What being “Pilbara-ised” means to me …

Last night I went to the local pub for a drink to celebrate a friend’s birthday.  I wore heels … gorgeous black and white satin heels.  It seemed like a great idea at the time … but after an hour (ok five minutes) it just made me feel sore and awkward.  And it got me thinking about what it means to be “Pilbara-ised”.  My girlfriend and I laughed at the fact that all we wanted to do was go home and take off our heels … we laughed at the fact that we would rather be wearing thongs … or worse still, steel capped boots.  OMG who am I?  And what happened to the girl that moved here nearly 2 years ago?

To explain where I came from, I’ll quote a sentence or two from the “about” section of my blog … which given the events of the past 2 years, perhaps needs to be brought a little more up to date!

I love champagne, cocktails, anything sparkly, stilettos are my best friend and I wouldn’t be caught dead in tracksuit pants.  I only drive automatics and need my nails done every second Saturday.  My mobile phone is as much a fashion accessory as it is a method of keeping in touch with friends and family … and I need at least 2 take away coffees a day just to keep the bitchiness at bay.

Now, add to this … would not leave the house without a full face of make up, would never be caught dead wearing a hat of any description, had to wear a huge assortment of jewellery on every finger, arm, neck, wrist available at all times and I think you should just about get the picture …

Fast forward nearly two years and here I am … I haven’t worn stilettos in who knows how long (I didn’t even wear them on my wedding day … yes I know there are red stilettos in the photos, but I only put them on for the photos, I was really wearing ballet flats – oh oh secret’s out!), I no longer have acrylic nails, I love my Akubra hat, I only wear a watch and only put my engagement & wedding rings on to “go out” (you know, to Woolies and stuff), I have a coffee machine at home (no take aways here) and I OWN A MANUAL CAR – yep, remember how good I am at driving them?  I do still like make up, but don’t wear anywhere near as much as I used to.   Oh how times have changed!

I did love getting all glammed up for my wedding day … I got eyelash extensions and at least an hour’s worth of face paint.  I loved every second of it, every second in my gorgeous pair of ivory ballet flats 😉

Now Mr W. would argue that there are definitely still some “city princess” traits lingering … like the fact that I HATE it when he drives with the window open … 10 hours of wind is not good for my hair, hence I have to take my Fiorucci Scarf on long trips to ensure my hair stays tangle free … it’s more about the knot factor than the actual asthetics, trust me.  I still have designer handbags (didn’t you know that Oroton goes really well with black thongs?).  But given the fact that I would now rather squat on the side of the road rather than use some road house toilets*, even he would have to agree that I’ve come along way!

pp xx

* Remind me to tell you a really funny story about using the side of the road as my personal restroom … trust me, it’s a good one!

Kiss My Ass

Today started like any other day when Mr W. is not working … lying in bed having idle chit chat while watching Kochie & Mel on Sunrise (and Mr W. wishing that Sam Armytage was back on – he has a serious crush on that woman).  Except every time I went to get close to Mr W. he would duck his head away.  At one point he disappeared, only to return and breathe mouthwash on me … I didn’t know it at the time but it was a hint.

Well, while we were cooking breakfast, Mr W. politely informed me that I have bad morning breath.  The penny dropped … “so that’s why you were avoiding me in bed huh”.  “Yep, I can’t stand it, it disgusts me!”.  I retorted “but I have to put up with your ass, the least you could do is put up with a bit of bad breath!”.  Mr W. not so politely told me that I didn’t have to kiss his ass.  Hmmm, depends on which way you look at it really.

But it did give me an idea.  Everytime Mr W. breaks wind, I’m going to breathe on him.  Yep, childish I know, but that’s the way we roll in this household.  I mean come on, some of the “terms of endearment” we use for each other would astound normal people I’m sure.  You should see the looks we get at Woolies.  It really is true love I tell you.

Now, this is not the first time that Mr W. has broached this rather delicate subject with me.  Early on in our relationship, he sat me down on the side of the bed and ever so diplomatically (and I use the term loosely) told me that I had bad morning breath.  Of course first he told me to promise that I would not be offended and then told me he loved me afterwards … so clearly this was early on, we were still being rather polite to one another lol.   I do remember ever so politely telling him (again) that I put up with the decidedly horrendous wafts that come from the depths of his below (really that was sooooo polite), however perhaps he could turn the little minty fresh mints into minty fresh breezes by using said breath mints as suppositories.

