Am I Losing the Princess Factor?

Losing the keys to the work car made me realise just how much my life has changed in the past few months.  In fact it had me worried that I might have been losing the princess factor … however, getting a flat tyre today has made me realise that actually, the princess factor is holding on strong … maybe I need to start from the beginning …

Last night, I dropped Mr W. off at work and then went and did the shopping.  Nothing unusual about that.  Except that I was wearing steel caps and a high vis orange shirt … and driving a mine site vehicle.  Oh how life has changed.  When I got home, I realised that I had locked myself out.   Luckily my gorgeous man is smart enough to have hidden a spare key for times like this.   And so, after getting into the house, I then realised that I had lost the car keys.  Ho hum.  I grabbed a torch and back tracked, I turned the car upside down, checked the shopping bags, the bin … but the keys were no where to be found!  Hmmm, looks like I would be pushing that car with the flashing beacon to work.

Searching through my handbag trying to find the keys to the work car (a far cry from my little city astra … a manual Nissan Patrol with a roll cage, flashing beacon, 2 way radio, flag and canvas seats … noice) … I found some unfamiliar objects amongst the myriad of lipglosses and perfumes … a “Take 5” notebook from a mine site induction, a glove clip, a pair of safety glasses … hmmmm.  Then I looked at what I was wearing … orange high vis shirt, daggy nanna jeans and clunky steel caps.  What happened to little Miss Glamazon?

Oh and back to the keys, well Mr W. found them near the herb garden (just like I knew he would).  Thank you honey xx

But if I was worried that the princess tiara was slipping,  I was reminded today, that in fact it is well and truly still sitting firmly in my freshly dyed locks …

Driving to work this morning (now that Mr W. had found the keys), I stopped in to get coffee at the only place in town with a decent brew.  When I got out, I heard a hissing noise … hmmmm smart enough to know I was soon going to have a flat tyre, I decided to forgoe my coffee and hot foot it back to the office … if it was going to die, at least it could do so in the comfort of the office carpark.

Sure enough, a few hours later the tyre was flat.  Hmmmm, what was I going to do?  I have seriously never changed a tyre in my life and this certainly wasn’t part of my job description.  I mean I have to wear PPE, but I don’t have to get dirty.  I phoned my boss to ask for the number for Roadside Assistance … I mean surely there is someone whose job it is to change my flat tyre.  He told me that I’d have to do it myself … or use my eyelashes to get someone else to do it for me.  I mean come on, this is a girl who can’t even get the bonnet of that silly car open … I’m serious, I can’t find the lever.

For a fleeting moment, I considered trying to change the tyre myeslf, but feeling the familiar grip of my princess tiara digging into my scalp I quickly decided against it.  Surely there was another way.  I mean, I may not have my acrylic nails anymore, but there was no way I was getting grease under the little fingernails I do have.

Just when I thought I would have to unbutton my orange high vis shirt, my gorgeous knight in shining armour (aka Mr W.)  phoned me … he had read my status on facebook (who said this social media tool had no standing?), having just woken up from night shift.  He was there within the hour, jacking up the Patrol and had that tyre changed in next to no time.  Thank you honey … you have proved yet again that you are best boyfriend in the world!

Well … I’m off to clean out my handbag … it’s high time my lip glosses and perfume resumed their previously highly held positions.

pp xx

It’s Princess Poopa Scoopa to you …

Last week I did something I never, ever thought that I would do … well, not without someone nagging me about it for a few hours first.  Last week, I picked up dog poo.  And not just one or two, but about 20 (yes, I know it’s absolutely atrocious that there were that many on the lawn to begin with, but it’s been a bit of a stand off between Mr W. and I).

One day last week, I was hanging out the washing and I was overcome by the stench of dog poo.  Looking over to our small lawn I noticed that no one (and by no one I mean Mr W.) had picked up after the furry kids for a while.  Poor things, they were running out of room and fast.

And so, I decided there was only one thing for it.  I was going to have to do it.  Mr W. watched me walk into our bedroom and when I came out he nearly wet himself from laughing.  I had found a scarf and tied it around my face, covering my nose.  I looked like the New Housewife of Abu Dahbi gone wrong lol.

But out to the lawn I went, poopa scoopa in hand (a very thoughtful present from my dear mum).  I reckon I got through about half when I came to a particularly fresh one.  I normally have a pretty strong stomach, but that really got me, even through my stylish pooper scooping attire.  I started to dry reach … and that my friends, is where my poopa scooping adventure ended.

I politely told Mr W. that I just couldn’t do it.  It would have to officially be his job from now on.  Afterall, I feed and water the dogs, as well as take them for walks (ocassionally) it’s only fitting that he should perform such an important role in their upbringing.

