These are a few of my favourite things...

Well, it seems winter is well and truly here. (Not that it ever really left, our excuse for a summer was unforgivable).

Believe it or not though, there are a few good things about winter - that I even sometimes look forward to.

DVD nights

Think copious amounts of peppermint tea, a heater on full ball, a big chunky knit jumper and cuddles with your fave person while the wind howls outside. Not a bad way to spend a Friday night when you can't be bothered heading out!



Cosy, romantic dates

If you do venture out, it's got to be a cosy, dimly lit venue where the bottles of red are flowing and you have all the time in the world to sit and chat.

A new doona and sheets

Yep, I am aware I sound sad. But when it's freezing outside - admit it - how GOOD is it to clamber into a nice warm soft bed with new or freshly washed sheets knowing you've got the next morning to sleep in to your heart's content.

Suede boots and trenchcoats

Ah, boots. Probably my favourite thing about winter - besides trenchcoats, of course. Both of these items are classics will always be in fashion. A cute trench can not only make you feel warm but with a cinched belt is oh-so-flattering for a dame's figure! And boots? What can make you feel more on-trend than boots? Nothing, that's what.

Hearty meals

Nothing says winter like a hearty minestrone soup beside a wood-stocked fire. That and my new other fave winter meals - slow cooked lamb with red wine or chile con carne with avacado.

By the time the gloss of all these things wears off, hopefully it will be nearly summer again (you better perform next time weather - *shakes fist*) and you can toss those leggings and chunky knits aside for next year.

Clothing and memories

Sometimes, there’s no better therapy than cleaning out your wardrobe. 

It’s as if throwing away all those unused clothes signifies a clean slate, a fresh start – or at the very least room for newer, better things. 

I did this recently. 

Most of my clothes went to charity, but the rest I decided to make some money from and sell at a vintage market. 

I set up a stall, and as I carefully hung my clothes on the racks, they suddenly looked like new again – shinier, glossier. 

I had gone into this in sales mode: sell the clothes, pocket the money, done and dusted. I was hoping to be as clinical as a clinician. I never thought emotions would come into it. Selling a house, yes. A car, maybe. But clothes? 

Yet I still felt the sting of rejection when shoppers flitted nonchalantly through my clothes and abruptly turned on their heel, uninterested, to the next rack. 

There was a pang of regret when the designer baby doll dress I bought for $300 – and had never worn – sold for $40. 

And then came bitterness when a woman smaller than me tried my Sass & Bide jeans that I could no longer get past my hips and looked…better than I did. 

“Look away,” my friend consoled me, as the girl happily walked away with the jeans for $30. 

“At least they went to a good home. It’s like the sisterhood of the travelling pants! Except they, er, just didn’t fit you.”

It’s not just the pain of someone looking better than you in your own clothes: it’s the many memories that come swarming back when you remember what you were doing when you were wearing them. Like perfume, a piece of clothing can instantly trigger a moment in time. 

As I pulled together my unworn, crumpled clothes from the back of the cupboard, I was piecing together those significant moments in my life, good and bad. 

The jacket I wore on my very first date with my now partner. 

The dress I wore to my school formal. 

The sweatpants I was wearing when I was told my grandfather had died. 

The red dress I wore when I spent the night crying in a nightclub toilet after a breakup. 

The top I proudly bought with my very first pay cheque.

Although some of these clothes didn’t even fit anymore, I wasn’t sure I could bring myself to put them on the sale rack. I felt like selling and watching someone else walk away with them was like throwing away a link to a memory. 

I always had visions of me, old and gray and losing my marbles, suddenly being able to connect the dots through said garments. 

One of the shoppers at the market approached my stall and held up the lace skirt I was wearing when I had my first kiss. 

“This is beautiful,” she said shyly. 

“It is,” I smiled, secretly wondering how I could somehow snatch it back from her without causing a fuss. 

Although it didn’t fit me anymore, when I looked at that skirt the same butterflies I felt back then entered my tummy again. I could even almost smell the (copious amounts of) Lynx deodorant my date had been wearing and the scent of lavender outside my house.

“I was thinking I could wear this to my engagement party,” the woman said, smiling.

Watching her eyes light up, my urge to snatch the skirt slowly faded. 

I knew I was being silly, that I’d always have my memories, no matter what – and rather than sitting in the back of the closet collecting dust, this lace skirt could have a new life, creating new memories for someone else. 

Resisting the urge to tearfully whisper: “take care of it – it doesn’t respond well to water above 30 degrees when washing,” I packed the skirt into a bag, pocketed $30 and locked away a memory in my mental filing cabinet, which will hopefully be easily found later when I’m old and gray and losing my marbles.

(Wo)men at work

Recently in the media we heard a whole lot about women not getting paid as much as men.

Reasons ranged anywhere from plain old sexism to women not being confident enough in the workplace to ask for a pay rise because they “didn’t believe their position to be worthy enough.”

I know in relationships, many women are perfectly capable of speaking their minds and are at equal terms with their partner – and no one questions that. 

But with employment, it’s a different matter. And I’m not just talking about the pay.

Sadly I have noticed that in many cases in the workplace, women are still treated differently to their male colleagues.

