Blakkat Ruminations

2011-01-14T09:03:00.000+11:00

A rarity of late, it’s a nice Brisbane day – temperate conditions and mostly sunny skies – and from where I’m sitting, in the now dry suburb of Stafford, you’d really have no idea that a grand scale natural disaster was unfolding only 10km away. Except for the non-stop television coverage, that is. After two days of continuous Karl, Leila, Anna, Julia, Campbell and all those perky-faced young women reporting from various scenes of the wet or the newsroom, cabin fever did take hold and I jumped at the chance to get out and tag along with my partner who, as a press photographer for Fairfax, was on flood paparazzi duties.

A flood paparazzo for the Financial Review

We headed first to the safe vantage of Kangaroo Point. The rising torrent of the Brisbane River was certainly a spectacle, but what intrigued me more was the sheer number of people, with cameras in hand, who were out to witness it wreck havoc on the city. This is not a judgement, merely an observation, and while Anna Bligh may be on the record as saying, “This incident is not a tourist attraction – this is a deeply serious natural disaster”, I think these pictures prove that the first half of that statement is patently false.

Flood tourism flourishes at Kangaroo Point. The media has set up camp overlooking the Brisbane River beside Lick Café (below), which was swamped with customers, not water.

There’s a great view of the Brisbane River from Kangaroo Point.

Of course, Kangaroo Point wasn’t the only place people – or rubber-neckers as they’re known to crowd control professionals – were gathering to witness this once-in-a-generation natural disaster. Closer to the action, down by the base of the Story Bridge, you could get up close and personal with the swollen river as it lapped onto the grass of a popular outdoor park.

Police tape is not an effective barrier to stop the serious flood spectator.

Yes, you see correctly. They’ve brought along an Esky full of beer and an iPod dock.

In the CBD, it was a similar story. Cafés, restaurants, shops, banks and offices were all closed for business, but the city was far from being a ghost town. People gathered down by the Eagle Street Pier, or as close to it as police would let them, to take in the novelty of water creeping towards the doorstep of big business (see below).

This was Alice Street the day before the river was set to peak. Turning 180 degrees from where this photo was taken, you could be greeted by this welcoming sign, below.

Natural disaster watching, when you are not personally affected (and I don’t think a one carton limit on milk/customer at the local IGA really counts as ‘affected’) is very closely related to that other voyeuristic past time – slowing down to a snail’s pace at the site of car accident. I always like to pretend that I’m not the one deliberately holding up the traffic so I can have a gawk, but as we all know it’s very difficult to look away, even if you do zoom off after you can’t strain your neck anymore from looking over your shoulder.

Whether you sat glued to your box or ventured out for a front row/in-the-flesh experience, the reason is the same – you did it because natural disasters are fascinating, especially when they’re in your own backyard. Yes, they are devastating, destructive and heart-breaking – that goes without saying, really. But who among us, even if loved ones and friends were in the flood’s sites, can say they weren’t just a little bit fascinated, flabbergasted and, dare I say it, entertained by the spectacle? I’m not suggesting this is a case Schadenfreude on the part of the high and dry populace of Brisbane, not for a moment – and I think any decent person would be appalled by the idea that anyone would take delight in terrible misfortune this flood has wrecked – but it’s difficult to deny that we – the rest of Brisbane and Australia – haven’t been willing spectators to the theatre of this event. It doesn’t make us less human and, hopefully, all this voyeurism will stir enough compassion within us to compel us to donate money or volunteer our time to help the people who have been affected and, in some cases, literally gutted by this flood (and probably haven’t found it quite as entertaining to watch).

Personally, I’m very grateful my 16-year-old daughter, who was stuck out at Ipswich at her father’s place, is safe and their house made it through with nothing more trying than having the power cut off. I am now waiting patiently until the Centenary Highway and Ipswich Motorway are open again so I can go and get her and give her a very, very long hug.

Roller Derby

2010-11-29T14:26:00.004+11:00

If you haven't heard about RD then I probably can't help you and we're orbiting on different planets. Or maybe it's just taking up a lot of space in my world right now. Anyway, I have no intention of telling you what it is, who plays it and why - there are plenty of other sites you can go to for that. No, I just intend to link you to a story on our league that the Sunshine Coast Weekender did this weekend (27.11.2010 -yes, funny how the Weekender comes out on the weekend) that I featured in - albeit, I am the marketing officer for the Coastal Assassins Roller Derby league (CARD) here on the ambient Sunshine Coast and I organised to do the feature with the Weekender, so it's no coincidence my face (which seems to be unnecessarily hideous in this shot, not to mention the chicken neck going on) is on the cover. For an article I did actually write on roller derby, but did not feature in (my prefered position on the matter) may I direct you here.

If you do happen to be in the general vicinity of the Sunshine Coast on Dec 4th, 2010, then please, do come to our inaugural bout ' - 'Deck the Halls with Blood & Glory' - at the Caloundra Indoor Stadium that we are co-hosting with the lovely lasses from the Brisbane City Rollers. It's my first bout. Isn't that exciting? That's me below scrimmaging with the girls from CARD & BCR a few weeks ago. The picture is designed to give you the impression that I'm a shit hot jammer. At this stage, I'd just say I'm working towards that.

Roller Derby - it's either pain or glory, depending on how good your escape route is.

Pin-up Girl? Who Moi?

2010-10-26T13:42:00.008+11:00

For anyone who knows me or has read my blog from the early days, that is, the days when I actually used to post stuff here, then you'd know I have a bit of an obsession with pin-up girls - particulary Gil Elvgren ones - from the '30s, '40s & '50s. Anyway, as chance would have it, I won my very own pin-up girl shoot a few months back with Miss Sherbet Birdie by entering a competition she was running to find a girl at short notice to do shoot for MX Magazine. You simply had to write 'why you like Miss Sherbet Birdie' and I penned a lovely, little acrostic poem as my entry. The winning entry as it turns out, and as a result, I ended up with four not-too-shabby pin-up pics of my very own. A more deserving winner? Well, that's not for me to judge.

For any remaining semi-loyal readers out there, if you still find yourself hankering for a word or two from the Blakkat, I'd like to redirect your attention to my other blog - This Poison Apple. I'm working hard on building it up into a place where I can display my wares as a writer (so the quality of what I permit myself to post there is a notch up from my humble Blakkat Ruminations) and while it has a same, same but different look to BR, the posts are not rambles on my private life (a relief for some, no doubt) but a collection of book reviews, essays, published features and the odd opinion piece. Any rambling on my private life will remain at BR, as it always has - should the need arise.

First female PM

2010-06-24T18:51:00.002+10:00

Kevin's departure was devastating to watch. Politics is a vicious game, in case the obvious tends to escape you.

HOWEVER, Julia... well, I'm just chuffed. Really, really happy that this intelligent, funny, passionate woman is currently our PM and I just hope with every beat of my little heart that the Australian public see fit to vote her in on her own right. Even if you're not as enamoured as I am with our first female PM, surely, anyone with the working remants of a human brain could not vote for a creature that emerged fully-formed from 1950s - Phoney Tony, that is, in case the obvious tends to escape you.

Isn't politics exciting?

Starting Again

2010-06-22T09:33:00.002+10:00

I can't give one definitive answer as to why I have failed to maintain even a semblance of interest in maintaining this blog, but there are some contributing factors, such as:

1. My life, generally, has been in a state of transition and flux as I struggle with that weary cliche of 'finding out who I am'.

2. The notion of 'to say something you must first have somthing to say' strikes me as being particularly sage in this opinion-saturated culture we drown in daily (I will NOT twitter), or more to the point, what I do have to say is usually readily said by someone else.

3. This little blakkat has been wrestling with the big black dog, and depression - as anyone who has locked horns with its all-pervasive aura will know - is a rain-soaked towel for motivation.

4. Any motivation I do rustle up must be directed towards my study - the study that I'm not sure will get me anywhere in the long term anyway.

5. All my writing and creative energy has been channelled into essays and other assignments that relate to the study I'm doing, that is, a Master of Communications*, which may or may not lead to better qualifications and a job in a field that I may actually enjoy extracting a living from (as opposed to primary teaching which was like pouring battery acid on my soul).

6. In the mean time, while I press on with forging out a new career and a rejuvenated identity for myself, I am technically unemployed and unemployable (if my inability to even a get a basic-monkey-can-be-trained-to-do-this-administration job is anything to go by). Hence I am, in the most literal sense, penniless and dependent of the charity and goodwill of family members for my general up-keep. Depressing. Add to this being patronised by the well-meaning girls* at my 'job network' centre who review 'my situation' every two weeks in order to justify my Newstart allowance, and the picture becomes quite dispiriting.

7. All of the above would be tolerable if I were still able to write something, anything. Or if I believed I still could actually write. I feel dwarfed by the enormity of creative energy required to accomplish such a task. I can no longer say, I did it once, so I can do it again. I simply feel, at this point in time, that I can't do it again. Recognising mediocrity in yourself is never easy, especially when you always hoped, in fact,depended on the idea, for better.

8. Every day I feel more and more strongly about injustice, poverty, violence against women, environmental degradation, racism, human rights violations, disgust at the grossness of unchecked consumerism, etc, etc., but I am in no way responding to this in a way that truly expresses how strongly I FEEL. I simply don't know where or how to channel any action. I can't donate to causes because I simply do not have the cash, so I MUST find another avenue that allows me to actually DO something.

So now that I've got all that down and am about to hit the 'publish post' button, that thing they call 'catharsis' may strike and perhaps spurn me to some kind of action. Maybe or maybe not, but at least it got me posting again and that's a start.

Loss, Grief & Faith

2009-08-23T21:16:00.003+10:00

You may have heard about the horrific car accident on the Sunshine Coast motorway that happened on Wednesday, certainly if you live on the Coast you couldn't have missed it. It's been a consistent headline act for the Sunshine Coast Daily* over the last few days, not only for how horrendous the circumstances of the accident were, but also because the couple who were killed - Kari and Allan Taylor – were well known and much loved amongst the substantial Christian community on the Coast. As the many tributes and comments testify, they were abundantly generous, life-affirming people and they will leave a 'massive hole'. One woman described Kari 'as pure sunshine' and anyone who knew her would readily agree to this description.

In Australia, a country free of violent political conflict, war atrocities and acts of terrorism, it doesn't get much worse than seeing your parents slammed between the front of a four-wheel drive and the back of another vehicle. This is the stuff of night-terrors and post-traumatic stress, yet that's what Kari and Allan's 22 year old daughter, Ashleah, witnessed. The Sunshine Coast Daily (a petri-dish for hacks if ever there was one) ran this interview Ashleah yesterday.

Since a good girlfriend of mine that I went to school with first rang and told me of the accident Wednesday night, I have been unable to think of much else except the Taylors. In particular, how Ashleah and her younger brother, Kallan, have been coping. I only knew Ashleah as toddler, around the time that Kari was my ballet teacher and Allan was the school pastor, when I was a senior at Sunshine Coast Christian College. Allan was our Christian Living teacher. I had enough attitude to service three teenagers at that time, but Allan – being the good hearted, reasonably tolerant man that he was – always took me in his stride. Once, just to goad him and not because I was actually interested in the answer, I asked him, in one of our many abstinence themed Christian Living lessons (one that I didn't wag, as was my habit) whether 'oral sex counted as sex?', within the whole 'don't have sex before you're married' scheme of things. I related to Kari better. 'Our group' – myself and three best friends – all did ballet and modern dance classes with Kari. In fact, we were amongst her original pupils when she first started up her own dance school. Kari had that lovely way of being an adult but also being a young girl at heart. She could talk openly about things like her own body acceptance issues, which, when you're at an age when that kind of thing takes up a lot of thinking space, was reassuring in an adult. She was a gifted dancer and teacher and an altogether lovely, lovely person. I know for a fact I gave her the shits big time on a few occasions, but like Allan she was always bigger than that. Kari' son, Kallan, is the same age as my daughter and being pregnant at the same time as her was something I took pleasure in, even though she was considerably older than me. As Christians of the Holy Spirit anointed, true believer kind they practiced what they preached - which finally brings me around to the point of this post.

In spite of my upbringing and education at an Evangelical, Pentecostal Christian School - or maybe because of it – I am an atheist. I don't go all Richard Dawkins on people about it, especially as I still have friends and close family who are committed Christians, and I believe they are entitled to their faith in the same way as I am entitled to reject it. If I were to suffer the kind of loss that Ashleah and Kallan are now facing – losing my daughter, for example - I'm not sure where I would find anything (bar an oil tanker of alcohol) that could take the serated edges off my grief. Ashleah & Kallan, along with Kari and Allan's family, and their many friends and acquaintances, however, have found comfort in their faith. Wrongly or rightly – meaning whether or not Christianity is the greatest hoax of the last two millennia or not – the absolute, non-negotiable belief these people have in Jesus as their Lord and Saviour has given them a rainbow's end to deal with the tragic, tragic loss of these two people – who, if there was a God, would surely not have been on his hit list in the first place. And I can't say I'm sorry they have that comfort. If Ashleah believes 'her parents will be having an absolute blast up there' and if that's the thing that makes her pain bearable and gets her through this, then who would want to take that away from her? Not that anyone would have any chance of shaking her belief system in the first place. These people are not token, name only Christians. They live and breathe Jesus Christ as a way of life.

I would have assumed that, like me, a lot of people who were educated in the same manner as I and whose parents were regular church goers, would have assimilated themselves into the secular world, gone to uni, read lots, met different, non-believing people and eventually moved away from – what I now believe – are the dubious teachings of the Bible. To put this in perspective – and I am getting a little of track here – my senior Biology text book was essentially a 'how to guide' for arguing creationism over evolution. This was back in the days where they didn't even have the nous to call it 'intelligent design'. There was no middle ground and in case you're wondering how the fossil record came about, well that was the doing of the flood of Noah and his ark fame. This is black and white stuff and my parents paid for this 'education'. In point of fact, for January 2010, I have booked an 8 day cruise of the Galapagos Islands off the coast of Ecuador – the birth place of Darwin's Theory of Evolution - hardly a hallmark destination for the average creationist. Facebook has revealed a different story where many of my old classmates are concerned. The majority are still Christians and actively practicing ones. I'm the exception, not the rule, and to be honest I'm both puzzled by it and a little disdainful at the same time.

But back to the point, this from 'SomeOneSmarter in Buderim (whose grammar would suggest anything but)…

I know of a person who has been a God-hating atheist** all their life (a dichotomy I know), and told me yesterday is a brief conversation: that seeing how these people lived; the love that others had for them; the depth of their understanding and peace that you display and know, has cut them deep and for the first time in their life they have thought that there may just be something more to life and faith because this reaction is not 'humanly possible' and it has really shaken them.

Excruciating syntax aside, I think the point is an interesting one. Personally, no, happy as I am that Ashleah and Kallan's faith has given them something to pull themselves through the deep dark depths of grieving that are ahead, I am not about to renounce my hard earned atheism because I'm impressed by their faith – or forgiveness. Atheistic humanists are just as capable of forgiveness and acts of altruism***. If you have been brought up in an environment where every second word is 'Jesus' then of course you believe your dearly departed will be waiting for you in heaven. And if it's not true, well you'll be dead anyway and won't know any different. You could add at this juncture 'so no harm done', but we all know the harm organised religion has inflicted on the human race, so it's not really as pat as all that either.

I don't really know how I want to sum all this up. Perhaps, it's just a way of working through my own grief over the deaths of two people who had a substantial impact on me at an impressionable time of my life, but whose religious beliefs I ultimately rejected as I grew away from the church and school that I grew up in. Although that's not the whole of it either, most the tears I have shed since Wednesday have been because I've been dwelling on Ashleah & Kallan's pain and loss. It was the same when Morgan Innes – the 14 year old ice skater – drowned after a terrible boat accident on Sydney Harbour. My daughter used to train at the same rink as Morgan and they were on the same synchronised skating team. Naturally, I knew Morgan's parents and I cried buckets in the days after Morgan's death as I felt overwhelming grief for her parents and what they must be going through. They, too, were lovely, lovely people and another example of karma getting its wires crossed.

