Earning a wedgie from my big-girl braggy book club pants

Being fifty-something, I’ve learnt to laugh at myself. Goodness knows there are more opportunities to do so every day.

Over the last few weeks I’ve been busily telling anyone who will listen that I’m joining a book club in the new year.

I’m quite excited to be popping my book club cherry … it’s been on my mental bucket list (not this one) for many a year.

Now, I’m not up with the latest releases, the hip and happening authors, or who’s hot and who’s not in the literary world. I’ve fallen badly out of touch with all that over the last few years. My day job over here has me reading and researching all day long and by most evenings it’s all I can do to catch up with the blogposts from my favourites in the blogosphere or flip through a magazine I’ve picked up at the library after wandering purposelessly up and down the fiction aisles trying to look as if I have a purpose there.

When my new book club (did I mention that there will soon be a book club to which I belong?) buddies nominated the latest Barbara Kingslover release as our first read, I played along. I pretended I knew the author and her previous works (apparently there have been many) and have since been blithely telling all that I need to get hold of Barbara Kingslover’s latest novel so I can finish it before MY book club meeting in January (I may even have slipped into a braggy, Hamptons-kind-of accent).

Sure, I got some odd looks but I assumed people were intimidated by my new book club “status” or hadn’t heard of Barbara Kingslover. Plebeians.

Today I braved the big box retail centre to purchase said book. There is nowhere local that stocks it and I had brazenly vowed to support the book club authors by purchasing brand new hard copies (not e-versions) of their books. So I ventured into the fluoro-lit plaza and queued with the (other) literary types at the service desk.

“I’m after Barbara Kingslover’s latest novel Flight Behaviour,” I offered up (knowingly; maybe even Hamptons-ly). I spoke loud and clear, wearing my big-girl braggy book club pants on the outside, (over my stylish 7/8^th capri pants and mock moccasins) a la super-heroine.

The assistant looked at me oddly for just a second or two before responding, “Sure, it’s over here.”

I swished my cape and followed her to the front of the store.

There it was, piled high in the window display: my first book club read. Ever. It was even on special. Winning!

I paid for my prize and headed home (faster than a speeding bullet), planning to reward myself by cracking the spine after dinner.

Once home, I couldn’t resist. I slipped the novel out of its giant gaudy plastic plaza-branded bag and smugly rubbed my fingers along its embossed metallic cover printing, spelling out the author’s name, letter by letter, as if it were in braille.

B-a-r-b-a-r-a K-i-n-g-s-o-l-v-e-r

What?

It says KingSOlver not KingSLover. Doh!

How many times have I pronounced that name incorrectly (and seemingly with authority) over the past few weeks?

How many times have people (kind souls) known but not corrected me?

Looks like my cover was blown long ago.

Not so smug now.

It seems my big-girl braggy book club pants have wedgied me.

From the inside.

Well and truly.

Not at all how I envisaged popping that cherry.

Close, but no cigar.

About these ads

Psyching myself up for the family portrait

Nov9

Being fifty-something, I’m starting to think that there are already too many photo’s of me in this world.

If I was never captured on film (or in pixels) again, the world wouldn’t shift from its axis and I’d be happy enough to be remembered by my pre-fifty-something snapshots. Which is saying something … most of them are shockers.

Let’s face it … who becomes more photogenic with age?

That’s why it was left to the younger generation to suggest we engage a professional photographer to capture a family portrait.

My niece E tells me she was inspired by this earlier blogpost of mine.

Maybe I should have thought that one through more.

How could we say “no”? E was organising it all, had picked a tentative date and had the perfect photographer worded up.

Next Sunday is the day.

It’s looming like an ominous, dark thunderhead on the not-so-far-off horizon.

I’m not ready.

I haven’t lost that 15kg I’d hoped to. (I know: there is not enough spandex in this hemisphere to fix that by Sunday.)

I haven’t grown long flowing Rapunzel-style locks.

I’m looking untanned (some might say pale and wan; I probably have a vitamin D deficiency, to boot).

I haven’t had that crown replaced on that molar (the one that’s been missing now for more than two years).

I feel a pimple coming on just near my lip (surely one outgrows pimples by fifty-something?)

I don’t have a stunning super-photogenic outfit in my wardrobe (not one that fits, anyway).

