One day on tour, my sister began to unravel. She was in the front seat of the van, we were going the wrong way out of Melbourne and had been travelling in the wrong direction for approximately half an hour. We were on a freeway and there was nowhere to turn around. We couldn't quite work out whether we would get to where we wanted to go if we just kept going on the road we were on, or whether we were seriously going in the wrong direction.
Like Apollo 13 emerging from the dark side of the moon, we had been shot off the ring road in the wrong direction and we were finding it hard to change trajectory.
We were due in Bendigo for a show (see my post, What do you do? for clarification of what I do with my sister) and we were already running late. It wasn't life threatening, but at that moment, to my sister the whole world order of things seemed to depend on getting there on time. In fact, getting there at all, suddenly seemed seriously doubtful. The chance that we were possibly headed back to Sydney by mistake was even to me, in my more sedate catatonic form of panic, suddenly a likely and alarming outcome.
"Stop the car!" She cried. "STOP THE CAR!"
We pulled over to the nearly non-existent shoulder. We were in the middle of nowhere. A vast flat field to the left. A vast flat field to the right. A highway in between, pointed.. where? East, west, north, south? We just did not know.
We sat in silence, three of us. Glenn (the tour manager) and I awaited her next instructions. She seemed to have something specific in mind. She opened the car door and stepped outside onto the shoulder. She wasn't looking at the road, she was gazing out into the open field.
What was she about to do?
"I think I was about to just run off into the field peeling off all my clothes." She said later.
Oh the feeling. I know it well. The moment when it all gets too much and you want to put your hand up and say:
"You know what? I'm out."
Make a day of it, I say. Run into the field and peel off all your clothes. Run until you can run no more. Run like the wind.
This is also known as, "unravelling," due to the scene in The Hours where Meryl says, "I think I am unravelling," and stumbles back into the kitchen bench with just the right nuance of drama.
(For this reason, my sister also refers to this as "Merylling.")
She didn't run into the field peeling off her clothes that day. We managed to talk her, still weeping and still fully clothed, back into the passenger seat. We kept driving and mercifully the next intersection presented the
magical sign to Bendigo.
(I say, "mercifully" because we're not the type of family who will run after each other dramatically shouting out names in a crisis. We're more the "stand and see" types. If we'd had to pull over again she may have just run off into the field and I may have just stood at the fence watching as she disappeared, nude over the horizon, never to be seen again.)
This afternoon at approximately 5.15, I "Merylled".
It was a combination of things: the black mould stain on the ceiling that grows bigger with every fall of rain. The dodgy builder who will not come back to fix it, no matter what tactics I apply (shrill and persistent, friendly and dopey, stern and business-like, none of my personas seem to dent his lack of contrition at having built a leaky, dodgy, roof over my study four years ago.) The stupid fringe I had cut at the hairdressers that makes me look a right tit and will not grow out now for months.
But the thing that finally did it was the dishwasher. That 'check water' light that haunts my after-dinner hours, lit up again. Dishwasher, down and out for the count. Oh even as I write it, it sounds so lame. But at the time, with the sink still full of the morning's dishes and dinner still to come, it seemed so dire.
"That's it." I thought to myself. "I'm out."
The thought of stumbling out into the street and dramatically peeling off my clothes to signal my complete surrender was very appealing.
Instead, I surrendered the pretence of dinner. The kids kindly opted for toasted sandwiches. Then I began to weep majestically into the sandwich maker.
When my children asked me what was wrong, I could only sob, "The dishwasher... the dishwasher..."
I was now unravelling and there was no going back.
My children were surprisingly empathetic. My eldest suggested wisely that it could be worse, it could be the fridge that was broken. This struck me as a surprisingly astute observation from a 13 year old boy. A fridge on the blink is truly a slipperly slope into urban domestic decay. (As is a failure to put out the garbage on garbage night but don't get me started on that.)
We got through dinner (me still clothed and still inside the house) and then we watched, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. About 45 minutes in, I found myself wanting to take that stupid tambourine and shove it up that little boy's arse.
That's when I knew I was back.
Wednesday, 6 February 2013
Monday, 4 February 2013
Show us yer spreadsheet!
Are you financially intimate with your friends? I would say I am financially intimate with two of my friends. In fact, I am so financially intimate with one of them, that our favourite activity is a game called, "Show me your spreadsheet."
During this game, we each detail to the other how much we earn per week and where it all goes. We are completely honest about this. She is often horrified by how much I spend. I am often disgusted by how little she spends.
Sometimes we do the game with a yearly per annum salary. Sometimes we do it weekly. Seldom monthly. I'm not sure why.
