Are you being served?

Along with the ‘Wisdom of the Elders’… comes ‘Fine Lines around The Eyes’. Morning,  I notice that my old beauty routine is perhaps not up to scratch.  Well, then again, perhaps it never was.  Considering that most of the tricks and tips that I use today came from Cosmopolitan Magazine in 1980. 

So I bit the bullet and took myself to the TOTALLY intimidating Perfumery in this One Horse Town.  It is not my first visit, usually I just slip into buy a nice soap or a shower gel as a gift (yep, if you invite me to your party… you are getting soap!).  Today, I decided I needed something to hide the multitude of sins that have taken up Squatter’s Rights on the face I present to the public.

“Hi, I was wondering if you could help me choose a new foundation make-up?”  I was trying to be charming, all the while, wishing I had thought to wear something other than my muddy walking boots and the comfy argyle knit sweater with the hole in the sleeve. 

She was all eyelashes and perfect complexion.  You just know when someone has sized you up in the blink of an eye.  Terminator III had nothing on this girl. 

“Well, what brand would you like?”  As she speaks, she surreptitiously glances at her own reflection in the many mirrors that surround us, and, with her little finger, dabs at the corner of her perfect red lipstick.

“I was hoping you would help with that…”  At this moment she has caught sight of my ragged fingernails and dishpan hands.  A little sigh escapes, a glimpse of tiny, shiny, white teeth… like you might find on a piranha.

“Yes, of course, but what I suggest is a good product might not be the same for one person, as it is for someone else..someone else might find it does not suit them.”  Then nothing.  I don’t quite know where to go with this.

“But could you at least tell me if it is the right colour?” I vaguely point in the direction of We-Promise-Miracle-And-Take-Your-Money, Paris office, hoping this will not cost me more than my last car.

With a brisk nod, she starts opening and closing drawers.  Those tiny white teeth come out and start to chew on her perfect red lips.  I study her carefully and am delighted to notice that she has a little earwax peeking out. 

“Either of these two would be suitable.”  And immediately starts to use my face as a palette.  Slapping first one side with make-up and then the other with a shade darker.  With a quick about face, she marches over to a round mirror situated near a bright window.  “Perhaps the light is better for you over here?”

Obedient child… I follow in her perfumed wake.  Bend at the waist and peer into the mirror she is holding.  Gasp!  Who is that woman.  This is the mirror from hell.  The fine lines around my eyes are now tantamount to moon craters.  The spidery red lines on my cheek have become raging red rivers. My ungroomed eyebrows, an overgrown black jungle, complete with, what I now believe, is a smear of toothpaste.  Did I really leave the house looking like this.

“Fine, I’ll take it!”  I want out.. fast.  I point to the right side of my face, hoping to god that I don’t look insane.  I don’t ask how much, I don’t care… I just want to get away.

“Would madam like a sample?”

Sure, whatever… just let me out.

When I arrived home, I discover a little gift at the bottom of the bag.  Concentrated Anti-Wrinkle Eye Cream.

Subtle… Me thinks not.

“Careful, she might hear you!”

“You have to forget about what other people say; when you're supposed to die, when you're supposed to be lovin'. You have to forget about all these things. You have to go on and be crazy. Craziness is like heaven.” Jimi Hendrix

Sleepy, sleepy Sunday afternoon. 

When I hear certain ‘other’ members of the household whispering, I crack open one eye to see what they are up to.  Whispering.  Sunday.  Never a good combination.

They think I am asleep.  I like it that way.  I watch them through my eyelashes.  They are definitely planning something. I can only hope, that this time, it doesn’t end up like the never-to-be-mentioned-again ‘green paint & Mum’s best cashmere’ incident…

I hear them slip open the door to the garden.

“You go first!” 

“No, you first”

“Let’s hold hands.”

You would be forgiven for thinking that we have a few little fairies flitting about…but this is what I found:

“Ooooh… it is a wee bit cold on my feet…but it’s ok!”

“Yes, I see what you mean, quite refreshing… but are my toes supposed to feel so numb?”

“Ummm… maybe it will be better if I just put one foot in the snow, and hop?”

“Ok.. so now I have no feeling in that foot and will need to switch…are you SURE this is a good idea?”

“Aaahhhh… I think we should call a helicopter to come and get us… IT’S FREEEZING!”

“Whose stupid idea was this!!  Call mum, tell her to come and get us… she should bring a St Bernard with her…”

“No response from the MUM SNOW RESCUE UNIT… we better make a run for it!”

Like real fairies…some days, it is better not to let on that you can see them.

Salt on my Skin

It seems like it has been winter for, like… forever.  My childish joy when the first fat snowflakes drifted down has now turned to a groan.  All day I have resisted the pull to go and shovel the front path.  I imagine the three retiree neighbours around me are having a field day grumbling about my lack of unity. 

