Still crazy after all these years?

I met  an old lover over lunch today
We spoke about our hopes and fears
We laughed and drank a lot of wine
Still crazy after all these years.

Sorry Paul Simon.

But we did. We laughed and drank. Laughed possibly enough and drank too much, if the bottle of white and bottle of red I chucked into the recycling are any measure.

Ian turned 55 this year. When we first met he was 22 and I was 20. We dated and he asked me to marry him when I was 21. I declined for two reasons:

• I wanted to see more of the world (as Aussies do!)
• I couldn't cope with the constant pressure to have sex (and I still can't… from anyone.)

That aside we had a lot in common. We had similar upbringings, similar tastes in music (bizarrely old-fashioned compared to our peers), basically we were good together - except at the age of 20 I couldn't cope with Ian's adiposity. He was a big man even then and I found it repulsive, but I found most of sex repulsive. He was my first and there was no teenage sinuous grappling; already he was obese for his age and height and heaven knows he was a sensible eater… but I couldn't cope with it.  Him. Physical him. I've never been a touchy feely person and quailed at the feeling of rolling fat beneath my hands.  It put me off sex. Sorry. I know I shouldn't be sizist but I struggled with weight issues as a teen myself which I'd conquered and it had a lasting effect.

I've never enjoyed the physical sex thing - the invasion of one's body by other parts of another's. I can't cope with having to use my mouth on someone else's body or them on my mine. Given that my first experience with Ian was with someone I found physically unattractive because of his fatness,  although the mental side was good, it's no wonder the relationship failed. I got sick of being expected to put out every time we went out. No matter if it were coffee or dinner it was expected to end in sex and eventually I put my foot down and exited. I've been the same with every other lover, really: can cope with so much intimacy and sex then I want to run away and have my body to myself.

But incredibly Ian and I have stayed friends. We see each other about once a year. Traditionally it's boozy as Ian is still a big man - Gawd, much bigger! - and can handle his booze so he drinks twice a much as I do.

So today was one of our lunch days. He came to my place and I cooked Boeuf Bourgignon, with potatoes and peas. We both thoroughly enjoyed it. We chatted all the way through, catching up on each other's lives.

It struck me in one sense that perhaps I'd have been better off in my life saying "yes" when I was 20. We still get on so well. We still have a lot in common. We still laugh at the same things and have the same aspirations. I'm still repelled by his size but then I'm repelled by my husband who is overweight and has too much body hair for my liking. I've never liked hairy men but at my age there is no escaping them, dammit. Ian, however, is just too bloody big - he's on the truly repulsive size scale for me. Think 150kg. His personality however is wonderful.

But I'm on a boozy high, reliving my afternoon of classic jazz and swing and Frank Sinatra.

But I do wonder if Ian, with whom I have never lived, has the same problems as G: can't close cupboard doors, can't slide drawers in, can't put chairs in, can't finish a sentence and a host of other minor problems. I do like Ian's personality, but I have to be realistic.

I'm married to G, who can bug me but who is a truly good man. So is Ian. But if I have to be hassled for sex I'd rather be hassled by the one with the smaller body. Less repulsive.

Character counts for a good deal but you have to be able to accept physical interaction with a person. Otherwise it's shit. And sometimes still is anyway if your partner wants it a lot more than you do and you have to fake enjoyment or at the least consensus.

So I'm reliving my youth with Ian, wondering about the might have beens and giggling about our views on the future. Still crazy after all these years.

A short - or rather, skinny - history of my life in jeans.

As I work from home, I tend to live in jeans. I have a few pairs in various stages of degradation, and nothing left for 'best', i.e. going into town or out to dinner at the local club.

Shopping for jeans, however, is hell.

I'm short, but I'm not skinny. I'm slightly overweight but you'd call me medium build. So in order for the jeans to fit snugly around my waist they are usually too long in the leg.

I am heaving a huge sigh of relief that 'high rise' jeans that actually fit around your waist are coming back into fashion. Curse Victoria Beckham for her statement several years ago that the hipster (low-rise) trouser was perfect for every body shape and thus prolonging the fashion. It bloody wasn't. If you were bigger than a size 8 you ended up with a muffin top. I did succumb to a pair of low rise jeans for $20 but never felt thin in them. I was ok standing up holding my tummy in but they felt horrible when I sat down, as if my tummy was bulging revoltingly over the top of them like a wobbly soufflé.