It all started because years back, she actually had a spreadsheet of all her incomings and outgoings and she willingly showed it to me. Quite without shame. It wasn't showing off, she's on an average professional sort of wage, has an average sized mortgage and she owns her own average sort of car. Her husband earned less than she did and they were about to have their first child. She was trying to figure out how they would manage on just his wage, hence the spreadsheet.
At the time, I was subsisting on an indecently low weekly wage and renting. I was newly married and my then-husband was working his way up. We weren't high flyers, in fact I'd say we felt as though we were constantly struggling. My friend was trying to show me that they weren't high flyers either.
I have to say, it's one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me. It really put a lot of things into perspective. It made me feel better about the choices we made and the way we lived.
I found out amongst other things that they only allowed themselves to buy a family-size block of chocolate in the weekly grocery shop if their favourite brand was on special, her husband bought large bottles of Coke and decanted them into smaller portions for each day (instead of expensive can multipacks) and when they had takeaway (once a week) they ordered one entree and a main between them.
Talk about austerity measures.
When I compared this to the way we were living: extravagant dinners out whenever we felt flush with cash, ordering takeaway at least twice a week without caveats and renting in one of the most expensive suburbs of Sydney, I didn't feel so bad about our 'struggles'.
But the detail that caused my friend to gasp in horror at the sheer frivolity, was my husband's three multi-packs-of-mini-KitKats-a-week habit in the weekly shop.
"Those are $5 each!" She gasped.
Oh extravagance thy name is mini-KitKats.
My other friend has a more lassez faire approach. She often blithely tells me how much her last grocery bill was. The other day it was upwards of $350.
"I nearly fell off me perch!" She said.
Again, it's not showing off, she's not comfortable with that giant bill, au contraire. They are pretty standard Aussie battlers with two kids, an indecent-sized mortgage and two cars still to pay off. Sometimes her grocery bill is just indecently huge and it helps to talk about it.
Another friend of mine has in the past not been as forthcoming about her spreadsheet. I've never asked to see it, but I sensed it was not a question that would be received comfortably. She IS a high flyer and I think she doesn't want me to be embarrassed by the sheer indecency of her salary.
Recently though, she did offer, very discretely to show me her spreadsheet. I declined her generous offer. But I have to say, her willingness to lay bare somehow brought us closer.
Financial growth? In a manner of speaking.
During this game, we each detail to the other how much we earn per week and where it all goes. We are completely honest about this. She is often horrified by how much I spend. I am often disgusted by how little she spends.
Sometimes we do the game with a yearly per annum salary. Sometimes we do it weekly. Seldom monthly. I'm not sure why.
It all started because years back, she actually had a spreadsheet of all her incomings and outgoings and she willingly showed it to me. Quite without shame. It wasn't showing off, she's on an average professional sort of wage, has an average sized mortgage and she owns her own average sort of car. Her husband earned less than she did and they were about to have their first child. She was trying to figure out how they would manage on just his wage, hence the spreadsheet.
At the time, I was subsisting on an indecently low weekly wage and renting. I was newly married and my then-husband was working his way up. We weren't high flyers, in fact I'd say we felt as though we were constantly struggling. My friend was trying to show me that they weren't high flyers either.
I have to say, it's one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me. It really put a lot of things into perspective. It made me feel better about the choices we made and the way we lived.
I found out amongst other things that they only allowed themselves to buy a family-size block of chocolate in the weekly grocery shop if their favourite brand was on special, her husband bought large bottles of Coke and decanted them into smaller portions for each day (instead of expensive can multipacks) and when they had takeaway (once a week) they ordered one entree and a main between them.
Talk about austerity measures.
When I compared this to the way we were living: extravagant dinners out whenever we felt flush with cash, ordering takeaway at least twice a week without caveats and renting in one of the most expensive suburbs of Sydney, I didn't feel so bad about our 'struggles'.
But the detail that caused my friend to gasp in horror at the sheer frivolity, was my husband's three multi-packs-of-mini-KitKats-a-week habit in the weekly shop.
"Those are $5 each!" She gasped.
Oh extravagance thy name is mini-KitKats.
My other friend has a more lassez faire approach. She often blithely tells me how much her last grocery bill was. The other day it was upwards of $350.
"I nearly fell off me perch!" She said.
Again, it's not showing off, she's not comfortable with that giant bill, au contraire. They are pretty standard Aussie battlers with two kids, an indecent-sized mortgage and two cars still to pay off. Sometimes her grocery bill is just indecently huge and it helps to talk about it.
Another friend of mine has in the past not been as forthcoming about her spreadsheet. I've never asked to see it, but I sensed it was not a question that would be received comfortably. She IS a high flyer and I think she doesn't want me to be embarrassed by the sheer indecency of her salary.
Recently though, she did offer, very discretely to show me her spreadsheet. I declined her generous offer. But I have to say, her willingness to lay bare somehow brought us closer.
Financial growth? In a manner of speaking.