Instead, I have focused on other matters, like changing the linen, cleaning the shower recess and making a batch of No-Knead bread dough.  It was at the moment I put my fingers in the water to check if it was ‘lukewarm’ that I drifted off…

…and landed here:

Before I knew what was happening, I could feel the warm wood under my feet. The gentle lapping of the water against the jetty urged me to walk forward. Until I arrived...Here:

Crisp sheets, fresh flowers.  The smell of salt in my nostrils.  I turned my face up to meet the sunshine… discarded layer after layer of winter clothing, releasing my body to bask in the warmth.  The Shock! as I plunge my tired and worn body into the cool water, pushing myself toward the edge…  I look up and am greeted by a sweet, smiling attendant.  The robe she hands me is soft, silky cotton.  I slip it on and follow her to here…

  

Firm, yet gentle hands work on the angry knots in my back and neck.  I feel my whole body start to relax.  Delicious smells waft past, lavender, orange blossom.  I start to feel lighter, but my eyelids are getting heavier… heavier…feeling sleepy……….“MUM!!…. are you listening?  I said I need a drink of water please… MUM!!!  What are you doing!  You have been stirring that dough for hours!”

Oh.. but it was nice while it lasted…everyone should take a little ‘dream’ holiday.  Go on, just do it.  Your credit card will never know.

*Thanks to Banyan Tree Seychelles for their beautiful photos…if you ever need a resort tester.. I am your girl.

Mind the step!

It is the early 90’s.  I am young and lookin’ good.  I roll with the cool gang.  I live in Istanbul.  I know, right… exotic!

One of the 5 Star Hotels is opening a new nightclub.  The buzz on the street about this incredible new venue, has been hot.  Tickets to the opening night are like the Holy Grail.  And I have them.

It is grand, greater than grand.  There is one room after the other, each more dramatic, each more stylish than the other.  The music is loud, all the beautiful people are holding court.  Champagne flows. It is exclusive, no ‘little people’ allowed until after midnight.

We could see the queue winding down to the car park as we gathered our coats to leave.  Our time had come, now the gates would be open to the public.  Coats in hand, headed toward the foyer, where a line of ‘primed and hair-sprayed’ youth were champing at the bit for their chance to enter the Life Style of the Rich and Famous.

I strutted past them, clearly the envy of them all… after all, I had the golden ticket.  I tossed my long hair, and with a grandiose flourish, swirled my cape-like, full length coat into the air, slipping it on.  Then it happened.

I felt myself falling, that sickening feeling that you get when an aeroplane hits an air pocket.  That drop in your stomach, when you put your foot out and discover their is nothing there…

Flat on my face.  It was so quick, I don’t actually remember the fall… just the landing.  It would have landed me an Oscar for Best Slapstick Comedy Fall.  I stayed where I was.  Considered for a quarter second that perhaps no one had noticed.

A lot can run through your head when you are face down, lying spread-eagled on a marble floor.  With a crowd watching.  There was silence.  Nobody said anything.  Nobody moved.  I could hear the blood rushing through my veins, most of it making its way to my furiously blushing face.

Someone picked me up.  I looked down at the damage.  What was before, a chic & sexy pair of black stockings, now resembled the designer wardrobe of an emo/grunge/I have no money bands’ lead singer.  My knees were skinned and a trickle of blood was winding its way toward the white marble floor.

I pushed my hair out of my eyes, turned my head to the right.  They were all still there… the before labelled ‘little people’ had now become my judge and jury… their cold, hard eyes sentenced me to a lifetime of uncool goofball, with no possibility of parole.

Pride comes before a fall, never seemed so apt.

Well! That is disturbing…

“A family is a unit composed not only of children but of men, women, an occasional animal, and the common cold.”Ogden Nash

Between Christmas and New Year, I took a little trip down south.  Down to the kingdom of Lederhosen and Weiss Bier.

During a visit to a teeny, tiny museum, the following interaction took place at the cashier desk:

Lulu:  “Hi! Could I please have tickets for two adults and three children.”

The cashier looks over her glasses, shuffles some papers, looks over her glasses some more.

Cashier:  “Oh… do you have a man with you?”

I am now pulling that face that they do at the end of each episode of The Bold & The Beautiful.  The one where they are holding the suspense, only I am trying to figure out what the hell she is getting at.

Lulu: “Um, no… just us, and the kids.” I indicate my sister (aka KuKu … ).

Cashier:  “Well, that is a shame, because I could have sold you a Family Ticket,”  she is tutting and shaking her head.

LuLu:  “In that case, WE are a family.”  When it comes to saving a few bucks… honey, I would admit to being family with Courtney Love.

Cashier:  “Oh no… a family for us means a man and a woman!!” 