Anyway, this little tale doesn’t have a neat little ending, but more a sinister laugh at me trying to think of ways to taunt Mr W. with my apparently bad morning breath.  Although I would love to meet the person whose breath smells minty fresh at 6am.

So Mr W., here’s an idea, in light of the breath mint suppositories previously suggested, perhaps a colonic irrigation using mouthwash is on the cards?

Love ya.

pp xx

High Vis Princess

It wasn’t so long ago that I arrived in sunny Newman (and yes I am saying that in a sarcastic tone) … with my acrylic nails, stilettos, face full of makeup … I would never be seen without my pink designer bag … or make up for that matter.  Well, fast forward 9 months and check me out now!  Thought I’d share a few photos that I took at work last week …

This is me at work ... just hanging out ...

I’ve replaced my stilettos with a pair of super comfy steel caps (accompanied by Mr. W.’s socks of course!).

just in case you missed it the first time ...

And back to that “sunny” thing for just a minute … can you believe that when I got in my 4×4 (yep, there’s no “car” anymore) this afternoon it said 50 degrees on the temperature gauge … can’t talk … melting!!!

pp xx

Red Dirt Girl in a City World – A Very Expensive Lesson

Well, after spending 6 months in Newman with my gorgeous Mr W., I finally returned to the city for a week … just to check in, recharge … and SHOP!!  I’ll tell you all about my shopping later … but first I just have to tell you about the very expensive lesson I learned yesterday …

Here I was driving down the freeway, phone to my ear, excitedly telling Mr W. about the sexy new underwear I’d just bought when I looked to my right and saw an unmarked police car with their light flashing.  “Oh F***””, I said to Mr W., “It’s the cops”.  I hung up listening to Mr W. laughing … and hoping Mr Undercover Police couldn’t read lips.

I pulled over and waited for Mr Plod to come to the window.  He asked me what my excuse for talking on my phone while driving was (being someone who has always been able to talk my way around fines, so many excuses ran through my head).  I thought about going with something like … “I just had to tell my boyfriend about the sexy underwear I just bought” … or “well, I live in Newman and we don’t have shops and I was so excited about my purchases I just had to ring someone and tell them” … I even considered telling him all about the fact that I haven’t driven an automatic for 6 months, just to try and distract him.  But something told me that none of these were going to cut it.  And quite frankly, he was on the wrong side of the car for me to use the old “undoing the top button” trick (plus, I hadn’t had time to actually put on the sexy underwear).  Anyway … I simply said “it was a work call” – God knows what I was actually going to say work was calling about … a new trend in Orange shirts maybe?

Mr Plod then asked what sort of phone it was.  I had to wonder what that had to do with the price of black lace at Myer … but handed my iPhone over (maybe they charged you more for Nokia or something, I was hoping anyway).  Just as I showed him the phone it “dinged” loudly announcing a text from Mr W.  Geez … are you trying to get me arrested, I thought (thankfully I’d turned off the feature on the iPhone that shows the actual text message on the screen before you open it … although it did take all my self control not to read the text and answer it while being lectured on the dangers of talking whilst on the phone.

He asked for my licence and upon examing it asked if that was my current address.  I nodded … thinking maybe they’d feel sorry for me that I lived in Newman.  Oh no … 10 minutes later (yes, they left me stewing in my car for 10 whole minutes) … the younger of the cops returned with a “traffic infringement” as he so politely put it.  I’m not telling you how much it was … but let’s just say I could buy a whole heap more sexy underwear with it!!!

Take Away Coffee $3.90 (yes that’s right, we’re getting ripped off in Newman) … Flat Shoes $40 (yep that’s right, stilettos are out) … Sexy Underwear $100 … Getting caught on your phone while driving telling boyfriend about said sexy underwear … PRICELESS!!!

pp xx

The Sock Fiasco

When you think of socks, what do you think of?  I think of little pairs of cotton socks, non-descript, unisex … able to worn by anyone, any size, any gender.

And so you can imagine my surprise this morning, when my darling Mr W. informed me that in fact socks are not unisex … and his socks are not my socks.  How did this all come to be you ask.  Ahhhh well let me explain.

