Carla

So what do you think? Did I get a Carla?

First I’ll tell you the story.

The weekend had been set aside for a girls’ weekend with Jen, Jools and Nic, my uni girlfriends, for which over twenty five years and who knows how many kilometres are wiped away like our anatomy lecturer’s overhead projector scratchings (Hi Dr.Chandaraj if you are still around. You were amazing, but I never was able to read your writing.) whenever we get in a room together. Corona and border closures had other ideas, so we added a dash of hope and postponed it ’til later in the year, crossing our fingers more tightly than our pelvic floors when the first bars of ‘Holiday’ blast out. Please let dance floors and karaoke bars and dancing around handbags still be a thing when the virus slopes off to become merely endemic. We can hope.

So I made plans with the girls I am allowed to play with (Mum and daughter) to shop and eat and shop some more in the little smoke known as Brisvegas by mostly no-one other than old people like Nath and I who like to 1. Annoy our kids 2. Think we are a bit funny.

First stop was supposed to be Zara, followed by H&M, Seed and then lunch, but somehow we ended up at Carla Zampatti. Shock. We went for a ‘quick look’ which ended up with me being suitably fawned on by the excellent ladies there, helping with sizing, squeezing, and little squees as they fussed and fluffed and just generally made an old bird feel like her time for a Carla had finally come.

I narrowed it down to two: one much too hot for October in Queensland, but comfortable AF and extremely flattering, and one a bit more directional (and cleverly called “Homage to Carla” talk about tugging the story-strings), and not quite as sexy..but with POCKETS. What to do? Caught between fashion and function, yet again, and with price tags that didn’t allow for both. I decided to ‘eat on it’, and the lovlies said they would hold both of them for me. They were seasoned enough to know what, “I’m now picturing myself with make-up and proper shoes and my husband’s eyes on the night,” looks like- they knew I’d be back.

Over lunch and reflecting on the pros and cons of buying something that looks great, but will wind up being a velvet version of a sous vide* or, something less sassy sweaty and more classy, I got a call from Carla’s Angels: someone else wanted the second one. Did I want it? The seconds passed. Did I?

I’ve secretly wanted a Carla for years. I know this one looks good and I finally have somewhere to wear it, in fact once outfit the cards were on the table, I quickly invented three more places to wear it. Did I want it? Did I mention it’s called Homage to Carla?

Of course I did. I told them I’d be there shortly, but I understood if they wanted to sell it to the decisive lady in front of them. They declined. Carla was mine.

Of course when we got to the store the ladies were as lovely as ever, and I thanked them for keeping their promise to hold (what was soon to be) MY Carla. But it all felt a bit off. Some of the shine was taken off the purchase, in knowing that me getting this piece meant someone else missed out. You’ve probably seen the videos; the ones where the marathon runner is about to cross the line in second place and the person in front of them collapses, and rather than running on by, they pick them up so they can cross the line together. I love those videos and I bloody love a good win-win. It’s unlikely that I’m ever running a marathon, so this was my chance. I got the ladies to put the search out for another Carla, just like ‘mine’. Yes there was another, they said, but it wouldn’t work for the other lady, as she needed to have alterations done, and the times wouldn’t match up. She would have to miss out.

What to do, what to do? Should I give up what was fast becoming my beloved third child to bring another woman joy? Should I just shelve my Carla-owning dreams and buy something more sensible? Should I get the velvet sauna after all?

In my endorphin-fuelled almost-purchasing inner monologue I’d forgotten one thing: I didn’t need the damn thing for months. I could just drive back to Briso and pick it up another day. Facepalm. I told this to the Angels, and they quickly agreed to an even better plan: through the magic of Australia Post they would simply ship it to me. Amazing. Technology, ‘eh? I was laughing to myself as we completed my purchase and they called the other lady (who I’m pretty sure did a little squeal when they said she could come and get HER Carla), at how when we open our minds to the win-win we can almost always find a way. Sure it felt a bit weird and kind of sad to spend a whole bunch of bucks on an outfit that I couldn’t immediately go back home and try on (which is what I always do with new clothes), and sure it gave me waaaay more time to have buyer’s remorse, but there was something fun about how it all turned out. A kind of fashion solidarity that could be vapid or bullshit or nothing at all, depending on your view. But I like to think that story is important.

I know the brand of Carla Zampatti was forged through passion and tenacity and a desire to make women feel beautiful. I also know that things don’t have any inherent meaning, it’s just the meaning we bring to them. My Carla will arrive soon, and I will have some material with a meaning. Something that reminds me of what strong women can do when they put their heart into a project. Something that reminds me that finding ways to support each other rather than compete will always feel better. And I will be glad that even though I might look not-quite-as-hot as I could have, I will for once have chosen something that fits the function required.

