Saturday

This morning I went to a newish 'bar and canteen' about a 5 minute walk from our house.  It was about 11am and it seemed time for a second breakfast.  And this is what I had:

French toast brioche with citrus ricotta, strawberries and pistachios

You know what else I had?  A wickedly heavy and spicy Bloody Mary I shared with my husband before our meals, and then a glass of french bubbles with my delicious breakfast. 

And then I came home, stripped out of my beautiful tea dress and threw on an old t-shirt with trackies, and CLEANED THE MOULD OUT OF OUR AIRCONDITIONING UNIT.  Now I feel sick, really stinking sick.  I'm going to sit here and quietly wait for the fever to go down. 

Such a glamourous life!

Um, whoops?

I caught a virus. 

Not just common cold, my virus is a laptop virus, caught looking at Kibbutz websites (I was dreaming of picking oranges in the sun , OK?) 

What makes this amusing on top of just plain stupid is the fact I am a senior manager at a digital agency.  This mean I have a team of developers and high level systems administrators at my disposal, and I was wandering around with er, no virus protection.  This means I'm also too scared to tell them this, and have them fix my laptop. 

So I bought a new one. 

Yep.  I'm a real winner.

Ikea

Me: 'Look, we really need to go to Ikea. I think they have Manland now, I can leave you in the adult creche with a hotdog.'

Husband: 'What's the point of me even going then?!?!'

Me: 'You have to!'

Husband: 'Well, the hotdog eases the pain.  Until we get to home to assemble the damn stuff and the shouting starts.'

Me: 'Maybe you should get a takeaway hotdog?'

Husband 'Maybe.  Do they sell take away man cards - you know, for manliness?  Coz I need them when you start assembling the furniture.'

Essential huh?

I do OK in life.  I work in a creative industry, and after many years of scrabbling around on the bottom rungs, working very hard, I'm now a senior manager.  The years of worrying about money and eating meals consisting of canned tomatoes and lentils are well behind me.  I can pretty much do anything I want, buy anything I want, and most importantly to me, wear anything I want.

Yet now I have it, after so many years of working towards it, I don't want it.  I'm working to have stuff - I'm working to have the clothes, the Bobbi Brown cosmetics, the Turkish rugs, the car, and none of it really matters to me.

I'm currently applying for a prestigious art gallery role.  It's a government job, and I'm sitting here after two glasses of wine and a Wallaby win trying to address their essential criteria.  What the heck is up with these essential criteria?!?

How do you demonstrate that you work effectively with team members?  I generally don't, to be honest with you.  Demonstrate time management skills?  Well, I never missed a deadline in a decade of advertising and I like to turn up a few minutes early to work (best time to read the online newspapers)...  Do I have a drivers license?  Why yes. and a car!  Surely I can be good at a job if I have those two things!  I also only steal occasionally from the stationery cupboard, and I will arrange a cake for a team members birthday. 

I'm struggling.  Wish me luck!

I understand.

Your face...

... ends at your boobs.  Not at your chin.  Really people, I can't stress this enough.

Because I am a deep person who is not superficial in any manner, skincare rates high on my list of priorities.  Several years ago I stood in David Jones, trying to find a foundation that would cover my red, blotchy, itchy skin, and something finally clicked in my head - if I just took better care of my skin, I wouldn't need a thick, paint like foundation.

With the very sensitive skin of a pale girl, I have a strict routine.  Each morning I start with a few drops of Rosehip Oil, which also, when given a few minutes to sink in, acts as a base for my mineral foundation.  At night, I alternate between Cetaphil, and a random French hydroxy acid exfoliator.  Whatever I'm using, I start at my chin, work up to the my t-zone and do a quick swipe over my cheeks.  Then it's down my neck, and over my chest.  This followed by Rosehip Oil, again starting at the forehead and ending at my chest.

