Leg O'Mutton & Poached Eggs

One of the Great Benefits of having a daily photograph taken of One's Outfits is that you can clearly see where you went wrong.

And we're all desperate to know that aren't we?

You don't have to look v. hard to see Today's Mistakes in the photo above. Let me walk you through them in a series of Numbered Points.

1. Bad Bra. I must stop wearing cheap little sports bras that merely push your tits together tightly without Pushing Them Up, creating the appearance of a couple of poached eggs. With the high waisted skirt & the huge flower, it looks like they're hanging around my waist.

2. Leg O' Mutton sleeves. I'm not quite sure if this is a universal term or one that is peculiar to Australia. These sleeves were popular during Edwardian times so perhaps they are also known as Edwardian sleeves. Or maybe Edwardian Shoulders.

Let's not get too Obsessively Technical.

Oh dear! I'm getting distracted. It's after 9pm & a man who's been sitting in the bus shelter across the road since mid-afternoon is now loudly shouting 'F...Off' over & over.

I know how he feels. But I must get back to My Outfit.

Now I can't think of Another Point. And I was desperate to make at least three if not four Numbered Points.

Perhaps you can think of one.

When Before Meets After

I'm sure I've mentioned my recent conversion to The Style Network. And how I'm desperate to have my Own Show on it. I can't decide what to call it. Originally I thought it would be called 'Style Me Middleagedteacher'. But I also quite like 'The Middleagedteacher Project'.

The Style Network is completely devoted to The Makeover. Every show is a makeover. And its Mantra Slash Motto is 'When Before Meets After', which absolutely tickles me pink for some reason. Why couldn't I have thought that one up?

Instead, I'll just Steal It. After all, Picasso said, 'Immature Artists borrow, Mature Artists steal'. And let's face it, I'm Nothing if Not Mature.

So this blog entry is A Makeover.

Look above at the Poor Old Woman dragging a little wagon of rotting potatoes behind her. Never mind that the potatoes look like a large block of wood. Trust me, they're potatoes.

That was me back in March. I do urge you to click on the link & read my Poor Little Old Blog Entry from back then where I moan on & on about not wanting a therapist but wanting instead a Fairy Godmother.

Since that time, things have Moved On. I'm now onto my Fourth Therapist who is a Medical Doctor Slash Psychotherapist. And he really does resemble a Fairy Godmother.

Perhaps Dorothy was right when she wisely said (or was it Glinda?) that 'wishes do come true'.

Anyway, that's the Before part of the Makeover Blog entry.

And here's The After.

Christmas Wish List: Number 1.

Ever since Velvet, a wonderful Irish Horse Vet came to my Regular Sunday Dinner last sunday night, I've been desperate for a Companion Miniature Horse. Velvet knows these wondrous creatures who look uncannily like something out of Harry Potter.

Sadly, miniature horses do NOT make Practical Pets if they don't have unlimited access to The Outdoors as apparently, they are NOT amenable to Potty Training. So a small horse couldn't live in an apartment like mine, although Velvet suggested that miniature horses, who incidentally are about the size of a small labrador can be fitted with disposable nappies.

But can you imagine changing the nappies? How would One even attempt to do it?

Its such a pity as I've even got a name picked out: Verdell.

Ever since I fell in love with that little dog called Verdell in the film 'As Good As It Gets' with Jack Nicholson & Helen Hunt, who now looks like an Aged Rodent who's been trapped for too long in a maze, I have wanted to have my own Verdell.

Oh, & Another Thing. I had visions of my Companion Miniature Horse sleeping on the bed like my Dearly Departed black toy poodle Bill used to do every night. Velvet poured cold water on that idea as well. She didn't think small horses did that sort of thing.

But you know what? Suddenly, a dim, far-off memory is coming back to me.

I'm sure some years ago, my great friend & colleague, Trixie told me about a TV programme she saw about how miniature horses were becoming like Guide Dogs & were now able to sit up on planes in their own seat next to their owners.

Perhaps I dreamt this as I don't think that horses see v. well.

Before I sign off, just to prove to you HOW mad I am about horses, I have seen the film 'Seabiscuit' which is the true story of a champion horse from humble beginnings during the Great Depression Many Many times. I once watched it six times on a v. long plane trip to LA.

I swear I did.

Style Me Middleagedteacher

I feel blocked.

I type.

And then I delete.

Perhaps its the heat.

I can see that I'm going to have to take Drastic Measures.

That means only One Thing:

Numbered Points.

If I could make this line rhyme, it would be A Poem.

