by Bron | August 13, 2010 10:11 pm
Let me tell you about my new pashmina. It’s pure wool, pale pink, big enough to wrap all around me when the wind is blowing cold down George Street. Yet equally small enough to twist fashionably around my neck.
For weeks it accompanied me to work. It also came to a Broncos game at Suncorp, enjoyed a long weekend at Mooloolaba, met the girls for lunch at the Regatta and had a plane ride to Sydney. It got a bit cranky at me when I left it in my car overnight. But we made up.
Then I washed it. Now, I’m pretty fastidious about washing. Well, about cleaning really. I’ve had lots of practice. Usually because I’m the women behind the successful man who cleans up all the shit he’s too full of himself to notice.
When I wash, I separate, separate, separate. Soak anything even remotely white. Hand wash all delicates. Warm water for towels, cold water for jeans. Hang everything in the shade.
So what made me throw my treasured pashmina into the same load as my gym clothes and then chuck the whole damp mess into the dryer, I’ve no idea. I wasn’t drunk at the time. I wasn’t particularly time-poor. It wasn’t raining.
The next morning I opened the dryer and yanked out this pathetic little square that in a former life used to be my BFF pashmina. Needless to say, it now fashions itself as a table napkin, although not very absorbent. And I’m down $85 and back to being cold at work and lonely on plane flights.
If you wash delicate items without paying attention, you’re a bloody idiot.
Here’s another bloody idiot example. One Saturday afternoon, I was mooching around DFO and happened upon a pair of hot pink stilettos. And not just hot pink. Patent leather hot pink. Couldn’t you just die!!
That night, I had a party to go to and these shoes wanted to come with me. Except it was a stand-up cocktail party type party. And those shoes really hurt. They pinched on my little toes and the strap dug into the side of my foot. Ooouch!
I stood against a wall, eased one sandal off, tried to massage my aching toes on the carpet and then like the bevan I can be, hurriedly shoved it back on when someone came over to say hello.
A gorgeous friend, who was midst break-up with her fella, wanted to have a chat. Should she sell her half of their house back to him or should she fight to maintain the property? Who should get the carving they bought together in Prague? Did I think he was sleeping with their neighbour?
I wanted to support her, be there for her, advise her. But the throbbing pain emanating below my ankles deafened me to anything but the screaming need for my slippers.
If you buy stilettos and wear them to a stand-up party without first breaking them in, you’re a bloody idiot.
How about the time another adored gal-pal was on the cusp of her five-minutes-of fame? So what if it was as an extra in a Toyota Corolla television commercial which probably constituted four seconds of exposure? Publicity is publicity.
I invited the gang over to my place for dinner to share her moment of glory. And went ahead and broke my own golden rule of never cooking anything for company that I haven’t cooked before. I mean, how hard can Moroccan spiced eggplant in a lamb tagine with cinnamon and sweet potato be to cook?
It resembled an autopsy. We ended up eating loads of cheese and a frozen Sara Lee dessert. Thank goodness I had enough wine to compensate.
Don’t ever be a bloody idiot and fake an orgasm simply as a means to get a new bloke off the top of you. He’ll think he’s so spectacular in the sack he’ll spend weeks interpreting your being unavailable as a come on.
Don’t ever be a bloody idiot and buy that Alannah Hill dress in a size 10 because you have a plan to ditch seven kilos. That same Alannah Hill dress will be hanging in your wardrobe five years from now, when you’ve probably added another happy three kgs to your beautiful frame.
Don’t be a bloody idiot and wear any form of complex buckle-up sandals on any form of aircraft. Today’s post 9/11 security checks will see you sitting on your arse undoing 15 buckles per shoe whilst your rock-bottom ticket price plane blithely leaves. Does security think I’m going to stash a set of box-cutters into a stiletto heel measuring half a centimetre diameter? Probably.
Suppose you were an idiot. Suppose you were Bron McClain. But I repeat myself.
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