A blackboard wall for my office

Jun3

Being fifty-something, I love a simple DIY project. This one breathed some new life into my hum-drum office for less than $20.

I’ve been thinking about this project for almost 12 months, since I found the inspiration over here at my good friend Alex’s Hello From Tassie blog. I loved how Alex painted a blackboard on her kitchen wall and I imagined something similar in all sorts of corners in my office.

Yes, I’ve been coveting this for a long time.

I generally work with two whiteboards, keeping lists of projects and tasks, messages and meetings. But let’s face it: whiteboards are as boring as batshit. They lack any inspiration. They always look messy and they just blend into the general busy-ness of my office.

But a big beautiful blackboard looked like a creative blank canvas for me.

And so it began.

A single trip to the hardware store and we picked up a can of chalkboard paint for $18.

Mr P applied two coats over two evenings, filling in from the top of the skirting board to the picture rail above. This paint gives off some seriously strong fumes, so I suggest you don’t plan on hanging around too close if, like me, you find paint fumes a mind altering experience.

My Girl donated some chalk pens she no longer needed. I repurposed one of those many Fowler’s jars I have marking time in the shed and strung it up from the picture rail as a pen holder. Perfect.

Writing on this “board” feels expressive and fun. It’s colourful, it fills out this otherwise dead corner of the office and absolutely looks like it belongs.

The photo doesn’t do the finished product justice (I should’ve waited for daylight to get a good snap).

But I love it. I can’t stop looking at it. Or doodling on it. Or thinking about meaningful quotes to script across it. It’s changed the way I feel about my “to do” lists.

What happened to the whiteboards, you ask? One is now hanging in Mr P’s workshop sorting out his “to do” list and the other I popped out on the front footpath one weekday morning, having scribbled across it “FREE to good home”. It lasted ten minutes. One of the advantages of living on a busy road.

I haven’t looked back. From here on in, I’m all about the blackboard.

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Dancing naked with the hippies (or not)

Mar28

Being fifty-something, the notion of aging gracefully is not yet well-defined in my mind. Bit by bit, I’m putting it together.

When I notified my business clients (via facebook of course) that I was taking a short break, heading to the north coast of New South Wales to get in touch with my inner hippy, I used this image for visual punch.

Photo credit: la gross mymy on flickr.com

A couple of my clients thought it was a photo of me. Frightening.

Secretly, I wished it was.

And so it came to pass that Mr P and I found ourselves in the heart of hippyland, at Byron Bay. Beautiful beaches. Lush rainforests. Backpackers, cheesecloth, hemp headbands and finger cymbals. What’s not to love? And we did love it, for a three idyllic days.

On our last day we decided to head out early (very early) for a farewell swim at the famous beach. I (not-so-neatly) tucked my wobbly white bits into my slimming black bathers. My spider-veiny, thunder thighs and tuck-shop-mum upper arms would have to fend for themselves. I donned a floaty (cheesecloth?) cover-up dress for the walk to the water’s edge.

As we neared the beach we heard music and came upon a large group of perhaps 200 dancers, all wearing red (mostly cheesecloth), and moving in fabulous choreographed rhythm to the soundtrack (which was supported by several enthusiastic bongo drummers).

A flash mob maybe? Eventually it dawned on us that it was Valentine’s Day and this was a celebration of free love (in the true spirit of hippy-dom).

About then, I looked down and noticed we were both (coincidentally) wearing red.

Serendipity.

We watched for a short while before heading up the beach, finding a quiet spot and stripping down to our bathers.

I looked down and noticed we were now both wearing black.

Serendipity.

As we reached the shallows I glanced back along the beach to where the hippies were doing their thing. Only a handful were left dancing on the sand. The rest were now frolicking in the shallows, still choreographed, but no longer in a sea of red … they were naked. I could see others throwing off the shackles of their cheesecloth and running for the water to join in the fun and freedom.

The pressure was on. Others nearer us, couples and solo swimmers, went out in support, peeling off their bathers and nuding up for free-loving water play.

Tempted, I looked down at my spider-veiny thunder thighs and tuck-shop-mum arms.

There was only one thing for it.

I gracefully dived under a wave and made for deeper water.

With my bathers ON. Firmly (if not neatly) tucked.

Mr P followed.

Because sometimes (just sometimes), aging gracefully means keeping your wobbly white bits (and your pink bits) to yourself.

No matter how loud your inner hippy is screaming.