Our 30^th school reunion is in October and I've been tossing up whether to go for months, especially now I'm living back in the stomping ground, as it were. Only the other week I had the thought that 'Kari & Allan will definitely be there and it would be nice to see them'. I imagine the overpriced ($55, alcohol not included) school reunion will have a very different tone now. The funeral will be standing room only, but I will go to that, even though there will be more 'amens' than in the New Testament itself. I may be a non-believer, but I still want the chance to grieve and pay my respects to these two wonderful people who gave so much of themselves to others - even lippy, 'tude filled teenagers.

** I think perhaps 'someonesmarter' meant an oxymoron not a dichotomy. Hmmmm, I'll buy a religion-hating atheist, but it's difficult to hate something you don't believe in.

Dark Places by Kate Grenville

2009-08-01T20:34:00.001+10:00

I don't intend to write a review of Kate Grenville's well known and much praised follow up to 'Lillian Story', but as one of my resolutions, now I'm not working full-time, is to get a little more 'literary' and scribble down a few thoughts about the books I read, I want to put to something on the page.

I had to keep reminding myself that this book was written by a woman. Albion Gidley Singer is so repulsive, so odious in his pompousness - his hatred towards women and their bodies is truly grotesque – yet the book, that is, the voice of AGS is so compelling. I don't often equate literary fiction with 'page turning' as an attribute (For example, I got off to a flying start with Debra Falconer's 'In the Service of Clouds', but ended up putting it down a third of the way through and haven't found the compulsion to pick it up since. When it gets a bit hard yakka and you stop caring what's going to happen, well, why bother? And don't even get me started on 'A.B. Byatt's 'Possession'. ) So anyway, it surprised me that I devoured 'Dark Places' in much the same way as I would a Marian Keyes. That's not to say I didn't savour Grenville's way with a sentence or her brilliant, concise descriptions of people, places and events. I most certainly did, but I was also in hurry to get to the climax. How could a reading experience be any more perfect? I suppose I was drawn to the conclusion already knowing the 'taboo' that the book has staked its reputation on, but I didn't realise that the whole story – Albion's childhood, marriage and family life – led to this one final, despicable act. Perhaps I was expecting a story that dipped in and out of ritual sexual abuse and incest from the get-go, but no, I should have expected more of Grenville as an author. She is truly a master at what she does and she refuses to deal in clichés, too.

It's reading a book like 'Dark Places' that really brings home to me the power of fiction and its ability to illuminate lives, past and present, that non-fiction or bare historical facts cannot hope to plummet the depth of. 'Love in the time of Cholera' resonated with me in the same way. The only similarity between the two is that they expose and reflect on male arrogance in the face of rampant (apparently) female desire around the turn of the last century, but it's probably more to do the with brutal honesty of the central character, the attention to detail and the authenticity of characters and setting that support the narrative that brings me to compare the two books in the first place. But that is what brilliant authors do and I don't believe 'literary fiction' should be lauded in the way it is if it fails to meet these simple criteria. I didn't intend to get all soap boxy about it, but some 'literary' novels are a god damn borefest and somehow, if you can't through them, you end up berating yourself for not being 'literary' enough, or even, possibly stupid for 'not getting it'. When Grenville writes, when Gabriel Garcia Marquez writes (even in translation), hell, when Tolstoy writes, 'I get it' – so I don't think I'm a literary slouch – and I therefore fail to see why we can't hold other 'brilliant' writers to the same kind of accountability. That is, do I want to read the next page or has your ponderous, laborious, adjective stew sent me into a coma?

I'd rather be...

2009-06-27T20:44:00.006+10:00

I'd rather be an author than anything else in the world, I've worked out, come to the realisation, discovered about myself over the past five rotations of the earth around the sun. A journey that took me to Sydney to break it as an actor after graduating from the NIDA of Queensland (Queensland University of Technology's Acting Program - 3 years where your soul in the custody of the devil) - and found myself very,very - without question or doubt of any kind - unemployed in the profession which I'm still paying good HECS to make a go of. Luckily, as the devil took possession of my soul at QUT, the actual process of discovering that acting is a vocation that chooses you and you not it, particularly for a woman who didn't graduate from acting school until she was 30, wasn't as soul shredding as it might have been. Anyhoo, rather than stand demoralised and scorned upon in the Centrelink queue at Bondi Junction on a fortnightly basis, I found myself back in the profession I was desperately, desperately hoping to get out of - primary school teaching. Casual teaching pays better than most other average drudge jobs - waitressing, bar tending, retail. Perhaps not hooking, which I did seriously consider at one stage - at the higher, well-paying end of the scale - but a small tattoo on my right ankle put paid to taking that idea too seriously.

Instead, with the encouragement of a very, very dear friend who was much older, male and whose job makes him a 'someone', I started to write. Two months later my first novel had an underwhelming beginning, stuff in the middle and an end. It needed an editor who could sift gold from gravel - which my aforementioned friend was - but the upshot was, I could write - and research, part of the story is set during World War II in Sydney and I did my homework - lots and lots of it.

Unpublished novels - even published ones sometimes, I've been told - don't pay bills and so the odd casual teaching day turned into a week block here, a three week block there and then, inevitably, a whole year and then another one, etc. Like all wage slaves, I became accustomed - addicted even - to a regular paycheck, especially the holiday ones and some how, even though I didn't want it to be that way, the writing wasn't being made a priority any more. Sure, I managed to get myself a respected Sydney author's agent and put my poor, distressed novel through a few more serious edits at her behest (after the five I'd already subjected it to), but in the end it amounted to the same result: unpublished. Why? Because I refuse to turn it into a novel that will be shelved in the 'romance' section at Borders for that very particular, non-too-discerning, demographic of women who read 'romance novels'. There comes a point, people, where integrity must take a stand. Essentially, I was told, the modern story was 'too grating' against the historical, World War II story (written in diary form). That's kind of the point, but I didn't point that out to my agent. Now, here's the funny thing. Of the 7 or 8 women I gave my manuscript to, to read (including the niece of my agent*) - all of whom are plum in the middle of the very demographic of which my book is pitched too - they loved, related too, really got the main, modern day story and its central character - the just a bit cynical, single, 33 yr old Emily Pridmore. The World War II stuff was nice and the little points of commonality between the two stories were great, but it was the contemporary narrative that rang bells and raised smiles. Not so the publishers. World War II story is great, lovely, just expand it and turn that into a book in its own right, was the latest feedback I got from my agent. My market research says otherwise and so do I. Put simply, after having a professional editor (chosen & paid for my agent) take a nit comb to my novel, and then having taken his rather blunt criticisms on board and having made the adjustments he suggested, I am not prepared, now, to fundamentally change the whole premise of the book and thus alter the genesis upon which I wrote it in the first place. Like I said, integrity. I'm not a person possessed with buckets full of self-belief, but I do believe I got this book right - at least after draft nine - and sometimes publishers don't know best. Cue urban legend of J.K. Rowling's record number of rejections before HP found a publisher and out sold the Bible.

So that's that. I'm not overly hung up about my first novel not making it to a book store near you - plenty of first attempts (the majority, probably) don't end up with a snazzy cover design and a sticker saying it's part of 3 for 2 deal at Borders - I'm OK with that**. But it does mean I have to write another book if I ever want the grail of a publishing deal. That book took root in my head almost 4 years ago. Ten thousand words of it have been resting peacefully in My Documents even since.

And so I have thrown caution - that is, financial security - to the gods and their wind and have upheavalled myself and my life to actually go write the bloody thing, just get it out of my system, if, for nothing else, to prove that the first one wasn't a fluke.

Fate may have thrown me a dismembered hand in the form of getting sacked from my appointment at a posh private boys' school in Sydney (a tedious story for another day - and no, I didn't do anything wrong, just not enough right, apparently - well, no, it was dodgier than that...), but never-the-less, I like a sign (and preferably a bright, colourful neon one) and this one said 'Blakkat, it's time you made some big changes and go after the life you actually want, get a day job you can abide and write that God damn book you only started four years ago and have been threatening to write ever since'. A couple of the bulbs were out, but I got the message.

So here I am, back in the Sunshine State, on the Sunshine Coast and in my mother's spare room. Officially living back at home like the typical Gen Xer I'm touted to be. Or maybe that's Gen Y, which is evidence of even more short-comings and certain amount of immaturity on my behalf. I'm jobless and most of my friends are still in Sydney, including my boyfriend who still doesn't know whether he's coming or going (to Colombia) and where he stands with the Immigration Department and I've had to defer my Masters of Cultural Studies at Sydney University. The upside is, I am much closer to my daughter and will now be in her life on a just about full-time basis and I have all the Queensland time I need - and a brand new second-hand desk - to write that God damn book. As a large majority of the God damn book is set on the Sunshine Coast Hinterland, it's also handy from a research POV, too.

And I won't pretend that it's not torture either. There are days when every tap of the key board feels like the letters are made of lead and when I do finally get something resembling a paragraph, it's either trundled off down cliche avenue or it's so obviously trying to be word smart and clever it just ends up killing the narrative (and are so obviously not clever to anyone who's even semi-literate). They are the moments I hate writing almost as much as I love it, but, I am the kind of person who sticks at something once I say I'm going to do it and the thought of not doing it, that is, not achieving what I've completely rearranged my life to do, is not something I can entertain right now.

I'm off travelling in South America for three months from the beginning of December, so there's a natural deadline in it as well.

* It was the niece, and now a good friend of mine (GF of a good mate that I went to acting school with) who read, loved and praised my book so effusively she passed it onto her aunt in the first place - that's how I got an agent.

** We're not talking a Miles Franklin contender here - what I wrote was a little left of chic lit, but it does have its own charms. The next one is very, very different in style and what may be loosely termed 'literary' ,if it ever makes it that far.

Footballers & Sexual Misconduct - The story that never goes away

2009-05-14T10:48:00.005+10:00

Yes, I've been absent (and cultivating an air of mystery) from this blog for some time and plenty has happened in the intervening months, but I'll get to that one day, probably this weekend, in fact. I thought, instead, as the 'Claire' gangbang revelations on the Four Corners Program and Matty Johns subsequent sacking from Channel Nine are hot topic right now, I would post an essay I wrote last year as part of my Master of Cultural Studies on this very subject. Admittedly, I have focused on AFL as a code, but the issue - that is the lack of respect for women by men who play football for a living, whatever the code - is the same. Please note, that this material is copyright and any passages lifted from this article must be cited and credited to the author (me, that is. For my full name please email me at blakkatlass@hotmail.com).

____________________________________________________

Since allegations were first sniffed out by the media in 2004, Footballers & Sexual Assault has retained the sort of word-pair association power usually reserved for couplings like salt & pepper, ebony & ivory or Columbians & cocaine. As with this last example, the partnership is certainly not applicable in the majority of cases, but there is never-the-less more than a line of truth in it and, for the rest, the taint remains by affiliation. An affiliation with violence against women is something the AFL - as a corporate entity (in collaboration with other institutions) – has developed a player-training program¹, an interactive educational DVD² and a ‘Respect and Responsibility Policy’3 in a bid to rid of. The development of these player-centred strategies to curb what the media-eating public perceives as a big, sordid problem has kept university faculties4, the Victorian Government and Police, women’s groups and assorted committees well occupied, but it remains to be seen whether all or any of these measures will create actual institutionalised change in a sporting culture where misogyny is as molded into the fabric as tight shorts and revelled in like Mad Monday.

In his article, Football, Culture and Sexual Assault (2005) - a lengthy, intelligent and reasoned dissertation on the subject – Ian Warren highlights this particular problem by saying, “Greater education for young, naïve athletes, emphasising the value of women in football beyond their exploitation as tools of recreational enjoyment, juxtaposes problems of male group culture and female temptresses” (2005: 140). In fact, most public discourse on the subject over the last four years, which has spanned the spectrum of television, online and print medias, has failed to move much past the problem of ‘female temptresses’ at all. Quoting Warren again, “Masculinity, fame, athleticism, and notoriety feed discussions of female attraction to football. Innuendo highlights ‘loose women’ and groupies compiling records of sexual conquest like kicks on Melbourne Cricket Ground wing” (2005:135). Discussions on ‘female attraction to football’ themselves, however, are worth examining for the ways in which they put up reasoned arguments for deflecting responsibility for the sometimes brutal and abhorrent sexual practices of individual players and how they fail to recognise that these young men - under the influence of culturally entrenched hyper-masculinity (and alcohol) – become versed in misogyny and willingly participate in practices conceived to humiliate or degrade those whom they negotiate sexual relations with.

Never at a loss for a bad word, The Sunday Mail recently - and blatantly - headlined, ‘Sexual attacks blamed on fans’ (Oct 10, 2008). Citing a Deakin University study, co-authored by Dr Kim Toffoletti and Dr Peter Mewett, it was found and put into tabloid speak, that ‘Female football supporters blame predatory fans for seducing high profile players accused of sexual misconduct’ (Oct 10, 2008). The research, dubbed as ‘startling’ by reporter Clair Weaver, revealed ‘groupies who “throw themselves” at footballers in nightclubs are viewed as responsible for inciting alleged rapes and sexual assaults’ (Oct 10, 2008). What the study also revealed, which The Sunday Mail omitted, was that “female fans held complex, often contradictory, views about sexual misconduct by footballers” (Sept 30, 2008) so that while, as Dr Toffoletti explained, female football supporters did perceive that “a victim could be complicit in their own abuse… players were also seen to be part of the problem” (Sept 30, 2008). The reasons offered by the women interviewed ranged from elite footballers believing ‘they were entitled to women and could do whatever they liked’ with alcohol and team bonding seen as prime factors in ‘cultivating this behaviour’. Other contributors included, such behaviours being ‘part of the man’s biological make up’ as well as being a by-product of ‘team pressure’. Not so surprisingly, the study also found that, “Fans believed that club culture also plays a part, suggesting that initiatives that address player attitudes toward women are a step in the right direction” (Sept 30, 2008).

As band wagons go, The Sunday Mail’s alacrity to highlight the conundrum of ‘loose’, predatory women as being at the root of all sexual misconduct by men is tired one, albeit with a long, seemingly logical and credentialed history. ‘Hell hath no fury like a groupie scorned’ (June 15, 2006) opines – and scorns – sports journalist Jaqueline Magnay from The Sydney Morning Herald. Barely concealing her contempt for this subset of her own sex, that is, girls “who shamelessly describe themselves as groupies”, Magnay says, “Their unrelenting quest is to bed a football hunk, preferably one of those higher up the desirability scale, to have their own status fly sky-high... These women”, Magnay generalizes, “ - usually in their 20s, pampered and indulged – are used to getting their own way.” The scathing continues further on, “Despite all the evidence showing that the blokes rarely enter a permanent relationship with a groupie – preferring links with women met at school or through friends – their aggressive efforts to be the chosen one continue unabated. To progress from a footy chick to a footy wife is to achieve instant fabulousness, and win the golden award for perseverance along the way” (June 15, 2008). It is precisely these arguments - dished up as popular opinion with the added appeal to reason - however, that can’t move past groupies being the augmenters of their own fates and rapes and in doing so fail to hold individual players as being accountable for their own decisions. The fact is ‘these women’ never stood a chance in a culture that systematically compartmentalises and demeans women for the purpose of servicing men’s egos. “There is a notion,” feminist and social commentators Deborah Hindley and Tara ‘sorry-I-curve-there’ Brabazon write, “that if women are involved in the footballing codes – rugby league, soccer or AFL in particular – they must be groupies, consenting to sex with their celebrity sporting heroes. Women’s roles in sport are written for them before they pull out the pom poms or paint their faces: supportive Brownlow wives, soccer mums or sexually available flakes” (2004, May 4).

Even groupies come in all shapes, cup-sizes and motivations and it is unlikely that the woman who willingly offers an orifice as a victory cup to be passed around from player to player sees herself as the next Rebecca Twigley – Chris Judd’s lithe lady in red at the 2006 Brownlows. Arguments involving low self-esteem, father issues and previous sexual abuse might well be valid for explaining a girl’s willingness to bed an entire football team, but if that was her intention and she enjoyed the experience, then there is little room for condemnation, however distasteful the serial monogamist majority might find it. If she is aware of how little she matters as a person during a team-bonding group sex exercise, she may simply not care - the visceral experience, thrill of sexual association, groupie credibility and, possibly, even actual sexual pleasure are probably more than enough reasons to justify the multiple encounter. For it is a gifted lady, indeed, who has the stamina (and the stomach) to offer the whole bevy commiserative blowjobs after a grand final loss, but that, according to one ex-player - who denied participation but still begged not to be name - is exactly what happened in 1996. Around 15 players were consoled accordingly and perhaps learned something about staying power at the same time.

