Wake up early. Go for a walk. Observe the gleam of the new day. Breathe. Thanks be for another one.
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Not the most inspiring photograph, I’ll give you that, but it was like that this evening. Not all that much going on. The steady dip of the ever reddening sunset was enough to keep me occupied. That and the thought of the weekend and the Bureau of Meteorology’s promise of high-30s/low-40s temperatures in coming days.
I know I’m still here, but in my head I’ve packed up my stuff -no qualms whatsoever about storing away all my favourite things (material possessions, who needs ’em?)- and hit the road, or flown the coop, or set sail, for a year off. (The last, metaphorical only. I hardly think so.)
Those who know me will know that the notion of me living out of a backpack is laughable, to say the least. I think I’ve got about six months to work out how I shall do this. But I will do it. I promise (myself).
It occurred to me yesterday that it’s a month to Christmas and therefore just over a month to the new year. How can this be? Time flies, it does, even when you’re not necessarily having fun.
I don’t normally make new year’s resolutions and besides it is still November, therefore, I feel safe in sharing this idea: I will have More Fun in 2013. Somehow.
I don’t expect anyone (you) to understand why I would be thinking about what I’m thinking – but the clue is in the caption, so hover. Suffice to say, I’ve just added another item to my list of Things I Don’t Understand.
And now, it’s like when you get an ear-worm – a song that embeds itself in your head and you find yourself humming it all day, much to your chagrin – because it’s The Spice Girls or something equally embarrassing to admit you know the lyrics to that song! – but the thought(s) won’t go away, and you wonder how it could’ve turned out like this, and you remember things you hadn’t thought about since you were a kid, like the times your aunt used to comb your hair and you sat patiently as she worked her way through the knots, listening to her stories (one of which was about a movie she’d just seen called ‘Alien’ which sounded like the scariest movie ever!) and how you cried when she left Malaysia for a new life in Australia…
If we had known then what we know now about life, about death.
I’m not a Chanel No. 5 fan at all. I guess I’m just not sophisticated enough to like it, but I do love No. 19 very much.
To my uneducated nose, No. 19 Poudre‘s drydown is much warmer, less green than the No. 19 original. I feel a bit more serious when I spritz on the Poudre. I’d go so far as to say that if I had to pick a personality for Poudre, I’d say a she’s a girl who doesn’t do picnics very often. (She likes orchids, though.)
I know, two ‘smell’ posts in a row. I can’t seem to get enough at the moment.
If anyone is going to the New York, London or Paris and has some spare room in their suitcase they wouldn’t mind filling with, um, unguents, may I request that you do so with Le Labo… for me? And if you decide you want to keep it all rather than hand it over to me when you get back, I might even forgive you.
I don’t think it’s possible to buy the body lotions, soaps, shower gels, etc. here in Australia – fragrance only. (Why why why?) I need more when it comes to Le Labo‘s Bergamote 22. (Did I ever mention that 2 is my favourite number and that two 2s are even better than one… and how does anyone come up with a favourite number anyway?)
I stayed a few nights at the Park Hyatt Sydney recently for the work thing and swiped a few of these mini Bergamote 22s when I left.
I must say that it’s as much the packaging as it is the scent. The font selection. The thick white waxed paper wrapper for the soaps. The fact that you can have the item labelled for yourself (or someone else)… I mean, even the Park Hyatt went for it.
I never thought of myself as a mini soaps hoarder (I might’ve taken three of those – ahem!). Which leads me back to the original question: anyone want to go shopping for me?
You know that saying about forgetfulness where people look sorry for you and murmur, “Tsk, if your head wasn’t screwed on…!”? That was me from last Friday through to Tuesday. The forgetfulness plague began on Friday morning with me returning to the apartment to pick up something I’d forgotten but still forgetting it anyway. Leaving my mobile phone behind (in restaurants mostly) three times in three days. Having to set myself timed reminders for everything from trivial to important – the critical items were things no one in her right mind would’ve forgotten – but there you have it: I was not in my right mind.
The 3.5 day-event we had been planning since the start of the year was finally upon us, and the lead-up was full of the usual stresses, sleep deprivation, long days of not having enough time no matter how early you started or ended your day, sleep deprivation, fretting about things I really couldn’t care less about in ‘normal’ life and passing that on by being an almost-unreasonable client, sleep deprivation, people needing/wanting more more more, sleep deprivation, last minute confirmations/cancellations/changes with no regard to cost or complexity, sleep deprivation, waking with a racing heart in a hot sweat literally drenched and having to throw the sheets off for fear of suffocation, sleep deprivation, the video-filming exercise (27 in total) on the side, sleep deprivation, the new website launch to synch with the event, sleep deprivation… (They do this to spies, enemies of the state, prisoners of war, don’t they?)
It’s over now. And it was judged generally to be a success by the firm and our delegates. Many told me the event organisation was the best it had been for years. I hope I don’t forget this feeling of having contributed to something excellent, winning and significant.
(I really wanted to post yesterday because it was 21.11.12 -palindrome nerd alert!- but I wasn’t able to think beyond dinner and falling asleep on the sofa.)
You may not be seeing me – or rather, seeing any posts from me – in the next week or so. Work’s a little on the all-consuming side right now, and I have the firm’s annual meeting on my hands, with this year’s gathering being more important than they have been for a while. So it’s all hands on deck, feet paddling frantically beneath the surface, head-down-bum-up, and nose to grindstone. More clichés and body parts than you can poke a stick at!
