Monday, July 25, 2011

Tip-toeing through a minefield of boots.

Image from Nina Proudman Fashion on Facebook

Let me start by saying I enjoy the Channel Ten series Offspring and I particularly appreciate many of the fashion choices selected for the character of Nina Proudman (played rather delightfully by Asher Keddie, and seen in the above image). If you haven't ever watched an episode of Offspring then you would be unaware of Nina's favoured choice of footwear. Often a knee high leather boot, worn either with floaty and feminine dresses or over denim. And I think it looks great.

Nina's influence aside, for some time I have been toying with the idea of purchasing a lovely pair of leather boots and with the bright red flashes of Sale signs dancing before my eyes, the other day I finally took the plunge.

Now to be perfectly honest, it was not love at first sight. I liked the heel height (I'm sorry, what are you saying Dr Chiropractor? Heels....bad....*sticks fingers in ears and sings la la la*), I liked the boot height (just below the knee), and I liked the colour (a neutral stone/grey) but there was some runching. Hmmm, runching...80s flashback anyone? But lo and behold, runching on the shelf appears far the leg, and so it was that the boots, in their kiddie playhouse sized box, came home with me. And I was happy.

But the very next day, as I slid my lovely new boots on over my jeans and took a moment to appreciate how the colour perfectly complimented the dress-style top I was wearing, The Coach walked into the bedroom, stopped dead in his tracks and said the unthinkable,

"Oh my God, you are wearing come f*** me boots."

I don't mind telling you I was mortified. Here was I feeling all stylish and Nina-esque but with ten words The Coach had me doubting any style cred I thought I may have had. Of course I was very quick to rebut his words and assure him that he was completely delusional and these boots in no way, shape or form resembled cfm boots. But he was adamant, and for all my false bravado, the second he was gone I was madly searching on the Internet for a definition of such boots, fearing I had made a terrible error in judgment.

After multiple Google searches and consultation with my wise and fashionable Tweeps on Twitter (especially the All Shoe Knowing Goddess @Gabfran), I have breathed a huge sigh of relief in the knowledge that my boots are simply stylish and I have nothing to worry about. The Coach clearly needs to get out more or start watching Offspring.

However what I did discover in the course of my investigations, was that there is no clear definition of the cfm boot. But if you are in any doubt, double check your intended purchase against the two images below and if your boots resemble either of these, I think you may be close to crossing over to the dark side.

Just forget about it...really...

If you are going to a fancy dress party as a hooker then yes, by all means.

If they look like this, then you get a green light to proceed with your purchase because these are lovely, stylish and classic (or so I have been told)

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

The Snoring Man.

I am quite certain that I did not marry a Snoring Man. If I go back through my files, candidate 77365 (now affectionately known as The Coach), most definitely does not have a tick in the box marked Snorer. I was vigilant with my pre-marital research. No snorers for me, no no.

But somehow, somewhere along the shifting sands of time, my non-snorer husband has (rather sneakily I feel) become The Snoring Man. How and when this occurred is somewhat of a mystery, but now I find myself tossing and turning restlessly whilst glancing at the red glow of the AWA's digital display which likes to inform me that it is now 11.30pm, now 12.05am, now 2.15am, now 3.24am...arghhh, cursed red glowing numbers.

As the hustle and bustle of the day passes and the quiet darkness of the night settles upon us, a funny thing happens. The daytime Waffles who loves a silly joke and a spot of reality tv (hang on kids, I just need to check the caramelization of the meat before I can plate up and check that I have my thirty-seven components in place) is replaced with The Snorers Wife. Now I'm sure that The Snorers Wife would appreciate a good joke over a glass of red if she weren't so damn tired. The Snorers Wife is a woman who would just about kill for a good nights sleep.

Now we mustn't confuse The Snorers Wife with The Baby Mumma. If you were to walk around the shopping centre in the bright glow of the early morning sunshine, the two may be hard to distinguish. Sticky up, slightly wonky hairdos. Dazed expressions. Bloodshot puffy eyes peering out above dark smudged crescents. Triple-shot lattes. Mismatched clothing. Oh yes, hard to tell them apart all right, but if you look hard enough you will spot the clue, one will actually have a baby. The other, a slightly disconcerting glint in their eye.

The Snorers Wife has limited compassion. In the early stages of slumber, she will gently nudge The Snoring Man, prompting him to turn over. As the hours pass, the gentle nudges are replaced with gentle knocks which eventually give way to a sharp elbow in the ribs and an agitated
"Lie on your side and stop bloody snoring."

The Snorers Wife will lie in the darkness and wonder if perhaps the couch may not be a better option, sure she'll be cold and wake up with a crink in her neck which will require fifty or more visits to the chiropractor to sort out, but really, what price does one put on a good nights sleep ?

I wish there were a happy ending to this post. A miracle cure for The Snoring Man so that The Snorers Wife could be left happily in the land of nod where she belongs. But there isn't. I am still The Snorers Wife and The Snoring Man shall be back this evening. Perhaps I should go and have a wee siesta whilst the sun is high and The Snoring Man is a slightly hazy memory.

Are you a Snorers Wife ? If you have a solution for coping with A Snoring Man please feel free to share it. The Snorers Wife, The Coach's ribs and I would be forever in your debt.