[Images of naked dancing hippies and my pink bits, you ask? Now, that would be totes inappropes.]

This post was inspired by a blog hop hosted by Generation Fabulous – the voices of midlife where you’ll find dozens of posts responding to the same theme – aging gracefully.

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Dearest Coffee Machine

Mar1

Being fifty-something, the reality of an empty nest has been on the horizon for some time.

Foresight was cold comfort when I returned from a recent holiday to discover that Boy Wonder (my last little chick) had kicked himself out of the family snuggery and into a new adventure with his girlfriend.

Don’t get me wrong … the possibility had been raised before the event. I guess I was in denial. That is, until I opened up the appliance cupboard and was confronted by a big gap where Boy Wonder’s coffee machine had once lived.

For some weird-and-wacky reason, that’s when it really hit home.

That’s when I knew Boy Wonder was really gone.

And ever since, it’s been about the coffee machine.

Dearest Coffee Machine,

I know you were never really mine.

You were only on loan until you made your way out into the world.

Just the same, I got attached to you (maybe even addicted).

I got accustomed to greeting you every morning and the little lift you gave my day.

As long as you were here, there was the chance of seeing you mid-afternoon, evening or even over dinner.

Sometimes we even shared breakfast. Or lunch.

Sometimes, you sat on the bench top and (together) we solved the world’s big problems.

Now, I miss the kick you gave my every day and I daydream about how to get you back.

Coffee machine, you have left a big empty space in my ~~heart~~ appliance cupboard that no one else can fill.

Not even George Clooney.

Wish you were here.

Love

~~Mum~~ Sheryl x

A killer production of Arsenic and Old Lace

Feb5

Being fifty-something, I love to discover new and affordable experiences within a walking radius of home.

It gives me faith that if I’m ever asked to hand back my driver license (and that could happen, given my driving skill level or if anyone with any real credibility spies my feeble attempts at parallel parking) I’ll still be able to amuse myself within close proximity of the Mothership.

Ideally, and looking much, MUCH further into the future, some of these activities should be reachable even if I’m sporting a walking stick or a wheelie frame. (Just in case.)

This past weekend, we were introduced to a little gem that dovetails perfectly into the above category … the Woodbin Theatre.

This wee little local theatre seats roughly 70 patrons and is the spiritual home of budding thespians and Geelong Repertory.

Our neighbour had kindly organised tickets for us to see the Geelong Repertory’s production of Arsenic and Old Lace at the Woodbin Theatre, a teensie weensie facility hidden away in a mostly residential side street in the heart of Geelong West; the very same territory we went planking in not so long back.

At $25 a ticket and with the theatre literally five minutes walk from the Mothership, this was an easy sell. And who doesn’t love the rollicking black comedy style of Arsenic and Old Lace (I had only previously seen snippets of the Cary Grant movie version)?

We arrived at the theatre to be greeted by friendly, casually dressed staff and complimentary sherries. The diminutive bar was open for business and in the pint-sized foyer it was easy to spot acquaintances and friends (there were a few in the crowd; for a big city, Geelong is a small world).

The bells rang to summon us into the theatre and Mr P was happy to learn that he was welcome to carry his beer into the auditorium (which could be an overstatement) provided he poured it from the glass stubby into a plastic mug (supplied). Done and done.

What an intimate setting … we were in the second row and so close to the action that we might as well have been sitting amongst the actors themselves.

I stole a quick squiz of the program before the lights went down and discovered that the director had been amongst the foyer greeting party. He’d even sold us raffle tickets to win a bottle of elderberry wine (laughable if you know the plot of Arsenic and Old Lace).

I also noted that my old English teacher was amongst the cast, and that my old Geography teacher had had a hand in creating the set (which was quite spectacular and intelligently designed for maximum effect and function).

There was a quick intro and the curtain went up … well not really, there was no stage curtain, more a metaphoric rising of the drapery.

Without delay we were transported to another time and place by a cast of brilliant actors, perfectly rehearsed for both their lines and the physicality that is so much a part of this work. We laughed, and laughed … and then we laughed some more.

We laughed through a brief intermission (which was long enough for everyone to refresh themselves via the bar) and then filed back in for more giggles.

To say we were impressed is an understatement. We were gobsmacked by the professionalism of the cast and their crew (and the mix of young and old) … and by the character and community buzzing about the theatre.

More fun than you can poke a walking stick at.

And superb value at $25 a ticket. Yes, I’ll say it again: $25 a ticket!