Princess Poopa Scoopa xx

Saturday Morning in Newman …

After having a week of feeling like I had lost my blogging mojo … a morning of boredem in Newman seems to have brought it back.  Mr W., being the hard working soul that he is, has just finished his 3rd night of night shift this morning.   For those of you with partners that work nights, you’ll know just how frustrating it can be when you have to live in the same house … and be quiet.  It’s great when I’m working, I get up and get ready for work, Mr W. comes home, jumps into bed and falls asleep.  But what happens when it’s my day off?  Well, I thought I’d share with you what night shift means for me when the morning after falls on a Saturday …

It means I have to be organised.  If I want to shower once Mr W. has gone to bed, I need to have all my stuff transferred to the other bathroom.  I know Mr W. says that once he’s asleep he can’t hear anything, but I would feel just awful if I woke him (remember the smoke alarm incident).  And so, night shift almost renders me homeless for a few hours as I search for things to do in this sleepy town …

6.15am alarm goes off, I remember that Mr W. will be home in about 20 minutes.  I get up, quickly gather bathroom paraphernalia, clothes, shoes and dump it on the kitchen table.  Jump back into bed.

6.40am Mr W. arrives home, I pretend to be asleep … have a conversation I can’t remember …

9.13am awoken by text message from my mum (oops, I must have fallen back to sleep) … Mr W. stirs a little, but I manage to sneak out of the bedroom without waking him.

9.45am after a shower in the spare bathroom, I take the dogs for a walk through the bush.

10.30am race home, put the dogs back in the yard, grab handbag and race to the gym for Pump … oops got the times mixed up, it started at 9.50, not 10.50 … ho hum.

10.40am head to hotel to buy a take away coffee … $5 (yes yes, your eyes aren’t deceiving you).

10.45am head to the shopping mecca of Newman to waste some time … surely there is something to look at?  Go to Woolworths, buy three magazines I don’t need and 4 mandarins that seem fresh and tasty.  One magazine had a free ModelCo Lip Balm … bargain.  Cost … $24.

10.55am walk back to car … which I have purposely parked on the other side of the car park so that it takes longer.  Call mum and talk to her in the car park.

11.10am do a lap around town, see who’s about.  no one to see.  return to shopping centre.

11.15am go to Tyre Shop to pick up spare tyre which has been repaired after my flat tyre yesterday.

11.25am go to newsagents to see what junk I can purchase … result = 3 scratchies, a birthday card, The West Australian Newspaper, Fridge Magnet, Blank Card … total $25.

11.35am do another lap around town … still no one about, no one to see, nothing to do.

11.50am decide to drive to Tropic of Capricorn.  This may seem strange, but try not going above 60km per hour for a month and see how you feel.  The lure of a 110km speed limit (if only for 15 km) is just too tempting.  Put on 80’s radio station, listen to Cher “If I Could Turn Back Time”.  Drive to Tropic of Capricorn sign, take photos, get back in the car, drive home.

12.10pm (yes I made it past lunch time) … arrive back in town, seeing as it’s after 12pm I head to the bottlo (you can’t buy wine here before 12pm remember).  Choose 3 bottles of white and a cask of red (yes I know, but it reminds me of my fabulous holiday lol).  Get told by the lady behind the counter that one cannot purchase cask wine on a Saturday, only a Mon or Tues.  Feel incredibly embarrassed.  Put cask back on the shelf and choose a bottle of red.  Gee it’s hard when you’re forced to be classy.  Pay for my wine and head back to the car.  Total $70.

12.20pm Consider sitting in the park and drinking my wine.  Decide to get Subway instead.

12.45pm Waited in line at Subway for about 15 mins but was actually happy with this, as it pushed my time out of the house out even further.  Total $9 (come on, I had to buy a couple of cookies too!).

1pm Returned home with above purchases.  Turned out to be an expensive morning.  Have snuck into the office and locked myself in so I can blog quietly.

So as you can see, I just love night shift.  It really makes my weekend.  Now where’s that wine???

pp xx

Red Dirt Romance …

What does romance mean to you?  Have you ever thought about what it really means when you tell someone to “be romantic”?  I have been pondering the true meaning of romance for a while now and decided to share my findings with you …

I thought a good place to start would be the dictionary.  And so I consulted dictionary.com to see what it had to say on the hot topic of romance.  I was told that romance could be “a novel or other prose narrative depicting heroic or marvelous deeds, pageantry, romantic exploits, etc., usually in a historical or imaginary setting” or “a baseless, made-up story, usually full of exaggeration or fanciful invention“.  How interesting … I had never thought of romance as being “baseless”.

