Hit me baby, one more time:

1. The Emporium Hotel. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, that joint rocks. I look forward to them giving me a free night there sometime soon, due to all the amazing advertising I am providing…

2.  This new top from Big W… I dunno what is going on with designers making clothes for cheapo shops, but I was in Big Dub the other day getting the photos developed and I saw this top. It set me back twenty five bucks, and it’s perfect for work.

3. Ohhh yesss. Now that’s what I like to see in the beer economy. I would have thought a home visit would be worth a six pack at best, (and of course I did it as a favour, not for the grog*) but how about this for a surprise payment? Maybe I’m better than I thought… Home visit anyone?

4. Mazzy Fine Photography. I am getting so much joy looking at, and sharing our anniversary using the fantastic pics by THE MOST PATIENT PHOTOGRAPHER EVER. Thanks luv!

5.  All the great reading I’ve been doing this week… From Stephen King to all the bloggy chicks, I’ve had a great week of eye action.  If you want some ideas of where to start, here are my faves this week: Kelly Exeter, Nikki Parkinson, Mrs Woog.

That’s it for me, off to bed now cos I’ll be arising early…. from the Ashers xx

Have a great weekend.. What’s your top tip from the week?

Hello Constant Readers,*

I’ve had a long day working in my play job (because clearly, much like Anna Spargo-Ryan, I am a writer- this is my calling etc) so I really can’t be bothered blogging for y’all.

Plus, I have this to, ummm, got to bed with:

His Majesty.

But I will share with you.

Here are some of the reasons why Stephen King really is the king of all:

“She wasn’t wearing a bra; Andi could see the shifting punctuation marks of her nipples against her shirt.”

…”the hungover eye had a weird ability to find the ugliest things in any given landscape.”

…”not talking to anyone, not causing any trouble, just getting high. Feeling the weight of sobriety -sometimes it was like wearing lead shoes- fall away.”

And there’s more… So much more. As usual, it’s a bloody page-turner, creepy and revolting of course, but mainly, just a wonderful roller-coaster ride full of people you know in a heartbeat, such is my liege’s ability to write them into reality in a sentence or two.

I kneel before you again your highness.

I hope I can be Stephen King when I grow up.

* That’s a SK reference. I really am a fangirl.

What are you reading right now? Any good?

Are you in a bookclub? And if so can you invite me?

Look, I know it’s the maximum in indulgence, but I guess this is my blog after all, and I really want to share some of the gorgeous pics that beautiful, patient and talented Mazzy Fine Photography took for us last week (you may recall it was our ten year anniversary…or not, it’s not like I’ve mentioned it very often.)

The Scene:

7am, hot, very bright and sunny, two* reluctant adults, two hungry kids who had been bribed with breakfast at their favourite restaurant (Bistro C) if only they would get “just one more photo, smiling at the camera, don’t do that silly arm movement thing, yes I know your eyes are burning, smile Liam and don’t hit your sister, look up Coco.”  Oh, and randoms who were just trying to get on with their day and didn’t want to be obstructed with people promenading and taking photos on the boardwalk.

So yeah, Mazzy is one patient lady.  In the short time available she managed to get some rippers, all actually better than our original wedding photos. Wish we had Mazzy back in the day, as the young people say.

Feast your peepers on these babies:

Then and now

Ten years later

All looking out, in the same direction…
Team Asher

Some children are just ratbags

Okay, that’ll do I guess. Let me know if you want Mazzy’s details (she is too slack to have a website yet).

Before I go, I want to share with you the best comment of the day, by a lady we haven’t seen in, well, about ten years (her husband worked with Nath way back then, and they came to our “Wedding After Party” which we had back up here on the coast after our honeymoon), she was walking past, saw us and exclaimed, “Nathan, Alison, oh my god I was just thinking it looked like you, I came to your wedding after-party, you both look exactly the same, well pretty much exactly the same, I haven’t got my glasses on, but pretty much the same, other than you Nath, you’ve just got a bit more snow on the roof.”

So, in this, the final anniversary post: Happy Anniversary Wrinkly, Happy Anniversary Snowy. I look forward to walking along the next ten years worth of beaches.