Still, we have a very loose dress-code, which I’m hoping will work in my favour.

I’m thinking black. Sleek. Slimming. Fade-into-the-background. Invisible.

Maybe a splash of colour to draw attention away from … well, everything.

In a group photo, getting the outfits right hardly ever happens. I just hope we can avoid something like this:

Photo credit: http://www.failfamily.com

Or this:

Photo credit: http://www.awkwardfamilyphotos.com

Yikes!

Sunday is looming fast. I’ve mentally noted some tips for the day (to hopefully avoid some of those inevitable “why didn’t I just …?” moments after the event, when the portraits have been printed in super-size and framed underglass for future generations to view).

Come click-time, I’ll be:

standing tall
sucking my belly in
pushing my chin out and head forward (to unfold those extra chins and swan-ify my neck)
hiding my chicken-feet hands behind my back
turning slightly to the side (obviously)
attempting a graceful ballet-girl stance of some sort (but probably toppling over)
jostling for a position at the back (but probably toppling over)
fluffing some volume into my hair at the sides
checking I don’t have a cocky’s crest of spiky hair on top
slapping on some lip gloss (lots of it)
trowelling concealer all over that pimple
smiling as graciously, genuinely and widely as I can without revealing the toothy gap or emphasising the crow’s feet

Mostly, I’ll be looking skywards and hoping with all my might for the clouds to part and a shaft of Doris-Day-lens-perfect-softening-light to shine its loving little heart down on us.

All of us.

Bring it on.

Do you suppose she has a pimple on her chin? Photo credit: http://www.last.fm

Stick-ability or tick-ability?

Oct21

Being fifty-something means my attention span is more important than ever. I have a Bucket List to pursue, a million and one ideas to explore, countless things to read, digest, ponder, experience and share.

If I don’t keep my nose firmly pressed to the grindstone, how will I ever manage it all? (Or even half?)

Clearly, I need some stick-ability, to be able to focus on one thing at a time and follow it through to completion. No distractions. No procrastinating. No excuses.

On the office wall, staring threateningly down over my desk, I have a little sign … a diminutive but powerful piece of do-it-now strategy, in just eleven words.

One thing at a time.

Most important thing first.

Start now.

I should probably get that printed on a tshirt.

Or tattooed on my forearm.

Or chiselled into my headstone.

Just to remind me what I should be doing. Or should have done.

Of course, I blame my lack of focus on the digital world: the accelerated pace of 21^st century living, the demands of family, the lure of the internet (always) and the expectation of 24/7 availability that smart phones and wifi have constructed for us.

Which reminds of an intriguing snippet of stick-ability folklore I learnt of recently. Truth be told, I can’t stop thinking about it.

I was in a group, viewing a display of indigenous artefacts which I assumed were of Australian Aboriginal origin. The storyteller, a New Zealander, explained that a couple of the small hand-shaped axeheads were made of greenstone, probably by New Zealand Maori people.

Interesting.

Greenstone (or nephrite) was prized by the Maori people. You might have seen it shaped into pendants and jewellery, popular souvenirs for New Zealand tourists. It’s a super-hard material that’s not easily carved into axehead shapes. Or any other shapes for that matter.

Greenstone photo By The Evil Monkey on flickr.com

Intriguing. So how did they manage it without mechanical equipment, not even a Dremel in sight?

It wasn’t so much a matter of tools or techniques … it was about time and focus. Nose to the grindstone. Shoulder to the wheel. A greenstone axehead could take more than a lifetime for a man to carefully, laboriously shape.

What the …?

Traditionally a man would start the process and then pass the partly shaped axehead on to his son to finish, long after he’d gone.

A finished greenstone axehead could be the product of two or even three generations.

Now that’s stick-ability – an attention span to aspire to.

Imagine dedicating your lifetime to a single project, knowing that you would never see the finished product.

Sheesh.

I’ve had sweaters that have taken me a couple of seasons to knit.

Knitting photo by stephalicious on flickr.com

I’m currently midst a renovation project that’s stretched out for more than a decade.

I know people who have been chipping away at university studies towards a degree for longer again.

But always, there’s the hope of wearing the sweater, relaxing in the just-as-you-imagined-it-finished home or skipping gleefully across the graduation stage in an academic cloak and mortarboard to collect your degree.