We’re checking out the 2013 season and there are some doozies coming up including Miss Bosnia, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie and Blackadder.

The tiny Woodbin Theatre punches well above its weight and is well worth a visit … for the free sherry, if nothing else.

New year … an enigma wrapped in a resolution?

Jan2

Being fifty-something, I’ve grown cynical about new year resolutions.

My resolve usually gets boxed up around the time of the Christmas decorations (during the second week of January) and remains elusive for another year.

This year, I decided to bypass the pretence of intent, to cold-shoulder the ten-step success schemes and turn a deaf ear to the media-led calls to take January by the balls.

I planned to ignore all the questions about resolutions and 2013 plans … and hope that nobody noticed.

“Stay calm and carry on” would fit nicely. Lazily. Steady-as-she-goes-ily.

Then a parcel arrived, just a few days shy of New Year’s Eve, and jolted me back to resolutions-ville.

The one device it contained summed up a simple plan that I can think I can live with for more than just a couple of weeks … hopefully for a year and much longer.

Yes, my brand spanking new solar-powered bathroom scales are a sign.

They encapsulate two key initiatives that demand my attention:

to be healthier
to be kinder (to the planet, to myself, to others).

Why do I need new bathroom scales, you ask? My previous ones were confiscated by my personal trainer about two years ago (it was a condition of her training program). Since I stopped training with her about 18 months ago, I have been in weight limbo … guessing, via all the usual sure signs, that I was regaining the kilograms but never really confirming it (until I sighted indisputable photographic evidence). I haven’t been able to bring myself to face my ex-personal trainer and retrieve my old scales. I know … I should confront that reality, but let’s not go there.

My new reality is here and it has a blinking (solar-powered) sun-face to remind me, each morning, that we can all do our little bit to help care for the environment.

So, my forward goals are nothing like “they” say your goals should be – no quantitative targets, no timelines, no KPIs (no, I won’t be reporting progress here – that’s a journey of accountability that doesn’t need to be shared).

Just my simple re-align the mindset stuff:

I want to be more, while weighing less.

I want to tread lightly on the planet, and tread a little lighter in my own shoes.

I want to smile broader, but be less broad across the beam.

I want to be more hippy (“keep true to the dreams of thy youth”), while being less hippy (if you know what I mean).

What are your plans for the coming year? May you shine bright and brilliant throughout 2013 … I look forward to reflecting some of that light back to you.

Paving like a couple of bosses (or Venus and Mars tackle the yardwork)

Dec17

Being fifty-something means I’m always looking for learning opportunities. Always.

Mr P and I have been married for thirty-something years and I’m still learning about what we have in common. And what we don’t.

Last weekend we shared a repaving project to even up the pavers in the alcove between our front gate and newly-laid footpath, which the council levelled about two inches above its previous height. (The retired barrister in our family had pointed out the tripping hazard and our liability should a visitor or passerby fall victim to our dangerous alcove.)

This is just the sort of project that highlights our differences. Again, I’ve confirmed that any shared project that ends without us having killed one another or headed off to the divorce lawyers is a successful one. In the spirit of my earlier post about Venus and Mars going property hunting, here are some of my observations on our paving venture.

Paving image by Mooganic on www.flickr.com

Paving image by Mooganic on http://www.flickr.com

Mr P may have not have been a boy scout but he sure is a prepper. He insists on having every tool we could possibly need on site before we start (to avoid unnecessary trips to the shed).

Even though I was a Brownie in my formative years, I prefer to grab only the first tool I need and then source them individually, as needed and as we make progress (to avoid unnecessary trips to the shed).

Tools image by Ontario Wanderer on www.flickr.com

Tools image by Ontario Wanderer on http://www.flickr.com

Mr P is process-oriented. Before we begin, he prefers to plan out the entire process chronologically (yes, he ALWAYS reads ALL the instructions before using anything new, too), from removing existing pavers to finally sweeping a balanced mixed of cement dust and sand into the cracks once we’re done.

I am more concerned with results, so I work the process backwards in my head (beginning with the end in mind). No, I NEVER read the full instructions before I switch on a new appliance. I believe they include “the least you need to know” and “getting started fast” instructions for people just like myself.

Mr P is a company man: “If we work hard, we could get this finished by 5.30.”

I’m a union gal: “Let’s stop for a cuppa after this row. I’ll work much better after a break.”

Mr P is super-good at communicating what he needs in terms of materials, tools or support (not).