Maybe to this: Our Wedding Song  (We learnt a Foxtrot to it… I couldn’t do it then, and I can’t do it now, but bloody hell, that music makes my heart do a little dance.)

Where-ever the path may lead….

* That’s clearly a lie, only one was reluctant and I guess you know that was me, as I’m so shy are retiring, like.

Special thanks to Amber for all the pinterest-y research and sharing the of photo styling ideas. Mwah.

How good is Noosa Main Beach looking?

I may have mentioned once or twice that it was our ten year wedding anniversary the weekend just gone, and that we had two nights of unbelievable freedom without the kids.  When you are unaccustomed to having time to yourself, without people smaller than you demanding that you be their slave, all of that liberty can be a bit overwhelming.

At first I did this:

And then this:

Until, finally I had to admit, I wanted, nay, needed some more intense pampering.  So I decided to venture outside of the actual hotel, and get a pedicure.  That was until I discovered I could get something called a ManiPedi for 50 bucks. Oh, hang on a minute whilst I consider thisSOLD.

So off I toddled to the nail place for a pamperama. I want to tell you it was lovely and beautiful and relaxing and I came out with awesome nails. One of those things happened.

I was ushered into a crazy looking chair, and motioned to choose a nail colour whilst putting my feet in the water.  No mucking around.  All of this was communicated by gesture and grunts as my technician spoke very little English.  I did what I was told. My tiny lady looked as though she meant business.

So I sat back and tried to relax as she started in with the first of her tools. I’m pretty sure it was a coarser version of the Microplane we use for grating parmesan cheese. It’s safe to say I was shitting myself. The microplane was followed by sandpaper, pliers, little sticks and a thing like a tiny orbital sander.  I wanted to pull away and run away, but I didn’t dare move.

As there was not much conversation I went into observer mode, and this is what I saw:

There were four other clients in the salon.  All were young, with perfectly plucked eyebrowns (I suspect they had just come from a ‘Brow Bar’, yes that is a thing now) and extensive make-up, and all were of large endomorphic body habitus.  I suspected all the primping and preening might have been an exercise to detract from the lack of actual exercise.  It wasn’t their size or over-grooming that was the real issue though, it was the fact that they completely ignored the girls who were kneeling before them, sloughing off their dead and cracked skin, whilst they texted and emailed and chatted about a boy one of them liked, or didn’t like, and whether they would wear the Chanel or the Gucci this evening.

Meanwhile the little slips of things, sanded and rasped and clipped and nipped the feet in front of them with speed and skill, also dressed from head to toe in Chanel and Gucci, but the fake kind.

I watched my lady, and tried to guess her age.  It was hard to say for sure but I thought she might have been the right age to be born sometime around the Vietnam war.  A time when US forces saw fit to spray and spray the people and the country with defoliants.  Defoliants that were later found to cause birth defects.  Birth defects not unlike her cleft palate, inexpertly repaired and stitched.

So I sat back and tried to relax and relish the experience, but all I could think of was how bloated and entitled I felt, having this lovely little lady slave away on my feet and later my hands, earning who knows what, but certainly not enough, per hour.  Breathing in even more chemicals from the creams and polishes. Into lungs that had already breathed in too much horror.

Eventually it was all over and I was told, “Is good. You done. You go now.” and I was released into the fresh air of the world and the sunlight of life, and I admired my nails, perfectly groomed and shaped, and painted a striking shade of (agent) orange.

Lest we forget.

Have you ever had a ManiPedi?  Did the fumes make you swoon?

The adult Ashers acted all cool* and urbane on the weekend and booked in some celebratory time (did I mention it was our ten year wedding anniversary on the weekend?) at The Emporium Hotel, in Brisvegas.

Hold on tight people, there’s gonna be a lot of photos here on the blog today, because for most of our experiences there just aren’t any words. Plus, I took shit-loads of photos because I had no children and two hands free, and time to do whatever I liked.