I’m not sure the pleasure of passing on a half-carved greenstone axehead to the next generation would float my motivation boat.

I’m more self-serving than that.

Turns out I’m seeking tick-ability rather than stick-ability.

Forget the greenstone. Let the next generation think up their own projects.

I need to get ticking and flicking on my bucket list.

To experience the warm glow of that ticking-off endorphin bliss (for myself) once in a while.

Starting now. Right now. As soon as I check my Facebook.

Whatever gets you through … teen parenting

Oct2

Being fifty-something, I know that the difference between a crappy haircut or hair colour and a good one is just a few weeks’ growing time.

Still, it’s no consolation for mothers of teenage princesses who choose to use their hair to express themselves (the princesses, I mean, not the mothers).

I recently had coffee with my fifty-something friend W whose teen daughter is doing just that.

I haven’t seen it for myself but apparently she is sporting one of those asymmetrical looks … you know the one: shaved up one side of the head and long flowing locks on the other. I think of it as the someone-got-to-Barbie-with-their-safety-scissors-while-Mum-wasn’t-looking look. W’s daughter is beautiful and I’m sure she’s rocking her ‘do big-time. No consolation for W. Especially when her daughter’s plan is to dye the ‘do purple.

Ah, it takes me back. My Girl spent her teen years sporting red hair. Not a natural shade of red. No. She insisted on bright, scarlet red. I think the hair dye colour was “Scarlet Shimmer”.

Photo by Tilly Mint at http://www.flickr.com

Shimmer she did. For years on end. Relentless years while we waited for her to “outgrow” it.

Meanwhile, Mr P and I took it in turns dyeing her hair. It was a great opportunity for bonding and saved us big bucks. Mostly, it let us retain a glimmer of control, a scarlet shimmer of parental involvement. Her friends thought we were pretty groovy … we thought we might be crazy.

I’d read that folk who rebelled as teens were less likely to succumb to a midlife crisis in later years. We clung to incredible not-based-in-science positives like that.

We consoled ourselves with “better than a tattoo” (that was yet to come) and “better than a facial piercing” (also yet to come).

There was the failed attempt at a nose piercing that came loose during a tearful night of teenage angst. Seems there’s a window for having your nose stud reinserted and if you miss it because your mum won’t let you take time off school to do the deed then … well, it’s too late. School attendance (unlike hair colour) was always non-negotiable in our house.

Just when we thought we were growing used to the hair colour, My Girl’s cousin’s wedding day rolled around. A big fat family wedding. It was a busy morning trying to get organised and I hurriedly sent My Girl down to the hairdresser for a professional “tidy-up” for her long, single length hair, omitting to give any instructions. A teenage girl, at the hairdresser with no firm boundaries set. Trouble. She returned not long after with a high-volume, chunkily layered, product-boasting mullet that any rock chick would be proud of. Not so much me. I was horrified. When we purchased a layered tulle skirt for her to wear to the wedding, I’d seen hippy princess; she’d seen rock goddess.

At least she’s easy to spot in the wedding photo’s.

Now twenty-six, My Girl has tried out most of the available hair colours. Her naturally strawberry blonde hair has been white blonde and black (sometimes concurrently) and is now (as at last sighting) dark, dark brown. She’s as gorgeous now as she was then. I just didn’t see it so much because I was so tied up in the responsibility of parenting and wondering how we were going to weather that storm and what people were thinking.

That’s why I so admire my friend W and how she is choosing to handle the “hair” situation at her house.

She doesn’t make a fuss. She doesn’t nag about it. She doesn’t comment.

She ignores it.

Whenever possible, she positions herself on the “good” side of her daughter (the unshaved side) and pretends everything is just fine.

Because it is.

Gentlemen, start your engines … a big Bucket List tick

Sep25

Being fifty-something, I have succumbed to the vagaries of a Bucket List.

It’s not terribly ambitious. It’s purposely populated with “do-able” deeds … stuff that I can actually see myself managing. How else am I going to experience those legendary endorphin hits generated by the “ticking off” of a Bucket List item?

So far, progress has been slow. I do have a rag rug in the making: a dawdling, never-ending work-in-progress which is therapeutic and frustrating. Both at once. That tick will be a while coming.

On the other hand, I am excited to report that I have achieved Bucket List Item 4 … a big fecking tick, legendary endorphin rush and all.

