It has come to my attention that I might be a bit competitive.

I have two children, and I never let them win at games, because: character building. In fact the eldest just got his first pair of contact lenses, and we may be having competitions to see who can pop them in first. I have the very slight advantage of wearing contacts every day for the last twenty nine years. (But if you want to know, I am whipping that kid.)

Tonight I went to Coles, and I was doing that thing with a nubile young thing in tiny exercise shorts and taut brown skin. You know, when you pass each other in the middle of each aisle as you approach from opposite directions, because you are shopping at the same pace.

So I picked up my pace a little. “In your face, young thing”, I thought, as I prepared to intersect, not in the middle, but more up her end, near the salsa.

But she had mysteriously sped up too.

As soon as I got out of her eye-shot I hot-footed it around the bend only to find she was also moving quite swiftly. “I’ll show you, youthful one,” I sneered to myself, “I’ve been shopping a lot longer than you, and I already know which brands contain the dodgy numbers and which ones are the best value, I’ll sort you out once you have to stop and check where Greenseas catch their tuna. Or something.”

The thing was, as I picked up more and more speed, so did she. My old legs were beginning to tire. Hers were showing no signs of letting up. In fact, I think she was just coming into her stride. Faster and faster I went, grabbing any old stuff on the fly, filling the trolley with honey (I think we need some), toilet paper (we’re sure to need it someday) and eggs (we always need those little chicken menstruations to feed the ferals).

Finally, we had a little sprint at the end and arrived at the registers at the same time. I looked at her, she looked at me. I made the controversial decision: Self Scanning.

And you better believe I scanned those goodies like an Aldi checkout chick on cola. My biceps were bulging with the effort, my brachioradialis was burning with the speed. People were turning their heads, and staring in awe and disbelief. Or they were just looking around to see what all the grunting was about.

Finally, I escaped out of the refrigerated muzak box that is our local Coles, and into the freedom of the humid evening, basking, basking at my success. Shopping Superstar, 2014: Beating fit young chicks at the shops since 1991

I waltzed along in the afterglow of elation, secure in the knowledge that I may be ancient, but I can still pip the next generation at the post.

When suddenly, from behind me, there was a clash and a clatter of a trolley. And not any kind of trolley. I could tell by the cadence of the casters it was one of those svelte new mid-week shop specials, you know the ones with the wheels that actually turn and the smaller baskets? I turned my head as if in slow motion: my nemesis. She had a swift trolley, muscular legs and the eye of the tiger. I stepped up the pace as she caught up and passed me, racing to her car, which happened to be parked next to mine.

I pushed and pulled my dinosaur trolley as fast as my creaking articulations would allow, sweating now with the effort and keening internally at the anguish of being stripped of my prize.

We opened our car boots, me with an automatic push button thing, her with an old school key. We unpacked our trolleys bag for bag, hearts racing towards the goal. (Well mine was racing like I was about to have a coronary- her’s was probably beating at an even 68.)

Finally we were done, at almost the precise same moment. The moment of truth was upon us. To return the trolleys, or not?

I eyed off the distance. I questioned my ethics. And as I always do in these moments, I asked myself: What would my Dad* do? There really was nothing else for it. Trolley Return. I ran with the spirit of my deceased father spurring me on, I ran for all old ladies everywhere, I ran to prove that we are NOT old and irrelevant. I ran even though my shrivelled menopausal uterus was threatening to prolapse onto the asphalt. I ran for freedom. (Well, maybe not freedom. I may have been getting carried away. But I AM pretty sure Chariots of Fire was playing softly somewhere.)

I chanced a glance over my shoulder, only to see my competitor safely ensconced in her vehicle, trolley pushed haphazardly over near the planter boxes. SHE CHOSE NOT TO RETURN IT. As she slowly reversed her 1992 Fiesta into the traffic, she wound down her window (manually of course), and our eyes locked. Hers: bright and twinkling with victory, mine: rheumy and faded with defeat. She turned up her radio and the sound of some doof-doof-doof tune of success filled the night air.

I hung my head, with the shame of defeat and the heaviness of ethics bearing down on me. I shuffled back to my car, glancing at her abandoned trolley as I passed. In it, was a bag. I went over to inspect it, and, lo, she had neglected to unpack her final bag. It contained a few boring things, and then, the bounty:

Dairy Milk Bubbly, on special today for $2.

So I have some final words for you P-Plate-Princess, some pearls of wisdom from the older generation, something perhaps to enhance your life and make you a better person:

Suck Shit.    (To the victor goes the spoils.)

*AKA the most ethical man in the Universe.

Do you return your trolley?

…From The Ashers

*AKA the most ethical man in the Universe.

Do you set yourself goals?

I do, and sometimes the goal itself isn’t the reward (although according to the book I’m reading Your Life in Half a Second, it should be). But no, sometimes the goal is a bit shit, like paying off some debt or doing a First Aid course, so I have to structure in a reward once I get there.

And sometimes the goal is awesome, but it’s painful to get there, so I have to give myself other bits of pain, to help me along. I know, I know, it’s weird, and I should be motivating myself to move towards pleasure, instead of away from pain, but I wonder sometimes if I’m just not wired that way.

When I was a baby, I apparently HATED having a wet nappy, and so I reportedly toilet-trained myself at 9 months. (Yes Mums, my Mother swears this is true… Hmmm…)   The same went for not being able to get into ALL OF THE THINGS, so I learned to walk. So even then, I was motivated by either getting stuff, or moving away from undesirable situations.