Tuesday, 25 December 2012
The owl and the pussycat went to sea...
I have had a lot of jobs in my time. None of them proper.
In the early '90s I was cast as Yogo the gorilla in Monica Trapaga's kids show. When I say, 'cast,' what I mean is: her manager was my manager, I was in between gigs and they needed someone to put on a gorilla suit and dance the "Yogo au gogo" with Monica. We also did some sort of hula number, but my memory is vague on that.
What is clearer in my memory is that it was hard to see where I was going in that suit. I definitely recall knocking over a plywood palm tree or two en route to centre stage.
To say it was the best job ever, is an understatement. It was a bit like joining the circus. Monica was a flexible employer and the requirements of the job were "fluid" and ever-changing. Sometimes I was required to work the bird puppet, "Macaw" (which I did very badly) and other times I was required to be "Mrs George Devino the corner shop owner."
Mrs George Devino was a construct entirely of Monica's imagination. And despite Monica explaning her to me at great length and giving me two pages of meticulously typed character description, I still don't really understand who or what she was and why her name was "George." Luckily I was given a lot of license to make the character my own.
So after being given the "you're on with Mrs G de V" signal by Monica (about half an hour before a show one day) I awaited my cue and proceeded to stride on stage executing a very poor Dame Edna impression. It just happened. It was all very random, which was just the way Monica liked it.
Now I have found another favourite job that perfectly suits my temperament. I am officially called the 'Freelance Activities Editor' at Kidspot. Wow, sounds fancy! But what does it mean?
It means I create content. I fill the site with stuff. I make videos and write things and just recently the executive editor, Alex Brooks (who is on par with Monica in terms of her 'anything goes' approach to creatives) asked if I would do some nursery rhymes.
I'm not fond of nursery rhymes, nor am I fond of mawkish to-camera video work especially featuring my own rough old head. But I do like the Edward Lear poem, The Owl and the Pussycat. So I pushed the envelope a bit: I recorded my own version and then asked one of my nine year old twins to do a drawing of the poem. And while I don't want to toot my own trumpet too loudly, it's a pretty awesome drawing.
You can see Henry's drawing and hear my version of The owl and the pussycat, below.
Sunday, 7 October 2012
Supermarket etiquette
I have spent a lot of time in the supermarket. I am like Robin Williams in Moscow on the Hudson; I love the choice that capitalism affords me (but sometimes I find it overwhelming.) In particular I love the fact that, until you get to the checkout, it feels like everything is free. Just take stuff off the shelf and put it in your trolley. You can. You're allowed to help yourself.
However, some people have very bad supermarket etiquette and are spoiling it for everyone. Here are my top 10 rules for supermarket shopping.
1. The supermarket is one way. You start at the fresh produce and finish at the toilet paper. PLUS if we all follow the same path, each aisle should also only be one way. That way, you will only have to say 'hi' to your neighbour/ the lady you knew from your son's first kindergarten/ that woman who looks familiar but you can't figure out where you know her from, once. (Not every time you cross paths going in different directions in each aisle. AWKS)
2. Conscientious, right-on Mummies and Daddies: no Playschool-style commentary in the fresh produce area please. This is not the time to teach your kids about every single vegetable known to mankind and loudly proclaim to everyone around you what you are cooking for din-dins that evening. We are all giving our children chicken nuggets for dinner and we don't give a shit if your kid 'looooves' wok-flashed baby bok choy.
3. Old people: single file only. Do not waddle around side by side blocking the aisle, making loud 'oh-me-lumbar' groaning noises as you bend down to get to the lower shelves. On that, bend from your knees people, don't bend with your arse halfway out into the aisle and block the way.
4. Minimum speed of 5km per hour. Anyone going slower should get their groceries home delivered.
5. Self-scanning checkouts are for BASKETS only. Do not load up your trolley with your two week bulk shop and the scan it yourself, you knob. Also if you don't know how to use the self-scanner, get in the 10 items or less line where a kind checkout lady will scan them for you.
6. Check-out ladies: no inane small talk at the checkout. In particular do not ask me what I'm up to today. Sometimes the answer is, 'not much,' and I feel guilty/embarrassed about that. Also, once you open up that dialogue I will worry that you are going to 'comment' on my groceries (the five packets of mini KitKats or some embarrassing lady item).
7. As a follow on from that...
Check out ladies: scan embarrassing items as quickly as possible, if they don't have a barcode/ are not scanning, just toss them quickly behind you, pretend it never happened and move on. If you have to get Jan from toiletries to run up the aisles looking for the price on a 24-pack of Tenas, I NO LONGER WANT THEM. (Seriously, I'd sooner just wet my pants next time I go for a run.)