Well, I was busy getting ready for a super early start at work and Mr W. was getting ready to walk the dogs.  Upon opening his (our) sock draw he declared, “Kate I have no socks, why don’t I have any socks?.  You bought me 6 pairs a few months ago and now I’m down to 0.5” (holding up a lonely sock).  I opened my (my) sock draw and threw a pair of non-descript black sports socks at him.  “Where are my Nike socks?” he asked (apparently these are special socks).  I laughed and replied “oh I wore those last night”.  Mr W. rolled his eyes …declaring that in fact I can’t just use his socks and I need to get my own.  His suggested shopping list?  10 pairs of explorer socks and 6 pairs of sports socks.  “But explorer socks are expensive!!!”  I said … “Why would I buy my own when I can just use yours?”.  Another rolling of the eyes from Mr W.  I mean, I don’t see the problem.  I’ve been wearing his Explorer socks ever since I came to town.  And the draw is always full!!

I mean, I do have my own sock draw … it’s filled with pairs that I’ve apparently “stolen” from Mr W.’s sock draw … as well as clutch bags, notebooks, old purses and scarves.  It’s a multipurpose draw really.  Hence why I need to share a dedicated sock draw with Mr W.

I honestly don’t see the problem.  We share lots of things, all of which are washed and clean before the other person uses them.  Things like towels, cutlery, plates … and socks!  Apparently, Mr W. doesn’t want my “budgie” feet in his socks.  I won’t tell you the analogy I used to retaliate this one.  He asked me whether I would wear his underwear, to which I replied “well … I would consider it, it does look comfy”.  Apparently he doesn’t feel the same about my underwear.  It’s a shame really, we could be onto something.

And so, in the interest of keeping the love alive, I’ve added several pairs of socks to my shopping list for my Perth trip later this week.  I might even surprise my gorgeous man with some personalised socks … I mean, I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing socks that say “Mr W.” … or would I??

I would love to know your take on our Sock Fiasco.  Do you wear your partner’s socks?  How do they feel about this?

To be continued …

pp xx

PP Gets a PT …

It’s been a while since I’ve written a blog … to be perfectly honest, life has become majorly hectic up here … early starts, late finishes … working full time and running a business … and that’s not to mention looking after Mr W. 😉  I’ve been racking my brains for some inspiration on what to write about … and then I decided to get fit … and here we go … instant blog!

So let me paint the picture … I’m not the fittest person in the world, in fact I’m probably one of the least fit.  And to make things even better, I’m really not into exercise.  Yep, I’ll walk the dogs if Mr W. whinges enough and occasionally I’ll walk to work … but apart from that, well, I get all the fitness I need from raising my glass of cask wine to my lips.  Enough said.

And so, after meeting with my new Personal Trainer once to discuss a few things, I rocked up to the gym for my fitness test.  I felt like a fish out of water … a smelly boxing gym in the middle of no where, it was like a relic from the 70s that time forgot.  But my PT is so energetic and enthusiastic … not to mention FIT, it’s almost impossible not to feel pumped.  We cranked up the tunes and off we went …

And so the Fitness Test consisted of 10 “one minute” tests including things like step ups, sit ups, push ups, running starts, star jumps.  The aim … to do as many as you can in one minute.  I did pretty well, I wasn’t breathless, my legs burned a little, but nothing too harsh … nothing I couldn’t get through … or so I thought …

Well we got to the last “minute” test, and up until that moment I was feeling fine, a little puffed, but as I said to my PT, I can talk underwater with a mouthful of marbles, so I don’t get out of breath or show signs of being puffed.  But all of a sudden I was feeling nauseous.  Thinking it was just because I was tired, I  mean I’d been up since 4.30am and by this stage it was 8.20pm … but 10 seconds later I was out the front of the boxing gym throwing up behind a tree.  Oh yeah.  That’s so hardcore.

I was so embarrassed, not only was I really, really unfit … I had vomit coming out of my nose due to the fact that I couldn’t stop laughing at my predicament.  And this was only the fitness test, not the training … ho hum.

And so, I’ve arrived home and had a cup of sweet black tea … this will apparently stop the shaking I’m experiencing.  I can’t wait until I’m so sore I can’t dress myself.  This will apparently happen on Saturday.  Yay!

And as for my Personal Training sessions … I’m not going to give up, I’m going to get fit, even if it means starting from the bottom.  And so, next Monday  I’m heading back for another session.  But not to the gym … ha ha I’m not fit enough for that yet … I’m heading to the local oval.   I’ll let you know how I go.  One thing’s for sure, I’ll be taking my sick bag lol 😉

pp xx

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