Another source described it as “ardent emotional attachment or involvement between people; love“.

Six months ago romance to me meant flowers, chilled champagne cocktails at my favourite restaurant, dancing, someone whispering sweet nothings in my ear, maybe a love note here and there, or a well chosen gift, dinner at a fancy restaurant, being told how beautiful I looked, or how much my eyes sparkled.

My how Newman has changed my perception of romance.  I have thought a lot about this in the past few months and it’s only now that I’ve changed my way of thinking.  You see, for the past few months I have really nagged Mr W. about not being romantic … especially seeing as we only celebrated 4 months yesterday!  The Pilbara is by no means conducive to a “romantic courtship” … there are no florists, no gift shops, no fancy restaurants … and no sandy white beaches with amazing sunsets … and there no “marvelous deeds” or “romantic exploits” … or so I thought.

You see, it’s funny how sometimes we reflect on things and see things through a different light.  I’ve decided that Mr W. is very romantic, it’s just a different style of romance … I think we’ll call it “red dirt romance”.

Who needs jewellery when you have a man who gives you his Surfer Joe’s to walk across a mangrove crawling with spider crabs, rather than have you walk barefoot?  Remember, you can see though diamonds, well white ones anyway.  Jury is still out on the pink Argyle ones …

And who needs a fancy dinner when you have a man who will not only make you a bacon and egg sandwich with a runny egg, but also give you advice such as, “honey, if you turn the other way, the wind will blow your hair back and you won’t get runny egg in it” … oh Mr W. … bless those so called unromantic bones of yours.

He will also take you to the most beautiful beach in the world to watch the most amazing sunset you’ve ever seen … but be warned … there will be no holding of hands or eye-gazing.  He will have a quick fish instead.  But you know what, he will still be there next to you … well down the beach a bit anyway.

He will teach you to drive a manual without yelling at you and a few months later when you drive him to work he’ll tell you how proud he is of how much your driving has improved.  He will tell you that your hair doesn’t look all that bad when some hairdresser in a town you visit makes you look like a five year old hacked at your fringe … and then a few weeks later when your fringe has grown back he’ll tell you that actually, it was terrible.  He knows that timing is everything.  He will always make you a coffee and put your toast on before you go to work.  He will let you write a blog about your life together … and just when you thought he couldn’t get any better, he’ll write a blog on his point of view …

These are definitely heroic and marvelous deeds in my eyes …

pp xx

ps … just a little note for Mr W. … just in case he reads this … even though I’ve come around to the whole “red dirt romance” idea … any forms of previously held notions of romance are still very welcome.  And even though you can see through diamonds, like I said, the jury is still out on the pink ones.  Oh, and pearls, you can’t see through them.  Thank you xx

Gibb River Hilton – Part 9 “I wanna be a cowboy … baby …”

There is just something about a man in an Akubra Hat, a pair of cowboy boots and tight jeans that does something for me.  I just can’t help it.  Ever since I discovered Dan Brodie and the Broken Arrows, I’ve just had this love of all things “cowboy”.  And so you can imagine how excited I was while on the big adventure with Mr W. when I saw my first Ringer.  Hell yeah.

Now you may think I’m being disrespectful to poor old Mr W., however he knows that I know where my bread is buttered.  Plus, despite the fact that he has been known to wear an Akubra Hat, he has said a flat out no to pulling on the tight jeans and cowboy boots.  Party pooper.  So I have to fulfill my cowboy fantasies somewhere else.

Actually I think my obssession with cowboys makes him laugh more than anything.  He just doesn’t get it.  Take for example our helicopter pilot at El Questro station.  I happened to lay eyes on him at the bar … tight jeans, check … Akubra Hat , check … boots, check … rollies in the top pocket, check.  Not only was he a Ringer, he was also a copter pilot.  Mr W. thought it was hillarious that I was drooling over a man who had a monobrow.  My response?  Wax.

Now that you know about my cowboy obssession, you can also understand the excitement at buying my first Akubra hat.  It literally didn’t leave my head.  I had to buy the one called the “Rough Rider” … it fulfilled all my cowboy/cowgirl fantasies.  Mr W. just rolled his eyes as he watched me wonder around wearing an Akubra and thinking I was some cowgirl coming straight off a muster.  A girl can dream can’t she?

I wanna be a cowgirl ... baby ...

I actually think he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him when I asked the lady at the “rural clothing” store how I could clean my Akubra.  She looked at me blankly … “why do you want to clean it?”.  I looked at her as if she had just asked me why I wear stilettos!  Apparently, you don’t clean Akubras.  Just another lesson I can chalk up to experience.  And so my cream Akubra will remain stained with red dust … a momento of the cattle musters in my mind.

