect with an invisible character? I mean … I’ve felt invisible (hey, I’m fifty-something). But actually going along for the ride with a truly invisible protagonist? I had my doubts.

I was wrong (and thrilled to be wrong, yet again).

In Calling Invisible Women, Jeanne Ray draws her characters with such heart and reality that I had no choice but to jump in and hang on tight. Calling Invisible Women is keenly observational … of fifty-something women, of families, of best friends and of strangers. It’s a comedy, a love story, a family tale and a thriller all fused into a single narrative told in an almost spare language that lets the characters propel the story straight into your heart.

For Clover (the main character) the calamity of being suddenly invisible takes her on a journey where others might fear to tread. Who knew that in the hands of a suburban mum, invisibility could become a super power that would help galvanise a collective? OK … that’s as close as I’m going to a spoiler. Let me just say that if Erin Brockovich had been an invisible fifty-something woman, that movie might have been done with in the first couple of acts.

Clever, thought-provoking, giggle-inducing, tear-jerking … what more could one ask for in a novel? When I turned the last page, I wanted for more. I thought the end had come too swiftly, that loose threads still dangled teasingly from the narrative. Then I realised I didn’t need to know more. I don’t need to know everything. When does that ever happen in life? We only ever know snippets and phases, stories and tales … never the full picture. And perhaps Jeanne Ray is cleverly leaving room for a sequel.

I hope so.

Thank you Random House for not sending me (us) a lemon.

***GIVEAWAY*** – UPDATE 29 June 2012 – GIVEAWAY NOW CLOSED – WINNER WILL BE ANNOUNCED SATURDAY

So, here’s the rub. Thanks to Random House, I have a copy (mint hardback) of Calling Invisible Women to give away to a reader of Being fifty-something (that’s you, by definition.).

I have no plans to make you jump through hoops (no collecting coupons, no 25 words-or-less). Just let me know in the comments below if you’re interested, and I’ll put you in the draw.

If you’d like a second chance, I’d appreciate you hopping over to Being fifty-something’s Facebook community and registering your “like” there.

If you’re still keen (you could be exhausted by now) you could also follow Being fifty-something on Twitter for a third chance: @fifty_something or follow the link in the sidebar to the right.

With your last shred of eagerness, perhaps you could spread the love? Share a link, re-tweet a tweet … tell a friend. Just don’t jump through any hoops.

Let me know how keen you’ve been in the comments below and I’ll sort out the probability this end. This is my first giveaway, so I’m planning to get Wonder Boy to help me sort one of those random computer thingamy things to make sure everything is above board.

Will close the gates at midnight Thursday 28 June and announce (and notify) the winner on Saturday 30 June.

And yes … I’m happy to post the prize internationally (at my cost). After all, Random House were generous enough to ship to me from New York.

May the (invisible) force be with you … and good luck.

About the author:

Jeanne Ray is an inspirational author who worked as a registered nurse for forty years before she wrote her first novel at the age of sixty. She lives in Nashville, Tennessee with her husband and her dog, Red. She is the New York Times bestselling author of the novels Julie and Romeo, Julie and Romeo Get Lucky, Eat Cake, and Step-Ball-Change.

The universe bites back

Jun16

Being fifty-something, I can admit to a hippy-like view of the universe and how it brings you what you need or deserve (not necessarily what you want … or think you want).

Last night, I think the universe bit back at me for my blogpost about fugly power line stanchions. Yes, we suffered a power outage, the first in quite a while.

Just as Mr P, Wonder Boy and I were pouring (or maybe pawing) over the Pizza Shop menu, planning a Friday-night-end-of-a-long-week-feed, all went dark.

After an awkward pause to figure out WTF was going on, we scrambled in the dark for torches and candles.

Luckily, being a collector of “old stuff”, I had these (and more) handy:

The street lights (and traffic lights) were out for almost as far as we could see. Mr P offered to brave the darkness and head to the Pizza Shop (“I’m a truck driver. I can drive in the dark.”)

Lucky, because the blackout had limited our dinner options dramatically.

I managed to locate a bottle of red (by feel) and there was a beer (or two) in the fridge.

It’s amazing how much we take electricity for granted. Everything I wanted to do seemed to involve flicking a switch. Eventually I settled in a chair and just let myself “be” – a welcome state after a stressful week.

