Bride. Groom. Wedding. Soon.

So, I’m sure you’ve heard the news … Mr W. and I are getting hitched!!  Our whirlwind romance (and I use that term very loosely) continues … who would have thought that when I met Mr W. on 9th March 2010 that we would be engaged on 22nd October … wow!!  Now when I look down at my scungy nails, minus the beautifully manicured acrylics that used to be there … I see a beautifully sparkly rock (well come on, I moved to Newman, I deserved more that the average engagement ring!!).  So you ask, how did all of this come to be?

Well, I started dropping hints back in August that perhaps for my birthday Mr W. might like to buy me some jewellery … of the super sparkly variety.  This was followed by a few discussions about how our wedding would be, how I would envisage my perfect proposal etc etc … But like most women, I had to take it just a little bit too far.  By the time September came I was dropping hints left right and centre, leaving Mr W. wondering what the hell was happening.  I made sure that he watched the final episdoe of Farmer Wants A Wife and ensured that he watched Farmer Nathan popose … I even got my finger sized when I flew down to Perth … and started educating Mr W. about carats (and how these were different from the bugs bunny variety) … and the fact that I was expecting more than 1.

But alas, my excitement was to be short lived!  Upon arriving back in Newman after a short trip to Perth for said finger sizing, Mr W. sat me down and calmly explained that it was just too soon to be thinking about marriage, after all, we had only been together for 6 months.  Devastated, I bawled my eyes out for 2 days (yes, in the interest of entertainment, I will admit this) … well that would serve me right for bragging to all and sundry while I was in Perth that there would be a proposal before Santa came down the chimney.  You see, I thought that Mr W. would propose with my more than 1 carat ring when we flew to Perth together for my birthday …

And so, we flew down to Perth for my birthday … staying in 5 star luxury and loving every minute.  And so sitting in the hotel room on the day of my birthday, Mr W. told me to close my eyes.  He placed a little box in front of me … my heart started pounding … I ripped off the paper and discovered a Pandora Box … still very exciting … but not what I was hoping for!!!  I was totally spoiled for my birthday … treated like an absolute Princess.  And then Mr W. said to me … “wait, there’s one more … and I was going to wait until dinner, but I’m going to give it to you now so that you can brag about it to everyone”.  Again, my little heart started beating … I closed my eyes and Mr W. placed yet another beautifully wrapped box in my hands.  Ooooh this is it … I thought!  But again, Mr W. had fooled me.  However, what was inside was nothing to sneeze about … a pair of the most divine white gold earring you’ve ever seen … I decided to just forget becoming Mrs W. … well this year anyway …

Bring on the next day … Friday, 22nd October.  Mr W. was being a grumpy so and so all day.  To the point where I was ready to go and book myself into a separate hotel room and drown my sorrows in my own personal collection of Moet.  Ho hum.  Now, that night was the Metallica Concert (the real reason Mr W. had brought me to Perth … see what I mean about that romance thing!!).  And so, later in the afternoon, I set about making myself look bogan enough to attend such an event.  Dark denim, check.  Black T shirt, check.  Bridget Jones Underwear (can’t be a chunky bogan), check.  While I was attempting to straighten my locks, my little ears pricked up.  Was that the safe I had just heard?  No it’s just your imagination playing tricks on you.  “Kate”, Mr W. called me from the other side of our hotel room.  “Babe, there’s a letter here for you, I wrote it the other day and forgot to give it to you”.  Annoyed that I was interrupted while trying to put the finishing touches on my hair and makeup, I stormed out to the desk and picked up said letter.  Hmmmm.  Interesting.  The letter was absolutely beautiful … a declaration of outback love at it’s finest.  But by the time I got to the end I was confused …
“2 months ago I made a life changing decision, 6 weeks ago I made a very expensive purchase and a week ago I made a phone call to which the answer came back YES”.

Confused, I moved the letter to ask what in God’s name he was on about … and that’s when I saw Mr W. on one knee holding a perfect little box … with a more than 1 carat ring inside … OMG!!!!  Did it just snow in Newman because Mr W. just proposed!!!!!!  And it was way better than Farm Nathan’s proposal – he was actually down on one knee!!  And that my darlings, is how Mr W. and the Pilbara Princess became engaged.  This also meant that the ring had been in the house for like 6 weeks and I hadn’t sniffed it out!!!  Hmmm my bling bling radar must need recalibrating!!!!

Bling Bling!

Stay tuned for the next instalment … our wedding plans are sure to be nothing short of hilarious.

