Lipon

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, a young(er) mother lived in a share house with her daughter and two other ladies.

One was a beautiful Asian princess and one was a glorious Australian poet - but this story is not about them...

Once upon a time I sat on the back deck after the child's book time and song time and story time and sleep time to muse - but this story is not about her either...

Once upon a time, overlooking the glistening lights of  the 'Gabba and hearing crowds go home from yet another Lions victory *, I sent a query out to the universe.

The universe responded.  Yay universe.

Of late, Mrs Woog has come to bemoan the world of the online date, jaded as it is by charletan pollution and unsolicited daguerrotypes of appendages - and it brought to mind a little story from the beginning of the courtship of V and I.

Very early on in our long-distance communication, our conversations jumped from the computer screen to telephone screen.  We had interacted vocally, but at an exhorbitant fee **

I have told you that this was a long time ago - a long, long time ago, in fact.  So long ago, that when you texted, you had to not just type each letter individually  but r-e-a-l-l-y type each letter.  And not just no-predictor-text level of slowness, but a truly challenging task ***.

For example, to type in the world "understandably", you had to press "88663(wait a second for the phone to recognise that as "d")33777(pause)7777826632(pause)22555333" - and if you wanted to type "distraction", it was "3444777787772(pause)222844666(pause)66" - and as texts were CHARGED and limited in numbers of characters, you learned to abbreviate and spelling errors existed.

So, given it is the middle of Winter and given that there are no floor coverings where I was living (but moving from, to Paradise) and given that V was in warmer climes , our discussions turned to footwear and their relative merits.

Now, I am not renowned for my shoe-surety...  but it turned out to be V's toe in the door, his great step forward, emerging from the pond of hopeful suitors to contemplation of worth.

He lyrically described to me his slippers (there was one point in time when I could have quoted exactly the phrasing used) and its merits.  There was possibly an entendre or two thrown into the 160 character mix.  And then he told me The Pet Name.  He refered to his "lipon".

I nearly choked on my wine.   Who was this wierdo?

Then, he asked if I wanted to see a photo of "it".

I panicked and raced downstairs to where my poet-companion resided.  What the actual?

His fate was to be decided by his next missive.

A photo of a great big hairy (tartan) slipper! **** *****

It turned out, he had meant to type "slip-on" - and just like that, the courtship was back on track...

And the rest, as they say, is history.

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* yes, once upon a time the Lions won many games - even in a row.

** Doesn't that date a story - telephone calls used to be expensive and not part of a BUNDLE, children

***yet still legal to undertake while operating a motor vehicle, folks - the veritable dark ages

*** Unfortunately photographic proof is impossible as the phone has long since passed this mortal coil and it was so long ago, children, that CLOUDS did not exist - and

**** We have never since seen such a perfect pair of backless tartan hairy slipper suitable for a size 12 bloke.

So - what was your most memorable courtship gift - and was it solicited...

White Dunlop Volleys

(This is part of a yarn I am working on... and surprise, surprise, its a SHOE post.)

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When I was a child – last century, before cordless telephones, vehicular air-conditioning, VCRs and the internet – I went to the toughest school in Central Queensland.  Sandfly Flats.

In those days, we never wore shoes to school.  At all. 

Sure, our mother – and probably one or two of the other mothers of our classmates – ensured we were shod when we left the house at the beginning of the day. But when I first started at Sandfly Flats, not one student foot was impeded with footwear while actually at the school.

Did I mention we were the toughest school in Central Queensland?

We prided ourselves on how resilient our soles were.  We would walk across midday bitumen during summer without flinching.  We would run across patches of bindiis – you know, those really old patches that have several generations of dried prickles just waiting for the brush of a new host? – we would run across with complete disregard to any pain or suffering.  We would skid on the cement basketball court and laugh at the chalk-marks our heels left behind.

THAT is the Sandfly Flats level of toughness.

Sports Day was always a big thing – then even more than now.

Sport was a socialising factor in our sparsley populated region.  And as Sandfly Flats had the joy of being equidistant to two larger centres, it was afforded the opportunity to participate in twice as many Sports Days.   Twice as much fun. 

We truly lived in a magical place in a magical time.

On Sports Day, the rule was that shoes were to be worn - at least for the March Past.  And that rule went even further to say that these shoes were to be sandshoes, and the sandshoes were to be White Dunlop Volleys.  And that meant WHITE DUNLOP VOLLEYS - none of your new-fangled high-faluting fancy coloured stripes think-you-can-get-away-with-it-missy shoes either.