Now all I have to do is get Mr W. to understand my love of country music (again, it’s mainly the cowboy thing) and we might actually get somewhere.

pp xx

Gibb River Hilton – Part 8 “Never Smile at a Crocodile”

Have you seen a “snappy handbag” up close and personal?  I have, and let me tell you, it’s not pretty.  Believe those designer croc skin shoes have had a hell of a lot of work done!

When I first embarked on our big adventure, everyone kept trying to scare me with tales of crocs.  They told me they would be everywhere, trying to drag me out of my swag as I slept (hence why we slept above ground in a camper trailer).  They told me they would snatch me from the banks of rivers as I washed the dishes (ha ha like hell, that’s Mr W.’s job).

Well, I never really believed any of this hoo ha.  I mean, the little freshies at Windjana Gorge certainly weren’t going to be dragging me anywhere.  Now I’m not saying that I was willing to go swimming in Lake Kununurra, however I really didn’t believe all the hype about these animals.

That was until a visit to the croc farm.  After this, there is no way that I would even contemplate swimming anywhere in the Kimberlies, even with the little freshies!!   However, I have decided that we can learn a lot from these majestic creatures … perhaps it was they who created the first versions of “Men are from Mars” (but maybe they called it “Men are from the Marsh”).

Many of the crocs at the croc farm co-inhabit the same pond … that is, they live together as “couples”.  However, most of the time, the male won’t tolerate the female around all the time, so they put a hole in the wall so that he can have his own time in his own pond.  Hmmmm sounds like someone else I know … not mentioning any names … Mr W. …  Although, after coinhabiting the same camper trailer/hotel room as Mr W. for about 4 weeks I’m starting to see where the crocs are coming from.  I mean, there are some things that you want to remain a mystery, you want to try and keep that tiny little flicker of romance alive.

Mr & Mrs Mud Gecko ... aren't they a beautiful couple!

Although there is some hope.  There is a couple of crocs at the farm that inhabit the same pond who are actually quite romantic with each other.  The tour guide said that they are often seen cuddling up together on the edge of their pond, putting their claws around each other and generally being quite “lovey dovey”.  They don’t need a break from each other and never use their hole in the wall.  I’ve decided that perhaps Mr Loved Up Croc could have a little word to Mr W., maybe tell him the secret to their love nest?  It’s worth a try?

pp xx

Man Flu has hit the Outback

It’s official … Mr W. has come down with a severe case of Man Flu.  Apparently he is rather close to death, poor poppet.  Every breath could well be his last.  His whole body aches, apparently.  Could this just be a case of the common cold or flu?  Well, for the female population, this would be just that, the common cold.  But for Mr W., God bless his cotton socks, this is a life threatening virus that could very well end his existence.  Ho hum.

Mr W. said to me on Friday … “Kate, I think I’m going to die”.  To which I replied, “well can you hurry up please?”.  Heartless I know, but seriously boys, it’s only the flu.

I must say the onset of this particular strain of Man Flu could not have come at a more convenient time for Mr W.  On Thursday night he announced that he was going to be spending Friday re-doing my herb garden (after the dogs destroyed it), cleaning the house and cooking me a lovely dinner.  Unfortunately he was struck down on Friday morning with the Man Flu.  It really did knock him down fast.

I have spent the last few days taking care of poor Mr W., playing nurse, which let me tell you does not come all that naturally to me (I would have to be the most unsympathic person when it comes to other people’s illnesses … come on now, toughen up princess).  Now I’ve avoided the temptation to don the Naughty Nurse’s costume, I mean, since Mr W. is that close to death it would be unfair to taunt him with such things.

No, I’ve been more than just a nurse, I have become his personal chef, cleaner and housekeeper.  Cups of tea, glasses of cold orange juice, chocolate, fresh fruit, fizzy vitamin Cs have all been at his disposal at any tick of the clock.  Thank the lord I refrained from giving him one of those bells.

Although I must make a small confession.  We decided last week to go on a bit of a health kick, after spending 4 weeks of living it up doing the Gibb River Road.  Well, I’ve kind of used Mr W.’s severe case of Man Flu to get some goodies back into the house.  You know, cos when you’re sick you want chocolate and lemonade and baked goods.  Ha ha … I’ve filled the cupboard and fridge with said goods, all for Mr W. of course, just in case he should need said goods to aid in a speedy recovery.

Get well soon Mr W., your fans need you 😉

pp xx

ps … just a little note to Mr W. … if, God forbid, I become ill with a strain of said man flu please let it be known that I will require 24 hour care and a multitude of affection.  Trying to get out of looking after me in this state will result in consequences beyond your worst nightmares.  thank you.  love pp xx