We checked-in, decked out in our decade-old gear, and hardly an eyebrow was raised, such is the way of the ubercool establishment (at least I think that is the way, I’m way too bogan and middle-aged to even know anymore).  We copped a few grins from the dudes bringing our luggage up, but that’s probably because they were thinking about how they were only in grade three when we got hitched.  Smug bastards.  They gave us this though:

so, they can have their yoof, we had free shit. I swear I shaved ten years off with the first glug.

Next, we lounged about our room because: no kids.  I got into my robe and tooks pics of me.

We sat by the pool, drank expensive beer, had a bath, went out for dinner, and had NO TIME FRAME FOR ANY OF IT.  I don’t know about anyone else, but I think it’s the time-frame thing that I find the most tiring, here in Motherland.  It’s the relentless tick-tick-tick of the imaginary clock that is with me, always.  Counting down the minutes until the next thing I’ve just gotta do.  Appointments, sporting events, dinner, deadlines and dates. Things to do, things to be checked off.  All the crappy boring things that will just bloody-well need to get done again tomorrow.  It’s relentless, and it wears me down some days.

So The Emporium was like a little Utopian world, where the clocks don’t work and no one ever has to leave.. Or maybe that’s the Overlook Hotel I’m thinking of (I am reading the sequel to The Shining** right now).

Or Jupiters.

Overlook or Emporium, it doesn’t matter, the demands on me were minimal and the rewards great.

Leesa organised these little beauties:

And when we got back to our room after dinner it looked like this:

with Tina Turner’s “What’s Love Got To Do With It” blaring over the Bose speakers.  We pissed ourselves.  Take a minute to listen. It’s not really a luurve song…

Anyway, back to me.  I might have done this:

We got free drinks at Nant Whiskey Bar and free dessert at Tartufo. (Which by the way were both a-maz-ing. I want to say “sublime”, have always wanted to say sublime about a meal, but can I really do that without being a wanker?  Anyway, our dinner was magnificent, and if it wasn’t so unseemly for a ‘bride’ to lick the plate I would have done***.  Simmo at Nant was funny and full of info about Whiskey. Still, I had a cocktail, because Whiskey, even fancy Whiskey=Metho in my book. Sorry Nant.)  So I guess you could say this wedding dress caper really paid off.

Bye, bye Emporium, I’m not too cool to say it: you rocked.

Next weekend I think we shall frock up and have our ten year anniversary in another suburb, because: free shit!

* Is cool still a word? I’m too old and lazy to ask a teen.

** It’s caked Doctor Sleep, get ONTO it people.

*** Actually DID, but you’re not surprised by that are you?

**** This is not a sponsored post, but by golly, if any of you dudes want a proper post, all glowing and stuff, I’d be happy to do one… (For free shit of course…)****

I may have mentioned once or twice that it was our ten year wedding anniversary on Friday.  When we got married (and were childless) we made a pact that we would go to Santorini for our ten years. We had visions of azure seas, stark white buildings, long days lazing on the beach, slowly merging into evenings of food and wine and timeless indolence.

That was before.

Now?  Well now we have two children. So our plans have become more, let us say, restrained.

Instead we were able to eek out two BLISSFUL BLOODY NIGHTS at The Emporium in Brisbane, which is IN THE SAME STATE as where we live.  Don’t get me wrong, our stay was amazing, and I am grateful to have a Mum who will babysit for us without complaint, or financial recompense.  I documented every last detail in photos, lest it be erased from our memories the second we picked up our little devil spawn cherubs.

I suspect a post on The Emporium will be coming your way soon, but I am too besotted with the idea of drinking this beer with my name on it (My Wife’s Bitter), and listening out for the storm that I hope is brewing, to get one together.  (Oh I do love a storm-beer).

Instead, I shall share with you this clip of Michael McIntyre, sent to me by Lauren (who is childless: if only you knew how funny this actually is Lauren), as I too was childless this weekend.  I walked out doors, I drank and ate and drove and swam and was pampered and swanned about without a care in the world. And now I’m home, and that sensation is fading already, and yet, strangely and funnily enough, I wouldn’t have it any other way*.

Photo by the gorgeous Mazzy Photography

How was your weekend? 

Did you have the kids?

* It is entirely possible that all the swanning about and celebrating has given me some sort of brain injury.