8. To the store manager: The checkout is a free library of magazines. That is: magazines at the checkout are provided for my enteratainment whilst I am waiting in the queue. I do not have to buy one but I can read it while I am waiting. If your queues are so long that I can read the entire thing while I'm waiting my turn, then maybe it's time to fire up the light on checkout 10.
9. Grocery shopping is not a romantic couples activity. It is a dull necessity of life and only requires one person at the picking end. (You may involve your husband/boyfriend at the 'unloading and unpacking end' in the privacy of your own home.) Young pert ladies, leave your boyfriends at home! Do not drag him through the aisles in an attempt at cutesy, ironic, faux-domesticity before your time. Your time will come and it will not be cutesy. Don't peak too early.
10. People with fresh produce OCD: if you are fussy about hand-picking your beans/apples/oranges etc. be aware that some people are happy to just toss a few in a bag and keep going. That is: stand aside and don't block the access while you are searching for the holy grail of string beans one by one.
Happy shopping. And remember, if you see me coming at you down Aisle 7, you are going the wrong way.
However, some people have very bad supermarket etiquette and are spoiling it for everyone. Here are my top 10 rules for supermarket shopping.
1. The supermarket is one way. You start at the fresh produce and finish at the toilet paper. PLUS if we all follow the same path, each aisle should also only be one way. That way, you will only have to say 'hi' to your neighbour/ the lady you knew from your son's first kindergarten/ that woman who looks familiar but you can't figure out where you know her from, once. (Not every time you cross paths going in different directions in each aisle. AWKS)
2. Conscientious, right-on Mummies and Daddies: no Playschool-style commentary in the fresh produce area please. This is not the time to teach your kids about every single vegetable known to mankind and loudly proclaim to everyone around you what you are cooking for din-dins that evening. We are all giving our children chicken nuggets for dinner and we don't give a shit if your kid 'looooves' wok-flashed baby bok choy.
3. Old people: single file only. Do not waddle around side by side blocking the aisle, making loud 'oh-me-lumbar' groaning noises as you bend down to get to the lower shelves. On that, bend from your knees people, don't bend with your arse halfway out into the aisle and block the way.
4. Minimum speed of 5km per hour. Anyone going slower should get their groceries home delivered.
5. Self-scanning checkouts are for BASKETS only. Do not load up your trolley with your two week bulk shop and the scan it yourself, you knob. Also if you don't know how to use the self-scanner, get in the 10 items or less line where a kind checkout lady will scan them for you.
6. Check-out ladies: no inane small talk at the checkout. In particular do not ask me what I'm up to today. Sometimes the answer is, 'not much,' and I feel guilty/embarrassed about that. Also, once you open up that dialogue I will worry that you are going to 'comment' on my groceries (the five packets of mini KitKats or some embarrassing lady item).
7. As a follow on from that...
Check out ladies: scan embarrassing items as quickly as possible, if they don't have a barcode/ are not scanning, just toss them quickly behind you, pretend it never happened and move on. If you have to get Jan from toiletries to run up the aisles looking for the price on a 24-pack of Tenas, I NO LONGER WANT THEM. (Seriously, I'd sooner just wet my pants next time I go for a run.)
8. To the store manager: The checkout is a free library of magazines. That is: magazines at the checkout are provided for my enteratainment whilst I am waiting in the queue. I do not have to buy one but I can read it while I am waiting. If your queues are so long that I can read the entire thing while I'm waiting my turn, then maybe it's time to fire up the light on checkout 10.
9. Grocery shopping is not a romantic couples activity. It is a dull necessity of life and only requires one person at the picking end. (You may involve your husband/boyfriend at the 'unloading and unpacking end' in the privacy of your own home.) Young pert ladies, leave your boyfriends at home! Do not drag him through the aisles in an attempt at cutesy, ironic, faux-domesticity before your time. Your time will come and it will not be cutesy. Don't peak too early.
10. People with fresh produce OCD: if you are fussy about hand-picking your beans/apples/oranges etc. be aware that some people are happy to just toss a few in a bag and keep going. That is: stand aside and don't block the access while you are searching for the holy grail of string beans one by one.
Happy shopping. And remember, if you see me coming at you down Aisle 7, you are going the wrong way.
Saturday, 11 August 2012
Ladies leave your husbands at home
While I am all for gender equality I think it's time we all took a step back from the
"we are all equal and women can play cricket too" bandwagon and admitted that some things are for men, some things are for women and ne'er the twain shall meet.
Kids know this. Kids are the masters of knowing what is sensible with regard to mixing the sexes.
I recall a particular method in primary school whereby if you were planning a game that required large numbers of girls and you wanted to round up participants you simply linked arms and marched around the playground chanting this:
"Who wants to play
elaaas-tics?
No boys!"
Simple but effective: straight to the point. It alleviates any potential awkwardness when some enthusiastic Bernard tries to to join. The same method worked for boys wanting to organise a game of touch footy.