I used to wear bootleg jeans a few years ago, then I went for a half price straight leg when I had trouble getting bootleg. The straight leg doesn't really do me any favours. I look short and podgy, so it has been relegated to gardening wear. The bootlegs weren't bad but I got a bit sick of them and longed for a pair of skinny jeans, drainpipe jeans as we used to call them when I was a kid. Do I have the body shape for skinny jeans? Not hugely, but as I tend to favour mid-thigh tunic tops they work for me far better than bootleg or straight leg with tunics.  I bought a pair of skinny jeans two years ago (after going to five shops before I found a pair that had the waistband at the waist and found they were called Mummy Jeans - oh dear!) and felt twenty years younger the first time I put them on.

I do most of my clothes shopping by catalogue with Ezibuy, and I decided to try a pair of high-rise skinny jeans from them last year. While they're on the skinny side they are not skinny skinny jeans. They are skinny jeans for grownups and a bit stretchy. ;-)  I've noticed they have started to sag in the bum and legs, though, as the fabric isn't very heavy and I suppose the elastane element has worn out, and they don't do me any favours when I look in the mirror. They are now relegated to 'wear around home' status. They weren't expensive however, and these days you do get what you pay for in most cases.

Many jeans these days are stretch fabric, and the manufacturers claim they hoik you in and make you look thinner. I fell for a grey pair of Gordon Smith Miracle so-called Skinny Jeans a few months ago when they were on special; they were heavy wintery denim with 10% elastane and had a tapered leg rather than an actual skinny one. But the colour was good. Did they make me look thinner? Initially, but they stretched over the tummy a bit rather than flattened it once I'd worn them a few times. The real miracle about these jeans is that they are fur magnets. I had no sooner taken them out of the carrier bag than every bit of white cat fur in the bedroom migrated onto them.

Lesson: don't buy stretch jeans made with 10% elastane; there's something about that fabric that attracts cat fur. Unless you buy them in the same colour as your cat.

Today I was at my local shopping mall and found some Levi's on a mild special (they are never on a good special).

Now I've never worn Levi's. There was all that hype years ago when they brought out the 501s, the jeans specially designed for a woman's body. I tried a pair on at the time. They were horribly loose below my bum and looked disgusting on me, even though I was two dress sizes smaller back in the day. They simply didn't fit well. Obviously the women's bodies they were designed for were tall and had long legs.

So I've ignored Levi's for years. Aside from which they are pricey. I shudder at the thought of paying more than $100 for a pair of jeans, which is what Levi's cost in Oz. For the same reason I avoid Guess, Jag, Sass and Bide and other designer brands. I have been known to scour the racks at charity shops looking for jeans in my size for a fiver.

But….but…. these Levi's I saw today were skinny jeans, in my waist size and more or less my leg length. They were high-rise. They were a dark indigo, just what I'd been looking for. I tried them on. There was no elastane. They hoiked me in like billy-o. They fit where they should fit. They actually looked pretty darn good. And they weren't made in China, which is a minor miracle these days - they were made in Poland.

Reader, I bought them.

I am 52 years old and now own my first pair of Levi's.

I feel like a teenager.

Hello, I'm an introvert. Nice to meet you. Now leave me alone.

I have a networking function tonight and I have slipped into the pattern of moroseness I usually feel on such days. I don't want to leave the house and spend two hours talking to other people. There will be more than 60 people there. Obviously I don't have to talk to all of them; usually I manage to avoid talking to many at all because I'm on duty with my camera or up on the microphone being an MC.

So I've been playing online jigsaws for the last two hours while my mind spirals down and I tell myself to buck up, it won't be that bad. It's cloudy and grey outside and that doesn't help either as I suspect I'm prone to SAD. I can't focus on work as I know I have to leave at 4.30 for this function to help set up.  I haven't been able to focus on the To Do list since 9.30am and it's noon as I write this.

Most business people head cheerfully to networking events and actually enjoy them. I'm guessing most business people aren't as introverted as I and at least 50% of them are genuine extroverts (apparently the population split in general is 60% extrovert and 40% introvert… which means that almost half the population is introverted, in a world which seems more geared to extroverts).

I found this rather good post today which explains introversion nicely:

http://introvertdear.com/2015/04/30/how-to-understand-an-introvert-explained-by-introjis/

It's not that I'm particularly shy. I used to be as a child but these days I happily get on the microphone and address the networking group. It's the small talk chat and talking to people I haven't met before which I find excruciating.