Perhaps it is anyway.

A Middleaged Haiku.

1. Yesterday, Lily, a fourteen year old student of mine told me & the class that when she found out about sex, she still believed in Santa. Everyone else in the class nodded in recognition. Fifi, another student said that a seven year old that she teaches dancing to told her that 'Three', sung by Britney Spears was about 'a threesome'.

2. I want my own show on 'The Style Network' which has just this past two weeks finally arrived in Australia. Last night I watched 'Style Me Famous' where a substitute teacher who just missed out on being a dwarf was given a makeover to look like Towering Inferno Gweneth Paltrow. I can't think of one celebrity who I would want to be madeover to look like.

Oh, maybe Tori Spelling.

My show would be called 'Style Me Middleagedteacher'. Each week, one lucky contestant would be taken thrift shopping to my favourite store, 'Bednobs Etc' by me where I would personally select a whole wardrobe for her. Then she'd get her own photo shoot complete with Wind Machines in my classroom next to the whiteboard. Maddie, my Personal Classroom Photographer would take the photos.

3. In almost eight days, I'm going on Summer Holidays. The school will shut. This year I'm going to enjoy it & not trawl around the streets of Potts Point for seven weeks like a poor old woman dragging a little wagon of potatoes behind her.

4. I love Bubble Skirts. Yesterday when I was trudging home from school I became Gripped With Panic when it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps they'd gone out of fashion & I hadn't noticed.

Thankfully, I quickly remembered that I Don't Give A Stuff About Being in Fashion.

I'm Done With Tilting At Decorative Windmills.

Welcome Back to the Wonderfully Wide World of Self-Obsession!

Phew! What a few days I've had.

So far, I'm doing badly with Climate Change. Yesterday Sydney had the hottest November day in Recorded History. At 3pm, the Mercury hit 43 degrees c. Isn't that a wonderfully arcane term? I'm sure the good people at Google don't use an instrument containing mercury to tell them how hot it is. Or a weather vane in the shape of a hen either.

Talking of Google, last night I was sooo hot that I got out of bed where I had two fans mercilessly blowing on me to check the temperature at 12.30 on my Google Home page. It told me it was 24 degrees c.

I didn't believe them. It felt far hotter. I stomped back to bed wondering if dying from Being Hot felt like being smothered.

Earlier in the day, I took refuge in a tepid bath. It did nothing.

But when I was getting out of it, I received a Nasty Shock. Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of the back of my thighs in a v. low-lying bathroom mirror. I had never seen them from this angle before.

I was Rivetted. How could I have dragged them around all these years & not known what they really looked like?

I'm now at the point of the story where I want to make some salient point or other. Maybe an Important Realisation. A Universal Truth. Or maybe just some Slightly Self-Loathing Remark.

I can't think of anything:

It gets hot. I go sit in a tepid bath. I get out & catch my thighs in a low-slung mirror. They look Craterous. I'm shocked. That's It.

Oh, I know the point. It was so that I could make up An Entirely New Word. I bet you've never heard the word 'Craterous' before, have you?

Today the temperature more or less went back to Normal. Whatever that is.

But I didn't.

Look look look at me applying lip gloss while I'm tilting at Decorative Windmills.

Now, there's a term that I've never known the meaning of. Until now. I had it going around my head like an Earworm so I consulted The Oracle, Wikipedia & found out.

Yes, I've always thought that there's an enormous resemblance between me & Don Quixote. But that's all about to change. No more windmills . Or dragons. They don't exist except in Harry Potter.

Oh, here's something about me that you would never have thought.

I'm a huge fan of Harry Potter. But that's a whole other story.

Meanwhile, do look at my Toy Chanel outfit. Such a pity that the huge black flower that I had artfully placed on my waist is not really visible. Sue, my Close Colleague commented that she thought it looked like it was growing outside of me like an external fetus.

Perhaps I should hop into bed before this blog entry gets any weirder.

Mary & The Three Wise Nurses

Look Closely.

Can you see that I've updated my V. Premature Xmas Decorations?

I was soo thrilled to find these Novelty Tins of chocolate chip cookies at my local supermarket, Woolworths Potts Point.

What could be more festive than a Small Gaggle of Helpful Nurses, I ask you? And a couple of V. Butch Grenadier Guards thrown in for good measure.

I think that I can confidently say that this particular Xmas Tableau is Complete & for me to continue to keep adding to it would be Gilding the Lily, which incidentally, was one of my Father's favourite sayings. He would always say it when discussing Oysters.