On the subject of Rosehip Oil, I've used many, many brands, and I can without a doubt recommend A'kin Roseship Oil.  Be prepared though, if applying it before bed time, that you will stain pillows due to the golden yellow oil. 

Face masks happen once a week - and indeed as a write this, I'm wearing my preferred face mask, again, from my forehead to my chest.  I discovered Freeman's Pineapple Enzyme Facial Mask via the Vogue Forum, and for the princely sum of something like $11, it's an amazing buy.  It makes my skin radiant, and I find the longer I leave it on, the smoother my complexion is.

And there's the other stuff I'm passionate about, the staying out of the sun and the drinking  litres of water, the eight hours sleep and the not eating crap, but I will bore you all with that on another day. To recap - however you take care of your face, extend it down to your chest.  Do you want to look like Donatella Versace?  Well, do you?

Sleeping beauty

My husband, in an attempt to re-capture boy share house living, spent last night at a friends house.  I had the house all to myself, and anyone who is married or lives with their love knows just how wonderful that is.

I used to live alone before I moved in with my boyfriend at the time, who is now my husband.  I had a tiny little basement apartment in an art deco building, and my windows were level with the side walk - I could look out and see people's ankles.  I loved every single day of living alone, though frankly Adult Protective Services should have intervened in my life. 

My hobbies at the time included watching TV in my undies, re-arranging my wardrobe to be more aesthetically pleasing - think arranging dresses via colours and patterns, going to bed at 7.30pm because I was too lazy to make dinner, and conducting elaborate beauty routines in my living room.

Above all I loved sleeping alone.  Living by myself was an expensive exercise, and I spent money I didn't really have to sleep in a cocoon of luscious bed linen  When I curled up in my big bed, with my layers of bed linen, eating two minute noodles for lunch was a worthwhile sacrifice.

And while my husband was busy reliving his sharehouse days last night, I was reliving my days of sleeping alone in a big bed.  No husband to kick me or steal the covers, and the bed for me and all me. 

It was just as good as I remember. 

Mothers Ruin

I have finished what is hopefully only 7 appalling days of professional and personal grief.  I really can't take another week like the one just been, though I'm surprised at myself and my coping ability.  You don't really know how strong you are until you have no choice but to be strong.

To end my week, I had a post work drink with my work buddy Melanie at my fav restaurant and bar.  My drink of choice was Hendricks with cucumber and black pepper, and my drink time snack was a duck liver parfait with onion jam.  My problem is this - I've only just started drinking gin, and I never put two and two together that gin is called mothers ruin for a reason.  It makes you weepy?  I had no idea.

I rang my best friend and wailed down the phone "I've been drinking gin and I'm sad!"

"Hmmm," she said "It will do that..."


When I got home, still feeling terribly flat, I walked in to our living room and tripped on a potato.  Yes, a potato on my beautiful Turkish rug.  I have no idea what my husband does when I'm not here, and frankly I'm scared to find out if it involves potatoes in my living room.

The gin sads were promptly overtaken by teeth gritting frustration, and just like that I was back to me.

Dresscember

Whoops, I forgot Frocktober.  I'm going to do Dresscember instead..

I'm the ultimate dress wearer. I'm built like bowling pin, and dresses nip in my little waist and hide my thighs and butt.  Also, I adore patterns, and dresses do patterns better than other clothing type.   I cultivate a certain look - cropped elfin hair, full skirt and tight bodice paired with a flick of liquid eyeliner.  These are a couple of my babies that will get an outing in Dresscember, via Modcloth:

 

Scavenger Hunt Dress

Secluded Garden Dress            

Drinks On Me Dress

See the 'pattern' here?

If you're a fan of the cropped hair and full dress look, you should check out the amazing Q's Daydream Vintage blog.  Or any pics of the beautiful Carey Mulligan.

What a day

What a horrific, appalling day.  This is probably one of the worst periods of my professional career, and I struggle to see a good outcome.

