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Archive for the ‘Boasting’ Category

It’s a long story but let’s just say I started my recent trip to Sydney by rummaging through a bin at Melbourne airport for a plastic bag so I could meet Tiger Airways’ stringent luggage policy.

And it got me thinking – and not just about whether or not the Channel 7 crew filming the series ‘Air Ways’ had managed to capture that magic moment on camera. It got me thinking about how more people really should give me money to fly around the world having adventures that may (or may not) involve me pulling plastic bags out of public bins.

I mean, listen up, prospective sponsors:  I’m an adventurer! A pioneer! A natural born travel writer!

Here’s the kind of thing that I got up to in Sydney:

  • I went to Kerri Sackville’s book launch where I had to make my own name badge because I think Kerri must have secretly uninvited me suspecting I’d only get drunk, try chat up her publisher and blow raspberries into Mrs Woog‘s cleavage. Which is exactly what I did.
  • I subsequently ended up in a random bar in Darlinghurst with my gay toyboy ex-husband where we chair-danced with an inflatable doll and shoveled handfuls of free condoms into our bags. Good times, Rick. Good times.
  • Hungover the next morning, I got lost in that vortex of consumerism called ‘Westfield Bondi Junction’ and almost took a nap on a bed display in David Jones. In the end, I had to ask a stranger where the train station was. Yes, a stranger! And even then, I managed to get lost again.
  • Instead of watching some televised wedding that evening, I drank cocktails out of jam jars in a Melbourne-style bar in the heart of Sydney. Which was ironic because, as a Melbourne-based girl, I rarely get to drink cocktails out of jam jars in actual Melbourne bars.
  • I found myself talking to one of my many Sydney-based cousins, The Tall Man, who thought he’d be amusing and ask if I’d ever thought about starting a blog. Unfortunately for both of us, I thought he was suggesting I start a bog which then led us into a rather frightening conversational space about publishing pictures of my faeces on the internet.
  • I ate the world’s most delicious caramel eclair (probably not the best thing to follow up the previous point about publishing pictures of my faeces on the internet).
  • I used the toilet in Kerri Sackville’s personal en suite bathroom. Yes, I did. I’m sure this was a major breach of etiquette but a) I wanted to enjoy the magnificent views that the en suite afforded me and b) I thought it might bring Kerri and I closer together. And lo, here we are. Closer together.

    I am, like, totally grabbing her knee and - in Kerri's own words - she is, like, totally trying to shove her hand down my top.

  • My flight home was delayed and, while I basked in the strip-lit ambience of Sydney airport, my husband texted photos of our youngest child, with easter egg-smeared face in front of the TV in his pyjamas at 4:30PM. So at least I knew the kids were in good hands while I was away.
  • I fell asleep on the plane but unfortunately woke up at the very moment my body began to fall sideways into the lap of the alarmingly good looking man I was sitting next to.
  • I turned my mobile phone on before I was inside the terminal.

See?  Adventurer.

Actually, I don’t know why Channel 7 don’t just base their next reality TV travel series on me, quite frankly.

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BTW, you should totally buy Kerri Sackville’s book ‘When My Husband Does The Dishes‘. Just saying.

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I ask you… what kind of person wants to come and do house evaluation at eight o’clock in the morning? And indeed, what kind of person makes arrangements for someone to come and do a house evaluation at eight o’clock in the morning?

Our bank and my so-called husband is who.

Problem was that the morning in question I’d been woken early by the kids and the puppy and had found myself in a restless mood. It was the kind of mood that, in the past, would have inspired me to turn a bruise into the face of Jesus Christ with a magic marker .

So when the valuation guy turned up and turned out to be quite cute, I started flirting with him, even though I was wearing tracksuit pants and hadn’t brushed my hair, let alone looked in a mirror for about five days. It’s the school holidays, people. Get over it.

“I took a bullet for the team,” I informed my husband later. “My reckoning was that if I flirted enough, the valuer would realise that any house that had me in it would be worth substantially more.”

I’m not sure $50 counts as being ‘substantially more’,” my husband replied, somewhat grumpily.