I have friends who nag me to give up smoking, and part of me would, very much, like to kick the habit. But the fags give me an excuse to escape for a few minutes by myself at parties and networking events. Get away from the crowd, get away from the noise. A bit of me time. Far from the madding crowd, essentially.

My introversion is the same reason I will send an email rather than pick up the phone, unless I'm calling a friend for a catchup. I don't think quickly on my feet and writing down what's on my mind is a far less stressful task.

I work alone and work from home. The introverted part of me can't cope with the notion of going into an office everyday and being surrounded by people for the duration of the working day. I put up with that for 25+ years and got through it only by making sure I had lunch at my desk by myself with a good book. I suspect working alone has made my introversion worse, but frankly I don't care. I'm happiest alone.

My upline in the candle business is chasing me to book for the national conference in July, a horror of an event with 600 people, a networking cocktail party with all 600 and a formal dinner again with all 600. It's my idea of hell. I hate conferences with a passion, especially big ones like this. Two days of being locked in a room surrounded by, mainly, strangers unless I could sit with someone I actually know. The final straw is that we have to share hotel rooms; the only available me time will be in the bathroom. The thought of the conference is making me feel physically sick, so I shan't be going. I suspect I will not go far in the candle business; one is expected to attend the conference if one is on the pathway to building a team and achieving leadership. You might wonder what an introvert is doing in a direct marketing role anyway - but I have no problem with speaking about the product; it's speaking to the guests socially after the parties that's hard!

I'm fine with small dinner parties with up to ten people. I feel quite comfortable and able to chat, particularly if they are people I already know. I find it awkward to talk to new people, particularly if they are as introverted as I. I forget to ask open ended questions; I struggle to think of anything aside from "What do you do for a living?" to start a conversation off.

This week is a particularly bad one for me. I have the function tonight, later this week I have a "Chambers Day" with other execs from Chambers of Commerce (a full day of conference including lunchtime bloody networking), and my stepson is visiting for two nights from tomorrow. I can feel my stress levels rising. I do like my stepson, however. He is in his late 20s. He has Asperger's, which is no big deal, except that like me he is an introvert so we have lots of long, awkward silences between us unless my husband is there to (sometimes clumsily) break the ice. If my stepson does talk it's often about topics he is fanatical about, and it's hard to a) keep up, b) maintain an interest as his chief interests don't interest me, and likely vice versa or c) change the subject. He can talk on his chosen topics for hours.

So, dear reader, or perhaps readers (I might get lucky), are you one of our wonderful 40% of introverts? How do you cope with large gatherings or compulsory work networking events? Do you find you get miserable just thinking about them, or do you force yourself not to think about them until the time is upon you?

Me, I'm heading back to jigsawplanet.com for a few hours to take my mind off it.

It's my party and I'll throw a tantrum if I want to

I have somehow been roped into helping a friend throw a birthday party. It's a major party. One of those which celebrates a birthday with a zero on the end. As you may guess from the title of this post, that friend is Whingey.

Whingey and Mr Whingey asked me about three weeks ago to help. Because I organise events as a regular thing for one of my clients, they thought they'd pick my brains. They were tossing up between the following ideas:

• Hold it at a posh licensed restaurant where guests would pay their own way, which could, depending on wine chosen, work out as $200 per couple (well, won't get many RSVPs to that one as we're all a bit cash strapped)
• Hold it at home, somehow cramming 50 or more people into the small house if it rains or into the garden if it doesn't. Everyone to bring a plate and drinks (logistic nightmare suggesting what to bring to whom without insulting them)
• Hold it at a local community hall and get caterers in. BYO drinks but charge people $25 a head to cover the catering (Slightly rude, asking for $)
• Hold it at a local community hall with a spit roast and pay for the lot, except ask people to bring their own drinks (much better)

After two weeks of deliberation and poring over menu ideas they decided on the final one.  Thank heavens! The first one would have been a real drain on every guests' wallet.

Next was theming. Whingey decided that as she couldn't have the posh restaurant she'd do the opposite and have a 1970s party with people turning up in costume. All good so far. I did the invitations up and they are very much peace, love and flowers.