This one fell in my lap. But it still counts, right?

My nephew’s gorgeous girlfriend offered us free (yes, FREE!) weekend general admission passes to the recent V8 Supercars meet at Sandown Circuit, Melbourne.

Opportunity knocking.

Mr P and I made a weekend of it, staying in Melbourne overnight for dinner and city sights.

On the Saturday we headed to the track, sussed out the best vantage points, walked for miles (and miles) (and miles), chatted to the groundstaff about parking, gate entries and generally set ourselves up for Sunday, the main race day.

On the Sunday we arrived just in time to snaffle what seemed to be the last spot in the humungous car park … we were in the far, far corner, the furthest possible position from the gate we had our eye on. The crowd must be gargantuan in size. Damn! Maybe we shouldn’t have made that stop for a look-see at the famous Camberwell Market on the way. It was hard to drag myself away from stall-upon-stall of quality vintage, antique and oddity items like this lot:

No regrets. We were here now.

With the race green light looming we headed to the nearest possible gate, hoping to get a glimpse of the race start before making our way around the track to our carefully selected position.

We found ourselves on the concourse, not far from the starting grid, just in front of the grandstand.

Looking up longingly at the comfort of the grandstand, we noted an absence of security at the entry points. It seemed to be free-for-all, rather than reserved.

You don’t have to ask us twice.

Or once, even.

We clambered upwards, found a great viewpoint of the starting grid and took our seats. What’s the worst that could happen? That we get discovered and ejected from the grandstand? It didn’t. We watched the entire race from the undercover comfort, high up in the stand.

Magic.

Loud.

Roaring.

I loved it!

Now, these V8 Supercars rush past at around 270kmh. It’s tricky to keep track of who’s winning and what the state of the race actually is. You can’t see anything of what’s happening around the other side of the track.

If not for “our” team’s car livery being a distinctive bright red (Mr P refers to it as “dog’s dick red”, as only he can), I’d have had no idea of what was going on.

Still the atmosphere was amazing and the crowd energising.

Let’s stop here for a minute. I know V8 Supercars seems “at odds” to what you know about me. My close friends are similarly puzzled. Very few would pick me as a motorsport enthusiast. Yet, here I am. Such is the lot for fifty-something women in search of bucket list ticks. I daren’t even think about the fossil fuels been expended for the pleasure of the onlookers (yes, me). Mental note: plant some compensatory trees or secure some carbon credits and move on.

Back to the track.

In this crowd, I was definitely overdressed (in jeans, cardigan, scarf and boots). Mr P stripped off his windcheater to reveal an ageing Monaro t-shirt and instantly disappeared into the collage of the crowd. It seemed everyone (except me) was wearing their team colours loud and proud on their sleeves, their backs, their pants, their flags and still parading their way back and forth, to and from the merchandise area with three-bags-full throughout the afternoon. Huge business!

I, on the other hand, didn’t move from my seat (just in case it wasn’t there when I returned!)

Please don’t ask me who won the race. Mr P did yell something along the lines of “dog’s dick red, one and two”, but I’m not sure. It’s not the point.

For me, the point was being there, being part of something huge and exciting, doing something I’ve been talking about doing for years and … tadah! … achieving a Bucket List item.

Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines. Ready yourselves for endorphin.

Tick!

Hit me with your ribbon stick (climbing back into the craft saddle)

Sep14

Being fifty-something, I’m nothing if not persistent.

The horror of my near-death-by-scrapbooking experience is slowly fading. So much so that last weekend I climbed back into the crafting saddle … boots and all.

Inspired by the lithe young gymnasts at the London Olympics, I resolved to attempt a gymnast’s ribbon wand as a gift for my Great Niece, Miss E, for her third birthday.

Photo courtesy Singapore 2010 Youth Olympics Games on http://www.flickr.com

In fact, I decided to triple up the fun and make three ribbon sticks so Miss E’s siblings, 4-year old Miss A and 1-year old Master S, didn’t miss out on the fun.

I checked out some online DIYs, and it all seemed easy enough, so I took a deep breath … and gathered my materials.

Wooden dowels, ribbon (3 metres for each), screw-in eyelets and “spinners” – I upcycled mine from some old swipe card clips. You can also source spinners at fishing tackle suppliers.