Less titillating, yet still illustrative, the same ex-player offered accounts of ‘away from home’ girls who could be counted on with the summons of a text message and others who willingly extended invitations to team mates merely passing by the bedroom door. The only story to which the player admitted personal involvement – perhaps because of his own perceived blamelessness, even though he was married at the time – was the night a fellow teammate came back to their shared hotel room (the player himself having already gone to bed) with two girls and proclaimed, “Hey *****, I’ve got something for you.” The extraneous girl then got into bed with the player and they did what came naturally. He knew neither her name or, through not turning the lights on, what she looked like. The generic nature of these off-field shenanigans would suggest that these seemingly sexually savvy women, or the majority there of - ‘who throw themselves at players’ and who could not consent more if they charged an admission fee - are only bringing the sexual conduct of players to the attention of the police, the media and the public when it is warranted. As a group though, they are certainly marking their fair share for the unpalatable, sometimes criminal, behaviour of some players and, in the most venerable of misogynist traditions, are being blamed for leading otherwise good men astray. The trick, of course, to blaming and shaming these women - or any homogenous group we like to vilify - is to metaphorically keep the lights off and not give these women a face, a name or any distinguishing personality features beyond being a stupid slut.

The 2006 documentary, Footy Chicks, was an attempt to put a face to a groupie and shed some personalising limelight on these women, that is, girls – with names like Erika and Christine - who seek out sexual liaisons with football players. In terms of what one would expect from such a documentary, Footy Chicks pretty much covered the whole ground: there were in-depth interviews with two groupies, one NRL - Erika, the other AFL - Christine, and an NRL cheerleader - Hayley; as well as professional sound bites from a former player, David Millwood; Gender Studies lecturers, Dr Clifton Evers and Dr Catherine Lumby and Karen Willis from the rape crisis centre. There was no demonising or moralising and the girls were shown to be equal parts sexually ambitious and vulnerable – that is, not always emotionally blasé about their pursuit of footballer booty. In contrast to the popular media, the documentary seems to align itself with an orthodox feminist view, which says if a girl likes having sex with lots of men – footballers or no – then why shouldn’t she? Just make sure you use protection and pay no mind to the ‘pig on a spit’ and ‘mattress-back’ labels. The problem is, as Dr Lumby points out in Footy Chicks, “women who enjoy sex are seen as lesser human beings”. A little simplified, given the general popularity of sex – even for its own sake - amongst women. The clause I would add is, women who enjoy having sex with many or multiple partners are seen as lesser human beings.

Not all feminists, however, are willing to toe the ‘if it’s good for the goose, why shouldn’t the gander?’ line. Largely because when it comes to footballers and sex, women and men are playing on a very lopsided field to begin with and when sex is as available as oxygen, the sexual veneration most women enjoy amongst ordinary species of men becomes virtually null and void in the skewed sphere of elite football. Germaine Greer has no compunctions using the term ‘rape fodder’ to describe women who “climb through ventilators to get into toilets” and who “will perform any sexual service no matter how debasing” (March 23, 2004). Greer in ‘Grubby sex has just become a bit nosier’5 (March 23, 2004) - which was published in the Fairfax media only days after St Kilda’s Steven Milne and Leigh Montagna6 were named in sexual assault allegations – argues that footballers behaving badly is inevitable and immutable. “One of the most important mechanisms for binding any company of men involves shared transgression and mutual guilt… there is nothing new about “roasting”, the sharing out of eager women between sportsmen, nothing new about the women feeling humiliated and used, nothing new about the contempt and hostility that sportsmen who are abusing complaisant women express (March 23, 2004)”. What seemed to be lost on many who read the article and blogged their outrage accordingly, is that Greer was not expressing her contempt for ‘these desperate creatures’, she is rather highlighting, in the most demeaning terms, the way these girls are viewed by the men who use and abuse them: a point that was glossed over, or deliberately side-stepped, in Footy Chicks.

Although the contribution of alcohol was rightly considered in Footy Chicks as was the murkiness of what can constitute consent, what was missed when it comes to actual sexual assault – and is absent from most media debates on the subject – was the issue of naivety on the part of some young woman who find themselves in the company of, and simultaneously celebrity struck, by young, virile football players (who can be as equally naïve). Not every groupie is a wizened good time gal and not every woman who fancies good height and tight buns in a team jersey is prepared to join parts in a sexual factory line or is wanting to tick off another team number on her ‘to do’ list. More often than is credited by the groupie-sneering media, naïve girls give their alcohol-induced consent, which is predicated on the hope of something more than a one-night stand with a good-looking footballer. She may have already decided what colour gown she fantatises about wearing to the Brownlows, or she may not, but if she doesn’t know the deal with footballers then she may find herself in deeper – by two or three players, sometimes – than she knows how to deal with. And it is by this stage, or perhaps in the aftermath of it all, that the humiliation sets in for the girl who now realises she was no more than a sperm extractor and Johnny Football is no more interested in her as a person than he is in learning how to crochet.

Consider the case of a woman who agreed to accompany a player to his hotel room and have sex with him. The sex having been had, the player told the woman he was going to out to get something and would be back shortly. The player never returned. What ensued was a charge of sexual assault – not because the woman was raped or subjected to a particular act she didn’t consent to – but because she felt used and humiliated. An emotionally fuelled over-reaction, yes, – the charges were quickly dismissed - but it is demonstrative of the way women, even when physical violence does not become part of the agenda, are regarded and treated by a large subset of elite footballers. The presence of actual sexual assault or violence is just a far more obvious and insidious demonstration of the objectification of women in this context and the lack of empathy and respect women garner from their sporting idols.

In 2004 – the season of footballers and sexual assault allegations – following on the heels of the Milne and Montagna scandal, another woman came forward, alleging she was gang raped by two AFL players in an Adelaide park in 2002. The Bulletin (March 30, 2004) – quoting Melbourne’s Herald Sun – reported that a $200,000 payout was made to the woman, who said “she was drugged, then raped and sexually assaulted, by two AFL players.” Some insider hearsay, by an elite former player (who is in no way was connected to the case) but who claims to be privy ‘to what really happened’ spins the story another way. The woman in question consented to sex (with at least one player) and both she and the player convened to a nearby park. Alcohol was involved, naturally, as was the great outdoors, two other players - who were, for the time being at least, relegated to spectatorship - and the cover of darkness. What she didn’t consent to, so the story was retold, was intercourse via another portal, which the player chose to use anyway. The truth, of course, is as allusive as anal sex to garden-variety heterosexual men, but the case itself is a can of worms whichever sorry tale you choose to accept. Worm 1, being the wriggly line of what was consented to and what wasn’t; Worm 2, was this sexual assault or humiliation after the fact or both? (with the comfort of possible monetary compensation?); and Worm 3, shouldn’t these players know better and are they stupid or what?

No, they don’t know better - unless they’re explicitly told otherwise - is the professional opinion of Michael Hall, a former policeman of 23 years and now a behavioural consultant whom The Bulletin (2004, March 30) credits with informing “just about every NRL and AFL player” on sexual assault and who has, reiterates The Daily Telegraph, “lectured thousands of professional football players from all codes on acceptable forms of behaviour” (Sept 17, 2008). Writing for TDT, with their feel for the inflammatory, Hall says, “When it comes to sexual assault, footballers can be misunderstood – and anyone who thinks differently must be living a very sheltered life. Now hear me out…” While making sure not to excuse violence against women, Hall is of the ‘rotten apple’ school of thought and is quick to reassure us all that, “… there is nothing overly offensive or shocking about football players. They are no worse than anyone else of that age group when it comes to alcohol, drugs and sexual assault…” (Sept 17, 2008). Building a career out of lecturing elite footballers on the ins & outs of sexual assault, however, would appear to flatly contradict this claim. Micheal Moller, researcher (NRL and attitudes toward women) and gender studies lecturer at The University of Sydney, claims “A great deal of critical and popular material on male athletes, sexual violence and their attitudes towards women holds that professional team-sport athletes are more likely to act violently towards women than the general population of young men” (2008: 16). As to why this is, Messner (2005), an American sociologist, writes “There is no single factor that explains how male athletes come to assault women… Rather, a combination of several group-based factors create a context that makes violence likely: misogynist and homophobic dominance bonding, a learned suppression of empathy for others, a “culture of silence” within the group, and an institutional environment that valorizes and rewards the successful utilization of violence against others” (2005: 318).

Without those conditions then and without the ample opportunities available to them - particularly those ‘in which females are willing to accommodate numerous men at the same time’ (Sept 17, 2008) as Hall puts it - footballers probably ‘are no worse than anyone else of that age group’. Focusing purely on the opportunistic then, Hall sees his role as instructing these guys on ‘Where do you draw the line?’. “In terms of sexual behaviour, I teach them exactly what rape is, what sexual penetration is and what indecent assault is. I give them instances and examples of each of those and give them practical advice, tell them how to avoid finding themselves in those circumstances, and if they are, how to make a quick exit.” What advice would Hall give his pupils in regards to video footage that was circulating depicting a 17 year old girl who had been urged into role-playing various pornographic scenarios with multiple players/partners? Upon receiving a copy of his team mates’ amateur filmmaking efforts, the ex-player who related this questionable venture, advised the player who passed it on to him to get rid of it on the pronto. The girl, now in her mid 20s, recently contacted (via Facebook) the former footballer who disclosed this story, to express her gratitude to him for never treating her or using her like the other players did. There is so much more to this problem than just consent.

As Hall is working in a forward position his work is commendable, however, he is primarily focusing on behaviour management, that is, the outward manifestations of football players treating women as sexual accessories. Hall is about player self-preservation, he’s not calling into the question the first-place premise of women being considered objects or property by elite sportsmen, the ways in which women are characterised within these settings and the attitudes that stem from these fundamental assumptions.

Sport sociologist, Dr Drummond (2008) makes a similar point in regards to the AFL’s recent ‘interactive DVD’ release which has been ‘designed to improve player attitudes to women’ (Feb 2008). While he supports the idea, and commends the AFL for being serious about the matter, he says that, “it needs to be part of a more comprehensive and ongoing approach” and “a change in the overall culture of AFL clubs is paramount and leadership must come from senior players within the clubs… a simple DVD in isolation is too easy to walk away from; there are 17 -18 year old boys who are likely to giggle and laugh about it and then just walk away… What we want to do is create young men who are understanding and respectful in all different forms” (Feb 2008). The producer of Footy Chicks, Michaela Perske, in an interview for The 7.30 Report (2006, June 13) doesn’t see change being that instantaneous either, saying “I think it will take about another one to two generations to actually see that change because you’ve also got to get rid of a whole lot of deadwood… it takes sort of two or three generations to change a culture.”

It also takes an all hands on deck approach to change a culture. “Extensive collaboration,” Warren (2005) concludes in his own work on the subject, “between the leagues, players’ associations and various federal, state and local organizations are leading to detailed codes of conduct over this problematic issue.” (2005: 142). Since 2005, the AFL has certainly made a genuine show of wanting to implement long term change in the actual attitudes of players towards women. Chief Executive Officer of the AFL, Andrew Demetriou, is most confident in the measures the AFL is taking – particularly as regards its ‘Responsibility and Respect Policy’3, of which he says, “The Policy’s strength lies in its recognition that real change will depend on tackling the culture at a number of levels. In particular it will be about changing attitudes… and will include educating all of our players, executives, coaches, support staff and board members about respect – respect for themselves, for their relationships and respect for the women (and men) around them” (2006-08:1).

When asked, the same former player - who generously and candidly offered his most lurid and confidential anecdotes for this paper - did believe that the player education that has been implemented so far ‘has been effective’ and that with the penalties being so severe, that is, the threat of suspensions, fines and dismissals, it ‘is more trouble than what it’s worth’. “Heavy fines, victim compensation orders, mandatory deregistration, and compulsory player educational programs” (2005: 142), are all being employed to tackle the problem head-on, but – to quote Warren again because he puts it so succinctly - “The impact of these measures in preventing future cases of sexual assault and related anti-social behavior remains to be seen and is best evaluated with ongoing informed critical research” (2005: 142). However, there is certainly enough interest, initiative, public awareness and actual groundwork (much of it from academics in Gender Studies departments) being done to be optimistic about long-term change within this particular sporting culture and salt & pepper don’t have to go together, either.

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Notes
¹ A media release on March 23, 2005 from the Minister for Women’s Affairs in Victoria announced that the State Government, Victoria Police and the AFL had developed a training program for AFL players, which was aimed to improve ‘understanding of sexual violence and encouraging respectful behaviours’. The initiative was endorsed by the minister for women’s affair, Mary Delahunty.
² In February 2008 the AFL also released an ‘interactive DVD’ aimed at improving player attitudes to women.
3 The Respect and Responsibility Policy which the AFL established with VicHealth can be accessed via the official AFL website under ‘Women & Girls’ which in turn is accessed via the ‘Development’ tab. According to the site, ‘The Respect & Responsibility Policy’ represents the Australian Football League’s commitment to addressing violence against women and to work towards creating safe, supportive and inclusive environments for women across the football industry as well as in the broader community.’ The 6 key components of the program are:-
1. The introduction of model anti-sexual harassment and anti-sexual discrimination procedures across the AFL and its 16 Clubs
2. The development of organisational policies and procedures to ensure a safe, supportive and inclusive environment for women
3. Changes to AFL rules relating to ‘Conduct Unbecoming’ which cover the specific context of allegations of sexual assault
4. Education of AFL players and other club officials with avenues for dissemination of the program to the community level being explored
5. The dissemination of model policies and procedures at the community club level; and,
6. The development of a public education campaign.

The site also explains the aims and means of the player education program with links to several PDF documents available for download, including the ‘Practical Education Respect and Responsibility booklet’ which is has been designed specifically for clubs and players.

The Respect and Responsibility Program also includes as 48 page document entitled ‘Building cultures of respect & non-violence’ prepared by Drs Sue Dyson & Micheal Flood from La Trobe University, which reviews the literature available, outside of football cultures, that deals with anti-violence initiatives and violence prevention programs already in place throughout the wider community.
4 A Working Group on Sexual Assault and Football convened by Professor Jenny Morgan from The University Melbourne Law Faculty, for example, drafted a 12 page ‘Discussion document re development of AFL response to the issue of violence against women’. Much of the measures outlined in the document mirror those in set out by the AFL in their Respect and Responsibility Program, but it is unclear whether the UM discussion document or the UM Law Faculty were officially involved in the development of the R&R Policy.
5 Greer’s central point in ‘Grubby sex has just become noisier’ is that the only thing that has changed in terms of footballers and ‘grubby sex’ is that women are more willing to speak out now and are less ashamed of admitting they consented to sex with one player, but not necessarily another. She credits this trend to the ‘indecent amounts of money’ that are ‘sloshing around’ and that is available for redress in cases of sexual assault, where often the law fails.
5 Stephen Milne and Leigh Montagna from the St Kilda football club were accused of sexual assault by two women who had gone to one of the player’s home. The allegations came only weeks after the NRL Canterbury Bulldogs were embroiled in a gang rape scandal, but were eventually dropped. The St Kilda football club took the unusual step of naming the players involved (in contrast to the NRL and its code of silence surrounding players named in sexual assault allegations).

Part 3

2009-02-25T20:15:00.005+11:00

Part 3 explains my prolonged absence from this blog. Part 3 was the 'happily financially solvent' ending to the saga in which I got the job. A taxi happened to pull up on the opposite side of the street just as I was placing a phone call to convey to the same poor woman who set up the interview my distress at housemate's starter motor (we found out later) not doing what it's supposed to do - namely start the ute. So one convenient taxi, not a moment too late, and an hour and a half interview later and I must have said something right or showed just the right amount of leg in that satiny side-splitted skirt to get the job. A job that happened to come with a $27 000/per annum pay rise, I found out later.