Soon, Mr P was back (bearing a family-sized half vegetarian/half special) and we gathered around the light source at the dining table to dig in.

Wonder Boy was relaxing after finishing his last university exam for the semester so was on for a chat.

Before long we were deep into the “why and why not” of whether money can buy happiness. I’d been to another “positive psychology” talk the previous night where the speaker shared some data about income not contributing to day-to-day happiness, once earning reached a certain level (approx. $75,000 combined household). He (the speaker) wondered why business owners were busting a gut to earn more money, even in very successful businesses, if it was not likely they’d be happier.

I’ve since been asking myself that same question.

As an Economics major, Wonder Boy had plenty to add. A uni mate is planning a thesis based on whether or not money can buy happiness, so he was familiar with the data.

Mr P has an opportunity to chase some big dollars in his work. It would mean some big changes in our lives and we’re not sure how that would pan out.

It made for interesting chatter about how else you might find satisfaction if not by earning more money. Perhaps by doing good things for others, by being innovative and thought-leading in your industry, by teaching others, by sharing success with those around you, by creating opportunities for other people, by being creative?

The list goes on.

Goodness knows what’s right for us. I’m not even sure the universe knows. I’m not even sure there’s a right answer.

What I do know is that last night’s power outage gave this little family the opportunity to have an honest, uninterrupted discussion about what happiness means to us. No one rushed off to watch the footy, check emails, write blogposts, read novels or newspapers.

Instead, we lingered by the light source, the conversation and the empty pizza box for a couple of hours before the cold set in and we headed off to bed.

The universe had brought us what we needed and deserved … time to just “be”, time to have meaningful conversation and time to share our thoughts about what was good in our lives, what makes us happy.

All achieved in the soft glow of the oil lamp and candles … a reminder of those simpler times.

Thanks universe. You can come biting any time.

Thinking about … wind turbines

Jun14

*** warning: weird brain-dump post following***

Being fifty-something, I think way too much.

Lately I’ve been thinking about wind farms.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/coryschadt/506384914/

Photo by Cory Schadt

I love looking at wind turbines … those majestic towering beauties that appear on the horizon when you least expect it, in the middle of a Sunday drive. Sometimes you just get a glimpse of one in the distance. It seems to take forever to close in and get up close. Then you find there’s a whole flock of them cresting a clifftop or hugging the high-ground on a hill.

When you stand at the base of one of these giants, you feel a sense of strength and solidity amongst amazing silence (at least, I do!)

I could look at them all day. I find them weirdly intriguing even though they are so incongruent with the landscapes they occupy. Perhaps it’s what they represent: humans sorting out more environmentally-conscious ways to live. (A bit airy fairy?)

The jury’s still out on whether they are actually silent and whether they can negatively impact wellbeing. I’m not saying I want one in my backyard, just that they look mighty schmick.

So, we’ve established I’m loopy … I love staring at wind turbines.

Then I start thinking about these aberrations:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/lord_yo/3559513238/

Photo by Timm Suess

What were we thinking when we erected armies of these fuglies marching across the landscape?

I find nothing attractive in these. Just fugly, fugly, fugly. Even though they’re majestic, incongruent, solid and silent (except for that odd buzzing thing).

Between you and me, I DO think that’s a great photo of a fugly subject.

So, what’s my point?

All this thinking leads me to wonder whether we thought the power line stanchions were beautiful when they were being proposed/erected?

And am I still going to find wind farms beautiful (or even bearable) to look at in a couple of decades? I fear the novelty will wear off and they will evolve into fugly old blights on the landscape. Just like their ancestral cousins.

And, the even bigger question: is fugly OK if it’s going to help save the planet?

Feck. Definitely over-thinking.

Do you ever wonder about wind turbines? Love ‘em or hate ‘em?

Lunching with the sisterhood.

Jun11

Being fifty-something, I’m more grateful than ever for my sisters.

I recall many years ago I was trying to convince a teary friend that she’d feel better if she talked through her troubles with someone. “It’s all right for you,” she sobbed defensively. “You’ve got all those sisters.”

It dawned on me that I had been dealt a winning sibling hand.

Growing up, we’d been conditioned to think otherwise. The reaction to our five-daughters-no-sons family was usually dismay. There was a lot of “poor Dad” and “Will you try again?”