I am ultra-intuitive about just “knowing” what Mr P needs without him having to tell me (not).

Mr P is a hands-on bloke (with mechanical training). If it doesn’t fit, he’ll make it fit. When the last paver in a row doesn’t quite slip into place, he takes to it with a hammer and chisel, and makes it fit.

I see paving as a giant jigsaw puzzle … all those slightly different pieces came out of there so they’ll all go back in. Somehow. I embrace their nuances and tiny variations. When the last paver in the row doesn’t quite fit, I try another paver, or another one, or another one … until it does fit (just like doing the jigsaw’s tricky sky bit).

jigsaw image by Squirmelia on www.flickr.com

jigsaw image by Squirmelia on http://www.flickr.com

Mr P is safety conscious. He starts the afternoon in steel-capped boots, safety goggles, leather gloves, high-visibility vest and an awesome tradie butt crack display.

I’m more fashion conscious (we’re working on a busy public street afterall). It’s not until half-way through, and after several near misses, that I change out my Birkenstocks and manicured nails for heavy shoes and protective gloves. Not one centimetre of my butt crack sees the light of day, but I do finish up with a nasty sunburnt neck.

Mr P is a lone achiever. Once our project is done, he surveys the work and declares: “Paving like a boss.”

In contrast, I do a happy dance, high-five him enthusiastically and declare: “Paving like a couple of bosses. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Vintage Kettle image by sbluerock on www.flickr.com

Vintage Kettle image by sbluerock on http://www.flickr.com

I’m dreaming of a simple Christmas

Dec12

Being fifty-something, I’m old enough to decide what Christmas looks like in our house.

And so it came to pass that when I gingerly peaked inside the Christmas storage boxes a couple of weeks back, I saw nothing inspiring.

There were all the usual suspects collected over the years … shiny baubles, hanks of tinsel, tiny wooden nutcrackers, hang-from-the-ceiling foil stars, santas in almost every iteration you can imagine and trails of sparkly tree lights.

This year, I found it all a bit average … a touch tacky, bordering on gaudy.

So I closed the lid and resolved to have a different type of Christmas at our house. Just this year. Because I can.

I’ve been dreaming of a simpler Christmas with thrifty objects, hand-crafted decorations and a calmer, less consumerist approach. I’m thinking re-purposed, vintage, found objects (as opposed to Made in China, plastic, over-priced, mass-produced).

I’m not sure about the real meaning of Christmas, but I’m certain I won’t find it in those dusty old boxes in the storage room.

Most years we spend $30 on a real Christmas (maybe even $50 for a ceiling scraper). This year the family Christmas celebrations have rotated their way to other households and we won’t be hosting a gathering, as such. There will be less action than usual here over the yuletide. It seems over the top to buy and decorate a tree for what will basically just be Mr P and me. Instead, we will do without the mess and the fuss and see that the money finds its way to someone deserving.

As for gifts, we’re only buying for a handful, mostly via Kris Kringle arrangements. I’ve pledged to shop local, hand-crafted, re-purposed and/or vintage where I can.

Wonder Boy (the Economics major) will tell me I’m not doing my bit for the economy. I’ll tell him not to fret … I’ve done plenty over the years, and I’ll make an effort to rev-up productivity in the new year.

Instead of under the tree, we’ll stack our gifts on the fireplace hearth (it’s summer downunder) beneath this: our Christmas mantle decoration I made by over-printing vintage book pages, their ribbons secured to the mantle by my vintage brass lady bell collection.

The closest thing to a tree in our house will be this trio of thrifted pots I dressed up with fallen pine cones and (more) vintage book pages. Post-Christmas I have plans for the pots in the herb garden.

And today I fashioned this simple door wreath from rose prunings from our garden. Not bad for an incidental gardener.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas here.

Simple Christmas. Just the kind of Christmas I’m dreaming of.

Because I’m fifty-something and I’m wise enough to understand that Christmas is different for everyone.

And different from year to year.

And because I can.

Getting arty farty at Boom Gallery

Dec10

Being fifty-something, you don’t have to ask me twice …

… to an exhibition opening, that is.

I’ve been hankering for an excuse to get down to the Boom Gallery in Newtown, Geelong. When My Girl called to say a friend of hers was part of a new exhibition and that we were welcome at the opening, I pulled my arty farty pants on and headed down there.

Boom Gallery is housed in a refurbed brick industrial building that makes for a unique space.

My Girl and I made a w-line directly for the complimentary wine on arrival (which always helps when you’re mingling with other arty farty types) and then got to exploring.

