ditto

"I no longer have patience for certain things, not because I’ve become arrogant, but simply because I reached a point in my life where I do not want to waste more time with what displeases me or hurts me. I have no patience for cynicism, excessive criticism and demands of any nature. I lost the will to please those who do not like me, to love those who do not love me and to smile at those who do not want to smile at me. I no longer spend a single minute on those who lie or want to manipulate. I decided not to coexist anymore with pretence, hypocrisy, dishonesty and cheap praise. I do not tolerate selective erudition nor academic arrogance. I do not adjust either to popular gossiping. I hate conflict and comparisons. I believe in a world of opposites and that’s why I avoid people with rigid and inflexible personalities. In friendship I dislike the lack of loyalty and betrayal. I do not get along with those who do not know how to give a compliment or a word of encouragement. Exaggerations bore me and I have difficulty accepting those who do not like animals. And on top of everything I have no patience for anyone who does not deserve my patience" - Meryl Streep.

It's gone

Calamity. I think I've lost my shopping mojo. The other day Littlest Ripe and I headed off to the mecca that is Chadstone for a VIP shopping night. As we approached we saw this

And there we sat for 80 freaking minutes! barely inching forward. surrounded by lunatics trying to push their way in. Bedlam. When we finally made it in we found a park like that (snaps fingers). Awesome. In we went and proceeded to meet a wall of people. I know. What did we expect? But seriously, this was beyond anything seen before. I quickly sedately ran walked toward the champagne stand but alas. The crowds were 10 deep and despite highly trained champagne grabbing skills honed at the Melbourne Cup and years of soirees, I failed! And so did my shopping. I left that place of worship with NOTHING. I fear my shopping mojo has left the building. So today, I again entered the fray. Leaving the coalface during lunch to see if it was just lurking under the surface. I hightailed it to The Glen - and once more emerged empty handed. Something is very wrong. Let's hope it shows up before Christmas morning or the Ripe's are stuffed. Like the turkey.

no pain no gain

So Mr Ripe and I ran away reluctantly left our darlings for a relaxing night away. Part of our pampering plans was a lovely massage. Are you like me and prepare for a massage? First off - the full dehair. There should be no leg forest for the poor masseuse to have to part in order to reach your lily white skin. Also no tufty scratchy regrowth.

And one must wear demure black undies. When it comes to a massage, I am of the medium pressure camp. Not too firm but I like to know they're there. Mr Ripe prefers his a little softer and is disappointed if he doesn't relax enough to snooze. Unfortunately, my masseuse took pressure to a whole new level. There was definitely a touch of the Mrs Danvers (Faux Fuschia) about her. At one point, as she unleashed her whole body weight onto my lower back, I thought my ovaries might pop out and say hello. I squeaked a little but didn't speak up. I knew it was probably what my tight little shoulder/back needed and pondered the unfairness of tight shoulders rather than tight abs as she pummelled away.

hear me roar

So yesterday Katy Perry rocked up to a fancy girls’ school in Melbourne to mingle with the students and share wisdom. Got me thinking about who’d darkened the doorstep of my old school – Kildare College – and given us life lessons. Can I just add that we had the worst uniform eva. Like, it was brown and white check and in winter we wore an itchy brown tunic that buttoned at the front with a lemon round necked shirt. The kids from the neighbouring high and tech schools called us Brown Cows. And we were.

But I digress. From my addled memory, there was the Shire President who banged on about the joys of civic responsibility and rates and...oh I forget, think this is where I carved “shut up” into my arm with my trusty school compass. And let’s not forget the local sheep farmer who bought in Blackie, his big hairy sheep, to shear. Big, hairy, smelly and not happy that a roomful of girls were giving him the once over. And let’s not talk about how the sheep felt. So I applaud the girls at Loreto Mandeville Hall for conning persuading their teachers that Katy Perry, famous for her tassle-twirling bras, retro hairstyles and sassy songs, will steer them on the right path. Beats aiming to be a shearer.