There was a catch (or catches, rather) to the $27 000 pay rise, which I discovered soon enough. A 27 000% increase in what's expected of you, workload wise. What a manic little kingdom of elitist education this place is. Drive to Bowral and back in a day for a Saturday 'morning' cricket match for 10 year old boys? Yep, that'd be the catch right there. 7am cricket training on a Tuesday morning where my only role is to mark the roll? Yep, there's another catch. Surprise 'Professional Development' meetings every other week after 3pm. Another catch. A curriculum programme so convoluted and groaning under the weight of its own jargon that no one in the whole bloody school can get their head around it, let alone us 5 new junior school teachers (high staff turnover ring any alarms?). So far, I've had about 8 parent interviews (usually at 7:30am) and it's not even official parent interview time. They just want to let me know 'what their concerns are' and what I am doing about them after only 4 weeks in the job. BUT, I've only had one meltdown, so far, and only one bout with the CFS this month, so all-in-all, I'm staying on top of things. And today I ordered a handbag online that I'd never in my wildest ever imagined I'd ever spend that much money on a vanity item on (excluding dresses and shoes, that is). It was still on sale though - half price. If you're in the market for handbags, btw, I'd recommend Urban Originals. And I can still do this and not be down to my last $10 the day before payday anymore. So like all slaves to the wage, I'm justifying my slapped up marriage to the job and my newborn workaholic tendencies on terms like 'financial security' and 'at least I can get a bit of moolah together now' and 'finally, I'll be able to save for that extended holiday to South America'. And donate a little bit more than $2 to the bushfire appeal. Stuff like that.

So pros go something like this: money, fantastic, friendly colleagues, money, view of Harbour Bridge and iconic Sydney landmarks from staffroom (staffroom with a view), money, sounds good when I say 'I'm a teacher at ....' (in a snooty Eastern suburbs way, that is), lunch provided everyday, and ah, money. Cons: Boys, all boys, no girls, expectations of teaching superpowers from parents with average to below average boys who are paying the GDP of a small Pacific nation to send their said average boy to snooty private boys school, the aforementioned crazy curriculum and the school's bid to be officially 'authorised' this year in crazy curriculum method (actually, it is a very, very good teaching methodology/
curriculum/programme - but by God, there will be carnage on the path to authorisation. Another teacher down, sir.) Oh, and the cricket thing. Especially as I don't own a car and I'm supposed to go to Parramatta for the game this weekend. But we all forge on and, oh that's right, the money. Have I mentioned the pay rise? Yeah, so stop bloody whinging then. I even had my wallet stolen a couple of weeks ago - in Coles (You'll love Coles!*) - with $250 in it and I could still afford to eat, even after that set back. Once upon a public school job, a loss of $250 would have meant a diet of baked beans (Coles brand, no less) for a month. Of course, I couldn't get any money out of my account for a week afterwards because I was sans ATM cards and was dependent on the kindness of housemates for a fittie dollar loan or two, but just knowing there was money in the bank, well, I'm still adjusting to the novelty of it. And no guilt trips please about current world economic crises etc because she works damn hard for the money...

* You'll love Coles! I love the way I put $100 worth of groceries through the checkout, then put my hand in my crappy $10 handbag and discover someone else has already put their hand in my crappy $10 handbag and nicked my Emily Strange (with blackcats) wallet with all its personal & monetary contents and the guy at the checkout says to me, by way of being helpful, 'Just leave the trolley there'. Blakkat, pissed-off and upset former Coles customer

Part 2

2009-01-21T20:12:00.004+11:00

Wednesday – Oh yes, I was struggling to keep some semblance of composure at 9am when the bell rang, after having been subjected to some work place bullying, ahem, I meant constructive criticism. Without success. I went out to the assembly area, clearly not in possession of my usual fake cheery disposition. My colleague and fellow Year One teacher noticed that something was amiss and promptly organised for my cherubs and her cherubs to go with the other remaining Year One teacher and his cherubs to watch a DVD or whatever you do when you suddenly find yourself in charge of around seventy 6-7 yr olds. Back in my classroom, I outlined what the problem was and she offered to go and talk to the principal and do a bit of leg work for me. Legwork having been done, she came back with the bad news that asking my AP to be a referee was probably not going to yield the sort glowing recommendation that one would hope for when trying to present your best side for a new job. I knew it.

In the meantime, I rang my direct supervisor and another AP at home (being that she was sick) and told her what was going on. Between sobs, I asked if she would mind being a referee and a positive one at that – she was happy (in a reserved way) to do that, but she did think that I should probably go and ask the other AP anyway. I told her that I’d been at Where-did-that-knife-come-from? Public School long enough to know that even if said AP said she would say the right thing she couldn’t actually be trusted to do so, to which my direct supervisor agreed. When I say this other AP is known as the Witch of WPS, there is a reason and I am certainly not the only one in the history of WPS to have felt the full force of her irrational vindictiveness. With little else to do about it, I went over to the Year One demountable and retrieved my share of kiddie-winks to take them back to the goldfish bowl. Children don’t miss much and it was inevitable that they would ask me what was wrong. I told them my grandmother died. When? How? Why? They asked.

I honestly couldn’t see any way around the problem. I simply had no choice – I rang the lady who set up the interview in the first place to tell her I couldn’t go to the interview this afternoon. She didn’t answer, so I left a message asking her to call me back. She did, but unfortunately I was in the middle of doing a maths lesson (a last minute scramble to finish some odd pages in the Year One maths textbook). It wasn’t until about noon that I managed to get a hold of her and explain the situation to her. She had other ideas about me not going to the interview, however. Who else could I ask to be a referee?, she asked. Plenty of people, I replied. Well go and ask them, she said.

So that’s what I resolved to do. Only problem was that this was the designated day for the annual P&C lunch for the teachers that is held at one of the very well-to-do parents’ house just across the way from the school. I’d already decided that I wouldn’t be partaking this year, as I just didn’t think I could bear it and as much as I’d usually contemplate swimming through shark invested waters and then running through a burning building for smoked salmon, today I was quite happy to give it miss. But in order to go and ask who I needed to ask to be a referee, I would have to go over there anyway.

I tapped her on the shoulder and asked if I could speak to her. We retreated to one of the bedrooms and I told her the story. Being a friend as well as a colleague she was not only more than happy to be a referee, she rang the other lady on the spot and proceeded to say many nice things about working with me and my work ethic. Crisis averted, I had two referees now. Now I just had to get through the Kris Kringle thing after school, pull myself together and head to the interview at 4:30pm.

For the afternoon session I stuck on a DVD so I could distribute all the kids’ books and put them into piles for them to take home. The TD had already sorted most of their other booklets for me, so it wouldn’t take too long. At 2:45, I was gearing up to hand out all the neat little piles of books I’d made in an orderly fashion, when a small group of my mothers walked in – the mothers who have supported me through out the whole year and whose daughters love me, incidentally. They came bearing gifts, which I opened in front of the kids - some exquisite body scrub and matching bath tea leaves, a Myer gift voucher and a Swarovski Crystal red apple pendant on a leather necklace – to match my tattoo. Very, very touched, I was - as if the day hadn’t been emotional enough already.

This goes with...

...this (I can feel an ad jingle coming on)

The kids having fled, the ESL teacher came and dragged me into the staffroom for the Kris Kringle gig. I was hoping my absence would go unnoticed. She had other ideas, especially as she was my not-so-Secret Santa and she’d chosen my present with love and care. It was perfect – she not only got the size right, she got the colour right, too, bless her heart. I excused myself just before 4pm to get myself ready for the interview.

I had borrowed my housemate’s ute, as he was away, so I didn’t have to do the public transport thing. Only problem was, the ute was as dead as my figurative grandmother and no amount of key turning and foot-pumping on the accelerator was going to change that…

A syndrome by any other name

2009-01-16T12:55:00.001+11:00

At least now I have a name for and a medically certified excuse for not giving a rodent's backside about keeping this blog humming. There's even a syndrome for it - being chronically fatigued and terminally tired, that is. CFS or Myalgic Encephalomyelitis as it goes by now. More pronounceably - 'Yuppie flu'. Whatever you call it, it's really not very pleasant and extremely demotivating. Given the year I just dragged myself through, it's not particularly surprising that I've obtained a syndrome that feels like you're stuck in a Groundhog day of coming down with the flu - sore throat, muscle pain, enlarged lymph nodes, headaches and debilitating exhaustion included.

On a whim I went to the Sunshine Coast and got really busy doing nothing. Nothing except letting the big blue ocean crash over me everyday, reading the Dexter series of books and hanging with the TD (teenage daughter). Exercise must now be taken in moderation. No more body attack/pump doubles. Classes must only be taken one at a time. When I have the energy to do so, that is. Some miscommunicaton between me and Jetstar means I missed my flight last night and I must resign myself to a whole lot more nothing until I can fly home on Monday now. Dang.

The Colombian man-boy didn't speak to me for two weeks. He thought I was being rude to him. I tried to explain that I was being very sick, not being very rude, that night at his place, two weeks ago. Just because I waved feebly and smiled instead of SAYING 'Good Morning' does not mean I was 'treating him like a dog'. Apparently he thought I was lying about being sick so I wouldn't have to tell him I was going to Queensland. He didn't call for over a week -that was the week I decided to go to Qld. He says I'm passive-aggressive. Maybe, but he's the master at it.

My best friend - or one of them, a male one - came up to see me from Brisbane. We took the TD down to Mooloolaba and lunched on the Esplanade as you do when time and sunshine are on your side. We laid under that sun, over looking that big blue ocean again and he told me, not for the first time, that he loved me. Loved me in the meaning of marriage and babies, that is, not just as a friend of almost 10 years standing. I always tell him it's just because he's lonely and he hasn't had any for a while. He says that's not it and why am I denying it? Our destiny, that is. He's likes that kind of thing - destiny, the spirit, feelings. An incurable romantic. What else would you expect from an actor who is the product of a Catholic missionary mother (and artist) and a Torres Straight Islander father? But yes, love him, I do. It makes beautiful sense on paper, but I've just never put him in that frame. We're risking our friendship, is my standard response to his persistent overtures. We look good together, he points out. He is a majestic looking man - tall, dark and dignified, but I still don't see it. He would have to give up smoking for starters. He asks when I'm going to give up the Latino toy boy. He has a point and maybe it is over - it's not like the toy boy has bothered to call. But I guess you wouldn't call to see how your girlfriend was feeling if you thought she was making it up in the first place.

I will stay at his place Sunday night in Brisbane before my rescheduled flight on Monday. Past experience tells me this is risky - he likes to 'cuddle', but I'll do it anyway. The Colombian man-boy is speaking to me again, but I'm growing tired of his adolescent ways and I'm just bloody tired in general, so it's likely I won't give a sweet stuff pretty soon whether he speaks to me again or not, in English or Spanish.

Fare thee well 2008 and don't bother coming back - Part 1

2009-01-07T05:08:00.001+11:00

I wrote this one three weeks ago, but ran out of steam to finish it - some gentle urging by Lad Litter however, has inspired me to post it - as is. So let's call this post, Part 1 and I'll get to working on Part 2 right away...

2008, by gawd, let it rest in pieces. You know you sometimes have one of those years that lurch from chaotic, to tragic, to hell and all the way back again to purgatory. It was one of those years. Not that it sucked in its entirety, but still, I will be v. gleeful to see the arse-end of 2008 out through a blur of alcohol, high voltage tunes and chemical mood enhancers on NYE. In chronological order then these would be reasons why 2008 will be the year I'd be happy never to remember:-

NYE 2007 - sodden, rain-soaked, tent-drenched, mud-smeared NYE at Woodford Folk Festival abandoned. Early night sharing bed with teenage daughter in campervan at Dad's house considered a better - by virtue of its dryness - option. Auspicious start, to be sure.

January 2008 - start work on a Year 1 class at Where-did-that-knife-come-from? Public School or WPS for short. Principal says I'll only be there 3 weeks. Principal is certified, long term of 60 plus years standing a-hole.

Living in cramped, slanty floored apartment in Coogee. Flatmate/friend announces he's moving to Brisbane, after reassuring me he'd be around until at least March. Never mind. Advertise for new flatty. Find sun-shiny, blonde, wide-eyed 18 yr old girl. She's cute and happy and will out most nights dancing salsa. Perfect.

February,March, April 2008 - Three weeks turns into a term. Still not offered contract. Therefore no sick pay, no holiday pay and no recognition of service to count towards any future pay rises.

May, June 2008 - Back for round two. Finally offered contract, but only for term 2. New student arrives in my class. Newly arrived from NZ, she was originally placed in a Year 2 but it was soon apparent that she was not academically or socially ready to be in Year 2. Child quickly starts displaying frequent and concerning anti-social behaviours. Child referred to school counsellor by me. Am given another new child. Not a behaviour problem, but essentially can't read and is an ESL child. All part of the job.

Salsa dancing 18 yr old flatmate with an aversion to dishwashing liquid announces she's moving back to Canberra because she misses her boyfriend too much. Have to find new flatty or move out. Opt to move into house with friends. Find wicked, affordable house in Bondi (good thing). Move house. Moving is stressful, even if the destination is entirely worth it.

Start seeing Spanish teacher - the Colombian man-boy. Nothing too complicated, but he does like to bite. Ouch.

July 2008 - Term 3 begins. Finally offered contract for the rest of the year. Yay, some holiday pay and some paid mental health days, should I need. Another new kid. This one is bright but it soon becomes apparent that he, too, 'does not play well with others'. Three other boys are also exhibiting a wide range of 'difficult' and 'challenging' behaviours. Suspect at least one, maybe two, might be hovering down the aspergers end of the autism spectrum. Symptoms are v. suspicious at any rate. The feeling of hating my job is starting to creep up on me.

Start my Master of Cultural Studies as Syd uni. I know it will be extra yakka, but at least it will harden up the mush my brain has turned into teaching Year One and there won't be a 6 yr old in sight.

August, September 2008 - Class is getting harder and harder to control. It's rare that I actually don't like a child but the girl with the bogan-spelled name from Auckland, NZ is the most unlikeable child I've encountered in 14 years of teaching. How does a 7 yr old become an A-grade bitch? This thing has got bullying down pat. She name calls, she teases, she hits, she lies, she says sexually inappropriate things, she's manipulative, she swears, she kicks, she pushes. She's a fucking nightmare and I'm stressed to sleep-deprived eyeballs.

Teenage daughter has another bout of vomiting and diarrhoea that goes on for three days. The third one is as many months. Father & I converse and crinkle brows alike over offspring's condition. Doctor is at a loss.

Another new arrival, a bit later in the term. A big, strapping Polish boy with not a word of English. Family has taken up residency at the Polish consulate down the road. He cries and throws tantrums for a week. I can't move him off the couch. And then the culture shock wears off and I've got the daddy of all behaviour problems on my hand. I've already got 4 of them on individual behaviour programs, with a fifth one pending, but this one makes the others look like amateurs. A creative child, he easily turns hat stands, chairs, rulers and mobilo into bazookas and other assorted violent arsenal. He may not know any English but he knows the sound an AK-47 makes. I catch him shooting his 'bazooka' at a child he has sitting on chair in front of him, execution style. I blame Nintendo. He's loud, aggressive and big. There is a 10 fold increase in childhood injuries just in the vicinity of my classroom. Bogan devil-spawn or bitchface, as I've come to refer to her as, is just as unrelenting. Tears are never far away as the refrain of 'B*********** called me a poo-face/bitch/dickhead' become par for gruelling course. 'Just ignore it' is my slogan of the term.

I've exhausted every behaviour management technique in the book. Success has been limited. The only thing that really works is a bit of old fashioned yelling and screaming. I hate doing it - it's not my style - but it's all I've got. Naturally, there are a few parents who don't like it and being that my classroom is a goldfish bowl, my every move is scrutinised and criticised. I'd like to see them try it. I am clearly NOT COPING.

But, luckily I have boyfriend now, so at least I'm getting a bit to take the edge off things. A trip to the doctor for a quick STI check and maybe I'll get a prescription for the pill while I'm at it. Slightly concerned by lateness of period, but not overly. I mean surely not. My fertility, according to those who say they know, was supposed to plummet like the global economy the day I turned 34. They were wrong. My fertility system obviously doesn't know I'm 35 yet because all its parts are in perfect working order. Brief fantasies of mid-30s motherhood cloud my better judgement for a week or two, but reality wins in the end and I discover that there is a discreet little clinic on Devonshire Street in Surrey Hills for just such matters. Colombian man-boy's half-cocked plan to take our ill-gotten offspring back to Colombia to be raised without me is averted at the first minute. During my grand total of three days off - one for unrelenting morning sickness, one for the deed itself and one for recuperation - I work on a seminar presentation that I have to give the following week for uni and a job application for a position at the ABC. Dull, never.