I can’t promise the same thing for my shoes though.

* The process of vacuum-sealing food in a bag, then cooking it to a very precise temperature in a water bath. I hear it’s delicious. Not sure if it is recommended for fifty year old women.

Do you care about brands? Do you have a timeless item with a story? Do you have a Carla yet?

…From The Ashers…

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.

Want to know what is wrong with the world these days?

I’ll tell you.

Kids.

And not in the way you think.  Sure they are annoying, rude (honest?), silly, time consuming, wake-up too early on Sundays, don’t eat without messing up the whole floor, make too much noise in cafes, expensive and all that, but the real reason is that they are idiots.

Last weekend we didn’t do the normal shop online because we were suffering from memory loss due to alcohols away on a mini-break, so Nathan trundled down to our local Coles on Monday arvo to get the staples.  As we mostly shop online, we sometimes go a bit craycray when we get to see all the produce up close.  Our normal two hundred or so buck shop can blow out to almost three, with Grain Waves and fresh blueberries and warm bread-type products to touch and feel.

From the shops he sent me this:

Want these?

Oh Sweet Baby Cheeses, you bet I do!  Snowballs??!  I haven’t had one of those babies since the great Altona Softball Club Snowball Drive of 1982.  So he got them and I dutifully doled them out to the waiting lunchboxes, rubbing my hands together at all the praise I’d be getting that night for being THE BEST MUM.  After school, I opened the lunchboxes, expecting accolades but instead finding two plump snowballs.  With nary a bite out of them.  I flew downstairs flabbergasted and fearful.  What was wrong with the kids?  Were they sick?  Dead even?  Upon interrogation questioning it was revealed that they “really didn’t like them” and “they were too sweet”.

What?

Too sweet?

What does that mean?

What good is a lolly if it doesn’t make your teeth tingle all the way down to the dentine?

Who are these children, where did they come from, and what is wrong with them anyway?

I checked the other compartments of the lunch boxes: Apple? Gone.  Sandwiches? Eaten.  Carrots and snow peas? Finished.  Crackers, cheese and tomatoes?  Nowhere to be seen.  Even all of the water out of the drink bottles was gone.

I have no idea what is going on here.  Are they taking the piss, throwing out all of the healthy food in an attempt to send me gently insane?  Or do they really not like the marshies?  Really?

I’m in the kitchen right now, concocting a little litmus test.  I’m baking them a slice made with the world’s second best ingredient (condensed milk) that will be so sweet their taste buds will bug-out and their feet will flutter.

If they don’t eat it, I’m calling an ambulance.  Or the men in white suits.  (For me).

Do your kids eat sweeties?

How huge am I gonna be now that this is happening?

Oh sweetness, mine

…From The Ashers xxx

I like us all to have new outfits on Christmas Day, or if not new, then at least Christmas themed, in that they have to be red, white or green, or a combination of all three. Silver and gold are also acceptable.  Many, many things in The Asher home are in the colours of Christmas during December.  Upstairs, the colours are red, white and gold.  I can also allow silver.  In my office it’s green and white all the way.  In Unit One’s bedroom: blue and red.  Unit Two has pink and white.  (Now I know pink and blue “are not Christmas colours”, but: boy and girl.  Plus, the ornaments for their little trees were too cute to pass by.)

But I’m meandering.

This year, as always I got my Christmas stuff done early (RRs may have noticed me gloating in a previous post or ten), except for MY outfit.  I just haven’t been able to find a thing to wear.  Not in the theme colours at least.  I have schlepped to The Plaza a couple of times, which, shockingly, involves me: 1. Leaving the compound,  2. Leaving The Shire,  3. Crossing the river.

Nothing.

I thought I was going to have to resort to one of the outfits I have worn over the last ten years or so.  First World Problems right here people.

And then there was today, when the first Christmas Magic occurred.

This morning we Ashers were well and truly out of bounds, all the way down there at the computer chop-shop in Mooloolaba.  When we saw this:

Josie Bird… So cute. Flamingos in the window too.

How’s a girl to resist?

We went in, the kids took their seat on the big hand chair, and I began.  I’m not shy to do a bit of shopping or a bit of trying on, so the kids got out their books and settled in for the long haul- they know how I roll.  I perused the area- not difficult, it’s not a huge shop, and it’s not annoyingly cluttered with so much stock you can’t see things properly, but I didn’t see too much in the good ole theme colours.

