Sans rose-coloured glasses

While I enjoy keeping a record of our house renovations, I think it would be remiss of me to edit the process, and break it down into cheerful chapters, like the musical interlude in an American rom-com.
Can't you see it? Perhaps Lady Gaga's Edge of Glory booming, with images of me painting the fence in my denim overalls (complete with heart shaped applique), my husband comes over and dabs me on the nose with white paint, I throw my head back and laugh, cut to me and my husband smiling and nodding over some paint swatches, finishing with us falling into bed at the end of the day, exhausted but satisfied with our work.
The reality is more likely us arguing in a tile shop before making the silent trip home empty handed, or becoming unhinged at seeing jobs that need doing everywhere we look, or spending a sleepless night wondering how the hell we're going to pay for all the work.
If you are currently shopping the market, or just about to embark on your own renovation for the first time, I feel it my duty to give you some insight into the rather less glamorous flipside of renovating. It is an exhausting, messy, costly and consuming process.
It can't be disputed that Motherwell is a beautiful house, but let me tell you, she is also an old bitch.

She steals from us, she does, whatever she can get her hands on;  holidays away, beautiful handbags, birthday parties, new shoes, dinners in fancy restaurants, and worst of all a splurge at the Easton Pearson sale.
She's like that Billy Joel song. 

And she'll promise you more

Than the Garden of Eden

Then she'll carelessly cut you

And laugh while you're bleedin'

But she'll bring out the best

And the worst you can be

Blame it all on yourself

Cause she's always a woman to me

And when she's not thieving our money, she's taking all our time instead. Then there is the constant mess and dust, and nothing is quite right, at least not yet. It's like living in an unfinished puzzle. Everything seems temporary and all our hopes are pinned to something in the distant future, a time when all the work will be done and final. I worry that the house is too taxing on us and too distracting, and will it all be worth it in the end? Wouldn't it be easier to live in something smaller, newer, more manageable? I look at those brand new apartments that are always being advertised and imagine the customised shoe racks displaying all the new shoes I would buy. I eyeball sweet little cottages I see for sale that seem just the right size for the four of us. They seem to be a lot less responsibility. I don't mean to sound ungrateful. At the moment I'm just feeling overwhelmed. Of course, I know me, I know the process. This is a lull, and now I've got it out of my system, I'm sure I'll wake up tomorrow all refreshed and ready to workshop bathroom cabinets again. I'll put a bit of Gaga on to get me going.

Whatever Floats Your Boat

I know there are people around who say retail therapy is either negative or non-existant. I'm here to tell you things can make you happy. I've always thought this, god knows, I've felt it, and it was confirmed for me in November of 2011 when I read it on a Manhattan billboard.

Let me show you some examples of what has made me extremely happy of late. Exhibit A is this beautiful pair of antlers, given to me for my birthday by my three favourite people in the world.

Another extremely wonderful person gave me this print. It gives me a lift every time I read it, because I think if she thinks this, it must be at least a little bit true.

That self same person also gave me this for my birthday to add to my collection. There's something about spots that is always cheery.

I gave myself these beautiful lidded bowls, and they make me happy.

Right or wrong, I get a kick out of pretty things, and the people who visit my house do too.

It makes me happy to read this little plate on the wall because it used to hang in my mother's kitchen in my first home. I recently found a little note that Peach's had written, it said; "My bedroom is clean enough to be health, and dirty enough to be happy'. I would say this will remain her domestic affirmation forever.

This plate with the roses on it made me feel happy when I found it in an op shop. I love roses, I love pink and I thought it would look pretty on the wall. I'm no rocket surgeon.
The smaller plate appealed because it has orchids and a hummingbird on it, two symbols I relate to my father.

This peacock brought me happiness when I found it. I love shells and peacocks, so what's not love about a peacock made of shells? This kitschy loveliness hanging on my wall would have made my grandmother proud. She too had a fondness for kitsch.

I felt genuine joy when I found this 1940s shell shaped vase in pretty shades of grey and turquoise, my two favourite colours.

Even this humble $2.80 pineapple makes me feel good, and it smells beautiful too.

So there you go. My point is, if something makes you feel happy then consider yourself lucky. Enjoy. Whatever floats you're boat, I say.
Last week I watched a tv show on SBS about longevity. It is a subject which really fascinates me. I'm all for a long life, but the idea of eating nothing but bean sprouts and wheatgrass juice so I can live to 100 has little appeal for me.
This show had a man on it who was about 53 or 54, but due to his extremely calorie controlled diet and low percentage of fat, he had the body of a 19 year old. Can I tell you, he was the most miserable looking person I've seen in a long time, he barely cracked a smile, but for some reason he was hell bent on living to 100. 
My question is, would you want to live to 100 if that involved giving up virtually everything that made you happy; birthday cakes, champagne cocktails, the Christmas ham, whisky sours, creme caramel, gin and tonics, soft cheese? Me thinks a pretty lidded bowl will only get you so far happiness-wise.
I'm interested to know your thoughts.....  