October 2008 - It's official. I hate my job, quite passionately. When I have the energy to do so, that is. But there is a two week respite on the golden horizon. Two weeks in order to finish off an assignment for my TESOL qualification and do my research project for uni. I intend to immerse myself in the world of AFL footballers and their sex lives. Anything is preferable to being at work.

Go back for the fourth and final round, not exactly refreshed and ready, but resolved to stay on top of things and not let it turn into a trainwreck. I will be the behaviour management queen. We're off to a hectic start - I'm up first to do an assembly presentation. This means putting together a short item for the kids to perform in less than a week. Creative genius that I am, I put something together and we start practicing. Bitchface is back in fine form from the word go. I send her to my AP's room on at least 3 occasions in the first week. The first week comes to an end. The kids did a fine job of their assembly presentation and I reward them with some free play in the afternoon. Bitchface calls another child a dickhead, again. Child dobs. I'm over it. I call her over, tell her she's lost her freeplay privileges and tell her to go to timeout. Bitchface turns around and says 'My Mum and Dad have called Ms *********** to complain about you'. Whatever.

Following Monday morning, Bitchface is not at school. Revel in brief respite. Meantime, stepfather (who is a live-in funeral director in a nearby suburb and the reason the bogan family are able to send their bogan devil-spawn to a school in an area that is far, far and above their breeding, class, education and manners) rings school saying Bitchface is home today because I assaulted her on the Friday previous. Nutshell - a formal three page complaint is drafted cataloguing a list of my sins. Things I have said are taken out of context and twisted to suit their agenda. My initial referral to the counsellor is questioned under the premise that they can't see what the problem is with their bogan devil-spawn and I must be making it up. And then the allegation of assault. I pushed her over they claim and then I didn't even say sorry. The fact that I never touched the little shit and she is a serial liar was obviously never taken into consideration. This is a child who has come to school claiming her own stepfather has hit/pushed her, I might add. A claim that I dismissed as a lie at the time. A formal investigation ensues with the deputy principal nominated as the investigating officer. I sit through a formal interview process and address every single claim in the letter. A wonderful colleague sits with and metaphorically holds my hand. I then have to write a letter of response. My research assignment for uni is only due in less that two weeks, but never mind, I've still got time to write a 7 page response. It's scathing, logical and articulate. On the upside the offending child is moved to another Year One class. It's almost worth it to be rid of her. Investigation ends with an 'insubstantial evidence' conclusion. Parents are informed and also told that a DOCS report has been filed against them relating to Bitchface's claims of assault against her stepfather and the troubling sexual comments she makes to other children. A small victory, but it's taken its toll.

TD's bouts of vomiting and diarrhoea are becoming more frequent - at least once a week. She has taken a lot of days off school. Father & I continue to worry ourselves sick. She has referral to a paediatric gastrologist but the waiting list is three months.

November 2008 - The end is coming but there is a shit load to do between now and the end of term. I hand in my final research project for uni, which I think is pretty damn OK. Kids are still challenging but I'm coping and I've got the ESL teacher in the room most afternoons to help me manage the Polish brute. Another parent starts complaining about me. The usual 'my child's gifted & talented' etc and I'm not doing anything about it. I've got this boy on a behaviour book because he has the social skills of a blowfly round a pavlova. Reports are written and handed over to supervisor. It's just a matter of hanging in there now. We are asked to put in our preferences for next year. As much as I'd like to just walk away, I still need a job. Stupidly, crazily, I nominate Year One again. Really, what was I thinking.

Father of TD opts to take her to a private gastrologist instead as she is continuing to get worse. It's expensive, but at least he's thorough. He performs tests for food intolerances, he does X-rays, he even does a pregnancy test (unbeknownst to TD who I know is still in possession of her big V).

December 2008 - A few weeks later the principal comes to see me. They 'can't accommodate' me next year. I'm given some blatant bullshit story and start to worry about how I'm going to pay my rent next year. An email is sent to all the staff with the the classes everyone will be on next year. My position, that is, the Year One position in my classroom is 'TBA'. Humiliating is the only word I've got, but the outrage and support from other staff members/friends was overwhelming. Not one of my supervisors comes to see me about it or explain to me what has happened. Hung. Out. To. Dry. Decide just to keep my head up and just keep doing the job I'm still being paid to do.

Second last week of school - Make the decision not to apply for any permanent positions in other schools nearby that are going for next year. If I've learnt anything this year, it's that I don't want to be a primary school teacher and the rest of my life doing I job I despise is a bloody long time and a waste of a good life. Action plan - finish bloody TESOL qualification and get a job teaching English to adults, here or OS, it doesn't matter as long as the students are of an age where they can vote and/or drink and don't have proclivities towards rolling on the floor, yelling, grunting, farting and throwing pencils out the window. I will also pick up another subject on my Masters and do a bit of casual teaching in the interim. A lovely teacher - a casual who is not getting the arse - gives me the number of a woman who supplies private schools in the area with casuals. I update my resume and send it to this lady. That's about as proactive as it gets. Not the soundest of financial plans, but I don't care. In the meantime, another casual who is also getting the arse from WPS has been busy applying for jobs all over the place. I admire her chutzpah, but I have no desire to compete. Her efforts pay off - she is offered a year's contract at an exclusive boys private school and a permanent one in a public school. She wants permanent and accepts the later. I haven't spoken to my AP in three weeks. We were once good friends. She was the one who acted as a referee when I punched a policeman. I know she's the reason I no longer have a job.

Last week of school
Monday - Still hanging in there. 'Celebrations Assembly'. Year One perform Maypole dance. V. Cute. Parents suitably impressed. Tension between self & AP is palatable. Classroom is a bomb, but TD* is around to help me sort, chuck, recycle, rip-up and pack-up. Darling child. Lady who I sent CV to last week contacts me Monday night. Am I interested in position at v. expensive private boys school that my friend/colleague turned down? No. No way. Don't want a full time job next year. Just think about it tonight, she says, and get back to me in the morning. I do think about it. Better pay, muchly. Impressive addition to CV - get me a job in an international school OS. Facilities and resources to die for. Plenty of support staff. Treated like a professional. Potentially meet filthy rich Eastern suburbs divorcee/father who wants to marry me and I'll never have to work again. I'm not really seeing a downside here.

Tuesday - Ring lady first thing in morning to express my interest in going for the job. She's thrilled. Arrange to meet at 6pm that night for an interview. Make it through to 3pm, head into Syd uni to pick up my research assignment. Have coffee at Broadway & read lecturer's comments on essay. Got a high distinction, which means I got a HD for the whole subject. Suitably stoked. Time to head to interview. Meet with lady. Goes very well, we get along like proverbial house in flames. As I'm driving home, the head of junior school at v. expensive, private boys school contacts me. Can I come for an interview at 4:30pm the next day? Oh, and he needs two referees from WPS. Yeah, no problem, I say. Brace myself to face up to AP to ask if she'll be a referee. Surely, even if she was behind my arsing from WPS, she'd do the right thing to help me get another job? Surely.

Wednesday - Start the day with 6:30am body attack class as I won't be able to do my usual Wednesday afternoon pump/attack double. At school by 8:15, finish putting on make-up in staff bathroom. Teacher w/ permanent squeezed lemon expression comes past & we make chit-chat. She's asks me about me plans next year & I casually comment that I have an interview this afternoon for v. expensive boys school. Lemon face makes comments about my 'behaviour management' skills or apparent lack there of and it being the reason why I don't have a job at WPS next year. Yeah, that's just the sort of morale boost I need before a job interview. Bitch. Manage to hold it together for 5 minutes until she leaves. Promptly burst into tears & realise that I haven't a chance in hell of getting a positive rap from AP as her & lemon face are on the same side in the political warfare that is the culture of WPS.

Log in soon(ish) for Part 2...

And the 'Twat of the Year' goes to...

2008-10-12T13:15:00.010+11:00

It would seem that I'm now down to a post a month but at least this blog hasn't disintegrated into cyber-oblivion just yet. Anyway, I hope you're not expecting an insightful opinion piece on the downward spiral of the American economy or even a humorous 'slice of Bondi Beach life' anecdote from my jaunts around my home town. Rather, I think I'll stick to what I know best and what I know you all find so very entertaining - that's right - dumping on my ex. Again. At the very least, I thought you all deserved an update and I don't think you'll be disappointed. I know I wasn't. In fact I was overcome with the kind of joyous delirium you might expect from smoking a rare and exotic Amazonian plant brewed to ancient Inca specifications. A line of Columbia's finest couldn't have hit the spot much better than this little nugget...

A very good mate of mine who moved back to NZ about 18 months ago is over here on holiday and he stayed with me for a couple of nights. This is the same Very Good Mate who lived with me and my ex in Coogee for approximately a year. Hence he knows Boofhead quite well. So after a few wines, I gave him the break-up story, including the sequel - documented on this here blog - of the meeting, initiated by Boofhead, to smear in my face his new found love - that is, cuntstruck - did I say that? I meant engaged after a 10 week, long distance courtship and sporting permanent ink of his fiance's name in Sanskrit on his wrist. Common consensus? What a dickhead. So I'm just winding up to the whole 'and can you believe he got engaged after 10 weeks, blah, blah, blah...' and Very Good Mate announces 'Oh, didn't you know? He's not engaged anymore.' Very Good Mate knows this, of course, because he is FB friends with Boofhead, where as I am not. There was nothing else for it then than to break into Boofhead's FB profile by logging in as Very Good Mate, thereby breaking the golden FB rule for the second time this year. And I wasn't disappointed - after recovering from being knocked out by the blunt force narcissism, that is. Not only is he single again, but I came across a conversation on his wall with the ex-fiance regarding the removal or alteration of stupid tattoo. Seemed amicable enough - and I haven't a clue who initiated the bust up - but either way it still makes him my winner for 2008's prize twat of the year. Congratulations Boofhead. This is a man, btw, who feels his pecs & guns are so worthy of admiration, his FB profile picture is a full torso shot of him - sans shirt.

In other news, I am currently in the middle of procrastinating - hence the blog post - the writing of a major research paper on an aspect of sporting culture. I am doing everybody's favourite thing to have an opinion on - Footballers & Sexual Assault. Well it's a tad more broad than that - but if anyone would like to opine in the comments on this topic - and I am containing my research to AFL footy culture - then please, opine away.

Speaking of things Colombian - the Colombian man-boy, has had some prize twat moments himself lately. I won't go into it, but suffice to say, if he pulls a stunt like he did last Tuesday night - which resulted in me crying in a Thai restaurant (and it had nothing to do with chilli) - then that will be the end of our bi-lingual romance. Latino-style grovelling is definitely something to behold, but still, he'd better watch himself. I'm too old for twatty boyfriends and their f**kin' roller-coaster moodiness. There's a lot to be said for a bit of maturity in a man. Perhaps I'm digging around in the wrong age bracket.

In postscript to my previous post - firstly, thanks to all of you for your kind remarks. Twas truly appreciated. As you might have gathered, I did go through with it. I still have the off day over it but my conviction that it was the right and sensible thing to do hasn't changed. And anyway, I have possibly the nicest 13 year old in the world - I love this girl to pieces - so, I say, why jinx it? What are my chances of having the second nicest kid in the world? Decided not to risk it - at least for now ;-)

Absenteeism

2008-09-09T19:33:00.008+10:00

The last two & a half months goes something like this. Moved into spacious, sharehouse with three wonderful housemates in North Bondi. Dubbed 'the palace' or 'the bunker' depending on the weather, cleanliness & mood of inhabitants. It's so spacious, hospitable, comfortable & congenial that it's actually difficult to leave, especially on weekends. But leave I do. Regularly. Every morning to a job that I have come to loath beyond the wages due for such toil. But I am not going to talk about my day job out of hours. I have my sanity to consider. To that end - that is an end that doesn't include 6-7 yr olds and me repeating myself at increasing stressful decibels all day & everyday - I have embarked on a Masters of Cultural Studies. Dubbed 'the Masters of Insanity' depending on how overwhelmed I feel by the self-inflicted work load. At least it's interesting. 'Sport, Media & Gendered Cultures' is the subject I've chosen to go with this semester. Makes me feel very intelligent & cultured as I bore myself stupid on terms like 'grocalization' & 'glocalization'. Not true, it's fascinating stuff, really. Then there's the Spanish lessons which I have been attending faithfully every Monday night for 6 months now. Fluent, no, but I can read Espanol quite well. Which brings me to the Latino Spanish teacher. Officially we've been novio & novia (BF & GF) for about two months now and officially I've been pregnant for about half of that. Of course, it was all news to me up until 9 days ago. Well, not really. Given my track record for conceiving at inopportune times and a fertility to rival the Garden of Eden, I shouldn't have been surprised, and I wasn't overly. A friend of mine once remarked that my life had the makings of cheap chicklit read. I added the cheap. She wouldn't have been that tactless. Well that was before I got pregnant - at the loud tocking age of 35 - to a Colombian man-boy (damn those aching loins) who is 5 years younger, here on a student visa and sleeps on a foam mattress in a small room in Pyrmont. In defense of the Colombian man-boy, he has been very sweet & supportive, blah blah & happy to go along with whatever I want. Whatever that is - get to that in a moment. A refreshing change after the disaster of a pregnancy-deaththreat-abortion debacle I went through 7 years ago at the hands of my crazed-deranged-psychotic boyfriend at the time. Sadly the one who is still - thus far - the love of my life. But back to the Colombian man-boy and the half Colombian zygot. I say man-boy because he's half an inch taller than me (I'm all of 5'3), weighs less than me and looks about 20. You saw the picture of the ex. The carefully cultivated biceps, over six foot and tipping the scales at close to 90kgs. The differences don't just extend to 40kg of body mass either - CMB shows no signs of balding either - but for the most part this is a good thing. I know whose offspring I'd rather be pushing out through my nether regions having been given the benefit of hindsight. Of course, that's if I make that far.

My 'morning sickness' was so unrelenting today that it extended well into the evening. No uni lecture for me tonight. Thursday is A-day or T-day, depending on your preferred terminology and tomorrow I have handed over the reins to a sympathetic casual teacher to give myself some time to think. Pros, cons, possibilities, limitations, what ifs, what nots, fantasies, reality checks. That's Wednesday's agenda, as well as the presentation for uni I have to prepare and the job application I have to have in by Friday (non-teaching, of course). A big day.

I wondered, given that this will be number 3 for me, whether there was really anything I could add on the subject. Age gives it a different perspective, it's certainly a different consideration at 35 than it was at 26 and 28. The last chance saloon feel, makes it entirely different to the unlucky teenager, but when you feel that you don't have a choice because your financial and personal circumstances are entirely unsuitable to the raising of a child then the outcome is still going to be the same, regardless of age. However, I doubt my financial & personal circumstances are ever going to be right, so it is, in all likelihood, now or never. Of course the whole father-as-Colombian-national makes it bit trickier, but enough sarcasm.

There are some benefits to working in a female dominated environment. I work with some truly lovely women, most of them over 50 and a few in their 40s. I have only confided in a few of them - a couple of them casual teachers - but of the 6 women who know (the pale-face & dizzy nausea gave me away to a couple today) 4 of them confessed to having had a termination, two of them more than once. All of these women are primary school teachers in their mid-late 40s or early 50s. They are also all mothers. And from what I can gather, none of them were particularly young when they had their terminations. Naturally, they have been sympathetic and supportive, but apart from being quite staggered by the number of women - particularly women whom I consider as 'having their shit together' - who have 'been there, done that', the ludicrousy of the abortion debate really struck me - or more the fact that some people think there still is a debate. Fact: terminations are a fact of life for many, many women. Normal, everyday, law-abiding, nurturing, caring women. Even women who teach children for a living. Women get pregnant. They get pregnant to the wrong people at the wrong time in the wrong circumstances. The 'what ifs' can be romanticised, but they know the reality is neither practical or feasible. Sometimes the choice is not really a choice at all. And you have to do what you have to do.

I might change my mind between now and Thursday but I'm practical girl, with a heavy streak of realism, so I doubt it. But I'll let you know..