I have enlisted my personal strength, and my superior coping skills.  My superior coping skills entail pineapple Freddo Frogs (Hello?  Why was I note informed about these earlier) and a glass of Hendricks gin with cracked black pepper and cucumber.

Polygamy chic

I struggle towards the end of winter.  I hate all my winter clothes by about, oh, June, and I look lovingly at my beautiful dresses, waiting for summer.

But, here we are.  It's a grey old day, one of those 'is it warm or not?' kinda days. I had no client meetings, and a dentist appointment that required comfort and a level of crotch coverage while lying upside down...  I'm sick of my winter dresses, and I'm very sick of  black opaques.

So, I dug this out of the very back of my wardrobe:

Obviously, that is not me.  

The Peter Jensen Flannel Skirt represents all that I am not.  It's not cute or twee, it doesn't have a nipped in waist or a whimsical pattern.  It's utilitarian, on trend, and nearly dragging on the floor as I'm only 4'11.  I'm wearing it with battered combat boots (also a back of the wardrobe find) and a fine, almost sheer black t-shirt.  

My dentist loved it.  'You look so cute and quirky!  So polygamy chic!'  (Not only is my dentist lovely and very skilled, she is also a raging hipster)

My husband, less so.  'You look like you should be plowing a field in Poland'

I'm not a fan.  I don't feel like me. 

BB cream

I bought a tube Garnier Miracle Skin Perfecter last night.  Our local Coles had them at the 'special introductory price' of $9.99 and I am nothing if not a fan of a bargain.

For most of my adult life I had lovely skin.  A lot of work went into keeping it lovely however.  Staying out of the sun and wearing sunscreen, drinking four litres of water a day (let's just cut to the chase and say yes, I spend a lot of time peeing), a careful routine of gentle cleanser alternated with gentle exfoliation, and Rosehip Oil both morning and night.  And then I hit my early thirties and my skin broke out with adult acne. 

So, this much exalted blemish balm sounded perfect for me.  Except it wasn't.

The lightest colour, ingeniously called 'light' is still fair too dark and orange for my very fair skin tone (refer back to stay out of the sun and wear sunscreen).  I prefer to play up my fair skin to a milky white, and the BB cream left a tideline around my jaw, despite careful blending.  I'm not someone who likes 'glowing skin', I find it a buzz word for greasy looking.  The BB cream 'glows', but it had settled in nicely to my skin for a more matte finish after several minutes. 

Above all, the BB cream went on my skin at 7.30am.  It's now 1.30pm and there is no BB cream to be seen.  I may as well be barefaced with my icky, blotchy, adult acne skin on display for all to see. 

In short, the BB cream and I, we could have been something.  We could have had half a chance. If only if it wasn't too dark, and far too disappear-y for my taste.

Dinner was eaten on the floor

And it was fantastic.

I came home from work late-ish, via the bus no less (our car is being serviced). Something about me being on the bus seems to angry up our inner city homeless population, and while I want to embrace public transport, it's shall we say, a struggle.

My husband is a chef. Lets look at a few myths about being married to a chef:

I must eat restaurant quality food every night!

No, I eat a lot of toast because my husband is rarely at home to cook and I am a lazy arsehole who likes toasted bread products.

You must get to be a VIP in restaurants!


No, my husband may know the floor staff, ,but it's likely he has shouted at them.  If he knows the chefs (and truth be told, he does know many chefs) the chefs are stuck in the kitchen running a service.  As for being a VIP in his restaurant, that's even less likely.  It's place of work, and chef wives don't swan around, rather they grab a cloth and wipe tables.

He must love Masterchef!

Nothing makes a chef grumpier than Masterchef.  People who feel a career in food will allow them to be creative  Because it is terribly creative to cook 150 covers in two hours.  People who want a career in food, but won't do the long hard slog that an apprenticeship involves.  Or those that feel they are too educated to be an apprentice.  Newsflash - my husband has a double degree and first class honours.  In film studies.  Which is why he a chef.

