What women think - August 2008

I'm a bloody idiot

Let me tell you about my new pashmina. It's pure wool, pale pink, big enough to wrap all around me when the wind is blowing cold down George Street. Yet equally small enough to twist fashionably around my neck.

Advertisement

For weeks it accompanied me to the office every day. It also came to a Broncos game, enjoyed a long weekend at Mooloolaba, a girls lunch at the Regatta and a plane ride to Sydney. It got a bit cranky at me when I left it in my car overnight. But we made up and became BFFs.

Then I washed it. Now, I'm pretty fastidious about washing. Well, about cleaning really. I've had lots of practice. Usually because I'm the women behind the successful man who cleans up all the shit he's too full of himself to notice.

When I wash, I separate, separate, separate. Soak anything even remotely white. Hand wash all delicates. Warm water for towels, cold water for jeans. Hang everything in the shade.

So what made me throw my treasured pashmina into the same load as my gym clothes and then chuck the whole damp mess into the dryer, I've no idea. I wasn't drunk at the time. I wasn't particularly time-poor. It wasn't raining.

The next morning I opened the dryer and yanked out this pathetic little square that in a former life used to be my BFF pashmina. Needless to say, it now fashions itself as a table napkin, although not very absorbent. And I'm down $85 and back to being cold at work and lonely on plane flights.

If you wash delicate items without paying attention, you're a bloody idiot.

Here's another bloody idiot example. One Saturday afternoon, I was mooching around DFO and happened upon a pair of hot pink stilettos. And not just hot pink. Patent leather hot pink. Couldn't you just die!!

That night, I had a party to go to. I got dressed in a black silk jersey t-shirt, black cropped jacket, white hipster jeans (channelling Liz Hurley), a diamante hair clip and these fabulous new shoes.

Except it was a stand-up cocktail party type party. And those shoes really hurt. They pinched on my little toes and the strap dug into the side of my foot. Ooouch!

I stood against a wall, eased one sandal off, tried to massage my aching toes on the carpet and then like the bevan I can be, hurriedly shoved it back on when someone came over to say hello.

A gorgeous friend, who was midst break-up with her fella wanted to have a chat. Should she sell her half of their house back to him or should she fight to maintain the property? Who should get the carving they bought together in Prague?

Well, bugger the carving, what about the bbq that doubles as a wet-bar? And the case of cabernet sauvignon from their last trip to the Hunter? Do I think he was sleeping with their neighbour?

I wanted to support her, be there for her, advise her (and probably congratulate her on wanting to maintain custody of some very fine Mudgee wine). But the throbbing pain emanating below my ankles deafened me to anything but the need for my slippers.

If you buy stilettos and wear them to a stand-up party without first breaking them in, you're a bloody idiot.

There's a fine line between fishing and standing on the shore and looking like an idiot.

How about the time another adored gal-pal was on the cusp of her five-minutes-of fame? So what if it was as an extra in a Toyota Corolla television commercial which probably constituted four seconds of exposure? Publicity is publicity.

I invited the gang over to my place for dinner to share her moment of glory. And went ahead and broke my own golden rule of never cooking anything for company that I haven't cooked before. I mean, how hard can spiced honey eggplant with sweet potato be to cook?

Pretty hard, especially when I've never cooked eggplant in my life. I tried to serve it but it resembled an autopsy. Couldn't I have just gone with a red curry or perhaps something solid but popular like lasagne? We ended up just eating loads of cheese and a frozen Sara Lee dessert. Thank goodness I had enough wine to compensate.

Don't ever be a bloody idiot and fake an orgasm simply as a means to get a new bloke off the top of you. He'll think he's so spectacular in the sack he'll spend weeks interpreting your being unavailable as a come on.

Don't ever be a bloody idiot and buy that Alannah Hill sequinned dress in a size 10 because you have a plan to ditch seven kilos. That same Alannah Hill dress will be hanging in your wardrobe five years from now, when you've probably added another happy three kgs to your frame.

Don't be a bloody idiot and wear any form of buckle-up sandals on any form of aircraft. Today's post 9/11 security checks will see you sitting on your arse undoing 15 buckles per shoe whilst your rock-bottom ticket price plane blithely leaves. Does security think I'm going to stash a set of box-cutters into a stiletto heel measuring half a centimetre diameter? Probably.

Suppose you were an idiot. Suppose you were Bron McClain. But I repeat myself.

Free review of your website
We love what we do. We build websites. TBL Online is offering all Babes in Business members a Free Review of your Website (valued at $500) ... more

 

Events with WOW
Way Out Theatreworks integrates creativity and precision with talented performers to provide events with the WOW factor ... more

 

Brand makers
Bring your brand to life with Lumino – brilliant brand creation and communication – call Babes Pip or Wendy on 3251 2600 ... more

Read other columns written by Bron

Bron McClain p 0412 326 300 e bron@bronmcclain.com