Love you Mr W.

pp (aka, the future Mrs. W.) xx

 

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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

It’s black … it’s white …

I’ve never been much of a dog lover … in fact I hate most dogs … mainly due to a number of traumatic dog related experiences as a child.  Firstly there was my Uncle’s dog that bit me when I stepped on his foot to reach out for a bowl of ice cream (come on I was only 6) … and then when I was 15 our next door neighbour’s dog ate my Tokinese kitten.  And then there’s the fact that when I left home at 17 to go to uni my parents bought a Jack Russell crossed with a poodle (no I’m not giving that breed a capital letter) and named it Ben after a certain West Coast Eagles player.  I still hate that dog … call it sibling rivalry, he’s like the grandchild they never had!

So, knowing all this, you can imagine the laughs I got when everyone found out that I was moving to Newman with Mr W. … and his two dogs … rendering me “step mum”.

These two dogs, let’s call them “Black Dog” and “White Dog” to protect their identites (lol) are both Staffies … Black Dog is a girl and White Dog is a boy.  Sounds like it could be romantic.  It’s not.

those who shall remain nameless ...

My mother in particular thought it hillarious that upon meeting the dogs for the first time I bought them Schmakos and rolled around on the floor and played with them.  Awwhhhh the things you do for love.   It was my mother who also stated she would love to see me pick up after the little poppets, but, you know that a girl will do anything to impress a good looking man.  Well, that and my mother bought me a pooper scooper.  God bless her and her wacky sense of humour.

Well, after a good month, me and the dogs have developed quite a good relationship.  If they don’t annoy me too much I take them for a walk.  I even remember to feed them most nights.  Actually, I have to admit … they really have worked their way into my heart.  I actually look forward to being woken up with White Dogs tongue all over my face (I’m sure you noticed it in the photo).  Sometimes I even let them sleep on the end of the bed if Mr W. goes to work early and I haven’t quite gotten up.  And I can’t help but cuddle up with them on the couch while I’m watching telly … that is if they’re not all snuggled up with Mr W … and this bring us to a real bone of contention with me at the moment.  I just can’t get used to the fact that the dogs get more cuddles than me.

Mr W. says to me that he is just not a cuddly, touchy feely kind of guy … he likes his own space.  Meanwhile he is curled up on the couch with black dog on one side and white dog on the other.  Seriously, sometimes I wish I could grow fur.  Especially when he tells black dog what a beautiful girl she is.  Come on, my coat is shiny too!!!  I really thought Black Dog and I would be, well you know, best girlfriends … but gee whiz … she gets more compliments than I do.  Maybe White Dog and I have more in common that I first realised.  He is a very jealous dog … if Black Dog is getting attention then he wants in on it … perhaps we really aren’t that different.

Actually, Mr W. has even admitted that there are 3 spots in his world … and I’m second*.  The dogs are equal first.  And due to the fact that I was so dumbfounded about coming second, I can’t for the life of me remember what or who came third … beer perhaps?

pp xx

* Upon showing this piece to Mr W. he has moved me to Number 1.  The dogs are number 2 and 3 … depending on who has dug up the garden on said day (yesterday they both dug a hole … tough choice).  Hmmmm does he think this makes up for his Tuesday night near death experience?  Honey, if you’re reading … it doesn’t.  You’ll have to go just that little bit further.

Who Said Romance Was Dead?

Imagine getting home from work mid week to discover that your partner is intoxicated.  And not just a bit tipsy either.  Well, I’m slowly learning that this is just a normal occurrence when you live with a shift worker.  You see, up here in the red dirt, weekends and public holidays really don’t mean anything.  Half the time no one knows what day it is due to the roster they work.  And so, Mr W.’s “weekend” often occurs mid week … totally opposite to my mon to fri grind.

Well, I came home from work last Tuesday (which was Mr W.’s Sunday) to discover Mr W. having a few quiet ones, or so I thought.  It wasn’t until everyone had left that I actually discovered just how pissed he really was.  Noticing that he was stumbling around like an emu on ice skates, I asked him if he was ok.  He replied … nope … and then he proceeded to cook me dinner (something he would never do while he was sober).  God bless my gorgeous Mr W., he had lovingly marinated some chicken breasts in Nandos sauce all day.  And so he got out the George Foreman and proceeded to char grill the chicken.  He was so obssessed with getting that criss cross pattern on the chook but he’s just lucky he didn’t end up with a nice little criss cross pattern on the side of his face.

Well, the fun didn’t stop there.  After watching me put the garlic bread in the oven, he asked me to cook him some garlic bread … no less than three times!  Now I must admit, despite the fact that his brain had clearly left the building, he did cook some very amazing chicken.  It’s a shame our dinner conversation wasn’t as juicy.

Now, it was about 7pm by this stage and Mr W. was well, shall we say, a little worse for ware so I told him that he needed to have a shower.  And it’s at this point that I secretly started wishing that we had a video camera permanently set up in our bedroom (no Mr W. we can’t do this, it’s just a blog honey).