Before Sports Day, it was YOUR RESPONSIBILITY to clean them.   This could mean anything from whitening them through to the full scrub and cycle of the washing machine - generally dependent on the time since the last Sports Day and whether it had rained.  But to at least freshen up the whitening - this was the mandatory duty of every child.

The product that we were required to use was a jar of white liquid with a sponge on a stick rubber-banded to the side. (If anyone can give me the name of that product, you get bonus points this round)

As you painted it on to your White Dunlop Volleys, you had to ensure that you didn’t paint yourself.  The stuff was impossible to remove without taking off some skin. 

Once that was done, you had to pray like crazy that it wouldn’t rain and there would be enough time for it to dry before going to the Sports Day, as there is nothing worse than standing in the pre-dawn light in mid-Winter waiting for March Past to begin - with damp feet in soggy shoes and a parent lecturing you on planning and preparation.

Now, you have to note that rumour was a device with irrational logic in Sandfly Flats.

 And rumour had it that none of the Wheeler boys ever had White Dunlop Volleys.  Rumour has it that the Wheeler boys stood in line with painted feet to undertake the March Past.

I often wonder how this could be so, given that later in the day each of those boys undertook athletic feats in bare feet that had no line of demarcation - or indeed recent scrubbing - at all.

The Curse of the Footwear Strikes Again

I was walking in to work recently - over this holidays I have had a few days here and there for an old employer - feeling like a million bucks but with the smirk of one who had outlayed less than ten.

The shirt was a gift from a good friend - it always feels good to wear something received in such a manner, I find.

The skirt was an absolute bargain at the local Vinnies.  Four dollars.

And the shoes!  The shoes were only four dollars and fifty cents!

You may recall, I don't go shoe shopping lightly.

In fact, I find it much easier to NEVER go shoe shopping - sure, it means my footwear options are rather limited and the few forays into shoe shops are generally urgent and without the required therapy beforehand.

However - however, I was in the local Vinnies and bumped into a friend.  She is not so backwards in such pursuits, and ALWAYS checks the racks for good finds.

"What size are you?" she enquired.

She immediately found TWO pairs that fit me a'la Cinderella.  Two pairs that were almost brand new.

The rhymes-with-witch at the counter (who could have done with a bit of Saint in her attitude) however almost caused my shoe buying journey into meltdown with an accusation of trying to diddle them out of some revenue, as one of the pairs wasn't marked at the right price - so I emerged with only one pair - but hey, I bought ONE pair of shoes when I wasn't even looking.  Go me.

So there I was, jauntily (if you will believe) sauntering in to work, making small talk with the boss and the beautiful receptionist and the boys out the back and the birds were singing and everything was right with the world.

You know what is coming, right?

Planets never align like that without a little entropy for fun...

I heard extra footsteps as I walked, and I looked down, and one of my almost brand new shoes was flapping.

I eeked appropriately, so I went out to the workshop area to see if I could find anything to fix my problem.

I did find plenty of spray lubricant, but no spray adhesive.

While looking, the pair went out in sympathy, so I was double-flapping while searching.

And then - well, then I saved myself an embarrassing wait at the local Mister Minit while he resoled my shoe.

I fixed it with something from the office.

Do you think I could start a trend?

Why did the duck cross the road... or Shoe Part 4 I suppose...)

I would like to announce that the season of Christmas Shopping has officially now launched in Paradise.

I know.  Early this year.

("Christmas Decorations as viewed by Paris" - by Paris)

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I have heard rumours that some people apparently finish their shopping for the festive season in October.  Sheesh.

Where is the fun in that?

What do people do on Christmas Eve if they are not wrapping presents and hyperventilating about enough stuff and more than enough stuff?

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I like to approach a Christmas quietly for as long as possible.  Sneak up on it.

If it knows you are there, it will try to extract as much festive spirit - or as the agents of christmasitalism call it, profit - from you as possible.

The pickings leaning towards any -isms profitting from me do tend to be rather stringy and lacking in substance.  Therefore I have learned I cannot stand up to protracted scrutiny from such suckers, and so quietly with an air of disinterest is the only approach possible.

It is not just through fear of being parted from the filthy lucre that makes me pause, though.  I know what the combination of spending, me, and the term "sucker" have, and I actually suffer from a rare (however very rarely fatal) condition, where I am a woman who does not enjoy shopping for the sake of spending.

(I will let you in on a secret - there are more of us out there than you think)

As a result, I am a hugely unsuccessful shopper.

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However, even I surprised myself with my launch* this year.