Anyway, my husband had been given a wheel of very expensive, very luscious, soft French cheese and rather than commit to dinner, we ate the stinky cheese, along with smoked salmon, olives and caviar.  We sat on the floor, watching Futurama and drinking cheap red wine, and it was the best end to my Monday that I could have hoped for.

I'm not the only smart arse in the house

Discussing an upcoming holiday with my husband:

Me: 'I just don't know about Mexico, and you know I'm usually a pretty fearless traveler. I mean, have you flipped through the Lonely Planet for Mexico? It says they have bandits!'

Husband: 'Please, that's so ignorant. They prefer to be called banditos...'

Mod like you mean it

I'm playing vaguely at being a mod today.

This:

Modcloth Candy Cabin Dress

Plus these:




Vivien Westwood Ultra Girl Bow

Equal me today (plus black opaques to cover chubby white legs, but you know that they look like - yes, both the chubby white legs and the opaques...)

Apparently this is an 'inappropriate comment...'

... for the workplace.

'I would rather give handy-jays to strangers in parked cars than ever be a waitress again!'

What can I say, I hated being a waitress.

Smile!

So, I had Invisalign (clear plastic tray braces) fitted a few months ago

.

I never liked my teeth, they were a little crooked and snaggly and obviously I never had the teen hell of braces. One of my poor friends had braces on both her upper and lower teeth, and I think the braces may have pre-dated stainless steel. She also had to wear head gear at night.

And then, in a small, mindless act, I knocked one of my front teeth clean out of my head. Despite having an amazing dentist who say me almost immediately, my poor tooth couldn't be saved.

I needed a tooth implant The dentist also suggested capping my teeth, to ensure my lovely new tooth didn't stand out against my red wine drinker teeth. And hey, while we are doing so much work, let's ensure the new tooth is a little wider, and more fitting to my mouth than the original tooth.

The Invisalign is to widen the space in my upper jaw where the implant will sit. Currently my Invisalign trays have a 'dummy tooth' to fill the space, as well as give me a front tooth in the short term. Essentially, I'm making over my entire smile.

If you want to know just how stupid, expensive and painful vanity is, I would refer you to my smile make over experience.

When my first trays were fitted, I was very pleased. By dinner on that first day, I was in agony. Somehow my brain did not make the connection that very expensive clear Invisaligns are indeed braces. I felt like my jaw was being clutched from inside my mouth. Day two, my husband and I went to dinner with friends, where all the jerks on my table, my so called dearest friends, ate juicy steaks, while I sucked on hot chips. I could not imagine a time where I would eat solids again.

A couple of months later and I can tell you I'm back on the solids which is great, because frankly, I'm all about the solids. I brush, rinse and floss my teeth every time I eat, which has erased any mindless snacking. I eat three times a day, and that is all.

I recognise how lucky I am to have this option afforded to me, how lucky I am to have an amazing dentist and private health insurance. But here's the thing. They hurt. A LOT. Everything tastes like braces. I can't wait to get them out. I can't wait to eat steak.

I can't wait to grin at myself in the mirror.

During which we meet...

Turning thirty was easy!  I went to Paris!  Everyone told me how young I looked (you can thank staying out the sun for that one)! I had a cake and lots of lovely cards!

Turning thirty is easy, mother fuckers. Being 30, well, that is proving a little harder.

I got chubby. Apparently the whole metabolism slowing down thing isn't a myth. Have you ever seen a chubby gamine? No, of course you haven't, it goes against everything we believe in.

I knocked out a front tooth, and paid over $7,000 to not only replace said tooth, but to get braces. Invisalign braces, top of the range, almost invisable, but still BRACES.

Two words. Adult acne. Apparently many women go through a period of adult acne in their early thirties.

So, here I am. In my thirties. With puppy fat, braces and acne. And because I have superior coping skills, I am now going to eat some mashed potatoes*.

Yes, I know this isn't helping the puppy fat issue, but come on, I have braces. My comfort food has to be soft!