She has said this with a straight face.  Kuku, who doesn’t have any idea that she has just had her civil rights violated in a foreign language, continues to smile and nod at the sweet little ol’ lady.

LuLu:  “OK… then give me two adult and three children tickets please.”  My jaw is clenched and I am breathing right up in my throat. 

As we pushed the kids up the winding staircase, I translated the event to KuKu.  It was a narrow, stone staircase.  Her response could be heard throughout the building and down to the Alps:

“SHE SAID WHAT!!”

Weeks have passed since this incident, and I still wish I had been able to pull out a business card saying something like ‘LuLu, Expert in Discrimination Law’.  Sort of like Denny Crane on Boston Legal. 

Of course, I did nothing.  I let it slide.  I opened the door for the next same-sex couple to visit that museum, with their kids, to be placed in a box.  And that makes me sad.

The weird thing… the tickets only cost 3€ and children 1€.  How much cheaper could a ‘family’ ticket possibly be?

Fried Rice and Sauerkraut

“Reminds me of my safari in Africa. Somebody forgot the corkscrew and for several days we had to live on nothing but food and water.” W.C. Fields

To date, I have been sorely disappointed by Asian food in Germany.  Sorry guys, but YOU just don’t get it.

My first experience was the local Chinese restaurant in Karlsruhe.  A favourite of my Sister in Law and her family.  I was excited.  I missed Asian food.

We are spoiled for choice in multicultural Australia.  Want a quick bite to eat?  No problem!  Pop into any number of small Chinese/Asian takeaways, and a steaming bowl of delicious, fresh, Asian green vegetables and health restoring soup is yours.  Rushing home from work, grab a succulent roast duck, chopped up and ready to serve.  Like I said…spoilt.

As we all opened our menus, I felt a tingle of excitement.  It looked good on paper.  A large group at a Chinese restaurant in Australia is a treat.  It means you can order lots and lots of different dishes, all placed in the middle, all shared.  I couldn’t quite get a handle on what the others were ordering, so when it came to my turn, I requested the Chef Recommends - Five Spice Crispy Duck.

We waited… and I watched in horror as no less than 12 portions of Five Spice Crispy Duck were placed on the table.  I looked across the table at Mr Dear Husband.  He looked back at me.  He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders.  I waited for the other ten people to notice the huge mistake.  No reaction.

They just each reached across to ‘their’ portion, pulled it a little closer to their bowl and dug in.

There is no sharing.  And all the dishes have a distinctly German flair. The only vaguely Asian green that I saw was a lone bean sprout.

The meal was completed with Deep Fried Ice-Cream. 

Can you say 1974, people?

Are they Real?

“Loyalty to petrified opinion never yet broke a chain or freed a human soul.”  Mark Twain

“What are you watching?”  Mr Dear Husband plonks himself down beside me.  We sit quietly, together for a few minutes, until he starts to fidget and making that weird ‘clearing the throat’ sound.

“Seriously!  What ARE you watching?  His face is screwed up in concentration.  He is leaning forward, toward the television, his mouth slightly agape.

“The Real Housewives of Orange County.”  Don’t ask, sometimes a girl just needs a little Bling-Bling.

He turns and looks at me, puzzled.  “Please tell me what is REAL about THOSE women!”

He has a point.  I find myself mesmerized by their faces.  Their faces and their breasts.  Neither of those body parts appear to move. Ever.  And they are all over forty.

Mr Dear Husband leans back, crosses one leg over the other at a 45 degree angle.  He is still squinting.  It is possible he might need new specs, but probably more accurate to assume he is confused.

“Why don’t their faces move, and why do they all look the same?”  He has a point.

I couldn’t help myself.  A lazy weekend afternoon, something mindless. I got hooked and continued to watch these women parade their lives for the world to see.  After three episodes, I started to like them.  Not what I was expecting.

Imagine what it would be like to put in that much time and effort, to have shiny white teeth and Pamela Anderson Hair.  And those boobs!  Wow.  It had taken me at least two episodes to work out why all those gals could strut around in tiny, spaghetti strap tops, with no visible sign of the usual mechanics it takes to hold ‘the girls’ in place.

Strangely, it was some of the most honest television I have seen for ages.  They are pretty straight up about WHO they are, and where they want to be.  There is no pretence.  It was refreshing.  And they love a glass of wine… what’s not to like!

Sort of hoping that Mr Dear Husband doesn’t EVER get transferred to Orange County.  They would take one look at my “No Shaving Legs in Winter” policy…or “Has it been 12 weeks since my last hair cut…whoops” and I would be run out of town.

Mr Dear Husband sat with me for another few minutes… then Miss Eight happened to drift past…

“Oh pretty!  Barbie Dolls!”

Yep, baby, REAL LIVE Barbie Dolls.