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.

...she shivered with anticipation as she realised that he wasn’t getting ready to play gently in her lady-garden, but that she was about to be punished, with a spanking…

Nah, just kidding.  We aren’t going to be talking about spankings but spanxings.  There isn’t much I won’t do for you RRs (well, maybe except for spankings), so I have done the research, and I’m back here with the report.  Don’t ever say I don’t tackle the big issues for y’all.

It all came about when I was shopping for a new outfit for THAT TALK, and the excellent chicks at Country Road were giving me the big ups, telling me how gorgeous I looked in this outfit, how cute I looked in that, and no, my bum did not look big in the other.  So big were the ups, that it came as quite a shock when I poured my all of my adipose tissue into a saucy little number that my new best friends said I would look so hot in, and they all stood back and said, “Hmmm.”

Looks were exchanged.

I could see there was something that someone needed to tell me, but I had no idea what it could be, when I was looking sooo hot.

At last, amidst nudgings and throat clearing, the speaker was chosen.

“Ummm.  I think you just need the right underwear.”

I craned my neck around (which I will admit made my chin to neck region look very taut and took years off my profile), to see the dreaded VPL.  I was already wearing the ‘right’ underwear.  Seamless.  Flimsy.  In fact, my best no-line knickers were apparently making lines, or more like, those little accent thingies (cedillas?), as they rolled in and out my undulating derriere.

Like this ~~~~~~~~~~

Interesting, but strangely, not really the look I was after.

So what was this mysterious, and so far elusive ‘right underwear’?

“You need Spanx,” by stylish new friends said, “Get thee to Myer immediately.”

And so without further ado, I did as I was bid, and found myself at the mercy of a matronly type who peered at my flabby bits and hanging down blobs, over her spectacles, grabbing here, pinching there.  Not since that fateful day in the gym when the trainer used the callipers on what he euphemistically called my ‘skin folds’ and deemed me to be 33% composed of fat*, had my tuckshop arms, upper thighs, back and muffin-top undergone so many nips.  With many “Hmmmms” and a few “Ahhhhs” she stepped back and had a really long look at me, eyes travelling up and down my body.  I’ve felt more comfortable trying to jump the queue to a nightclub and letting the bouncer cop an eyeful.

“Okay, you need these and maybe this”, she said, handling me some bike shorts and a singlet in that fetching shade of beige reserved for medical apparel.  I held them up.  Yes, definitely medical, in fact, they looked Paediatric size.  “Go on,” the matriarch said, “go and squeeze yourself into them.  Let me know if you need… mumble help.”  I swear she said Vaseline.  I think she was smirking.

I won’t bore you with the hot and sweaty pushing and pulling and stretching and breathing-in details, but it came to pass that I purchased these:

for research purposes…

They cost almost as much as the dress, which still hasn’t been worn, because the very day I was putting it on as quickly as possible to avoid anyone in my house walking in and seeing the horror that is my post-menopausal life, Nathan walked in.  And Nathan saw.

Saw me in all my latex-clad beauty.

He took one look, laughed, and left the room sniggering, but not without saying over his shoulder, “Nice Tour de Noosa shorts.”  I thought a pretty good swear in my head that ends with ‘off’ and thought other vengeful thoughts about how much marital bliss I would penalise him for, for that comment.

And then I looked down and my nude-coloured, shiny, bulging thighs.

I think I might be the one who isn’t getting any.

Have you been Spanxed yet?  What do you think about ‘shapewear’?

*I shit you not, 33 PER CENT!!  What the?  I weigh around 57kgs, and 33% of that is fat.  That’s around 20kgs of FAT.  By the look on the trainer’s face, that is quite a lot.

…From the Ashers xx

Some of you might be wondering why have started this blog thing.  Some of you who know me, probably think I have enough going on, what with a couple of kids, husband, busy practice, incomplete BAS, cat with disheveled fur, etcetera.

Well, it’s because of The Menopause.

The Menopause started a few moons ago now, and as some of you well know (I’m looking at you, husband) it has made me the tiniest bit grumpy.  Not all the time, mind.  Just every day.  And night.  And some early afternoons.

Now I can predict what you are all about to say, “You can’t have The Menopause, you’re too young.”   And yes, I know my youthful complexion belies my years, but it is true.  I am newly barren, which means I can now say whatever I damn well like, and do whatever I damn well please.  Further, if you are about to tell me that I don’t technically have The Menopause, due to various silly little details, like actual diagnosis, you may potentially be correct, however those pesky specifics aren’t really of interest to me.  Mainly, because, I have The Menopause.  Which means I’m the boss.  (Plus, Peri-menopause just sounds a bit shit. I won’t have it.)