There was a time in the sixties, when every time I went to dinner with my parents at some restaurant, I would order Oysters Kilpatrick, which were grilled oysters lightly swimming in Worcestershire Sauce with Little Dainty Sprinklings of Bacon on top served back in their shells. I mainly ordered it to annoy my father. Without fail, Dad would say 'Eating oysters any other way than just with lemon is like gilding the lily'.

Now there's a story that really didn't go anywhere. But hey, it's friday night. And I'm All Storied Out.

The Human Muppet

The Human Muppet
Originally uploaded by middleagedteacher

Tonight is Fashion Night on my TV Set.
First it was 'The Rachel Zoe Project'. This week Rachel & her hubby Rodger Rabbit & her assistant Little Butch Brad went to Fashion Week in Paris. They stayed in a big, swanky hotel, went to all the big shows, visited Coco Chanel's apartment, met Karl Lagerfeld & John Galliano & turned their collective noses up at eating snails which I thought was a shame because they looked quite tasty all perkily sitting up together in a little silver dish.
I was bored witless.
The only reason why I watch this show is to test myself to see if I feel envy. Or is it, envious? How would I know? I don't even know what A Dangling Participle is.
Do you think I'm envious of Rachel & her Devoted Hubby & all her stuff? Maybe Maybe Not.
After Rachel, it's The Fashion Show which is exactly the same as 'Project Runway' except it's got Isaac Mizraaahi in it.
So now both shows are over & it's getting Dangerously Close to My Official Bedtime.
But before I hit the sack where I'll be listening for a v. short while to Marianne Williamson telling me in her soft Southern American accent on my iPod that Yes, I Really Can Change, I must v. briefly have my own Fashion Moment.
Look Look Look at me.
Have you noticed that I'm looking more & more like A Human Muppet? Perhaps it's my freshly dyed & waxed eyebrows that's causing the resemblance. I'm not sure.
And look at my dress. It's Nothing Special. But look at it anyway. I wonder what Rachel would say? 'OMG.....OOC (out of control) perhaps.
I, of course bought it at 'Bednobs Etc' & have reason to think by the aged appearance of the label that it might be almost legitimately vintage.
Before I hop into bed. Happy Birthday Anna for tomorrow.

Flower Heads

Behold Princess Pip!

She came to school yesterday with a whole mess of flowered head pieces. I'm not sure why. Perhaps she taught her classes about What to Wear on Your Head to the Races.

Anyway, when I saw them casually sitting on her desk in the staffroom, I immediately pounced.

I just had to put them on myself.

What a mistake. It absolutely proves my theory that Middleagedwomen shouldn't wear things on their heads.

Perhaps a sunhat. But only if Its Strictly Necessary.

But certainly not Flowers in Hair. I think that the rule should be, if you're old enough to remember Woodstock, you're too old to wear flowers in your hair now.

God I love a Rule.

Particularly a rule that I make up myself. It's soo empowering.

Now don't think that I'm going to make any Self-loathing remarks about Discoloured Teeth or Bags Under the Eyes. Certainly Not.

Note I'm wearing a peacock feather above. I warned Princess Pip against wearing this one as I was told that peacock feathers are unlucky.

But maybe that's an Old Resentful Wives Tale. Who would know?

Not a Bucket List

All right already.

I've been too freakin busy visiting the Psychiatrist, the Psychotherapist, The Psychologist, the Eyebrow Waxer, The Beauty Therapist, The Supermarket, The Gym & The School Counsellor to be bothered writing a blog entry. Not that you probably noticed anyway. You were probably far too busy yourself with all your own appointments.

And then of course there's work to attend to. That's me above doing work.

But back to all my appointments. Just let me take a moment to walk you through them.

1. Dr. Jagdep or whatever her name is. She's the shrink. I haven't bonded with her so I haven't bothered remembering her name. And I hate her lousy Prozac & the Other Stuff she loves handing out like toilet paper.

And you know what? I stopped taking it. And I never even bothered having my Valium prescription filled. Can you tell?

I got migraines. My Mind rebelled.

2. Dr Brendan McDreamy the psychotherapist. He hangs off my every word & then says stuff like 'That must be v. hard for you'. I love him.

3. Valerie the Psychologist. She practices Cognitive Behaviour Therapy. Every time I see her I have to eat a Big Reality Sandwich. She says stuff like, 'There's no evidence that Mr. Ex-Middleaged feels bad. In fact, he probably feels pretty good right now'. I hate her.