It has been a week - nay, ten days - oh, what the heck, nigh on over a year of crap being dumped in my general vicinity.  Not aimed directly at me (all the time) but close enough to make an impact on the otherwise smooth and uneventful perambulations of my life.

The little, niggly stuff amped up a bit over the last week - speeding fine (again, so not my fault), death, confirmation of a friend finale (not due to death), dental dramas, pre-menstrual psychosis - okay, perhaps the lady doth over-exaggerate, but if there is a bad guy aiming stink bombs, they were hitting fairly frigging close to the bone.

So today, all armed with the knowledge that the proposed budget is in the black until at least 2014 ** and listed up, Paris and I set forth on the inaugural shop.

 

(not an actual representation of the list.  I am not giving anyone Vinegar for Christmas this year)

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My shoe broke.

My freaking shoe BROKE.  I was strong.  I did not take it as a sign.

It was not a SIGN.

(if you look closely, you can see a mob of kangaroos behind this sign)

It did, however, mean that, rather than striding into the first store of my chevy, I approached in a more disheveled manner, broken shoes in hand to PROVE that ferality was not my natural state (well, not for the last few years, anyway) but still bowed by the sneers of the righteous folk lined up at Santa's Kiosk and exiting the bottle-shop near the entrance of the Shopping Centre.

Now, I had actually budgeted for a pair of shoes.  For Paris.  My footwear has not been pencilled in, therefore whatever is spent in the shodding must be spent with care and an eye to very low financial impact.

I have before mentioned my shoe shopping phobias, have I not?  Here and here.  This one is nothing about shopping for shoes, but emphasizes that should the universal conspiracy have been looking for something that is going to just make my life a little bit more stressy, go for the footwear.  The girl sucks BIG TIME at shoe shopping.

Let me just say that I am actually not TOO much poorer, as a result.

My total footwear range has expanded, it is true...  however, we would have to describe the trajectory of style and show of social standing as in a Southerly direction, with the other major shoe factor, comfort, not really offering any redemption in the selection I ended up with.

Am rethinking my declination of the feral status.

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*  Allow me to confess to three transgressions:

• I actually used the internet to contact Santa and arrange his part in one Parisian delight;
• Whilst shopping for 'Salina's birthday I inadvertently overbought at one store (it was an excellent deal); and
• I have hatched a scheme for several of the recipients of the darts of my goodwill that has required an assembly of materials - and I have procured the materials.

 ** a year that I hold much higher hopes for.

Footloose (or Shoe Post Three, I suppose)

On Thursday, I went to work as usual.

Well, not quite as usual. It had been raining all week, which meant that the dryer was busy and the line under the house heaving with those things not friendly for the dryer - like bras and stockings (well, I don't wear stockings - urgh - but those stocking-y socky things that I wear under trousers with shoes).

So on Thursday, I grabbed my shoes and handbag and keys, kissed Paris and V goodbye ('Salina was still at my sister's) and went downstairs to put on my shoes and stocking-y socky things - only I didn't, because I realised that I only had x minutes to get to work, when it takes y minutes to get there and x was a smaller number than y - so I made the decision to put on my shoes and stocking-y socky things when I got there.

So on Thursday, I drove to work (in silence - don't ask me about the stereo) barefoot (yes, illegal in some states) and actually got there in x minutes (woo hoo) and contemplated putting the seat back and putting on my shoes and stocking-y socky things in the car - when I thought, nah, much more comfy to do this in my office chair, so I walked barefoot in to work.

So on Thursday, I got in to work, said good morning to my colleagues and chatted while I sat down, pulled on my stocking-y socky things and grabbed my shoes. My black shoes. My brand-new black shoes as the stitching in my old black shoes had started to disintegrate on Monday.

Only they weren't. My brand-new black shoes, that is. Well, technically, one was. The left one. The other one was one of my old black shoes. The left one.

On Thursday, I was very quiet (especially when I snuck up on people).

Waiting For The Third Shoe to Drop

The night before, I woke with a cramp in my left calf - leading to a limp for half of yesterday because I think I pulled a muscle.

Yesterday, a broom fell on my left foot (possibly because I had upset its rest and actually used it) causing the limp to get worse.

Questions that are raised resultantly:

• Can I go back through history to find the "first" and therefore negate the worry about the third?
• What is the bit on your foot actually called when it is not your toes, sole, instep, heel, ball or ankle? You know the bit I am talking about.
• Should I steer clear of housework in the future, just to ensure my safety?
• How the heck can you get comfortable to go to sleep when you naturally lay on your stomach, but flexing your foot too much causes calf agony and stretching your foot too much causes that-bit-of-the-foot agony?