"Who wants to play
Touch foo-tee
No girls!"
It's not sexist or exclusionary, it's just practical.
(It should be pointed out however, that the round up method sometimes became the activity itself. By the end of lunchtime the elastics mob had swollen to some 20 girls marching around with arms linked. We had not gotten around to playing our game of elastics yet. I think we were really enjoying the the safety-in-numbers mob mentality of chanting, 'No boys!' all lunchtime.)
The same rules should apply to clothes shopping.
Ladies, leave your husbands/ boyfriends/ significant others at home. Please, I'm begging you.
There are certain places where a man is just not welcome. The women's wear section of David Jones or Myers is one such place. And don't even get me started on men who loiter in the change rooms with their ladies. Perverts OUT!
Shopping is a slightly furtive and clandestine activity for women. We don't really need any more clothes. We are all aware of that. But we just like to waft sometimes to see if we can find anything we need that we didn't actually know that we needed yet.
Ladies, if you bring your boyfriend into our sacred space, all of a sudden the rest of us feel judged. It really interrupts our heavenly department store flow. It bursts our bubble: that meaningless and compulsive consumerism that is the secret women's business of clothes shopping.
When a pair of male eyes sets upon us during our secret business our inner monologue switches from a dreamy:
Hmm... I don't think one can ever have enough white shirts.
to
What void am I trying to fill with all these clothes I buy? Do I really need another wrap dress when I never wear the ones I have? Is it necessary to try five pairs of jeans on, when I am already wearing a perfectly good pair? Is there something more practical I should be doing at home? Mutton dressed as lamb, mutton dressed as lamb, mutton dressed as lamb you are too old for that dress!
The other thing is, men just don't know how to stay out of the way when women are shopping. Women have a sixth sense. We can be perusing the same rack as another woman, our paths converging when suddenly, in an imperceptible movement, one makes way for the other.
This deft manouvre is known as "the sales rack switcheroo." We don't need eye contact, we don't need to confer, we just know when to duck and weave to stay out of another shopper's way.
Just recently I took myself off to Myers for a perfectly pointless waft through the sales racks. I was aghast to find a significant number of women had brought their men with them and were moving through the racks in mixed pairs: as though shopping is an approved mixed doubles sport.
I was even more aghast to find one such woman rifling through the 90% off sales rack (that's right, I said, 90% off!) while her 'man' stood glued to her back like a buzzard. When I say "stood glued to her back" what I really mean is: "stood between me and the 90% off sales rack."
Men, if you do find yourselves in the women's wear section of David Jones, please be mindful of where you are standing. Never EVER EVER stand between a woman and a sales rack. You will be shoved and you will deserve it.
This particular young man had eyes only for his shopaholic girlfriend. Sweet? Yeah, yeah, whatever. We've all been there. Just get out of my way, lover boy before I shove you. I can see something black and jersey on that rack and the red markdown ticket is calling me. I'll do what I have to to get to it before she does.
I hovered meaningfully and made a sort of 'reaching out' motion towards an item just to his left. This is the universal shopper's sign language of, "move to the right please and make way for me."
He stayed put. Just glued to her side, watching her with his droopy, shag-on-a-rock "I just want to be near her" demeanour. Sweet? Yeah, whatever. Mate, find a chair. Sit in it and stay out of the way. You are in serious danger whilst you are hovering so gormlessly around a 90% off sales rack. Seriously, I will shove you.
As I said, there were at least four other women shopping with men in tow, in the women's wear section: the men just drooging around behind them aimlessly, standing in the way, not being mindful of other shopper's needs (i.e. my need to get to the rack of fitted sparkly party dresses that I would never ever wear in a pink fit but just want to touch lovingly with my fingertips to glean some of their sparkly magic happiness for myself.)
The whole male presence really interrupted my valium-like shopping waft. It really ruined it for me.
I think next time I will bring my sister and my mother. We will link arms and march into that women's wear department chanting this:
"Who wants to go
clothes shop-ping?
no boys!"
"we are all equal and women can play cricket too" bandwagon and admitted that some things are for men, some things are for women and ne'er the twain shall meet.
Kids know this. Kids are the masters of knowing what is sensible with regard to mixing the sexes.
I recall a particular method in primary school whereby if you were planning a game that required large numbers of girls and you wanted to round up participants you simply linked arms and marched around the playground chanting this:
"Who wants to play
elaaas-tics?
No boys!"
Simple but effective: straight to the point. It alleviates any potential awkwardness when some enthusiastic Bernard tries to to join. The same method worked for boys wanting to organise a game of touch footy.
"Who wants to play
Touch foo-tee
No girls!"
It's not sexist or exclusionary, it's just practical.