4. Aoki the Eyebrow Waxer. Every three weeks. Now my Eyebrows have a Personality all of their own. They should have their own Reality Show. Aoki is eighteen weeks pregnant & is leaving. I feel abandoned.

5. Zara The Know-All Beauty Therapist. Every week for eight weeks, Zara is shining a LED light on my face for twenty minutes which feels like a near-death experience. Each week she gives me a nasty bulletin on how my face is doing. This week she said my capillaries are exploding. It was v. hot. And my skin needs more hydration. I'm now drinking electrolytes.

I can't be bothered going through the rest of the list. You've probably had enough by now anyway.

No Exit

Welcome to My Whiteboard World.

You may be wondering what I was attempting to teach today.

Existentialism for Little Children. Ever since my life has begun to resemble a a John-Paul Sartre play, I feel that I'm something of an Expert .

Note the Unmistakable Tone of Slight Grandiosity that is creeping into many of my blog entries of late? Last time I blamed the Prozac. But now I'm off it because it gave me migraines. And So I'm waiting until saturday when I can start My New Regime of another pill called maybe Effectsor or FXSor or perhaps Elixir that not only will restore my serotonin levels but also do something wonderful to my Dopamine & another long-named chemical as well. Goody Goody, I can't wait!

But I digress. Back to Sartre & Me.

The only play by Sartre that I am at all familiar with is an ultra irritating one called 'No Exit'. It's set in Hell, which is this large Neo-Classical room with red flock wallpaper, an ornate fireplace & some uncomfortable wing back chairs. What makes the room Hell is not just the decor. It's the people - about five or so of them who all mysteriously turn up in the room at more or less the same time . At first, none of them realises that they've all just freshly died & that they're going to spend the rest of eternity sitting in the room together arguing.

And that's Basically It.

Now, that's got Nothing Whatsoever to do with my Life, has it?

Good. I'm glad we've cleared that up.

Back to the whiteboard.

Note the Man Alone in the Universe is clearly French. They're always the ones that come up with Horrid Stuff that frightens the living daylights out of the rest of the world. Perhaps it's all the butter.

As I say in class, 'Let's Move On!'

Behold me standing in front of the Little Saucy French Man holding a baguette. Note I'm wearing my Golden Sandals. See how high the heel is? I almost killed myself tottering down to school in them this morning. I was absolutely determined to keep them on the whole day just like Sheila, the High Priestess of High Heels.

They lasted an hour. And then it was back to the beige suede loafers once owned by my ex-school Principal.

I just didn't have Time for the Pain.

Before I go, I just had to mention that I'm wearing a Vivienne Westwood for John Smedley knit. And a Kookai skirt. All from 'Bednobs Etc'. Total price for outfit including Golden Sandals: thirty bucks.

Now that's Grandiosity.

Losing Control

As I type, I'm still wearing my newly-thrifted Golden Sandals even though it's Sunday evening & I'm alone wearing freshly bought from the Girlswear Section of 'Best & Less', black harem pants & a black 'Bonds' singlet.

Sadly, I haven't got a picture of myself in the harem pants & now I wish I did. Perhaps you can visualise me in them. Of course they're not the 'I Dream of Jeannie' sort of harem pants. In fact, the more I look at them, the more they look like slightly oddly shaped sweat pants. Which is a bit of a bummer as I'm Not Fond of sweat pants. Even their Name turns my stomach.

If you look closely at the Golden Sandals, you can see the imprint of Another Person's Feet on them. But I'm determined not to let this mar my enjoyment. Instead, I'm focussing on the label that says, 'Filippo Raphael Made in Italy'.

I do soo love Italian Leather shoes, particularly when I pay twelve bucks for them at 'Bednobs Etc'. I must now have about twenty pairs. Someday soon, I'll photograph them all together like One Big Happy Italian Shoe Family, & you & I both can be impressed when I post the picture.

But perhaps you are the sort of person who can't possibly bear the idea of wearing someone else's shoes. I don't blame you, I'm almost that sort of person myself. But not quite.

Recently, I bought three pairs of 'Bruno Maglis' that had been donated by my ex-school principal, Miss Dew. For some perverse reason I can't stop wearing them, particularly a pair of beige suede loafers with a gold bar across the instep.

Clearly, I must have some unconscious urge to become a Headmistress.

Before we move on, do look at my Fresh Pedicure. I had it done this afternoon at my favourite salon, 'USA Nails'. I couldn't bear my Au Naturel Toenails a moment longer. Every time I looked down at them on the yoga mat, I was instantly reminded of my father's crusty old toenails just before he died when he was ninety three.