The exhibition is titled 40 x 40 Christmas Show. Each of the sixteen artists (mostly locals by the look of the names) has contributed two 40 x 40cm panels of their work, created on plyboard. With their curved cormers, the panels are reminiscent of the app’s on my iPhone or the images on Instagram … a very contemporary motif.

Here’s gorgeous My Girl posing with the works we’d come to see (and with complimentary wine).

These two big-eyed girls (the ones on the wall, not My Girl) were created by Morgan Connoley, a talented (and stunning) young local illustrator who is worth watching. You can follow her on instagram to see more of her work: [colour_and_skulls] or search for her on facebook: [Morgan Connoley Illustrator]. There’s so much heart in her works and she is creative across several mediums and genres.

There were plenty of other creations to see, some within the exhibition and some without. Here are some snapshots for your delectation. I didn’t jot down the artists’ names (couldn’t manage that AND the camera AND the complimentary wine).

The 40 x 40 Christmas Show is on for a couple of weeks and is well worth a visit if you’re in the region. Boom Gallery has a funky coffee shop and a fascinating array of design objects for sale and for sighing over … perfect place to discover a unique Christmas pressie (to give or keep).

If you need an excuse to slip into your arty farty pants and get out and support local artists and one of the independent galleries that supports them, just tell them I sent you.

Boom Gallery

11 Rutland Street

Newtown Vic 3220

Ph: 0417 555 101

Open: Wed to Sat 9.30am – 4pm

www.boomgallery.com.au

Find Boom Gallery on facebook, too.

Book Spine Poetry #2

Dec6

Being fifty-something … I’ll give anything a go, at least once, maybe twice.

More book spine poetry:

“The nameless everywoman,

liaising with life in hovering flight.

S is for silence.”

Vinnies, Vines Road, Geelong 10 September 2012

Falling for Skyfall

Dec5

Being fifty-something, I love when a movie “speaks” to me.

You know … when the screenplay contains so many elements you love and connect with that it feels a little like the writer and director reached inside your head, plucked your favourite things and wrapped them in a brown paper packaged movie (tied up with string).

… when you legitimately forget where you are (for just a moment)

… when the cinema narrows and feels like it’s just you and the story.

I haven’t come to expect that from a Bond movie, even though I’ve always enjoyed the action, the glamour and the brilliant cinematography. With Skyfall, I got much more than I anticipated.

Beneath the omnipresent good versus evil premise was a sub-plot posing a topical-to-me question about M, Bond’s female “boss” played by Dame Judi Dench. Had she passed her use-by-date? Could she still cut it in the tough world of international espionage?

Very relevant questions for fifty-something boomers and midlifers, methinks.

How affirming that pouting Daniel Craig (I mean James Bond) deems M worthy of fighting for, indeed worthy of risking his life for.

Sigh.

The Bond movie action moves from the rooftops of Istanbul’s bazaars, to London to one of my favourite locations … the barren highlands of Scotland, complete with a bleak stone mansion reminiscent of Wuthering Heights.

I haven’t travelled much at all but if I had just one golden ticket left, I’d more than likely choose to revisit Scotland, where you can feel the history and tradition in the very ground on which you walk … and, if you listen really carefully, hear Mel Gibson, (I mean William Wallace) imploring: “They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom!”

Sigh again.

And then came the deal-closer-for-me in this latest of the Bond franchise offerings … my favourite quote from a favourite poem.

During a climactic scene characterised by fast cut-and-shut editing, Dame Judi delivered the following excerpt from Alfred Lord Tennyson’s epic Ulysses:

“One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

Rapid intake of breath.

I may have lip-synced the piece along with Judi.

Hell, I may have echoed the words out loud. Right there in the theatre. Just because I could.

I studied that poem in my final year of high school and credit it with opening my mind to the power of words. I have carried that quote close with me ever since. The strength and simplicity of that final line fascinates me.

And now, thanks to a collection of my favourite things, so do Bond movies.

Then the kicker (there’s always a kicker) … with the final credits a logo popped up celebrating “50 Years of Bond”.

Now I get it. Bond is fifty-something. We have a special affinity. That’s why we feel so close.

And I haven’t even mentioned Adele’s singing, or the dreamy new Q or the cameo by Bond’s original Aston Martin.

Sigh.

Bond movie marathon anyone?

being fifty-something

the good, the bad and the brilliant

Tag Archives: boomers