Battle of the Cliches

2008-06-24T19:11:00.007+10:00

Soooo.... the puzzling little mystery of just exactly why - after around 9 mths of complete silence on his part - he initiated a 'catch up' on the flimsy premise of giving me back a CD has been revealed. Now upon stepping into the designated bar at around 5:40pm on Sunday I opened proceedings with the line, 'Why exactly are we doing this?' and 'I have to admit curiosity got the better of me' and as you well know, curiosity has been known to turn a few cats into corpses. Unfortunately this little blakkat forgot about that particular little nugget of advice and walked right into a well sprung cat trap.

His only response to the first question was 'I thought it would be a start'. A start to what? I was curious to know. I'm still not sure what it was supposed to be 'a start' to, but as this was a very carefully planned rendezvous on his part I'm sure there was a point somewhere but he certainly led me round the rhododendrons for a while before he actually got to it. Que long silences and awkward pauses. His lack of conversational abilities a refreshing reminder of exactly why our relationship made me feel catatonic at times. A talker, he ain't and this is largely because he has nothing to say which is due to the fact that he reads nothing, has no opinions on anything, he grew up in suburban Perth and had never been anywhere else until he moved to Sydney at the age of 29. To be fair though, he does have hobbies, that is cultivating enormous biceps at the gym and following the fortunes of Manchester United (not that I ever had a problem with that). I did point out that as he was running this rendezvous he might want to actually add something to the conversation. Frankly keeping the catch up talk rolling was just a whole lot of hard work on my part, but I rose to the occasion with a few snippets of what I've been up to, including letting it 'slip' that my chances of becoming 'Blakkat - published author' were becoming a possible, maybe, increasingly likely eventuality (without getting my hopes up). So the stilted conversational teeth pulling exercise went on for approximately 45 mins and one class of red wine for me and a beer for him. I just want to point out now that there was plenty of easy lead-ins during the dialogue on what was happening for him work wise & moving to Brisbane wise for him to announce exactly why Queensland was suddenly looking like a great place to take up residence (apart from him being offered the job of running the thickened fluids empire from its evil Brisbane based lair) - in fact, he downright dodged it with some smirky, deceitful shoulder shrugging because he wanted me to ask the real-reason-we're-here-question, of course: Are you seeing anyone at the moment? And because I wasn't particularly interested in knowing, I never asked it so he was forced to ask me first. To which I replied I wasn't particularly comfortable discussing that aspect of my life with him but I alluded to a couple of people I'd been intimate with and then added that I didn't really have the time for it anyway. And then, and only then, did he have me exactly where he wanted me. Like I said, a well-sprung blakkat trap. I didn't have much of a choice did I? So, 'Are you seeing anyone?'.

Only one person since you.

Next question, so how's that going?

We're engaged.

Right. (Polite smile and nod). Good for you.

The facts of this engagement are:

1) They met ten weeks ago at Sydney airport and 'just got talking'.

2) She's a secondary school teacher based in Queensland. Gladstone at the moment but she's going to break her contract to move to Brisbane and then to the Gold Coast (where they're planning to settle, eventually, I suppose)

3) They're not going to live together until after they're married - 'we're doing it the old fashioned way'.

4) They've being doing the 'fly down, fly up' thing on weekends.

5) She's 26

6) That's all I know because I didn't give him the satisfaction of an extensive Q&A session and I also didn't comment on the new tattoo, on the inside of his left wrist, which he went to some pains to make sure I saw during the course of our catch up. More on that in a minute.

I believe in the well-worn book of cliches that this is the one in the large bold face type, si? Now, a quick poll amongst close friends, family and work colleagues quickly confirmed that I am not the only one to think that a long distance relationship of 10 weeks standing is a tad rash to being talking two tiers or three for the wedding cake and perhaps it's the cynic in me or just the spurned ex-girlfriend in me, but I know enough about this guy (a lot more than my replacement at this stage, I would think) - I was once the object of his infatuation - to know that when he's cunt struck he gets hit good and proper. Baby next year? No problem. Even thought I was pregnant at one stage - didn't phase him. This was in the very early days of our relationship. By the six week mark he'd already moved in with me. What he doesn't do so well is the next phase after the love pheromones wear off a little. In fact, he's never really managed to successfully negotiate this transition in his life. So I'm just wondering at this stage if he realises that 'The One' will, in all likelihood, end up doing the things which he seems to have such a big problem with, such as:

1) Having mood swings due to oestrogen fluctuations (he really does consider displaying any other emotion, a part from mild happiness, as a personality flaw). If she's not Stepford material, then she should really reconsider.

2) Get frustrated and mildly annoyed with having to pick up after him all the time

3) Ask him 'do I look fat in this? or 'have I put on weight?'. Which in fairness are irritating questions for any male, but when her desirability to him as sexual object is the difference between a size 8 and a size 10, then he should at least have the decency to keep her informed, less she become more than he wants to see naked.

4) Cry (I wasn't the crier, the one before me did that, but he did like to point out how much he hated it. Even though - in retrospect - he would have been the cause. I just assaulted a couple of bouncers & a cop when the passive aggression rejection level hit a critical point.)

5) Get irritated at having to revolve all evening meals and weekend activities around his preening hours at the gym. I dare say she'll be cool about it in the short term, but come a screaming baby and the six pack won't be as appealing anymore.

6) Want to talk about her feelings, especially if she's unhappy with some aspect of their relationship.

7) Wear daggy tracksuit pants and ugg boots around the house and not look like a sex goddess 24/7.

8) Fart (not that I'm a comfy-in-the-relationship farter, but I know he's funny about it)

9) Essentially, be a flawed human being.

Now it could be that the whole 'we're not living together until we're married' is his way of avoiding all those things which essentially put him off going the distance with someone, but I can't imagine that those irritating personal habits will be anymore endearing after marriage than they are before and getting out of this one won't be the walk in the park like it was with me (hell, I even packed up his shit for him). So, let's just say: Situation. Me. Interest. Watching. Time will tell. And if does end up as happily 2.3 kids and double garage ever after, then I'm honestly happy for him - it probably means he's grown up. And the reality is, she sounds, by age and hair colour alone (blond - also get to that in moment), far more suited to him than I ever was. Then again, in amongst his parting barbs to me were 'you weren't the person I thought you were'. Does it occur to him, I wonder, that this lovely, fresh-faced Queensland girl (and let's face it a 26 yr old with maybe only one serious ex or 2 & a few one night stands is today's equivalent of a 18 yr virgin in the days of patriarchal yore) that he's known 10 weeks via an expensive mobile bill and some qantas frequent flyer points, could also well turn out to be 'not the person he thought she was'? Difficult to say, given the prism of cynicism through which I tend to view these things.

All of which now brings me to not very subtle tattoo flashing, blond hair and facebook. For what modern relationship trail does not have a fb dynamic, these days? Had I not made a decision months ago - after initially discovering he had joined fb - to never, ever look at his profile again as I found my one and only viewing of it quite unsettling, then I would have already known all about the engagement. I just figured, that after his rub-this-in-your-face-and-put-it-in-your-single-&-35-female-pipe-and-smoke-it engagement announcement that looking at his fb profile couldn't really hurt anymore. Now I'd already spotted the tattoo - like I said - he kind made sure I saw it, because he knew that I would know exactly what it said/meant, after I put two & two together. Back in the day, when he was cunt struck over me and not her he used to say that he was going to get my name tattooed in Sanskrit on his wrist. Need I continue? No. OK, but I did want to see what she looked like, hence, the breaking of the golden fb rule. Cute. Blond. Attractive, but not Miranda Kerr. And then I went into one of the 'photo albums' for a better look. And there's her holding his inner left wrist for all nosey fb stalkers to see in a larger than you can stomach photo entitled 'the tat'. Please tell me I don't have to spell out what it says in English or Sanskrit. If there is one little victory in the game of fb psychology here, it's that he must know - coming as his announcement was the surprise he intended to wipe me across the floor with - that I haven't bothered to look him up on fb, given that he doesn't bother with any privacy settings (unlike myself) and his relationship status is clearly set to 'engaged to ****** ******'. Even an ego as healthy as his would have have noticed that blow. So, really, if I wanted to know I could have found out myself, very easily, and the defence - not that he bothered with any kind of defence for his 'I'm in love gloating' - 'I wanted to tell you before somebody else told you' really doesn't wash in the age of fb.

Now, here's what I think. Before we got to the whole and by the way I'm engaged after a 10 week, long distance courtship, he mentioned that he'd bought an apartment in Waterloo (something we had talked about doing together - not that I would have consented to living in Waterloo) and that his friends (all three of them) had all moved back to Perth. Affording a mortgage on his own was too expensive and hence, he led me to believe at this point, the move north of border (coupled with the general manager job offer at thickened fluids head quarters). All of which leads me to think that up until around 10 weeks ago he was probably a pretty solitary, lonely figure working in a two man office and living alone in sterile, white apartment. Ripe for the picking from a young, vivacious Qld girl, wouldn't you think?

So far, you'd have to agree, there are enough cliches here to sink an oil liner, but I'm not exactly a cliche free zone myself, at the moment. Not only have I taken up Spanish and Salsa lessons as any 30 single something worth her salsa shoes does, but I'm also about to embark on hot Latin fling with my Colombian born 30 yr old Spanish teacher who has invited me to stay with him in Columbia over the summer. But more on that some other time. Suffice to say cocaine isn't the only good thing to come out of Columbia and my loins are aching in anticipation. And that, for me, if you could please pass me the hammer, will be the final nail in this cliche riddled relationship coffin. A battle of the cliches, this tale of my ex and I may be, but I never-the-less woke up this morning - after my first good night's sleep in days (thanks to miracle of Temazepam) - with an overwhelming sense of relief that it wasn't me on the receiving end of his marriage proposal or my name in Sanskrit on his arm. And this weekend I will be moving out of this horrible apartment which marked the beginning of the end to our relationship and what finer symbolism does anyone need to truly move onto better* and Bondi things.

* Saturday night - apart from being the day we all move into the house in North Bondi - is also the night of my 35th joint b'day with the lovely Miss F who is also soon to be 35 & with whom I'm moving in with. We're going with a 1920s theme and the catch phrase is 'So you think you don't look 35?' Should be a hoot.

Just when you think it's all over bar the b'day SMS

2008-06-17T22:33:00.005+10:00

Text from number that is no longer in my phone...

Not sure if you are still in sydney but i still have yr moby cd so do you want to catch up for a coffee this weekend?

My reply...

*****? New phone so no longer have your no. This w'end choc full. Next w'end packing but easier. Bought envelope this morning at PO to post some stuff of yours to your mum. Weird coincidence.

His reply...

Yeah its *****, cool next weekend would be good. When do you leave?

My reply...

Not leaving OS until end of year. Moving in with friends into house in Nth Bondi til then.

His reply...

Ok i'm moving to brisbane end of the month so wanted to catch you before I go. I'll buzz you next week to see when yr free

My reply...

Ok

The following night at around 10 pm...

Hey happy birthday too

WHAT THE FUCK?! Four points: 1) What the fuck? or did I already say that? 2) Why would you want to 'catch me' before you move to Brisbane? - after almost 12 months of complete indifference. Why don't you just post the bloody CD to me? 3) You're fucking OK with moving to Brisbane now but wouldn't buy the idea a drink when we were together even though it could have meant us living in the same city as my daughter, and 4) I hope the Brisbane boredom makes your balls shrink, if the 'roids haven't done so already.

This post is like so ornery

2008-06-17T21:25:00.004+10:00

Overheard on the bus today - a discussion by three American girls on one of the three's surprise at the existence of the word 'ornery'. Ornery is no ordinary word - despite what the dictionary might say about its meaning - for what other word could be the sole subject of an entire a conversation lasting between Bondi Junction and Bronte (about a 5 minute journey). Overuse of the word 'like' with Valley girl intonation on the subject of ornery - 28 times. Sad, yes, I did actually tally the amount of times 'like' was uttered during the conversation, but I did learn something about the word ornery at the same time and did you know, like, it's, like, short for ordinary but like, people (Americans, that is) consider it an insult, to like, to be called ordinary so ornery was, like, made up to mean, like, a nice way of saying ordinary. But, like, it means like grumpy. But then, I like, checked out dictionary.com when I, like, got home and dictionary.com, says, like, this about, like, the word ornery:

or·ner·y

1. ugly and unpleasant in disposition or temper: No one can get along with my ornery cousin.
2. stubborn: I can't do a thing with that ornery mule.
3. low or vile.
4. inferior or common; ordinary.
[Origin: 1790–1800; contr. of ordinary]

So yeah, like, now you know what ornery means.

Goodbye shithole

2008-06-10T19:49:00.003+10:00

I hate my apartment. I think I may have mentioned that before. I moved in here a year ago with the now ex. He absconded a month later and left me to languish in this shithole by myself. The floor isn't even level in this apartment. That's right, the back of the building has kind of sunk into the ground - leaning Pisa style - and as a result there is a distinct slant to the floor. If you were a marble you'd just roll. You can only have the bed the certain way or you'd wake up with blood on the brain. Similarly the fridge door doesn't stay open because gravity makes it to close before you're finished getting what you need out of it. And it's small. Cramped and small. Small and cramped.

A week ago my flatmate told me she's moving back to Canberra. So I put on ad on Gumtree - where I found her. No response - winter - last time I had dozens. Anyway, my lease is up this weekend. Then my good friend, Miss F (see last post) mentions that she and her two male flatmates are looking for a house. One of these flatmates is the cute artist guy I mentioned a few posts ago as having a bit of a thing for (we're over it now - the sex thing that is, but we're still friends. I still hang out at their place a fair bit.) Anyway, their house is going to be demolished soon. And the thinking was that they'd like to get a four bedroom place with another girl - so Miss F mentions this & I mention my flatmate moving out & the end of my lease and badda badda bing bam! now we're a foursome looking for house. And today we checked out this house in North Bondi and it's absolutely fookin' awesome. So we've put in an application...

I had to share because I'm just so bloody excited. This place has SPACE and cupboards and SPACE!! And weekends... PARTY OH PARTY! Yes, there is the possible pitfall of flatmate nooky, but I think I'm over it enough to not go there and if we do, well, it's a small price to pay for a level floor and some SPACE!

It's the single life for me - part 1

2008-05-20T16:53:00.016+10:00

Swingle and Footloose

I'm came home early from work today - sick - and I'll be taking tomorrow off, given that the flu like symptoms I'm currently experiencing are unlikely to disappear over night. The upside of feeling poorly is that you can have can have some 98% guiltfree downtime. I say 98% because I will never entirely rid myself of guilt or feelings of obligations towards somebody or something - be it related to work, personal achievement/ambition, the gym, this blog, friends, family, acquaintances or practically strangers. If I'm an engine, then guilt is my petrol. But like a 97 Holden Commodore I'm long out of warranty and if you don't remember to change the oil then all manner of mechanical strife will beset you. Like atrocious car metaphors and reading all 343 (OK - I lost interest around 261) comments on Samantha Trite's (Brett) latest 'Ask Sam' cliche infestation 'Why men stay single'. All research proven, of course. Why I - or anyone else - would ask a single 23 yr old for advice on 'sex, dating and relationships' with more than a touch of the floozies about her is beyond even the thought power Edward de Bono's six thinking hats, me thinks. And then it occurred to me that the only time I ever feel anxious, unattractive, depressed and like almost expired dairy produce left on the discount shelf at Woolies is when I read that blog. I noted, with some satisfaction, a few 'bloggers' (as she refers to them) taking her to task on her use of an industrial size broom and tar brush (not that she bothers to reply any criticism). Never-the-less, tar does stick and it got me thinking. Thinking that's it's about time I wrote my own treatise on being a Sydney social pariah - 35 (in 3 1/2 wks), single and a woman, that is. A Bridget Moan fest, this isn't and I'll start by entertaining the idea that there is a 'Why women stay single', too - even for those of us whose eggs would only just make the grade for a bacon & egg McMuffin.