See you soon!
After a gloomy gray Saturday, Sunday dawned bright and sunny. The Bestie, his housemate H. and I decided it was too good a day to waste indoors so we got in the car, and the Bestie drove us to Cronulla. It was my first visit to the southern seaside suburb. The drive there and back reminded me a lot of my hometown, Perth.
The beach was pretty busy, little ‘nippers’ racing back-and-forth to the water in their red-and-yellow cozzies, and there were almost as many dogs as there were humans. All enjoying the great outdoors.
It felt lovely to be out in the sunshine (with straw hat and SPF of course!). I even allowed myself to entertain the notion of one day leaving the rat race, moving to a seaside suburb like Cronulla, and just taking time out to smell the sea air.
I need more days like that.
Sometimes what the doctor ordered doesn’t involve letting your hair down. It’s more like: scraping your hair up into a bun, doing a bit of yoga (after months of not doing), then staying in your house dress all day, switching off the phone, reading, watching DVDs of TV series you’d never previously heard of, drinking tea, going to bed at 9:30pm even though it’s Saturday Night… Waking early on Sunday and feeling Amazing.
A friend mentioned yesterday that MS MR will be playing a gig in February, and would I be interested in going?
The show’s on a Monday night. Who the heck does that sort of thing on a Monday night?
That aside, I do want to go. What’s stopping me? Nothing but the fact that I always let convention be in charge.
Time for a change?
And another thing: the nails on that hand (not Keira’s on the cover of Vogue USA). I can’t tear my eyes away from those bad-ass acrylics. Do people still wear acrylics? I used to -years ago- until I realised that my own nails weren’t in fact that bad. Now I shudder at the ‘nail abuse’.
I have three serums on rotation. (This promiscuity isn’t limited to serums; six mascaras currently on the go. And as for lipstick – well! A girl needs choices! Lots of ’em!) The Olay Regenerist Micro-Sculpting is my regular daily; Estee Lauder Advanced Night Repair* is what I use at night; and Paula’s Choice Resist Super Antioxidant Concentrate Serum is what I wear on days when I feel I need something more.
This morning, I feel like I could do with all three of them at the same time.
* I only buy the travel/sample size of this product. I don’t know why. It doesn’t make economic sense which means it’s a bit daft. But that’s just the way it is.
I’m home alone for the next couple of weeks; the Hub has gone home to the UK for a visit with his folks. I’m no good at being home alone. Especially at night when the slightest sound makes me jump, and all I manage is fitful sleep.
Last night, there was an enormous ‘roach in the the apartment and such is my phobia, I shrieked, ran into the bedroom and shut the door. Then I fretted all night that it would crawl into the bedroom and all over me. Most phobias are irrational, I think, and mine is certainly that.
Another aspect of the phobia is that I think of cockroaches as dirty so now I’m wearing footwear at home, even though I’m in pyjamas, because I can’t allow my feet to touch the floor or carpet because I know a ‘roach has been and I don’t want my skin to make contact with any surface that may have had a roach on it.
I can’t kill the roach either because if I use a shoe, any shoe, it will be forevermore tainted and I’d have to throw the shoe out. And worse, the roach might squelch all over me. If I have to clean the floor of squashed roach, I’d then have to throw out the dustpan and brush, or replace the hoover head – because they’d be tainted too. I did buy some bug spray but I’m hoping I won’t have to use it. Again, issues with having to dispose of the dead cockroach. And what if it runs around in circles as it dies a slow death? Argh. Contamination – all over!
What actually happened was that the roach ran under the fridge. I’m now living in trepidation of it making a reappearance.
If all that makes me sound completely certifiably insane, then chuck me in a padded room and throw away the key. Just as long as there aren’t cockroaches in the room.
Bestie suggested I call the concierge the next time the ‘roach appears. He wasn’t sympathetic at all. In fact, I’m certain I could hear his chortle even though the mode of comms was SMS!
The ‘no photography’ message was so badly signposted that I had taken four snaps before an attendant came up to admonish me for doing so; I wasn’t the only person who got caught breaking the rule.
I never knowingly break the rules / I’m a good girl – most of the time. (But if you don’t make it obvious, I can’t guarantee I’ll behave.)
I bought these spin pins in March but didn’t really get into using them until just recently. And they are simply genius. Instead of a bun full of bobby pins, all I need now is these two pins and my bun stays in place, all day. You simply twist the pins in and it’s literally like you’ve screwed your bun in place. Whoever invented the spin pin, you’re a legend.
I don’t know where to buy them in Sydney, though; mine were purchased from a shop in Forrest Chase, Perth. (I don’t even know if the shop is still there – one can never assume in this poor retail climate.) However, I see that they’re available via Amazon, which is handy. I need some spares.
And speaking of things not readily available here in Australia, what about the US edition of Harper’s Bazaar? Where the heck are they now? You almost never see them at the newsagents’ now. The June/July 2012 copy shown in the photo was bought at LAX. I don’t know what it is about American magazines but I’ve been a fan since I first discovered Seventeen magazine at the age of 13. Is it the paper? The dimensions, which are (closer to) letter size than A4? The content… the ads (!)? I’ve been reading magazines for years – obviously – and I just don’t get the same buzz from Australian magazines as I do from their American counterparts. I don’t know why that is. So, anyway, what’s the deal, Aussie newsagents? Is there an embargo on HB US?