For some offices, it’s tradition that women are filed into two annoyingly neat and restrictive categories: the “ball-breaker” who gets the promotion; or the “push-over” who gets the corner office and who will gladly do your filing for you while you go on holidays.

Of course, we all know women are a lot more diverse than this. But these are the stereotypes people in the office tend to fall back on time and time again – they’ve become as comfortable and familiar as tea breaks.
I remember a woman in a mid-level position in my office. She was loud, domineering and opinionated; but fantastic at her job. She negotiated a pay rise and ended up with a nice little package: the office with the view, a promotion – and the nickname “ball-breaker.”

There was a man at the same level who was also loud and domineering, regularly slamming doors and stomping around the place – but I never heard any names whispered about him apart from “busy and “important.”
It seems pushy or powerful men in the office get the privilege of more favourable words like “stern”, “firm” or “putting the foot down”. They are seen as someone to be respected, even feared.

But for women? “Psycho bitch” is one I’ve heard thrown around from time to time about certain and powerful women. I can’t say I’ve heard that said about any successful men I’ve worked with, even if they do have psycho tendencies.

It’s worth noting these words aren’t just used by men – women can be the worst perpetrators at times.
Of course, I know there are women out there who are both confident and forthright employees while remaining well-liked. I just want those less-than-favourable, stereotypical words not to make it to the workplace so often.

We’ve landed the right to work. We’re still working on equal pay. Can we at least start with this?

Switching off isn't so easy

I've jumped on the meditation bandwagon recently. Originally reserved for hippies, meditation has now belongs in the “cool thing to do” category, along with yoga and pilates.

But it’s more than a fad for me – it’s a health matter.  Being an anxious person by nature, it was recommended to me by my doctor as a relaxing technique.

The first time I tried it, I begun googling how to meditate, which kind of seemed like an oxymoron. "Free your mind" the websites told me. "Place yourself in a room with no distractions." I peered anxiously at my surroundings - a lit-up iphone, a laptop, and a heater that kept buzzing annoyingly. Not a great start.

I set my ipod to "rainforest sounds" to cover the noise of the traffic outside. Hmm. "Free your mind" I thought.

"Well this isn't so hard," (my mind) continued. "Wait - did I forget to pick up my dry-cleaning? Uh oh. Didn't free mind. Start again. Ummmm......free mind free mind..."

Cue iphone ringing. Back to square one.

Was it always this hard to just be alone, doing absolutely nothing? Or has the endless "need to be reached constantly" killed any hope of that?

I’m talking mobiles, Facebook check-ins, endless twitter updates on what we’re eating for lunch. It’s a scary thought that if we wanted; everyone could know what we’re doing at any time, every second, of every day.

But it’s not just that.

I don't even have kids, but in the midst of my attempted meditation, I wondered how on earth a Mother could sit alone in silence for more than 5 minutes when I know for a fact some can’t even go to the bathroom on their own without being interrupted.

I'm told there are other forms of "meditation" though – it doesn't have to be sitting in a room by yourself.

It is defined as “anything relaxing that you take pleasure in doing with just you and you alone” – from getting a massage or reading a great book. Whatever it is, it should be regular, the (google) experts say.

But with all the distractions in the world – is that really possible anymore?

In my room, I grudgingly switched off the iphone, the laptop and the ipod, and it was finally just me and the sound of...nothing.

At first it was a bit weird. There’s always something on – whether it be the TV, someone talking, whatever. But eventually, I was thinking of absolutely nothing and when I got up around 15 minutes later, I arose in a dreamy, Zen-like state of calm. Nothing could faze me.

It seemed I had to switch off, to really switch off.

Of course, that lasted approximately 10.5 seconds until I misplaced my car keys and was running around the house like a madwoman - but hey, baby steps.

What's your form of "meditation?" Do you struggle to find time to yourself on a regular basis?

The long and the tall of it

I realise what I'm about to say  may make some of the more vertically-challenged readers want to throw their lattes at me....but sometimes being tall sucks.

Not all the time. Like when I'm in a big crowd or I'm reaching for those on-sale peep-toes at the very top of the shoe rack at myer. But on certain occasions, it blows.

Let me explain why.

1. Being on the receiving end of painfully obvious comments.
"Wow, you're tall!" Really?? I had absolutely no idea and have never, ever been told that in my life. Tell me more! What bugs me about this comment is not just the pure moronic nature of it, but also the fact that it only applies to tall people. Would you say "wow, you're really fat!" to an obese person, or "wow you're really short!' to a short person? The tall have feelings too, people.

2. Grannies always use you as their personal cherry picker at supermarkets.
"Excuse me dear, can you just reach that can for me? Since you're so tall and all." (Insert sweet smile). Ugh. While I'm one for being nice to the elderly, this one still can get a little tiring for a tall person just trying to do their grocery shopping and getting hassled 4 times an aisle. Makes for slow shopping, frankly. It starts to feel like you're not a person anymore but rather, a useful mute giant with very helpful arms. It's especially annoying when the grannies take their can and run away with barely a thank you.