(It should be pointed out however, that the round up method sometimes became the activity itself. By the end of lunchtime the elastics mob had swollen to some 20 girls marching around with arms linked. We had not gotten around to playing our game of elastics yet. I think we were really enjoying the the safety-in-numbers mob mentality of chanting, 'No boys!' all lunchtime.)
The same rules should apply to clothes shopping.
Ladies, leave your husbands/ boyfriends/ significant others at home. Please, I'm begging you.
There are certain places where a man is just not welcome. The women's wear section of David Jones or Myers is one such place. And don't even get me started on men who loiter in the change rooms with their ladies. Perverts OUT!
Shopping is a slightly furtive and clandestine activity for women. We don't really need any more clothes. We are all aware of that. But we just like to waft sometimes to see if we can find anything we need that we didn't actually know that we needed yet.
Ladies, if you bring your boyfriend into our sacred space, all of a sudden the rest of us feel judged. It really interrupts our heavenly department store flow. It bursts our bubble: that meaningless and compulsive consumerism that is the secret women's business of clothes shopping.
When a pair of male eyes sets upon us during our secret business our inner monologue switches from a dreamy:
Hmm... I don't think one can ever have enough white shirts.
to
What void am I trying to fill with all these clothes I buy? Do I really need another wrap dress when I never wear the ones I have? Is it necessary to try five pairs of jeans on, when I am already wearing a perfectly good pair? Is there something more practical I should be doing at home? Mutton dressed as lamb, mutton dressed as lamb, mutton dressed as lamb you are too old for that dress!
The other thing is, men just don't know how to stay out of the way when women are shopping. Women have a sixth sense. We can be perusing the same rack as another woman, our paths converging when suddenly, in an imperceptible movement, one makes way for the other.
This deft manouvre is known as "the sales rack switcheroo." We don't need eye contact, we don't need to confer, we just know when to duck and weave to stay out of another shopper's way.
Just recently I took myself off to Myers for a perfectly pointless waft through the sales racks. I was aghast to find a significant number of women had brought their men with them and were moving through the racks in mixed pairs: as though shopping is an approved mixed doubles sport.
I was even more aghast to find one such woman rifling through the 90% off sales rack (that's right, I said, 90% off!) while her 'man' stood glued to her back like a buzzard. When I say "stood glued to her back" what I really mean is: "stood between me and the 90% off sales rack."
Men, if you do find yourselves in the women's wear section of David Jones, please be mindful of where you are standing. Never EVER EVER stand between a woman and a sales rack. You will be shoved and you will deserve it.
This particular young man had eyes only for his shopaholic girlfriend. Sweet? Yeah, yeah, whatever. We've all been there. Just get out of my way, lover boy before I shove you. I can see something black and jersey on that rack and the red markdown ticket is calling me. I'll do what I have to to get to it before she does.
I hovered meaningfully and made a sort of 'reaching out' motion towards an item just to his left. This is the universal shopper's sign language of, "move to the right please and make way for me."
He stayed put. Just glued to her side, watching her with his droopy, shag-on-a-rock "I just want to be near her" demeanour. Sweet? Yeah, whatever. Mate, find a chair. Sit in it and stay out of the way. You are in serious danger whilst you are hovering so gormlessly around a 90% off sales rack. Seriously, I will shove you.
As I said, there were at least four other women shopping with men in tow, in the women's wear section: the men just drooging around behind them aimlessly, standing in the way, not being mindful of other shopper's needs (i.e. my need to get to the rack of fitted sparkly party dresses that I would never ever wear in a pink fit but just want to touch lovingly with my fingertips to glean some of their sparkly magic happiness for myself.)
The whole male presence really interrupted my valium-like shopping waft. It really ruined it for me.
I think next time I will bring my sister and my mother. We will link arms and march into that women's wear department chanting this:
"Who wants to go
clothes shop-ping?
no boys!"
Monday, 23 July 2012
My children believe that I am a faith healer
Whenever my children have an ailment, they bring it to me along with the blind faith that I will heal them.
Yesterday someone had a 'sore leg' at bedtime. There was nothing more specific than it was 'sore.' But they all looked to me, expecting me to have a solution, a diagnosis, a magical healing method.
In the past, I have gone on with all manner of pretendy stuff: rubbing the palm of my hand across the offending area in an authoritative manner, administering Panadol as though it were truly a magic potion and importantly blowing air over hurty bits.
But lately I just cannot be arsed even going through the motions. I think it's about time I told them: I am not the faith healer they believe me to be. That bottle of children's Panadol in the bathroom cabinet is not some snake-oil cure-all. It's just pink stuff that tastes bad.
Somewhere along the way I have given the impression that I have all the answers.
Once, one of them got attacked by an ibis in Centennial Park. According to legend, it grabbed the back of his head and tried to fly off with him. I didn't see the incident but after it had happened, they all came running at me accusingly.