Until now Whingey has left most of the organising to me, Mr Whingey and another friend. However, Mr Whingey, who has taken to dropping by after work for a drink to look over party arrangements as Whingey doesn't let him drink midweek, rang me yesterday. "Invite us over to discuss the party before dinner," he begged. "I'm bored."

So I did, and Whingey didn't let him drink and she didn't drink and she started to look carefully at the spreadsheet I'd done up and started picking it at. Well, I expected that.

We are having table names rather than numbers, with 70s icons as the names, i.e. Gough Whitlam, Robert Redford. Whingey immediately decided she'd rather have band names or musicians etc so the red pen went through my list.

Her other friend and I decided we'd have a fun 70s trivia quiz as an icebreaker, with one of the topics being sport. Sport got vetoed too, as Whingey has no interest in sport.

When we got onto discussing the music for the evening I really wish she'd had that glass of bubbly I offered; she's always less grumpy after a drink. Mr Whingey likes his early 70s rock, particularly prog rock. All his suggestions were banned immediately. When we all teased her that he would slip a song from one particular band in, she snapped, "Do you want me to walk out on my own party on the night?"

G and I exchanged a glance. We were both thinking the same uncharitable thought: Yes, because then everyone who has worked so hard on this can actually enjoy themselves without worrying about you snapping at them if things aren't bloody perfect!

I am wondering whether Mr W will phone this afternoon and ask to come around and talk about the music. And whether he will, as usual, bring a bottle of red to gulp at before he goes home. I'm laying 5/2 on that one.

Rebecca where are you?

One of my favourite books is Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca. I read it first when I was in my mid-teens, and needed something to read. In Mum's bookshelf was an old hardback with a yellow dust jacket. On the spine it said The (then a gap where the dust jacket was torn) "Rebecca". Mum had ripped the price out as it was a bargain 2/6 in 1954 and she didn't want the price showing. I genuinely thought the book was called The "Rebecca" and that it was about a ship or something. Booooring!!!!

Mum's bookshelves were full of old hardbacks from the 40s and 50s. Many of them looked awfully unappetising, in fact downright boring, with a few exceptions, the best being They're A Weird Mob by Nino Culotta (John O'Grady to you), which I adore.

"Read Rebecca," Mum advised. "You'll love it." Only the week before she had urged me to read Green Dolphin Country and I just couldn't get into it; historical drama - not my thing at all.

Anyhow, I thought I'd give Rebecca a shot and I fell in love. It inspired me to seek out Daphne du Maurier's other novels and they have all been good companions and re-read over the years. Except for Julius. I hated it. Julius murdered his cat near the beginning of the book. That ruined it for me.

Every couple of years I re-read Rebecca; yes, I can quote from it, but I don't care. When I was living in our old place I borrowed the book from Mum, and when we moved in here I brought it back and put it in its rightful place in Mum's old bookshelf, which is in the room which is now my office.

Last week I wanted to read it. I knew where I'd put it. Right next to They're A Weird Mob. But it wasn't there. That yellow dust jacket is unmistakable. I checked the shelf again. I pulled out the books at the front to go through the books at the back. I looked through the front books, where it should have been, three times in total.

Had I loaned it out to Whingy? I had loaned her other DduM books but had resisted loaning her Rebecca as, in its 1954 'cheap edition' it was priceless to me and I didn't want her losing it or giving it away, forgetting who had loaned it to her. No, I hadn't loaned it.

So, it must be downstairs with most of G and my books. We have six bookshelves downstairs. I went through every single one of them, hunting for that yellow cover. Where the books were double stacked I took them out, and cast my eyes over thousands of books in total.

I was puzzled. Where on earth -?  There was one more bookshelf in my office I hadn't checked, my own where I keep business books; it would be unlikely to be there but even so…

I chuntered back upstairs and into my office. And there it was. Bright yellow cover and all. Right next to They're A Weird Mob. Right where it should be.

I swear Mum was playing a joke on me. I did ask her, when I was downstairs, where the book was. It seems inconceivable that I could look at that book three times and not see it, not with that bright cover. I'm looking at it now and it's unmissable.

Now I just have to find my copy of Susan Hill's Mrs de Winter, which was written as a follow up. I've read Sally Beauman's Rebecca's Tale, which was excellent and a believable sequel to Rebecca. But hey, I can't find the book downstairs and it's not in the bookshelf in my office. Mum….?

Dream a little dream of...