3. You can't wear super high-heels without feeling a bit like the BFG.
You don't know how many times I've gazed longingly at a sky-high pair of heels without sighing gloomily at the prospect of me stumbingly around getting even more of the comments above than I usually get. Sure, some tall girls strut around in heels like they were born in them and look amazing. But for me personally, when my head's almost touching the roof, I tend to get a little claustophobic.

4. Short man syndrome.
Ahhh yes. Many a time I've had a short man approach me in the bar and either try to cut me down to size or whisper that he'd like to get me into bed because he "loves a tall girl." Asking one of my short male friends about it later, I got the explanation: "If a short guy gets a tall girl, everyone knows he's pretty much killing it. It's harder for a short guy to get, almost like a prize" Kinda like catching a prized big fish? Ok...

5. You can't be discreet.
Any time I feel and look like crap and want to just quickly run through the IGA to get some pimple cream, it doesn't really happen. "Ah Laura, saw you from over there! Your head was poking over the aisle!" Sigh. Basically, when you're tall, you get noticed in a crowd. You stand out. That may be a good thing when you're looking a million bucks, but when you have one of those days where you just want to be invisible, it's a bit of a curse.

To end on a positive note, I suppose I should mention the good things about being tall. Skinny jeans always fitting perfectly without any need for alterations, being able to wear ballet flats out without feeling under-dressed, clothes fitting better...ok you can stop throwing your lattes now.

Teawithle tweets.

I confess, before online news I tried twitter – and I hated it. With one swift glance I decided it was something to fear, something that worked against its user rather than with them.

I couldn’t understand so many parts of it – how to write to someone, how to see if someone wrote to me, and what was with these damn hashtags??

The worst part was keeping within the 140 character word limit. I’m a confessed babbler, and deliberately go the long way about saying things to create a dramatic effect. A story to a friend about a date, for example, will consist in carefully dissecting every detail: “well first he picked me up, in a sky blue lancer I think it was?

Anyway, he was wearing jeans and a top. Ok so he knocked on the door – three times I think it was – which was really cute and showed he’s not too persistent…” as you can see, my friends get everysinglebit of information, whether they like it or not.

Being blunt and to the point is something men are much better at – while my girlfriend’s voice messages often consist with a 10 minute analysis of what they’re doing at the moment and why, their messages consist of “Its Darren. Call me.”

So when I was required to face twitter again for online news this semester, I approached it with trepidation. Staring blankly back at the “write something in 140 words or less” tag, I begun to type, each time getting the “wrong answer” message from twitter – each sentence was way too long.

It was annoying for me, because shortening my sentences meant that my tweet wasn’t as funny or witty as it could be.

But, gradually over the months I got the hang of it, and now I’m shortening everything, even my neverending stories. Now even my in-person stories can be to the point: “date was worst. Had #motherissues”.

Tell it like it is?

I was out shopping recently when I had a bit of a wake up call.
While trying on a size 10 jacket and finding it a tad too big, I kindly asked the shop assistant if it came in a smaller size.

She gave me a swift head to toe once-over and declared (loudly), that there’s no way the size 8 would fit me.

I would have liked to tell you that I yelled at her, or reminded her a little something that I learnt in the retail business, that “the customer is always right”, but instead I muttered thank you and left immediately to avoid any sniggers.

Later on, fuming about it over coffee with a friend, I wondered whether the shop assistant was perhaps right – maybe I suffered from body dysmorphia, or high self-esteem?

You see, I’m not unfamiliar with it. An ex-colleague of mine used to always ask to borrow my clothes, pretty much every weekend. Now she was about a size 16 at least, and at the time I was a size 8 (believe it or not, Ms shop assistant).

I liked this girl so I didnt want to hurt her feelings. So, I’d let her borrow my stuff. As she squeezed into the teeny tiny dresses in front of me I tried hard not to wince when I heard the fabric snap and tear.
“See, it fits!’ She said, twirling gracefully, seemingly not noticing the huge rip in the rear end.

After about three ripped dresses I finally came up with a story that I hoped she would believe – I had sold all my good dresses to Vinnie’s and just didnt have any nice ones for her to borrow anymore. Of course, she found out that wasn’t true when she saw me post photos wearing the dresses on facebook, and we eventually stopped talking after that.

Yep, a friendship broken all because someone suffered from high self esteem, and the other didnt have the balls to tell it like it is.

Well, I’m sure you all think I’m a real cow now. But I just couldnt bring myself to say to her what that shop assistant told me - you are not a size 8.
The week after my shopping disaster I stormed into that same store and grabbed the size 8 jacket I had been advised against, head held high.
As I pulled it on, I noticed it was a little tight. As my fingers fumbled with the buttons, I could hear that same fabric-pulling noise. By then I was trying desperately to button it, making awful noises in the change room like I was in labour. “Errrrrrrrr” “offffff” “gahhhhhh”. I was determined to prove that shop assistant wrong.
Finally, when I had buttoned it all up, with huge gaping holes between each button so you could see my bra, each button straining, holding on for dear life, I walked out and surveyed myself in the mirror, ignoring the shop assistant’s collective gasps of horror.

“I’ll take it,” I said smugly.

And that, ladies, is the story of how I proved a shop assistant wrong.