A couple of months ago I had a few and bit drinks with one of besties. She's a couple of years younger than I and is currently living with a guy who's 5 years younger than her & is here on a study visa from the Czech Republic. Despite the obvious issues that would crop up in such a union, the relationship is working for now and it is the longest and most successful relationship my girlfriend has had in her 33 years. As you might expect then, Ms H (let's call her) has had more than her fair share of relationship woes and disappointments, which - while she is not without pragmatism when it comes to men - is still, at heart, a hopeful romantic. I, on the other hand, have had the romantic and the hopeful all but beaten out of me and I say this, not to highlight cynicism and bitterness, but to make a point. When girlfriends get together they talk boys & relationships, no surprises there. On this particular occasion I was saying to Ms H that 'Yes, it would be nice to meet someone but it's OK if it doesn't happen. I'm OK with that'. Now, from my POV that's a healthy way to be at my age and gender. It let's me get on with my life - doing stuff I want to do, experiencing new things, travelling, etc. - without wasting energy and time on a probably pointless, time wasting and ultimately self-defeating search for a man. But Ms H - in the spirit of a good friend - took me to task for being OK with the possibility of never finding a man. Her exact words, 'It's not OK. Don't say it's OK'. She saw my declaration of Okayness with the status quo as essentially giving up and as a resignation to something that I should not only hope will change, but should know will change.

But the reality is - It probably won't - and putting aside the inexplicables of chemistry, for a moment, I have a list of criteria and it has nothing to do with a three figure salary, a SAAB or a Double Bay apartment. I'm not even talking about getting married here - been there, done that - and the reality of marriage did not suit me very well (at least marriage to the wrong person). My shopping list is pretty standard (if you've ever perused RSVP), with a few tweaks from the norm here & there:

a) Good communication skills - that is, not only good with words but able to talk to me honestly and openly (Santa Clause territory here)

b) SOH - by that I mean, able to generate his own jokes, not just regurgitate The
Simpsons or Jerry Seinfeld ad nauseum

c) Works in (or pursues on the side) some kind of creative field - be it writing, music,
art or film

d) Reads - books, that is. Book shelves displaying eclectic and intelligent reads are a
big plus

e) A grown up - that is, emotional maturity - no Peter Pans, no Bart Simpsons - your
routines are boring

f) In good physical shape - by that I mean, he does some kind of regular exercise to

e) stay fit and looks after himself (As I do the same, I don't think this is such a
big ask)

g) Someone who wants a companion and a partnership based on equality and mutual
respect - not a nursemaid, a mother or a housekeeper

h) Can entertain the idea of having a child within the next three years

i) Financially stable - doesn't have to own property or a car, but not in loads of debt

j) I find you attractive (and vice versa) - I can't define what that is, but you know
it when you see it (or when someone grows on you after a bit)

k) Is OK with me already having been married & having a teenage daughter

l) Is left leaning - in the political sense, I mean

m) Can put up with me and my sometimes hormonal ways and body image fluctuations
(this is primarily where my ex fell down - as well on points a, b, d, e & - I found
out later - h)

So not asking for much, right. And Sunlight was an entirely credible film. I might be willing to compromise a little on some things, if it felt right, but I'm thinking my Mr. Points a-to-m is a bit of a catch, so he's probably already been scaled & gutted by someone 5 years younger than me. So as I see it, there are two options: 1) the eternal quest, which in reality means living in a continuous state of disappointment leading, eventually, to crippling depression & battered self esteem or 2) accept that your life's journey is going to be a solo one and make every moment of it as worthwhile and as enriching as possible. Lovers and part-time companions, on the way, if need be. Just choose to be happy about it. And so far, option 2 is working out pretty well for me.

In contrast, I have another girlfriend (Ms F) exactly the same age as me, who - similarly - found herself on her arse last year after a longterm live-in relationship - the one that was supposed to evolve into babies and picket fences. Not only was she gutted by the loss of the man she loved and whom she had envisioned as the father of her child (he's about to marry a tattooed Portuguese woman whom he got pregnant), but she really hates the idea of being single. She wants to find a man, yesterday, so that she can be pregnant now. And the disappointments, as you might expect, are piling up faster than a steam shovel. So despite the similar circumstances, my heart breaks for her because she is yearning for something which is getting nigh on impossible to achieve - if you are unwilling to settle for anything less than the real deal, that is.

I do realise the fact that having had a child, I haven't actually had to entertain the thought that I may miss out on this experience entirely. But even if I hadn't, I not a particularly maternal person and the whole child rearing epic leaves me a bit numb. Babies don't make my womb do somersaults and toddlers give me the heebie jeebies, quite frankly, with their snot and their tantrums and their shit and their limited vocab. And yes, I'm well aware that it's different when it's you're own. I had one a'ponce a time, I remember (and she was so cute I could have eaten her with a spoon). But no - and I say this looking out my bedroom window and watching a playgroup in action in the grounds of the Scout hall below - very no, thank you. I would wither from boredom if forced watch toddlers eat sand and talk with under stimulated mothers with insular lives about quantities of teeth cut, toilet training regimes and how to make mushrooms palatable to a two year old. So at best I'm ambivalent about the baby thing, but then again, when I'm with a man who I love the urge has been known to strike (despite what I know is the reality of having a child). But coming back to the original point - for me, a child would be a negotiated byproduct of being in a stable, mutually supportive relationship with a guy I really loved. For other women - including my lovely friend, Ms F, to a point - a relationship is a means to an end, in this case, having a much wanted baby.

So if having children isn't your guiding light in the quest for longterm love, then your reasons for wanting to partner up may not even out weigh your reasons for wanting to stay single. The problem is, being single is considered something of a default position - particularly for women and there is very little in the way of popular culture content that challenges this idea. 'What about Samantha?', you ask. Yes, but even SITC's Samantha was portrayed as something of abhorrence from the norm. Her character was always on the cusp of being a comical statistical blimp and it was probably only Kim Cattrall's acting that stopped it from being so. A less skilled actress could have easily portrayed her as a horny laughing stock: an insult that underscores labels like 'cougar'. Not that I would bother taking offence at being called cougar, or a MILF, for that matter. There are worse things to get worked up about. In man-speak, I believe they're meant to be compliments - despite the inherent misogyny.

Choosing to be single then, might be a case of rather being single than being unhappily or unsuitably coupled - which is perfectly valid - or choosing to be single because it is preferable altogether than being partnered up. At the moment I'm somewhere between to the two, but am getting closer and closer to the second one. My reasons - which I'm sure would be applicable to others - is the stuff 'It's the single life for me - part 2' is made of.

A hola muchas to blog about

2008-05-17T16:58:00.013+10:00

Blog neglect with the usual excuses. And so much worthy blog material, too. Yo soy muchas ocupado ahora mismo. For those of you not learning Spanish as second language, I am very busy right now (and I'm a show-off). So rather than blogging about the observations of the world as seen through a girl-woman who lives in a very small flat in a Sydney beachside suburb, I thought I'd just tell you about what popped into my mind (and right out again) as being bloggable about in the last couple of weeks...

1.) Louis Theroux's documentary on SBS 'The Most Hated Family in America'. Anyone see it? Seriously, I could write a blogging scathathon on those people if I had the time and inclination.

2.)The Budget. I'm just disappointed for the pensioners.

3.) Dating. Oh that's right, I don't. So I wouldn't haven't anything Samantha Trite to say about the folly of which, anyway.

4.) Salsa! Yes, I'm learning latin hips. Awesome, you should try it some time. Salsa hazards - sleazy and/or well-meaning but desperate men to be managed. Have you ever seen proper dance shoes up close? (I don't mean ballet shoes). They are soft, strappy, satinny, bendy, very comfy, high heel delectables for you feet. So getting a pair.

The shoes! Look at her shoes! Not her big canastas!

5.) Events to be thrilled about in May - Spanish Film Festival and Sydney Writers' Festival. Full wrap up of Sam de Brito (SMH blogger and career misogynist) vs Emily Macguire (author of Pornstars & Princesses) coming to Blakkat Ruminations next Sunday. And that's a promise.

6.) Mother's Day. I hate it. I was going to write an 'I hate Mothers' Day' post until I realised I wrote one last year. Unnecessary to regurgitate. For Mothers' Day this year I got a phone call from my favourite human being ever telling me what she would've made me for breakfast if her stove and her mum were in the same spot. I had blueberry pancakes. They were every bit as good as you would imagine. I don't really hate Mothers' Day, it's just the wallowing in guilt it brings on that I don't like.

7.) In Blakkat news (you do want to know, don't you?) apart from the learning of the salsa and le Espanole, my life-revolving gym addiction (cute, cutey, cute gorgeouso Bodypump instructor on Thursdays) and the trying very hard not be half-hearted about my dayjob, there is the second requested draft of my novel - or requested word cull, more accurately, of my manuscript. Don't want to go into details - some changes have been suggested (who me? over-write? It'd never happen) - but I've still got the green light and more work ahead, so hope is a'hovering. No men, don't have the time or inclination at the moment (although I was inclined enough to get some real nice shaggin over the space of a month, which means I'm good for now). But have had two unexpected spottings of hulked up ex bf in the last few weeks. One at the gym (why oh why did I not groom better for just-in-case random sighting?). I'm pretty sure he thinks I didn't see him, but I know he saw me. Then today: WHY was he turning out of my street (even if it is a back way thoroughfare from Coogee) as my bus was turning into the street? He doesn't live in the area anymore (to the best of my knowledge), so why was he in the neighbourhood to begin with? My imagination had a few guesses. And why was I shaking for half an hour afterwards? It shits me to think that I can still have a reaction that makes me feel physically unwell from just seeing him from the inside of a bus. Especially when I am over him like the sky. Anyhoo.

There was more, I'm sure. But if it didn't get blogged about at the time it's even more unlikely to be so now.

Hasta Luego!
La Gata Negra

2008-04-27T21:06:00.002+10:00

Nerd Alert

Tonight I chose to watch The Hawking Paradox instead of the So You Think You Can Dance Finale and despite being very satisfied with my choice of Sunday night television program viewing, it occurred to me that I am truly a bona fide nerd. I think physicists are sexy, too.
Surely, I'm not alone here?

2008-04-25T07:53:00.009+10:00

How nice girls turn into axe murderers

It's big and I'm going to grind it

Can you just check something for me? Hang on, let me turn around. Tell me, does that sign on my back say 'Sexually Available. Please apply with in. All offers considered'. What? There's no placard on my back at all? Oh that's strange because I'm really at a loss to explain why certain men have not been able to comprehend that I'm not interested in sleeping with them. Right now, I am a stewing cauldron of repressed rage and sleep deprived resentment brought on men who can't translate the words I don't want to have sex into an action related to them backing off. And you can take that to mean that I don't want to kiss you or cuddle you either. If - let's say for argument's sake - you are actually hearing impaired and you didn't hear me say I don't want to sleep with you then JUST READ MY FUCKING BODY LANGUAGE! If I am not making any moves to 'cuddle' you back and my lips are sealed together like a kewpie doll then that's a pretty good indication that a) I'm not into this and b) I certainly don't want to get naked with you. Seriously, I am so fucking angry right now and the worst of it - like always - I feel I've only got myself to blame. And so you know, this is going to be one hell of a self-indulgent post with some philosophical ranting thrown in for your reading pleasure, so take that warning how you will - read it or don't - but I'm pregnant with some real fierce emotions right now and I intend to let it out in one of only two ways I know how: by writing it out and if that doesn't work, I'll box it out of my system on some big gunned-up dude with some focus mits this afternoon. That always works a treat.

Shall I set the scene? I'll start with the guy who is the reason why I'm so worked up & lacking in snooze this morning. I met him randomly when I was looking for a flatmate. He's out here on a working holiday from Scotland, he's a 28 yr old redhead who's very sweet, a nice guy blah, fucking, blah. Back in Scotland he worked with disabled kids - 'course he's a nice guy. About two months ago I agreed to have a drink with him - after all, he's new here and doesn't know that many people. Fine, good, whatever. Naturally, in that non-committal way I agreed 'that we should do this again sometime'. I felt that I'd given off good, clean, non-ambiguous 'just friends' vibes. He rang, he texted, he facebooked me. He left me alone for a bit. Text, call, text - want to meet up for a drink this week? I'm a bit busy this week. Next week maybe. Next week rocks around, as it always does. I put him off Monday because I'm not feeling well. Agree on Thursday night, instead. Thursday - last night - comes around (as it always does). I text to say I'm going to see a movie, he can join me if he likes or I'll meet him at the pub down the road after. He suggests meeting in the city, I tell him I'm not going into the city. He meets me at my local, down the road from the cinema. I have two drinks (I only let him buy one). We play a bit of mediocre pool. They close the bar. I tell him I'm tired and I'm going to walk home now. I also tell him it's probably easiest to get the bus from here back to Central. He insists on walking me home. Fine. You can get the bus from Coogee beach then. At no point did I flirt or indicate that this was anything more than a mate-like catch up and a drink. I will say this - I am very, very good at flirting - I've been perfecting the art since I was 11 - so I can decisively determine when I am and when I'm not flirting. Not, in this case. Friendly, yes. Happy, yes. Sweet & pleasant, yes. Having a laugh, yes. My male friends (on the whole) of many years standing know that this is not an invitation to sex, but I am yet to make males of recent acquaintance understand the difference. AND IT SHITS ME TO TEARS.

Soooo, I let him come in for a moment - I told him I'd check to see if the buses were still going from Coogee. It was after midnight, after all, but I was pretty sure the 373 was still running. Stupid timetable wouldn't come up, all I got was a blank screen. He really doesn't want to go. He rambles inanely for a bit (the Scottish accent is getting harder to decipher the more tired I get). He picks up the guitar and plays some songs fragments he knows - the usual delaying tactics. He actually has a nice voice & I compliment him on it. OK, so it's c.r.u.n.c.h time. I tell him I'm tired and I'm going to bed. He's insists on a cuddle and a kiss. I give him a perfunctory hug. He tries to kiss me, I do a polite 'I'm obviously not into this' peck in return. It's after 1am now. He asks if he can stay (and I have a horrible dejevue moment from only a few weeks ago - but I'll get to that). I'd rather he didn't but it's possible that there are no more buses and he can't afford a cab. I'll say it now, and it'll come up again before this post is out - I am too nice for my own good. Reluctantly, I agree. All right you can stay, I'll pull out the mattress for you. He wants to stay in my bed. No, you can't. Not only did I say NO, but I actually pulled the mattress out, placed it on the loungeroom floor and made it up with sheets & doona for him. Miss Hospitality was all over it. We argue - well not argue, I was too nice to get heated up about it, but I still reiterated a number of times that I didn't want him to sleep in my bed. A little well of frustration, muted by a cracking veneer of politeness, was starting to build.

I'll behave, he says. No you won't. If, by the age 34, you haven't worked out that a man won't keep his hands to himself even when he says he will as he lies next to you in bed with a pole that'd hold up a circus marquee, then you were obviously sequestered into a nunnery at birth or you have been with the same man for too long. So far - let me ask you - does this sound like I'm wanting to have sex with this man? Is putting a mattress out in the loungeroom really a 'I'm-doing-one-thing-but-really-meaning-another' signal? Good Lord, she's making up a bed for me on the loungeroom floor! She must be just dying to git in on!

After much tooing & froing and making myself very clear and precise on what I wanted to happen in this situation, I caved. If he doesn't behave I can send him to the mattress, that's the proviso. Yes, yes, I know what you're saying. But I was tired - tired of trying to be nice about it, tired of trying to make my point. And for about 10 or 15 minutes he left me alone. Then it started, of course. The back rubbing & the cuddles. Irritating but bearable - just. Cue inappropriate groping. I remove his hand and say 'don't'. Not only am I getting annoyed - in earnest now - but it's also getting hot. I fear that any movement, from the tight fetal ball I've contracted myself into, will be interpreted as a green light for a feel-for-all, but I have to remove the quilt cover before I roast that way. Now he has easier access for a bum grab - and yes, I put gym shorts on as some kind of flimsy attempt at a chastity belt. Hand goes on, hand gets removed. Repeat ad nauseum. Then he grabs my hand and tries to make me feel his dooda. I was so not having a bar of that - pun intended in my weakened emotional state. Finally - after an hour or so - he's off to the mattress in the loungeroom. He had a quick pit stop in the bathroom first. Naturally, I was wide awake by then - repressed rage will do that - so it was probably another hour before I actually did get to sleep - alone in my bed as I always intended. And I managed to sleep peacefully for a few hours, waking drowsily around 7am, happy in the knowledge that I could drift off again for another hour or two...