"A bird just attacked Henry's head!" They said indignantly.
The clear subtext being: what are you going to do about it?
The same day, someone else slipped and fell in the sludgy mud by the pond. He too ran AT me screaming and hysterical, palms facing up to show his muddy stigmata like some kind of perverse Jesus figure.
His jeans were all muddy and wet on the seat. He showed me furiously, expecting that I would have a solution: produce a clean fresh pair of pants out of my Mary Poppins carpet bag perhaps. (I used to carry a spare set of clothing, but that was years ago, way back when pants got weed in. I honestly thought I was free and clear of that obligation given he is now 12.)
The other night, someone got dust in his eye. He rubbed it and rubbed it and rubbed it and wailed that it was 'hurting and sore and itchy.' I went through the motions for a while: I bathed his eye tenderly with a wet facewasher, I scooped cool water directly into the eye, I sat him on the lid of the toilet and peered down right into his eye, asked him to look this way then that and declared with some authority that I could indeed see his entire eyeball.
He itched and rubbed at his eye again.
"But it's really itchy." He whined, beginning to approach a feverish this-could-go-on-forever-into-the-night pitch.
I decided there and then to come clean.
"You know what?" I said. "There's not a lot I can do about it. Sometimes eyes get itchy and you have to just ride it out. It's probably going to be uncomfortable until you fall asleep."
I patted his head. I gave him the face washer to take to bed just in case.
He lay in bed with his itchy eye, looking slightly non-plussed by the new world order where I would no longer offer magic healing methods for every imaginable ailment.
I kissed him goodnight and headed out, free. He timed it to perfection, I was almost out the door when -
"Mum?"
"Yes?"
"Can you get me a glass of water?"
No longer the faith healer, but still the waitress.
Must debunk that one next.
Yesterday someone had a 'sore leg' at bedtime. There was nothing more specific than it was 'sore.' But they all looked to me, expecting me to have a solution, a diagnosis, a magical healing method.
In the past, I have gone on with all manner of pretendy stuff: rubbing the palm of my hand across the offending area in an authoritative manner, administering Panadol as though it were truly a magic potion and importantly blowing air over hurty bits.
But lately I just cannot be arsed even going through the motions. I think it's about time I told them: I am not the faith healer they believe me to be. That bottle of children's Panadol in the bathroom cabinet is not some snake-oil cure-all. It's just pink stuff that tastes bad.
Somewhere along the way I have given the impression that I have all the answers.
Once, one of them got attacked by an ibis in Centennial Park. According to legend, it grabbed the back of his head and tried to fly off with him. I didn't see the incident but after it had happened, they all came running at me accusingly.
"A bird just attacked Henry's head!" They said indignantly.
The clear subtext being: what are you going to do about it?
The same day, someone else slipped and fell in the sludgy mud by the pond. He too ran AT me screaming and hysterical, palms facing up to show his muddy stigmata like some kind of perverse Jesus figure.
His jeans were all muddy and wet on the seat. He showed me furiously, expecting that I would have a solution: produce a clean fresh pair of pants out of my Mary Poppins carpet bag perhaps. (I used to carry a spare set of clothing, but that was years ago, way back when pants got weed in. I honestly thought I was free and clear of that obligation given he is now 12.)
The other night, someone got dust in his eye. He rubbed it and rubbed it and rubbed it and wailed that it was 'hurting and sore and itchy.' I went through the motions for a while: I bathed his eye tenderly with a wet facewasher, I scooped cool water directly into the eye, I sat him on the lid of the toilet and peered down right into his eye, asked him to look this way then that and declared with some authority that I could indeed see his entire eyeball.
He itched and rubbed at his eye again.
"But it's really itchy." He whined, beginning to approach a feverish this-could-go-on-forever-into-the-night pitch.
I decided there and then to come clean.
"You know what?" I said. "There's not a lot I can do about it. Sometimes eyes get itchy and you have to just ride it out. It's probably going to be uncomfortable until you fall asleep."
I patted his head. I gave him the face washer to take to bed just in case.
He lay in bed with his itchy eye, looking slightly non-plussed by the new world order where I would no longer offer magic healing methods for every imaginable ailment.
I kissed him goodnight and headed out, free. He timed it to perfection, I was almost out the door when -
"Mum?"
"Yes?"
"Can you get me a glass of water?"
No longer the faith healer, but still the waitress.
Must debunk that one next.
Wednesday, 11 July 2012
Never work with children and donuts
I often have grand visions. I recently had a grand vision that I would invite three extra children over after school (in addition to the three I own) and make a video of them getting in and out of a cardboard cubby house. I had a grand vision that I could make it like those clown car videos: where about 100 clowns pile into the clown car and then come back out the other side.