Mum and Dad never hid that they’d hoped for a son amongst their brood. Even when pregnant with number five they picked out a boy’s name ready.

The fact that Mum’s brother had seven-boys-no-girls didn’t help.

We were mostly referred to by the collective “the girls” and our hand-me-down clothes assumed almost eternal life.

We did lots of girlie play together … it was all Barbie dolls and dress-ups. We sewed, we knitted, we jigsawed.

If it wasn’t for the “only child” boy-next-door-neighbour (Jimmy) we might never have learnt the joys of Lego blocks and Tonka trucks (or had any notion that we were missing out).

As we hit our teens and started thinking about boyfriends, we bemoaned the lack of a brother to fill our little house with his mates.

With our teens came other angst, too … at any given time it was mathematically probable that one of us would be premenstrual.

Yep … poor Dad.

Oddly, we each recorded our periods by circling and initialling dates on a shared family calendar pinned inside the pantry door. I suspect that was for poor Dad’s benefit … so he knew when to lay low.

Soon, new partners, workmates and best friends filled out our relationships and we found ourselves moving from the little bursting-with-hormones house to our own places.

We still caught up at regular family gatherings, but we all had our own busy lives to live.

There were weddings and babies and businesses.

There were jobs and divorces and mortgages.

There were grandkids and study and in-laws.

Fast-forward to our fifties and our lives are still busied with such things.

But now we make space for “sister time”.

Today I enjoyed lunch out with two of my sisters. (The third was granted a leave pass; she was interstate for the long weekend.)

We have a family birthday gathering next weekend but we’ve learnt we don’t really get to connect at those functions … we’re too occupied with doting on the littlies and learning what the middlies are up to. One or more of us seems constantly in the kitchen making sure everyone is fed and watered.

When it’s just the sisters we can talk about anything. If we were brothers it would be “balls ‘n’ all”.

Today we covered dysfunctional thyroids and dysfunctional friends. We covered a lot of territory without any pretension of being politically correct. Yep, balls ‘n’ all.

We confirmed again how we are all morphing into our mum … the mum-typical conversation about the weather, critiquing the restaurant decor with all the finesse of professional interior designers and tut-tutting about the fish meal that was returned to the kitchen from the table next to ours. (No it didn’t smell right, did it?)

It’s handy to be able to discuss menopause and peri-menopause (whatever that is) with girls who share your DNA. And we’re never afraid to touch on pimples, lady moustaches, breast cancer or our oversized feet.

Girlfriends (even besties) are great, but sisters are something again. You know it’s unconditional. It might not always be perfect, but it’s balls ‘n’ all honest. There are some things only a sister will tell you.

Friends can drift in and out of your life but sisters are never too far away.

We missed our absent-with-leave sister. She’s coming to stay over next weekend and we’ll catch up then.

And we always miss our late sister, Gay. How she loved to do lunch!

But we never miss not having a brother.

See … blatantly sexist and non-PC.

Sisters are special. Sisters rock.

I know … easy for me to say that.

You see, it’s all right for me … I’ve got all those sisters.

Re-reading the modern classics (or not)

Jun8

Being fifty-something, I decided a long time ago that life is too short to read books twice.

I figure there are so many books in the world, why would you bother re-reading one (or more) that you’ve already consumed? No good reason. With libraries, thrift shops, second-hand book stores,/markets/stalls, ebay and a plethora of free or cheap ebooks on the market, choice is everywhere and price is not the issue it used to be.

Despite all that (and against my better judgement) I recently found myself re-reading two modern classics.

As I predicted, it didn’t turn out well.

The first occasion was our (roughly) annual weekend-away with a group of friends. This year it was seven of us fifty- and sixty-somethings on a houseboat on the mighty Murray River for three nights and four glorious days.

A few weeks before the trip we’d been talking about how a new generation of teenagers was enjoying the delights of JD Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. We’d all read it (decades ago) but decided to re-read it in preparation for an intellectual discussion about the experience as we motored up the river. Our own little one-off book club meeting, if you like.

I duly purchased a uber cheap copy on ebay and got started. I didn’t get far. To this fifty-something, the prose felt like disjointed, self-indulgent ravings. I recognised the main character, I knew what was going on, but it just didn’t connect at all with me this time round. Totally disappointing. I mean, The Catcher in the Rye is a watershed literary piece. Right?