Have you ever had to undress someone who’s quite inebriated?  It’s not easy at the best of times … especially when you know you’re not gonna get lucky.  Well, I managed to get his shirt off.  It was his socks that nearly landed him in the local hospital.  You see, we have one of those gorgeous wooden beds with a flat edge that you can sit on.  And so Mr W. managed to perch himself on here (after several attempts) and stuck his foot out … his way of “helping” to get his socks off.  Not realising that he was wearing 2 pairs, I pulled them … and a drunk Mr W. has gone from sitting on the edge of the bed to sitting on the floor quicker than he can stick a lemon wedge in a corona.

His head has then made contact with the chest of draw … oops.  I thought I’d killed him … but no such luck.  Before I knew it he was laughing uncontrollably … obviously no brain, no pain.  He’s just lucky he missed the edge the bed … or red dirt would be the least of my problems.  And so, after 10 minutes of watching him laugh until he cried, I managed to stand him up.  It took me another 10 minutes to get his pants off … longest that’s ever taken 😉

I decided that for his own health and safety (they’re big on that in these mining towns) that a shower was a bad idea and so just put him to bed.  Now you can imagine that I was really not impressed at this point.  I was expecting a romantic evening with my man …

Obviously Mr W. has no recollection of his near death experience, or the opinions he expressed about his mother in law whilst in this state … but he is starting to learn that the Pilbara Princess has a memory like an elephant and she never forgets.  I had great pleasure in reminding Mr W. of the events of the night before when he woke up at 1am with a thumping headache.  It’s funny that with such a great memory, I sometimes forgot where the panadol is in middle of the night.

Oh, and Mr W. … thank you for taking me out for a surprise lunch yesterday.  That was really lovely sweetie.  You’re half way there.

Love pp xx

I think I’ve grown fish scales …

Yes it’s true, I think I’ve grown fish scales …despite the fact that I’ve never lived so far from the ocean!  (you know the ones I’m talking about … they drive you nuts with itchiness and have that white flakey skin going on!!!  yummy)  I thought I would share with you a tale of my “Pilbara Makeover” …

Most of the time we have make overs to make us look more appealing … change our make up, hair colour or style, wear trendier clothes.  Well, in this case I would say that I have done the  complete  opposite (although I have to say that Mr W. is more than happy with the results, aren’t you honey?)

It all started with the fish scales … a direct result of  all the calcium in the  water here  (there’s enough calcium in the water to grow another arm or leg … just ask my shower screen) … but also the fact that it’s actually cold at night  ( and you know, there is no one to keep me warm coz Mr W. isn’t the most cuddly person in the world, well, unless … well you know!!!)  and so you have boiling hot showers and then when you get out of the shower you’re soooo cold that you can’t be bothered to moisturise … let me tell you this is a vicious cycle with to no end … in fact the only end is the fish scale effect!!!  And don’t get me started on the effect that it has on your feet … I mean, we are talking cracks you can put 20c pieces into … like I said, I really think that Mr W. is more than happy with my Pilbara Makeover, he just can’t keep his hands off me …

My daily make up routine has been somewhat reduced … once a smoky eye kinda gal … I now get by with just the basics, foundation and mascara … cos I mean ,  who needs blush when you have red dirt everywhere, all the time.  (and they say theres no dust in Newman – feel free to bring your white gloves and do the Michael Jackson test at my place)  I mean you are literally covered with it.  It gives you that healthy, just been on holidays  in Bali glow … not !!!!!

White is totally out of the question.  I found this out the hard way.  My crisp white singlet suddenly turned pink…… literally before my eyes).  And not even nappy san can resurrect those stains.  Oh and that’s not to mention my white sneakers … which are now a beautiful shade of, you guessed, pink.  At least I can prove that I do exercise up here … well I did once or twice anyway lol.

My corporate wardrobe has had a huge makeover.  I’ve gone from skirts and stilettos to fluro orange high vis shirts, jeans and steel capped boots (I’ve steered clear of the camel  / tan coloured suede favoured by most and gone with a more fashion forward black … lace up to the ankle … come on peeps, ankle boots are so hot right now  but on the bright side the heels don’t get caught in anything ).

Actually talking about boots … I’ve actually lost a few inches … no seriously … my stilettos have been banned  (I think Mr W. is a little embarrassed to be seen in public on a Saturday morning with me while I’m wearing them actually) … and in their place I have thongs … not just one pair … a “crap” pair for around the house (these thongs are well worn, about 3 years old and very very comfy).  And a “good” pair.   These ones are for “going out  for a night on the town (can you hear the sarcasm in my voice?) … and feature a little diamonte on each one … despite the fact that they too are well worn, about 3 years old and very very comfy.  Gosh … I could write a whole post on thongs … hmmm watch this space …

in a while crocodile
pp xx