I had an afternoon nap earlier this week. It was hot, I'd overeaten for lunch (on salad - can you believe I overate on bloody salad??) and felt unspeakably tired after lunch. It was as if I was being sent to sleep. I had decided to read for fifteen minutes after lunch but couldn't keep my eyes open, and lay on the sofa instead.

I dreamed of Mum, and I do wonder if she sent me to sleep for that purpose. I'm sure she still hangs around here.

Anyway, in the dream I was sorting out the broom cupboard. Last weekend G and I bought a new long-handled dustpan and brush (we do SUCH exciting things together) and I promised to move the old one out of the cupboard and take it to the garage for use down there and on the path and driveway. Lazy me, I hadn't done it at that point.

But in my dream I picked it out of the cupboard, and had the new one in my hand too. Mum was standing next to me in the hall.

"I'll just sweep the kitchen floor," I told her, brandishing the new dustpan.

"No, you don't have to do that right now," she said, a little mysteriously. She was hiding something.

"But it's dirty."

"You won't want to go in there."

"There's a spider, isn't there?" I said anxiously. I loathe spiders - specifically the big bastards such as the Huntsmans we get occasionally clinging to the ceiling.

Mum nodded.  I peered into the kitchen and looked up. No sign of it; I went in slowly, around to the cooking area. Aaargh! There it was, above the oven.  I squealed and ran back out to the hall and Mum.

And woke up about then.

Honestly, the dream was so vivid I was sure Mum was still alive and with me. And that there was a spider in the kitchen. I wish the former were true with all my heart. I was so convinced I'd had a spider warning I went into the kitchen warily and looked everywhere. I've been checking every ceiling in the house since then.

I think earlier in this dream I was on the patio. I'd had a cigarette and oh heck, Mum was standing at the door. I must reek of smoke, I thought despairingly, knowing how much she disapproved of smoking. I was being very edgy and trying not to get too close to her so she wouldn't smell it on me. I think I had a  broom in my hand and was sweeping up outside. Mum was saying something about cigarettes but I can't remember what. That part of the dream wasn't as real and vivid as the spider bit.

Although it's been a stinking hot week here I haven't had that desperate urge to sleep, the sense that I can't stay awake, since the spider dream. I do believe Mum visited me. Lovely warm feeling!

Mess and Mr Turdiman

My husband G is away for a few days for work. After spending almost three weeks solid in his company over the Christmas break, it feels both odd and a relief. Love him as I do, it's nice to have the place to myself for a bit.

He does try hard to pull his weight. He usually does the washing up in the morning (and leaves the sink area a total wet mess afterwards) and helps with the hoovering (but not under furniture or on the top of skirting boards or those other little dust gathering places). He helps hang the washing out and is quite OCD about it: he has to pair all the socks together and drape them in pairs over the line before pegging them, likewise all his undies he has to hang over the line first instead of just grabbing a handful and pegging them. It drives me nuts watching him as it's double handling. When he hangs his shirts out he doesn't always check the sleeves aren't turned up, so he gets a surprise to find that some sleeves on his shirts aren't dry as the cuffs are turned in.  I mustn't grumble. Most women would be delighted to have the help.

I've been cleaning the house today. I don't think G realises how messy he can be. Crumbs all over his end of the kitchen table and under his chair. Shoes strewn in several places in the bedroom (despite me fixing up a bigger shoe rack for him in the wardrobe), drawers not closed fully (ooooh, that irks me!), papers left everywhere, and worst of all the pee drops on the loo floor.

Why the hell do men dribble? Can't they wipe their willies with a bit of bog roll? G doesn't even realise he drips. I've pointed it out to him and he's been astonished, but he still dribbles. And it smells. If I get in there quickly enough after him I wipe the floor with loo paper but I still have to mop it at least twice a week.

I have a nose which can be pretty sensitive to smells; on one hand it's nice to get a whiff of someone's perfume and be able to identify it, likewise the scent of a flower while walking along the footpath. But I'm very sensitive to bad pongs.

Which brings me to the other bad pong. Shit. G is a shitter. Some days are double dumpers, some are triple turders. The bloke just can't go once a day. We only have one toilet, so while the holidays were on I had to time my own daily dump between the numerous loo visits of G. I secretly call him Mr Turdiman. He doesn't know this. I've never met anyone who needs to crap so often.

So for a few days I have a clean, tidy house and a toilet that doesn't stink. Everything is in its place. I feel calm. It's like a holiday after the holiday.