Borrowed time

This absolute gem is also in Rockhampton. When I was little it was the posh-est restaurant in town. It sits on a prime position riverside, and once sold will most probably be demolished to make room for tres ordinaire high rise units. I think it deserves a moments silence.

You can read the full listing here.

Finger crossed, through some miracle, she manages to stay on her feet.

Let the Hammering and Dust Begin!

It's my birthday soon and my lovely (and very organised) friend Anna gave me this beautiful chartruese cup and saucer...and matching bangle.

It's amazing how a bit of colour can give you a lift.

Work on our downstairs rooms has started in earnest, and we are currently operating in the usual chaos that renovating creates.

This is the wall and ceiling frames. We have a large loungeroom, two bedrooms, a bathroom, laundry and study.
I've found the most beautiful interiors store, only problem is it's in Woolloomooloo, Sydney. Still it's worth a look here.  It's called Pad, unfortunately. They obviously didn't consult any branding specialists before naming it. But aside from that, it's absolutely beautiful, with equal parts classic, vintage, glamorous, unique, surprising and freshing.

I'll have that chest of drawers and chair...

that ottoman and settee, and throw in the drums and all the stuff on the sideboard....

plus I'll take that settee, the drum too and those two chairs, plus some bits and pieces in the background.

I'm petitioning for a CMC inquiry into the price of flea treatments. After paying $80 for 4ml of Frontline (excuse me that's $19,500/litre), Honey Bunny seemed to actually get more fleas. The company assured me that no matter how many fleas she had, she'd have more if I hadn't treated her with Frontline - that's a convenient argument. Now we're trying another one, Comfortis, which I have found priced from $59.99 on-line to $105 in-store!! What's going on people-who-make-flea-treatments?
Anyway, I've said my peace and I feel better for it. Now I'm off to prepare for our house guests.

Two fat cats and a puppy in a basket

Remember a couple of posts ago I asked how some individuals can 'own' and profit from the coal, oil and gold that the earth has made over millions of years? How can that be theirs?
Well, it seems Wayne Swan agrees with me. You can read part of his article which appears in Monthly magazine here.  He takes aim at vile fat cats and those that kowtow to them to garner themselves some scraps on the side. It makes for a reassuring read, that this is not all going unnoticed, and that just because something is legal, it's not necessarily right.
Now to banish that bad taste from the mouth, here's a photo of a puppy in a basket.

Petty grievances

I've just been reading through a list of Australia's 40 wealthiest people - not an uplifting past time, let me tell you. The top three are Gina Rinehart, below, worth $18 billion, Ivan Glasenberg $7.2 billion and Andrew Forrest worth $5.3 billion. All three have made their money from mining.

Can someone please explain to me how and why individuals can profit so exclusively from something made by the earth over millions of years? How can that belong to individual people? How can that resource be a single person's to sell for their own personal gain? It really bugs me. I think that's very wrong.
Whilst I'm on the subject of things that annoy me, the Sunday Mail was just sniffing around up at Ashgrove, finding out what the 'little people' think of Campbell Newman. The reporter was busily scribbling down quotes from people who really had little to say. For example, he asked one lady if she thought Can Do could win the seat. 'Only time will tell', she said. Indeed. How insightful.
On the subject of Can Do, I'll say just one thing - I'm not wrapped with public displays of affection, they make me suspicious.
And, quickly before I go.... I don't like beeping at green lights if you're a millisecond too slow taking off, people who walk along texting and you have to move out of their way, people who can't make tiny decisions on their own and have to make a phone call ('no they're out of OMO, should I get Biozet?), people who pay for a sausage roll with their credit card, people who don't return books (because usually they're your favourites). Worrying, I could go on, but I think I'll go and have a lie down instead.

The dying kangaroo

It's now two weeks til I leave for New York, and guess who I'm flying on. That's right - our 'national carrier' who currently isn't carrying.
What a turn of events, it's so fascinating. I suppose that's what happens when you hire an Irishman to run an iconic Australian brand, and then back him up with a Board of men who make Montgomery Burns look like Bill Gates.
The whole $2 million bonus would be hysterical if it were part of some satirical anti-capitalist comedy skit, but as a true story it is unconscionable and provocative.
If Qantas survives, and it probably will, it has already shown it's ugly underside as just another ho-hum company hell bent on making an obscene profit regardless of any social costs to the nation who has been supporting it for the past 90 years. And some things can't be unseen.
Personally, I'm happy to pay extra for a ticket on a plane if I feel confident it has been meticulously maintained, with no corners cut, and is being flown by a cohesive, contented crew.
Sadly, on the other side of this dispute Australians may no longer feel an allegiance to the company. Qantas has certainly proven it feels no allegiance to us.