If you’ve been following along, you’ll know by now I do like a list, so, in the interests of community service, I have complied one, regarding The Menopause.  It will be of use to all you fecund little fertility goddesses, so you will know how to behave, when Aunty Flo no longer comes to visit.  It will also be a point of reference for all you men who are being paused, or will be paused, once the situation arises.  Forewarned is forearmed, and all that.

It is entitled “Things to do when you have The Menopause” and here it is:

• Have opinions on everything.  It is particularly good if they are unpopular opinions.  Blog about them.
• Wear the jeans you want, even if they are too tight, or have gone out of fashion (I’m looking at you CR Jeggings).
• Sing as loud as you like, even if the songs have rude words in them.  In fact, preferably.
• Buy neon pink Converse runners.  Wear them, even if your 6 year old is also wearing hers.
• Talk about taboo topics without getting embarrassed, again, loudly (and in public spaces).
• Forget many things, but especially inconvenient details (otherwise known as facts to the pedantic).
• Repeat your funny stories, even if your friend says “You’ve told me that one already”. Then repeat again.
• Go out to lunch and drink wine, often.  Ensure it is expensive wine.
• Play on the swings, and don’t get off when children want a turn.  They’ll get their chance.
• Break petty rules, especially if they are to do with parking, and particularly if you can get away with it.
• Be flabbergasted at the very age of health professionals.
• Use the word flabbergasted.  Also: cross, crook, tetchy and peeved.  They describe, umm, everyone else.

So there it is, breeders.  You’re welcome.

Cheers.

Fairly expensive wine.
(The others don’t have The Menopause yet)

Which one will you cross off your list today?

Is your health professional really young, like ‘The Bachelor‘, young?

I know you are going to be shocked to hear this, but I found out today that I am officially a grumpy old lady.

I was already a bit cross before I started the week: I have a slight cough, I finished my book ‘Gone Girl‘ in one day, with no new book at the ready, and it’s a bit windy here.  I don’t like wind. Gets me all tetchy.

I was also already a bit cross before I started the year: I have The Menopause.  I assume that’s all I need to say about that.

Regardless of these portentous signs, today I did “literacy rotations” with the Grade One class, followed by a trip to the shopping centre. I guess you can see where this is heading…

So I made a list in my head of all the things that confirm that I am, in fact a grumpy old lady.  It made me grumpier.  I now provide this list for your reading pleasure:

• I saw a youth chuck some litter on the ground, I said “Oi,” and shook my head at him.  He picked it up.
• I made that “tch-tch” clicking sound with my tongue, when someone tried to push in front of a kid at the newsagent. They let the kid (and me) go first.
• I saw a man my age staring at a friend of mine’s 18 year old daughter in the queue at Woolies.  He had one look, then a pretend “I’m just moving my head around here, oh, look, a hottie young enough to be my daughter” look.  Twice.  I narrowed my eyes and stared at him until he felt me staring.  When he looked at me, I flicked my eyes in Hotgirl’s direction.  He got busy with his shopping after that.
• My iPhone went all weird and non-workingish so I gritted my teeth and seethed at it “You better work right now, you piss-poor excuse for a computer, or I’m replacing you.”  Then I hit it twice.  It works again.
• I was in the bakery section of the supermarket, and hungry, so I picked up some pizza rolls, saw the price, and put them back down.  The bakery lady smiled and said, “Wrong flavour?”  I said, “No, wrong price.”  She pointed out to me some rolls that were on special.

So it appears that there has been an increase in my powers, proportional to the reduction in my youthfulness and sunny disposition.  I’m too grumpy to decide what I prefer yet, so don’t even ask me, because: The Menopause.

On the way home from school, I observed two unsafe driving practices, so I told the children a long and educational story about each.  It seems my new powers don’t work quite as well with them.  Their eyes went all glassy, and I’m pretty sure Liam was air-guitaring the chords for ‘Funky Town‘ with his left hand. He better not have been changing the words to ‘Grumpy Town‘.

And then I looked down at my hand and saw this:

OLD LADY HAND!

Do you have power or beauty? Can you have both?

Can you see my old lady spots yet? (lie to me, lie to me!)