I knew I’d hit a sore point. He knows how hard I work at making everyone I meet like me and – ten years after the fact – still tells everyone about the time I temped in an office for three weeks and how they bought me a card and a cake on my birthday. Although, the last time he brought up this anecdote, I realised that due to the time of year I’d been in that office, it couldn’t possibly have been my birthday.

“It wasn’t a birthday cake, actually!” I told him. “It was only a card and cake because I was leaving…”

“… after only three weeks,” he replied dolefully. “Yeah, that makes me feel much better.”

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that the evaluation came in on Friday and was $20,000 less than my husband had predicted.

“It must have been the tracksuit pants,” I said, somewhat disappointed in myself. “I should have frocked up… at eight o’clock in the frickin’ morning. Shit, you should have scheduled it for eight o’clock in the evening, and then I could have been wearing a cocktail dress, full make up and heels.”

“You don’t even wear full make up and heels for me!” he cried.

“Only because you seem to think I’m only worth $50!” I sulked.

Honestly, there’ll have to be more than $50 on the table for me to put on full make-up. I mean, the last time I let KT put mascara on me, it was a deeply confusing experience for me.

“Has it clumped?” I had asked, trying to sound like I understood the perils of mascara application.

“No,” she’d replied. “Why?”

“There’s this black thing I can see above my eye.”

“Uh, that’s your eyelashes, darling,” KT had gently told me.

Who wants to walk around any more aware of their eyelashes than they absolutely need to be? Shuh!

Of course, like many women who don’t wear makeup, I like to think it’s because I don’t need it. Yeah, right. Look, I’m only listening to what my husband once told me.

“You’re naturally beautiful,” he had said – not because it’s at all true but because it’s in his contract to do so. Of course he’d then added: “Imagine how beautiful you’d be if you wore makeup!”

He’s now no doubt imagining how much our house would be worth, too…

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I always felt that, given half a chance, I would make a most excellent seamstress. There was absolutely nothing to support this theory, save a poorly-sewn and never-completed skirt project from Home Economics in 1982, which I’m pretty sure the Australian fashion world mourns to this day.

Twenty-eight years later, I’m finally getting my chance.

You see my husband – no doubt hoping to start up a sweatshop on our kitchen table and kick-start an alternative income stream – pooled together with my mother and my parents-in-law to buy me a sewing machine for my 40th birthday.

For a few weeks, the machine sat intimidatingly in its box until one day last week, I pulled it out to see if an old dog really could teach herself some new tricks.

Now, I’m not sure how hard they must have whipped us in Home Economics classes but the memory of how to wind on a bobbin and thread a machine came back to me very quickly – with the aid of the instruction booklet and a healthy continuous flow of top-shelf expletives, that is.

And before I knew it, I was sewing. Actually sewing (*weeps with happiness*).

Now I know that what  I may lack in excellence as a seamstress, I certainly make up for in enthusiasm. In five days, I have made a total of four bibs and a zip-up bag – all thanks to “Sew La Tea Do”, the latest book from Melbourne-based blogger Meet Me At Mike’s. Here they are:

Now before anyone gets too excited, please note that this photo is taken from a healthy distance so as not to show my (many) sewing errors – errors which I’ve subsequently decided are entirely deliberate, made to give my work a happy-clappy folksy home-made feel. Yes, that’s my “value-add” to the world of sewing.

Anyway, excited by my successes, I decided to contact the force behind “Meet Me At Mike’s” on twitter to say how much I was enjoying her book. However, I got a little sidetracked by her twitter handle.

Which is probably something she gets a lot. Almost as often as people ask me if I’m affiliated with the NDM-1 superbug virus or the National Democratic Movement in Jamaica, which happens, like, all the frickin’ time.

And of course, me being me, I had to take it a little further:

Which pretty much stands as the textbook example for getting in contact with someone whose work you admire.Yep, that’s it right there, people. Watch and learn. WATCH. AND. LEARN.

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Leave a comment on this post and get a chance to win a bib made by yours truly, which handily can be worn while you drool over my deliberate-yet-mildly-charming sewing errors.

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