This year I wanted to go to the USA for Christmas. I have a brother and sis-in-law there, another brother and sis-in-law who will be going there, and Mum who jet-sets around the place like nobodies business. So everyone else saved their pennies and booked their flights and prepared for fun times with egg nogg and Ugly Christmas Sweaters and singing by the open fire. Except me. I mean I saved a bit, I guess, but not enough. “I can’t help it,” I wailed, “it’s expensive to be me you know.” (And etcetera.)

As the time to loc- in a flight drew ever and ever closer, I had to invent more and more leverage to get me to save the money. I imagined missing out on all the laughs, I pretended that perhaps one of my mob was dying, or would die in the next year, and this would be my last chance to see them, I thought about my kids not waking up with the Nanny they usually have Christmas with. None of it was working.

And then, in the backbackback of my crockery cupboard I found this:

Not sure if it’s for drinking out of, or bathing in

And I vowed, that until I saved the money to go to America, I would not be allowed to drink my morning coffee out of anything else, nor would I be able to drink any other coffee than this:

I suspect this may be poison

There was to be no Nespresso at home, no capps at the local cafe, no sneaky little jaunts with friends after drop-off for ping-jections of that sweet brown nectar of the gods. Nope.

Times were getting desperate, friends, desperate indeed.

And then, somehow, with the help of Flight Centre, all night google searching of airline prices, a change tin filled with two-dollar coins, and the invention of early Christmas presents, this happened:

YES, THIS!

And then this happened:

Cheers to holidays

And now THIS CAN HAPPEN:

Sweeet

I’m not sure what I’m more excited about. (I love you, Nespresso Machine.)

So, what are you doing for Christmas?

And how the heck do you motivate yourself, other than drinking daily poison?

…From The Ashers

Okay everyone, check this out: Mirabel is a cool charity that provides support for kids and families affected by parental substance abuse. So every year, they run a bit of a drive to collect cute handmade toys for those cool little kids to cuddle.

I know, I know, at this time of the year it can feel like everyone has their hand out asking for either your time or your money to help out someone who doesn’t have as much as you. And I know it’s difficult to know who to help, hell, sometimes the problems seem so big and so widespread that you can feel like you might be swamped by it all, so it’s easier to just bury your head under a sea of shiny plastic crap.

So I’ve found you a solution: Sewing for Softies.

Gorgeous Pip of Meet Me at Mikes has all the details on her blog right here.

Pesonally, I can’t sew for shit.

I once asked my family for a sewing machine for Christmas, so they pissed themselves all the way to the shops and got me one. For some inexplicable reason it came with a complimentary fondue machine, which incidentally has had quite a run. Here is a pic of my machine:

It makes a nice shelf, no?

It has ugg boots on top of it, which, quite frankly get more use all the way up here on the Sunny Coast.

So being a bit challenged in the manual arts, I have appointed myself CEO of Operations and Snacks, and have managed to get a whole lot of lovely fabric donated by Alisa from Plump, (a ripper of a local lady who is in the business of all things cushions you can see her stuff here or at the Eumundi Markets every Wednesday and Saturday), I’ve set up a venue for a sewing-bee and am in the process of recruiting a small army of sewing-ladies to do the actual work.

Easy.

Perhaps you might consider doing the same in your town? Maybe you have some crafty friends that you can bribe with the promise of sweet treats and crisp glass of bubbles for their troubles? And if you live on the Sunny Coast and would like to be involved in our night, then message me and I’ll send you the details.

Let’s see if we can make some little kids smile big toothy grins, with gifts made with love, this Christmas.

…From The Ashers

I know it’s hard to believe, with all of the opinions and ideas that I have about everything under the sun, but I have a bit of a blogging block this week. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still thinking of millions of things to annoy you with, but somehow I just can’t seem to find the words. Or the right words at least.

Everything I try to write is coming out either overly melancholy, or derivative or just plain boring.

I saw a quote today:

“If the words you spoke appeared on your skin, would you still be beautiful?”

-Simply Chiropractic

I kind of feel like that applies to my blogging this week.

And if the words can’t make things more beautiful or add something to the world or at least be gorgeous in their own right, then I think I’d prefer to not say anything at all.

I’ll be back soon.

Hopefully tomorrow.

…From The Ashers

Country Life: You don’t get this stuff growing wild at my place.

I have had a weekend of fun and funny catch-ups with friends, and has given me pause to think about how different we all are.

I think that I have the best job in the world, and so some days I look around at all of the people, doing all of the different things, and wonder at why they aren’t all chiropractors like me.

I think that I live in the best part of the world, and so some days I look around at all of the people, living in all of the different places, and I wonder at why they don’t all live at my place.

And the list goes on.

Because every day that I consciously choose this life and the things in it, I am expressing my preferences and crafting out a little more of the story of my life. And because I love all of the things that I get to do, and feel so lucky that I have somehow been able to make all of these choices, I find it weird that not one single other person on this planet is choosing that same things as me. Why aren’t you all trying to muscle in on my space?

Could it be that you like your choices?

Seeing my country friends on Saturday, and the things they love, and then seeing my overseas friends on Sunday, and listening to the things they love about their home, made me smile and smile at how much I love the decisions I have made. All of the little choices that I have made over the passing years, that make me, me. I also loved that we are all able to sit around a table together, share a meal and some laughs, find our common ground and relish the things that make us similar, but then also search out the differences, and rejoice in the things that make us so unique.

Vive la difference!

…From The Ashers