I kept going, not wanting to let my fellow houseboaters down.

When it came time for book-club-on-the-boat, I discovered the others had had the same reaction. Several had not persevered to the end of the book, though everyone remembered enjoying the read first time round.

We concluded that reading is contextual – it all depends where you’re at in your life as to what satisfies your reading appetite.

I guess that’s no surprise. We just hadn’t banked on outgrowing The Catcher in the Rye. Getting old is a bitch.

Unfortunately, the book club wasn’t the only disaster that weekend … we also blew up the generator and crashed the houseboat. But that’s another story for another time.

Back to the books. The Catcher in the Rye had intrigued me. I decided to test the theory on another modern classic. I ordered a cheap copy of William Golding’s Lord of the Flies and got started.

I’m several chapters in and it’s finally dawned on me that I have never actually read this book. I know about the conch shell, the sunburn, Ralph and Piggy and how the boys organise themselves to cope with their lot in a world without grownups.

I know it’s an allegory. I’m almost certain I’ve made jokes about “passing the conch shell”.

I have definitely participated in fairly intellectual conversations about this book and listed it amongst my all-time favourites (more than once).

But (now) I’m certain, I have never actually read the book. Until now.

I’m thinking I have absorbed those symbols and themes from reading stuff written about Lord of the Flies. Somehow, I’ve transferred that into my brain as having read the book itself.

Now I can’t help wondering how many other classics (modern and otherwise) I have ticked off in my head, without actually reading them. Do I need to revisit Bronte, Austen and Shakespeare?. What if I haven’t actually turned the pages of Hardy’s Far From the Madding Crowd?

Does it matter?

No.

It does not.

I’ve decided (again) that life is too short.

Lunar Concept Store and Gallery – Mark II

Jun6

Being fifty-something, I know that some things are too much to digest in one sitting.

That’s exactly how it was when I visited the brand new Lunar Concept Store and Gallery in Pakington St, Geelong West last week.

Just when I thought I’d had my fill of the gorgeous visual feast on offer, I glanced upward and found a ceiling space replete with more sensationally-styled artworks, homewares and ooh-aah goodness.

It was too much to squeeze into my first blog post (which you can read/see here).

Now for the second instalment: a photo essay of the view upwards at Lunar Concept Store and Gallery:

Beautiful and inspiring stuff … and a reminder that it’s always worth looking up for a different perspective.

Lunar Concept Store and Gallery is at 114 Pakington Street, Geelong West, a pleasant stroll (past several great coffee stop opportunities) from Eclectica and Shed Off Pako. Yet, another reason to make Pakington St a destination for your next ~~shopping~~ browsing expedition.

Phone Lunar on (03) 5221 9994 to check opening times … they’re very friendly.

(Again, this post is not sponsored in any way.)

Holy fork and cork! (craft success at last)

Jun4

Being fifty-something, I love simple things.

Especially when it comes to craft. As I’ve bemoaned before, I struggle in the craft/DIY department.

So I’m sending a big shout out to Virginia at the always-something-new artsyvava blog for this easy-to-do DIY. (And to Patricia at Our Empty Nest for the headsup).

I dumbed down Virginia’s instructions a little further – yes, I am the lowest common craft denominator. With no specialist equipment, no purchase of materials and no talent whatsoever, I created these plant markers for my container herb garden.

Here’s how I did it (following most of Virginia’s step-by-step instructions).

The materials: forks and corks. I have a collection of vintage EP-ware cutlery waiting for sorting and decluttering. Two birds. One stone.

The tools: safety goggles (safety first), hammer/mallet, permanent marker.

I used the mallet to flatten down the forks, so they’d stand straight and tall in the pots.

Using a permanent marker, I carefully lettered a herb name on each cork. (Virginia suggests using a wood burner, but I don’t have one … nor the skills to operate one. Despite several hours rain today, the permanent marker is holding its own against the elements.)

I pushed each cork down onto its fork tynes, positioning the lettering slightly upward.

Virginia added a gorgeous string finish and bow to hers, but I (lazily) decided to go for a more minimalist look. This is the result.

No cost. No catastrophes. Quietly patting myself on the back about this one. Thanks, Virginia!

being fifty-something

the good, the bad and the brilliant

Monthly Archives: June 2012