I sprayed the dowels (each about 30cm long) with silver paint. No such thing as too much bling.

For each dowel, I screwed in an eyelet, split the ring on the spinner to attach it to the eyelet before threading the ribbon through the other split ring and stitching it firm.

I sealed the long end of the ribbon by holding it a few centimetres above a flame, for just a few seconds.

Tadah! Three ribbon wands, not quite of Olympic proportions, but certainly fun enough to entertain three little cuties for a few hours. I added a book and sweet little notelets, a hand-made card and I was satisfied with another crafty gift, wrapped and in the bag.

Well, not quite satisfied.

I was feeling pretty comfy in the saddle so I risked another project (without dismounting). Remember all those vintage Fowler’s Vacola jars my sister K presented my with? I upcycled six of them into Candles in the Wind … one for each of the ladies at the birthday celebrations, each complete with personalised leather initials/motifs.

That’s six Fowler’s jars down. Ninety-four to go.

The ribbon wands were a hit with the little-uns at the recent family birthday gathering.

Even Master S got in on the act to give us a ribbon wanding performance.

Not all went perfectly to plan. Seems the girls had caught some of the fencing competition during the Olympics broadcast … because there was a little light-hearted hit-me-with-your-ribbon-stick action. No one was hurt. Yes, there were tears.

And one of the eyelets kept finding its way loose under the pressure of all that twirling. Miss E got very adept at just twisting it back in and getting on with the show.

Some of mum’s “good” glue would fix it for good.

A little crafter in the making.

I think she got it from her mum (my niece E) who created a fabulous birthday cake for event. How clever is she?

Here we are (me on the far left) blowing out the candles with my fellow birthday buddies at our annual August/September birthday celebration.

That’s fifty-three down … and many, many more to go.

(And if you haven’t got “Hit me with your ribbon stick” playing in your head all day long, I have failed. Hit me. Hit me.)

I made the cut … Top 20

Aug26

ALERT: boasty, self-centred, look-at-me post ahead

Being fifty-something, it’s mighty nice to get noticed.

There’s a lot of invisibility in this demographic.

I’m unashamedly excited to have been selected amongst the Top 20 websites for Over 50s.

I’m doubly excited because the judges have actually read my blog.

The gong comes courtesy of KwikMed, a leading US health (care) provider (one of two fully licensed online pharmacies in the USA). Apparently, they’re a big deal.

There I am, happily sitting at position number 18 of 20.

I’m in the esteemed company of 19 other gong-getters and thrilled to be there.

Still … I can’t help wondering how long it will take them to realise it’s just ‘lil old me, blogging away from my messy little office downunder.

I’ll take it while it lasts. Thanks KwikMed … and to all you folk who visit, read, comment, lurk and enjoy my little corner of the interwebs. Yes, even those of you who stumble here unexpectedly (and quite randomly) via a Google search.

Cheers and chioggia … Geelong Makers and Growers Market

Aug22

Incubating the nest egg. My way.

Aug16

Being fifty-something, I’m keeping an eye trained on our nest egg.

Not in an obsessive-check-the-balance-daily kind of way. (I’d have driven myself spare during the GFC.) My effort is more a cursory-steady-as-she-goes-nothing-to-see-here-folks-side-glance.

In fact, it’s a lot like denial.

The economic climate hasn’t been kind to we superannuation holders of late. It’s daunting (and disempowering) to face the reality that retirement will depend on the performance of those figures at the bottom of the statement.

But it is what it is. So I float along in semi-denial most of the time, nurturing all our eggs in a single basket of optimism about the future of the global economy.

Most of the time.

Once a year (just once), I’m forced to face the truth, stare down those demons of dividends, the gruesome gods of global monetary matters.

Yes. Once a year our financial advisor makes a visit.

He always catches me unawares. Surely an entire year hasn’t slipped by again?

It has.

I like to call him Sweet FA (he’s a Financial Advisor, he’s a little bit sweet).

Sweet FA arrives at dinner time … he lives not far away so we’re drop-in-on-the-way-home clients.

As always, he’s flustered and blustery. He whips up a frenzy of disquiet in his wake. Like a twister.

He settles (well, he never really settles, more slows rotation) at our dining table and I shoehorn a cup of tea (white no sugar) between him and his intimidating pile of paperwork.