Then even more ambitious was my idea to get them to make a pillow fort AND an under-the-table-cubby. All while a camera was pointed at them.
It was all part of an even grander vision: a video series on cubbies and tents for Kidspot (see my post 'What do you do?' for clarification of why I call this sort of thing a 'job.') I spent about two glorious weeks filming the construction of various cubbies and tents: in the backyard, in the living room, under the dining table, through the dining room chairs. My children helped me, but if you must know, it was mainly me. I've always loved a cubby house, ever since my mother bought me a yellow Wendy House way back in 1978.
So the cardboard cubby video was going to be the grand prix of cubby videos. I was going to peak with a clown-inspired classic.
I prepped all day. I made my cubby house out of Kennards storage boxes. I made sure there was a front door and a window and there was even a little annexe at the side. I 'rendered' it with gift-wrap. It was a masterpiece. Once or twice during the day I wondered guiltily what all the other adults were doing at their real jobs while I was mucking around with boxes and masking tape at home.
Next I arranged some catering: (a.ka. bribery) a dozen donuts and a packet of Allens snakes.
I picked the kids up from school. I brought them home. Then the fun really began. Or didn't.
If you have ever tried to get six kids to do what you ask them to do, when you ask them to do it, you must be a school teacher. In which case, I think you deserve every 'extra' holiday you get.
Guess what? Kids don't listen. Especially when you hype them up on sugar and donuts.
I recall specifically requesting that they not consume donuts or snakes 'on camera' as it was not a great example to set on the Kidspot site. I think my exact words were:
"There is no junk food on Kidspot!"
About halfway through I realised one of my own charming children had been waltzing in and out of the cubby house munching on a donut the whole time.
And because I did the 'going into the cubby' in a separate take to the 'going out of the cubby,' when I cut the footage together, it looked like he'd gone into the cubby house, found a donut cart and come back out again munching on it.
Oh the shame.
If you watch the finished videos on Kidspot it all looks like good, wholesome, Amish, home-crafty mum fun. But rest assured the reality was quite different. The reality was mainly a lot of yelling from me, mostly of my favourite phrase:
"Don't bump the camera!"
So if you are a regular viewer of the Kidspot activity videos and you imagine that some happy home-crafty, jolly mum is behind the camera being all 'quality time' and cuddly-wuddly-goodtimes with her kids, please be corrected.
Here are some choice cuts and outtakes:
Then even more ambitious was my idea to get them to make a pillow fort AND an under-the-table-cubby. All while a camera was pointed at them.
It was all part of an even grander vision: a video series on cubbies and tents for Kidspot (see my post 'What do you do?' for clarification of why I call this sort of thing a 'job.') I spent about two glorious weeks filming the construction of various cubbies and tents: in the backyard, in the living room, under the dining table, through the dining room chairs. My children helped me, but if you must know, it was mainly me. I've always loved a cubby house, ever since my mother bought me a yellow Wendy House way back in 1978.
So the cardboard cubby video was going to be the grand prix of cubby videos. I was going to peak with a clown-inspired classic.
I prepped all day. I made my cubby house out of Kennards storage boxes. I made sure there was a front door and a window and there was even a little annexe at the side. I 'rendered' it with gift-wrap. It was a masterpiece. Once or twice during the day I wondered guiltily what all the other adults were doing at their real jobs while I was mucking around with boxes and masking tape at home.
Next I arranged some catering: (a.ka. bribery) a dozen donuts and a packet of Allens snakes.
I picked the kids up from school. I brought them home. Then the fun really began. Or didn't.
If you have ever tried to get six kids to do what you ask them to do, when you ask them to do it, you must be a school teacher. In which case, I think you deserve every 'extra' holiday you get.
Guess what? Kids don't listen. Especially when you hype them up on sugar and donuts.
I recall specifically requesting that they not consume donuts or snakes 'on camera' as it was not a great example to set on the Kidspot site. I think my exact words were:
"There is no junk food on Kidspot!"
About halfway through I realised one of my own charming children had been waltzing in and out of the cubby house munching on a donut the whole time.
And because I did the 'going into the cubby' in a separate take to the 'going out of the cubby,' when I cut the footage together, it looked like he'd gone into the cubby house, found a donut cart and come back out again munching on it.
Oh the shame.
If you watch the finished videos on Kidspot it all looks like good, wholesome, Amish, home-crafty mum fun. But rest assured the reality was quite different. The reality was mainly a lot of yelling from me, mostly of my favourite phrase:
"Don't bump the camera!"
So if you are a regular viewer of the Kidspot activity videos and you imagine that some happy home-crafty, jolly mum is behind the camera being all 'quality time' and cuddly-wuddly-goodtimes with her kids, please be corrected.
Here are some choice cuts and outtakes:
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