Have you noticed how I keep mentioning slightly Sick-Making things like sweat pants & old used shoes that other people have sweated in & now old dying men's toenails?

It's not My Fault. It's The Blog.

I will now try my best to wrench back control.

Here's another thing I did on the weekend.

I installed Xmas Lights. I'm thrilled. Never Before have I strayed into Lighting Territory for one of my Tableaux. Who knows where I'll go next? The sky's the limit.

Must go.

Time for 'Millionaire Matchmaker'.

If I'm Going to be Zen-Like, Everything is Fake, Isn't It?

Welcome Back!

Look Look Look at Me.

I'm wearing Sunglasses at Night.

And they're not Any Old sunglasses either.

They happen to be Tom Ford sunglasses perhaps from his new range.

There's absolutely no doubt that I am turning into a Label Whore.

It all started with Fake Bags. And then Real Bags. Not the ones under my eyes either. Although they do appear to be Real. But if I'm going to be a Zen Buddhist, everything is Fake, isn't it?

Anyway, back to Tom & Me. I think I'm wearing The James, or is it The Daniel?

All of Tom's new range are named after Men. You may be wondering who James & Daniel are.

James is James Bond & Daniel is Daniel Craig & I'm modelling the sunglasses that Daniel wore when he played James in the last movie of the franchise.

Clearly, Daniel Craig has got a much larger head than I have. Sadly, they make me look a little silly. Perhaps Bug-Like. But certainly Not Stick Insect which is my least favourite look.

Speaking of Men, look look look, below.

It's A Man!

Yes, I think that this is one of the first times since Mr Ex-Middleaged left that I have featured one, unless you count Little Wig-Wearing Karl Lagerfeld. But you couldn't possibly count him as he himself has declared that he doesn't have any human emotions. Lucky thing.

Meet Bernard.

Doesn't he look like he's just stepped off Teddy Kennedy III's yacht in Hyannisport?

And guess the name of the glasses he's modelling?

Yes, they're called Jack. After Jack Kennedy. They are supposed to be Exact Replicas of the ones that he famously wore. I thought for one wild moment that he may have been wearing them when he was shot, but I checked the Zapruder Film & he wasn't. What a relief because it would be just Too Creepy if he'd had them on that day in Dallas & now Tom was reviving them.

Although, Jackie was wearing that pink classic Chanel suit that was sadly splattered with blood & it didn't affect It's popularity. In fact, it probably added to it immensely.

You may or may not be wondering why we are modelling Tom Ford Sunglasses.

It's Tyler, my step-son's birthday v. soon. Ever since he was a small child he's been an admirer of Tom's style. So, I've selected The Jack for him. I think it's a wise choice.

The Only Thing that I Can Apparently Change

One of the things that I Usually Dread each year is my first sighting of Xmas Decorations in Stores/malls. You know the drill: it's early sunday evening maybe mid-October & you're carefully cruising the aisles of the supermarket racking your brain for dinner inspiration & suddenly you stumble upon Santa Stuff.

Each year when I make that discovery, a little part of me dies.

But this year I decided to Change My Attitude & Behaviour because apparently, that's the only thing in life that I can change. I would sooo love for that Not to Be True particularly when it comes to the Men in my Life, or should I say, the Men that Used to Be in My Life.

I remember when I was youngish, I started getting serious about a guy who didn't have a job. One of my friends said, 'You can't be serious about him. Your mother will have a fit!'

'Don't worry', I smugly said, 'I can change him'.

Don't bother imagining what happened.

Anyway, I decided to change my attitude towards Xmas Decorations in October because that's the only thing that I Can Apparently Change.

So, I made a pact with myself that as soon as I got the First Whiff of Santa, I would immediately rush home & start putting up my own decorations.

Isn't that what you'd call a Win Slash Win situation? Or maybe converting a Negative into a Positive, since I love decorating so much.

Do click on the image to enlarge it so that you can see that The Virgin, or Our Lady, who is a Permanent Fixture in my kitchen, is now Seasonally Decorated. She is wearing a whole slew of fantastic plastic medals that say things like 'Winner' & 'World's No.1 Party Animal' that my friend Jenny & I bought at the local two dollar shop, along with feathers & plastic chilies. If you look closely, you'll notice that there are still a few remnants of my Easter Tableau - The Easter Bilby & a gaggle of bunnies. I couldn't bear to get rid of them.

But I think that the plentiful tinsel & golden Xmas balls give a decidedly Xmas feel, don't you?