First comes small talk. Sweet FA describes his “ground hog” day; the same-old-same-old-nature of his profession. My inside voice wonders why he does what he does. I keep it inside.

Then the show begins. Sweet FA delivers his monetary monologue. It’s a polished and nuanced performance delivered with practised drama and emphasis.

At double speed. Like when you played your vinyl LPs on the 45rpm setting.

There are questions and answers.

Rhetorical questions.

Hypothetical questions.

Many questions posed to Sweet FA by Sweet FA (in the third person).

Sweet FA accentuates the answers (they’re all his answers) with penned underlining and circling of data embedded deep within the intimidating pile of paperwork.

Finally, we reach the climax. The game-changer. The why-you-pay-me strategy going forward.

This year it’s two-pronged.

We will switch platforms.

We will tilt our portfolio (which is fine … so long as those eggs don’t roll out and crash to the floor).

Sweet FA stops for breath, shuffles those windswept papers into a large bulldog clip and makes his farewells.

As quickly as he arrived, he’s gone. Like a twister.

Leaving us to digest the details.

We open a red and toast

… to another year of denial

… to a hypothetical retirement.

Be careful what you wish for (a cautionary tale of upcycling)

Aug12

Being fifty-something, you’d think I’d have learnt to keep my big mouth shut.

When I went public on this Nothing Like a Candle in the Wind blogpost about my fetish for Fowlers Vacola jars, I should have known I’d get more than I bargained for.

And so it was.

My sister K responded with an offer of an entire Fowlers Vacola bottling kit, which was gathering dust in her garage.

When Mum passed away in 2005, K was voted the Sister Most Likely to Bottle and accepted the challenge of stewardship of Mum’s preserving kit.

It’s eight years on. The urge to bottle hasn’t kicked in for K (or any of the rest of us) so I now have guardianship of the Fowlers Vacola manifest … with the family’s blessing to do with it whatever I feel best.

Obviously, that means upcycling.

The challenge is on … I have the big sterilising pot (or, as we refer to it: “the cauldron” – we love a witchy reference), a bag full of multi-sized lids, clips, rings, instruction booklets, tongs, bands and the bottles/jars. More than one hundred of them. Yikes! That’s a lot of candles in the wind.

I have a mountain of upcycling ahead of me.

Here are my first two projects. You will notice, I have picked off the “low-hanging fruit” to begin with, while I give some thought to how I can make meaningful use of ALL those bottles.

#1 Fowlers Vacola Upcycle – Rhubarb ~~Pot~~ Cauldron

This makes perfect sense in our family. Mum and Dad were mad, keen gardeners and always had a thriving bed of rhubarb under cultivation.

Rhubarb is undergoing a resurgence in the foodie world. I checked with the horticulturist at our local nursery and discovered that rhubarb is a very pot-friendly vegetable (yes, it’s technically a veg) and that there were seedlings in season, ready-to-go.

Mr P drilled some drainage holes in the base of the cauldron, panel-beated the lid out into a saucer shape and I planted it up.

There we have it … an upcycled cauldron of rhubarb-in-the-making. That’s the original colour of the cauldron (no repainting required) and I’m already loving the pop of colour in the wintry garden.

#2 Fowlers Vacola Upcycle – Tall, tall candlesticks

This simple project took care of four Fowlers Vacola metal lids and helped me upcycle these two turned wood “pieces” I picked up a couple of months back at the Ballarat Trash and Trivia Market for $1 each.

Let’s call them wooden legs, just for the family in-joke reference … see The Peculiar Language of Families.

Mr P evened the wooden legs with a saw. We then screwed two larger Fowlers Vacola lids to the bases of the wooden legs and two smaller Fowlers Vacola lids to the tops.

A slap of undercoat, a swish of Dulux Antique White, a light sand to add some distress detail, a coat of white wax and these 55cm-tall babies were ready.

With a couple of chunky white candles ($2 each at the $2 Shop … amazing, because very few things in the $2 Shop actually cost $2) these make quite a statement in the hallway.

I’m pleased to have made a start on this over-sized upcycling project that has inveigled its way into my life. It’s an elephant I’m going to devour one bite at a time. I will keep you posted with my progress, bite-by-bite.

In the meantime, be careful what you wish for.

being fifty-something

the good, the bad and the brilliant

Tag Archives: boomer