The chirpy little thing behind the counter, who I shall call Josie Bird, if only because I like the way it sounds, asked if I needed any help.  Now this is where I usually get a bit embarrassed during what I like to call The Season.  I want to ask if they have anything suitable for Christmas Day, but I have so many rules: it must be red, white or green, it must be comfortable enough to encase and erase my Chrissy Day abdominal distention, it must look cute with heels, but not so short that heels are required at all times, it must be cool enough so that I can be in the kitchen (if I can’t avoid it), but warm enough so I can sit on the Top Deck late into the evening, and it must be modest enough that I won’t be flashing my scanties once I’ve imbibed.  And this old girl must look at least vaguely hot.

So I can’t really ask.

Today, Josie Bird was so gosh-darn full of pep, I decided to ask for just one of the requirements: the colour.  Immediately she was up and passing me a filmy little thing, that had a bit of red, and felt lovely in the hand.  I rarely ask for advice in shops (it may surprise you to know I may be a little controlling and opinionated) as I know what I like, but Josie Bird was so sweet I popped out of the cubicle for her to have a squizz, already shaking my head, “No”.

Josie Bird took one look at the Old Bird in front of her and said, “Not Christmassy enough, you need some more red, here you go,” and handed me a necklace that I would never choose with my own mind, and there it was: Christmas had come to The Ashers, or at least to this fussy, grumpy, tired-from-kids-camping-and-not-sleeping-last-night,  Asher.

Thanks Josie Bird.  What a ray of sunshine you are.

And here’s the reveal:

The outfit: sorted

Close up: loving the red

Cue the soundtrack  (Clearly the old Styler doesn’t know the colour-code constraints)

Do you have a new outfit for Christmas Day?  What’s it like? 

PS Not a sponsored post… Just sharing the Christmas Magic with y’all.

I am 42 years old.

I’ve have borne two children.  One of them was 9lbs 6oz in the old measure.  So we shan’t chat too much here about what’s stretched and what’s not (this isn’t Mumsnet* after all).  And it has gotten hot here, in my part of the world.

***Cue the Darth Vader scary music***

It’s time to go shopping for bathers.

Like I said, I’m 42 years old, and in that time I have learned two things about shopping for bikinis:

1.  Only buy Seafolly. The rest are rubbish.  They fade and stretch and pill, so it’s really just smoke and mirrors and false economy.

2. It does not matter ONE BIT how you are feeling about yourself or your body.  On the day you go bathers shopping you will feel like shit by the end. Bright lights, tiny 19 year old shop assistants who only help you when their FB feeds are silent and trying to stuff your knickers into the bikini bottoms so you can see what you’ll look like galavanting on the beach like a Libra Fleur ad.  So you might as well go on a day you feel ordinary anyway.  That way at least it can’t get much worse.

Currently, I’m in need of a haircut.  I haven’t waxed or plucked or defoliated in any way.  My skin is pasty.  So that day, was today.

I took a glug of Rescue Remedy and went into Sea Elements.

Bright lights: tick

Lady-girl at the counter: tick

Racks of scant garments in sickening shades of iridescence: tick

I don’t have a particularly big rig, and I’m between a size 8 and 10, but let’s just say gravity has not been kind.  What little breast-tissue was not hoovered up by the two parasites I spawned, has definitely gone south.  And a bit east and west.  With not a northerly in sight.  So I require ‘assistance’.  Unfortunateiy, this assistance is limited, as I abhor strap marks, so I also require a strapless top.  Let’s call that problem challenge #1.  Secondly, I used to have legs that ran, and a bottom that knew how to boogie.  Now I have legs that prefer a nice couch and a cuppa, and a derriere with more dimples than Shirley Temple, aka travesty challenge #2.  I may have already mentioned that I’m 42 years old.  My vintage means that fluorescents, iridescents and scintillants were for years long gone by.  Florals and animal prints are still in the future.  Which doesn’t leave much, I know: conundrum challenge #3.

I marched up to Lady-girl and explained the parameters of my purchase.  She blinked a few times, doe-eyed, then nodded.  Challenge accepted.

I absconded to the shoebox cubicle and paced in the (almost) nude waited patiently for her to bring me some options.  And bring  she did.  A veritable motherlode of lycra.  Stripes, zig-zags, spots and plains.  Bottoms that went up your bottom and bottoms that looked like your Nan’s bottom. Tops that lifted up and pushed up and foofed up.  The change-room floor looked like the remains of a vanquished Sunday-cyclist peloton.  But none of them quite right.

The she handed me the final pair.  ***Finger-of-god light and harps***

Perfect.

So I left with these new bathers.

They have straps.  They are floral.  They have pink fluro.

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED IN THERE?

SEE FOLLY.

The End

Have you been bathers shopping this year?

Do you call them bathers. togs, swimmers or cozzies?

* Mumsnet discussing penis dunking. Very funny.