When you are preparing to celebrate being in a relationship for eight years, you want to find the perfect outfit – something pretty, glamorous and saucy.
So you can imagine my delight when, in the weeks leading up to our octo-versary on the weekend, I found a handmade bright pink, neck-to-ankle 1970s bridesmaid’s dress/Rapunzel costume with a ruffle across the chest.
Ticks all the aforementioned boxes, I reckon:
I did consider leaving it long to cover my shame, but I thought I looked a bit too much like Princess Peach. So I got out my measuring tape and scissors and lopped about 30cm off the bottom.
As a side note, this is why I so desperately love op-shopping and eBaying:
I wonder who Gloria was and why she wanted to hide her stems under a bushell.
Anyhoot, I think it turned out quite well. It helped me convince the security guard at Star Casino I was of age and had quite an effect on the footpath poles in Newtown:
Because I have too many feelings I was dismayed at the leftover material, imagining Gloria had probably bought it with the money she saved from her job at the milk bar where she fell in love with George Bailey.
Shiny pink material? Meet a boring maroon dress I wore twice before realising it was far too short. The result? My new favourite outfit!
One of the best parts of my recent holiday was catching up briefly with my childhood friend, Amelia.
She lives and works in our hometown and is a beautiful artist. Her blog, filled with design, photography and DIY ideas, shows she is super creative and cool. I bought one of her finely detailed prints of four fish and have hung it above our dining table.
In late primary school Mel and I spent our weekends and afternoons riding around our town on our bikes. We’d ride past the houses where boys we liked lived, to parks and to corner stores to spend our pocket money on Gobstoppers and Warheads. We would leave our houses in the morning and not come back until sunset.
In between rides we’d play rounds of Blindman’s Bluff, Murder in the Dark and a very early version of Grand Theft Auto. We’d make prank calls from a local phone box, record home movies and eat a lot of lettuce, cheese and mayonnaise sandwiches.
I was reading waaaay too much Judy Blume towards the end of that time and it made me a little bit crazy.
I fearlessly led all my (reluctant) friends on a mission to find out what smoking a cigarette was like. Being 11 I never got my hands on the real thing, instead showing everyone how cool I was by “smoking” grapevine sticks taken from my backyard. I thought there was nothing more awesome than talking about our girl secrets, even creating an elaborate note passing system using strings rigged up around rooms at sleepovers so our parents couldn’t eavesdrop. I remember proudly showing everyone the results of my covert leg shaving in year 5.
It’s really nice to have something in my home to remind me of my truly wonderful childhood. I just hope Mel’s forgiven me for being totally weird.
I don’t have any grey hairs, an unexpected beard or a cat named Boots, but I have definitely become an old woman.
A series of first world problems broke into my life in May and swiped motivation, creativity and contentment right off my mantelpiece (sitting next to my Year 10 writing award and J-man’s homemade Most Improved Player NBA trophy) and replaced them with tears and Cheezels. I’m keeping the dang Cheezels.
I am coming out of the funk now, but this has been my life for the last three months:
I sent this photo of our new lampshade to J-man. He didn’t reply because he was at Splendour in the Grass with his shirt off. He told me later that it would kill his “rock ‘n’ roll” if he replied to a message about home furnishings while he was partying.
On Thursday J-man had free tickets to a gig, where free booze and free sandwiches were on offer. Free. Sandwiches. I stayed home to do the housework. Afterwards I rewarded myself with an old fashioned stout and dressing gown session. This is my favourite beer. Our bottle shop doesn’t even display it in the fridge.
This has been my Saturday night view. That blanket was 50 per cent off at the Red Cross shop’s closing sale.
I’ve been making boob jokes with Jam Drop cookies.
My flapjack’s name is Amelia.
On our way to the ferry a few weekends ago, I excitedly snapped this old folk’s home. With its pansies and pink walls, this is where I want to spend my final days. J-man asked: “Do you think they would let us share a room?” Sounds perfect.