Oh and

• Can I count sleep deprivation as the third?

Your input would be appreciated.

Shoe Post One - The Prequel - Or "How Jeanie is not your average woman example #67"

When I was a child, I lived a long way from town.

This meant a lot of things. It meant that if we ran out of milk, the cow had to be brought in. It meant that if Mum didn't have ingredients for a dish, we didn't get that dish or we got a Mum-ified version. It meant that if our shoes were too tight or uncomfortable, too bad.

Of course, the last statement wasn't really as painful as all that, because generally what we wore on our feet always fit. We were barefoot children, and our feet truly enjoyed freedom as much as the rest of us.

We had tough feet - we could run through a patch of wind-dried bindi-eye and didn't feel a thing. Heck, we would DELIBERATELY run through any bindi patch we could find just to prove how hardened our feet were to such hardships.

Gravel roads baked in 40 celcius summer sun (that is over 100 farenheit for foreigners) were merely there for us to test our soles.

Our mother did attempt to civilise us. You never know when the Queen might drop by (or a grandmother) and she did attempt to shoe us.

Every morning before school we would be well shod and hair tied up. Every afternoon after school we would be barefoot and hair flying in the wind. Little did she know that the miraculous transformation took place just over the hill from home on the way TO the bus in the morning.

Therefore, unless we were riding (elastic sides - a horse has harder feet and a lot of weight behind it) or river crossing (volleys required to keep out barbed wire and snakes) we were fairly unfettered children - until the moment came that Mum took us to town.

Most of the time we got out of that little chore - Dad needed us or we would make ourselves as annoying as heck so Mum would leave us with a list of jobs - but there were occasions that our presence was absolutely required.

Generally, those were the days when we needed to be PROPERLY FITTED. Very onerous moments punctuating our childhood memories.

The nearest town was your typical country town - main street with

• several hairdressers (mum cut ours so we didn't see inside);
  
• butchers (only on special occasions - again, we did our own);
  
• frock salon (a place of dreams with beautiful women who actually put up with us visiting them);
  
• jewellers (look from the outside and DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING);
  
• theatre (we went to see Grease there - twice!);
• cafe (the Rainbow still goes on today);
• haberdashery;
• chemists (Mum occasionally worked there as a locum);
• grocery stores;
• menswear; and
• a shoe store.

The shoe store was a scary proposition - not just because the plate glass window featured YOU getting your shoes fitted to every pedestrian; not just because the dapper Mr B-rhymes-with-Vogue was so attentive to your mother and your feet; not just because the range of styles and colours left a choice-challenged shy girl speechless; not just because the back of the shop started very close to the front of the shop and went back in four narrow aisles of boxes of shoes that went right to the ceiling - but for all of those reasons as well as the terror that you were going to get GOOD shoes, which meant NO MORE FREEDOM and BEHAVE WITH PROPRIETY.

The only answer required of the child was where it pinched - and Mr B-rhymes-with-Vogue would do a great deal of squeezing and pinching your foot just so you could tell him exactly where.

Your opinion was not called for - Mum and Mr B-rhymes-with-Vogue would discuss the finer details of style and colour. No matter how much your heart may ache for the buckle straps or the red-corked soles - it was not up to a child to harbour footly desire. The power was with the adults.

Ah yes, another moment in Jeanie's childhood that should ultimately lead to counselling. Except that that dance card is full, and thus I found other ways to cope.

At first it was my lack of care that most of my footwear was handed down from my big sister. My big sister who apparently envies me my average foot - it took a long time to fill her shoes, and an even longer time to grow out of them (for me), therefore I had plenty of time to develop this lack of care over my wearing second-hand (or foot) shoes. At least it meant one less trip to the shoe shop.

Then it was the abdication of all involvement in choice in matters of the feet. If the facts of my life were to include quashing of desires for "the buckle straps or the red-corked soles", then I would quash all pedi-desire altogether, and that should teach the universe.

Even when my mother took Mr B-rhymes-with-Vogue out of the equation and resorted to outlines of my feet in brown paper to gather shoes on appro and attempt to gather a distinct desire of shoe out of me, I was not to be drawn. "Whatever" was the answer then, and I am afraid it continued.

To this day - I can give you the time, date and place of purchase of every pair of shoes I own - and that is because there are so few pairs, so few purchases, so much stress and so little joy from the activity for me.

I know - other children had my childhood and seem to be quite normal - but for me, the average-footed middle-child, I can conjure a mountain out of a molehill but never a foot fetish out of such memories.