I heard the toilet flush. That's OK, I'll sleep now & deal with his departure details later. But instead he hops back into my bed and immediately adopts the spooning position. Moments later I'm hot, irritable and that little nugget - left over from last night - of frustration, resentment and anger starts to flare up again. There was nothing for it but to get up. So I did. I made myself a coffee, turned on the telly to catch some morning show ANZAC Day spirit, sat on the couch and waited. I think he realised I wasn't coming back to bed after about half an hour. And yet, despite the rage that had brought me to the brink of tears, I still managed to be sweet and polite. I even made him a cup of tea. We looked for his mobile phone and then checked the bus times. Next bus was coming past at 8:30am and just as sure as a digger loves a beer and a game of 2-up on ANZAC Day, I made sure that Scottish rascal got on that bloody bus.

Unfortunately, this is not an isolated incident. I will spare you the story of the other man who has been oh so keen to tell me how attractive he finds me. Again - I made it clear, FRIENDS, I'm happy to be friends with you. The problem is, when someone like that obviously likes you and they are paying you many compliments, it is very difficult (when you are nice to fault) to be blunt, blunt, blunt about the fact that they'd be lucky to pass the last man on earth test with you, let alone when you've actually got some options. This particular guy I met on a course, he's almost 50 and doesn't have cash or prospects to recommend him - so I can only imagine he thought he was in with a chance because I was nice, personable and friendly to him and we had a few good conversations and some common views on a few things. This he mistook to be a 'connection'. I offered to help him with some of the work on the course - always happy to do stuff like that for people - and he thought there was more do it. Same story. Had a couple of drinks, grabbed some dinner at a local Thai place (I insisted on paying my share), drives me home. It took me TWO HOURS from 'I'm tired and I want to go to bed now' to literally pushing him out my front door. I knew he'd probably had too much to drink, but there was no way I was going to let him stay the night - despite his insistence that 'he'd just sleep on the couch'. Even after the I just want to be friends conversation, he was still trying on the 'just one kiss' thing and the 'come on, you can give me hug' line. Which brings me to tonight. Earlier this week he sent me a text, wanting to 'catch up' tonight. Of course he bloody does. I put off replying to him for a couple of days, but came up with a cunning, cunning plan - that is, I would meet him out somewhere but make arrangements with friends to make sure I had somewhere else to go later. That was not a problem - I was given a couple options by those I love and trust. But no, he didn't want to meet out - he wanted to come to my place with a bottle of (nice!) wine. Oh and he was a bit shitty at my suggestion that we meet out and is having trouble with the grammar elective. Mild panic, but not to worry. OK, you can come here, I say. I'll help you with the course work but then I'm probably meeting people out later, hope you're OK with that.

So tonight. After last night's 'no means no' lost in translation debacle - and with the anger still on simmer, my eyes weary and tears on notice to spill forth - I found the impetuous I needed to send a text saying I was not in a good way & not up to having company tonight and I'm sorry. He wrote back, OK. He's definitely shitty at me, in other words. But I just don't have the energy to go through all that two nights in a row - and I don't trust him not to give an encore performance of last time.

And I'm sorry if that makes me a bitch and a bit hard hearted, but it just seems to me that being nice to people all the fucking time just get me into places and situations that I don't want to be in. This is also why I don't date. Inevitably, 9 times out of 10 I'm not interested and I have to let them know without being a cow about it and I don't like doing it. I wish to God I could knock this being nice thing on the head sometimes, but it is harder to overcome than you might think. Mum probably has a point - I take on being responsible for other people's feelings. God forbid I actually offend someone, they get hurt I feel bad and then they don't like me! Compulsive need to be liked is probably where this all stems from.

Although, lately I have found myself taking this general irritation over being put upon out on those whom I should have more compassion for. For better or for worse, I have one of those faces that people like to stop and ask for 'spare change' from. This happens at least once a week. And usually, whether or not I think the person is question will use it for food or cigarettes, I give them a couple of dollars anyway. I just figure that anyone who has to ask for change on the street needs it more than I do. I am ashamed to say, however, that the last three times someone has stopped me (and admittedly, twice, it's been the same woman who hangs around the streets of Randwick), I have just shaken my head at them with a cold-hearted weariness in my eyes that they don't dare to challenge. I'm quite ashamed about this, in some regards, because it doesn't sit well with what I consider a compassionate person should do - and compassion, I like to think, is packed into my self-image somewhere. But I do know where this dismissive distain is coming from - I'm just so bloody sick of my gregariousness, kindness, friendship, good nature and common decency being taken advantage of in my personal life. Also, I've probably just been budgeting and sorting my finances in my head, making mental cuts in my spending right at the moment when that woman asked me for a spare two bucks. Bad timing on her part, but I take comfort in the fact that she looks a long way from being malnourished.

I don't know if writing all this down has actually helped. At the moment I'm feeling relieved that I've opted out of tonight, but give it a couple of hours and a healthy dose of sleep and I'll probably be feeling those lovely, familar pangs of guilt again because I haven't been very nice to him.

My new policy for men who will not leave when they're asked to

PS Gallipoli doco on SBS right now is very, very sad. It's making me cry. However, the Moconna cappucino icecream I bought to comfort eat my way back to emotional equilibrium tonight is very, very devine. I can't deal with this juxtaposition right now.

2008-04-17T21:55:00.006+10:00

I love a good game of tag...

So here goes - the five weird/random things about yourself meme - care of Eleanor Bloom. Something tells me the only difficult thing about this one will be narrowing it down to just five, so I'd like to adjust the phrasing slightly to say the 5 most weird/random things about yourself meme. And as the Bloomster added 'the with pictures' bit, so too, will I embellish with photographs.

1.) I got married at 19 - 'nuf said. Except to say I'm no longer married but I did get a nice kid out of the bargain. Handy now I'm in my mid-thirties and there's no one within a coo-ee of impregnating distance.

'Nuf said.

2.) When I was 13 my parents were involved in a right-wing, fundamentalist Christian church/sect/organisation which resulted in them uprooting our family from the burbs in Sydney's north for 'training' at Logos Foundation's evil cult-like lair in the Blue Mountains for a month. This was the first phase of a hair-brain scheme called 'Scatter seed' the Logos Foundation had come up with to spread the anti-gay, anti-choice, anti-humanist, racist and intolerant political agenda of GOD to the receptive folks scattered throughout the country towns of our heathen nation (as opposed to the Sodom & Gomorrah sin infested urban folk of our larger metropolises). I kid you not - this actually did happen. After this month long brainwashing amongst similarly programmed people, my parents were 'sent' to Nambour on the Sunshine Coast - with three other families - to do their bit for 'God's' political manoeuvrings to take over the country (and abolish homosexuality). I stayed in Blue Mountains for around 6-7 months to continue my attendance at the part-of-the-whole-cult-experience Christian School with a few other kids my age. We all lived at 'The Lodge'* under the watchful eye of a family who had been employed to 'parent' us while our parents had scattered to several nominated towns in the less populated regions of our wide brown land. Logos Foundation actually predates the Family First/Hillsong movement that has gained concerning momentum in recent times, but there are some very scary similarities between the two.

Twenty years on, both my parents still live on the Sunshine Coast - albeit not together anymore. Neither of them are involved in any religious zealot shenanigans anymore, thankfully - that ended some time ago. In fact, mum is a born again atheist now. But you got admit - this one certainly fits the random/weird requirements of this meme!

3.) I was obsessed in my teens (and a large part of my 20s) to the point of psychiatric concern with Gone with the Wind - both book and movie and in particular with Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O'Hara. The embarrassing extent of this obsession has resulted in an extensive collection of GWTW paraphernalia including Scarlett dolls, plates, books & all number of random GWTW tainted nick-nacks that are currently taking up a lot of space in my bedroom cupboard. This year I began selling off bits of this collection on ebay - scarlettsfiresale, if you're in the market - in an attempt to create some much needed space in my apartment & to rid myself of so much incriminating debris. In addition to this I entered a 'search for Scarlett' competition the Brisbane Extra program on chn 9 conducted back in 1994. Not all that surprisingly, I was one of five finalist out of 300 girls, but the fact that I was 8 & 1/2 months pregnant at the time makes it a tad more offbeat. In 1999 I headed over to Atlanta, Georgia with my mother for a 60th Anniversary of the film gathering/convention in Savannah (read: for weird, obsessed people - and boy was that enlightening in a self-revelatory way) and visited every GWTW related place the Old South could rustle up with a mint julep or a Mammy's flapjacks in the title. For your entertainment...

C'mon, guess who? The child stars of GWTW, of course! That's Beau Wilkes as a baby (Patrick Curtis), Bonnie Butler (Cammie King) and Beau Wilkes as young boy (Mickey Kuhn). This was at the opening reception night doody thing...

And a bit later in the evening - my canoodle with with Patrick Curtis & tenuous Golden Hollywood celebrity (well, he was married to Raquel Welch)

If imitation 'aint the highest form or flattery - a fiddledeedee of Scarletts.This was at the grand ol' closing night ball. I was lucky to have a dress at all. We (my mother** & I) found our costumes, including this BBQ replica dress - at a run down, beat up, tacky old costume shop on the outskirts of Savannah at quarter to four, 15 mins before they were due to close. The dress was held together with only around 50 safety pins.

The iconic BBQ dress was given its fair due at this GWTW shindig. The girl in the middle - apart form having hair that I am currently paying my hairdresser lots and lots of money to try and emulate - was one of the coolest chicks I have ever met. A Georgian girl - she'd brought her mum along (pictured) 'cause the weekend sounded like it'd be hoot, not cause she's a deranged windie (like everybody else) - and a hard liquor drinkin', cigar smokin', boot scootin' hoot she was (she's was an elementary teacher, of course - what else would you expect?). The previous night we visited a number of bars in Savannah - including a cigar bar where I did my best not to inhale - and I can honestly say the follow up hangover is - to this day - still ranked in my top 5. Come official autograph signing brunch the next day with the few remaining on this mortal earth 'stars' of GWTW and it was just pure luck that Miss Bonnie Blue Butler didn't ended up with the contents of my stomach all over lap. But wait there's more...

Yes, you better believe it. Scarlett gets the cleavage treatment here. This was on the paddle steamer that took us up the Savannah River on a Confederate battle reconstruction joyride. And no, this slide show aint over yet, baby. The Scarlett look-a-like rivalry really heats up now...

This Miss Scarlett was the official Scarlett whom the hosts hired to 'be' Scarlett for the entire weekend and do Scarlett-like official duties. And to be fair, she definitely had the biggest hoop skirts. The story goes that the hosts (who run a GWTW plantation style guest house in rural Georgia) saw her riding a horse one day and were struck by her Scarlett-like bearing and asked her to be their official Scarlett for occasions such as this...

But then, this here Scarlett showed up. She was the 'people's favourite'... despite a distinct Aussie lilt that could be heard as she fiddle-dee-deed her way into the hearts of all discerning Scarlett connoisseurs present (mostly LOLs or little old ladies). There was tension that night, let me tell you. Then the official winner of the 'Scarlett look-a-like' competition was announced...

Ladies & gentleman, we have a winner! Decided by the 'let us just clarify' hosts - it was a 'best Scarlett costume' competition, after all. The guests were displeased - their pick, the Aussie upstart with the green eyes - had clearly been shunned in favour of the blonde Scarlett in the very expensive tailor made red dress. The dude in the picture is the artist who painted the picture of the real Scarlett in that infamous red dress.

And all red dresses not being equal of course, I didn't win.

And there really is only one Scarlett O'Hara. The incontestable Vivien Leigh.

Last year, I had the opportunity to put some of this banal accumulated knowledge to use on the Einstein Factor with my speciality topic being Vivien Leigh. I even wrote about it on this blog when it was in its infancy, here. And just when I thought I'd finally laid the GWTW/VL ghost to rest, Ladlitter spots me on an EF re-run the other day - my second attempt at Vivien Leigh trivia glory in the first round of finals. Now that is kind of random.

4.) I am the voice of three saucy sexpot 'desktop' cartoon characters which can downloaded (for a price, of course). The first is Kahli, who is a sort of blonde half-robot, half Pamela Anderson looking superhero with a Lara Croft voice (my contribution). She has massive knockers. The second is Maeka who is a warrior, Zena-like superhero with a neutral 'Lord of the Rings' type accent (my contribution). Her knockers are even bigger. Then there is 'Spice' who is paired up with 'Sugar'. Spice is the brunette, bad girl in cut-off shorts & a tight white singlet over her massive knockers. She has an American accent (my contribution). Spice likes to hang lots of shit on Sugar who is the dumb, blonde, even more sexually available & cliched half of the duo who has even bigger knockers. Another girl did the voice of Sugar. Yes, the whole thing is so tacky it will stick to the bottom of your shoe like freshly discarded chewing gum and as trashy as month old pizza, never-the-less - it was a lot of fun, a source of much needed income and the company I did it for even received weird, stalkerish fanmail over 'the voice of Kahli' - he was prepared to move countries, apparently. The fact that I am a petite brunette with only a measly C-cup for breast size would no doubt have proved disappointing and there's only so long I could have kept on talking like Liz Hurley for him.

5.) I am a total hard arse. No really, I am. Apart from having an apple (with a stake through it!) tattooed on my upper left arm (see, tough!), regular readers of this blog (and pretty much everyone I share a passing acquaintance with) will know that I was arrested for assaulting a couple of bouncers and punching a cop the year before last. If you're interested you can read about it here. The impulse to kick the bouncers in the first place (apart from the fact that I'd had too much to drink, including a bloody jagerbomb) is because I've been kickboxing for the better part of 6 years now (I was an instructor at one point). In the end I was fined $600 for my trouble with no conviction recorded (phew!). I then had to convince the NSW Department of Education that I should still be allowed to teach small children their ABCs. Whatever I said worked 'cause I'm currently moulding the minds and souls of a new class of grade ones. And after all that I've just told you, that's a bloody scary thought, don't you think? Mwahahahaha!!

Yeah, that's me baby.

And this one. Oh alright, so I can pretend, can't I?

* Over Easter I went up to the Blue Mountains with one of my besties for girls' weekend and we stayed at the Imperial Hotel in Mt Victoria, which is just down the hill from my former teenage residence, The Lodge (as it was known then). These days it's quaint & pricey guest house called 'The Manor House'. I picked up a leaflet in a little vintage shop giving a 'brief introduction to Historic points on interest' in Mt Vic. Here's what it said about 'The Manor House c 1876'

Built for John Fairfax who died the following year, his family leased it to a Mr Atkins, who ran it as a guesthouse called 'The Manor House'. The building has an interesting history being at one time a hotel, 'Coopers Grand' and accommodation and religious training school for the Logos Foundation. It is now a guesthouse and special events venue. (See I wasn't making this up).

** I have spared my mother the embarrassment of posting any photos of her here in her antebellum glory. But she can let me know if she wants this corrected.

So to end this meme - after probably scaring most of you off for good - I now have to nominate 5 others to tell us 5 random/weird things about yourself, visit your blogs & tell you you've been nominated and provide links to your blogs. Got that? OK, so I nominate lad litter, susanna, hungry hypocrite, davey, (consider yourself double tagged now) and a new blog I've just discovered blonde canadian ('cause she's not really blonde). So now that you've indulged me, please, I'm keen to learn of the quirky, randomness of others...

2008-04-13T18:20:00.005+10:00

The Reird & Racky Realm of Teenagers

Thanks for the tag Eleanor - I'm gettin' busy on it. In the teen time I'd like to share with you some fascinating insights into the acne-speckled lives of those oft maligned members of every generation and civilisation - the teenager. Turns out Girlfriend magazine can be quite educational from a 'rent point-of-view. Let me enlighten you: Rents is short for parents. Get it? Rents is a shortened form of pa-rents. Clever, huh. And you know cause ur rents pay the rent, 2. I learnt this by flicking through my daughter's copy of GF and then I said to her 'do you call us (myself & her father, ie.) 'the rents'?' Yes, apparently we're rents. I dig that, yeah. OMG! Whatever! Oh and like according to said offspring of us 'rents, "uh like der, everyone knows that word".

And if you don't believe me, here straight from the pages of GF - in response to the problem of introducing your parents to a boyfriend when 'your parents are totally embarrassing' - 'Sooner or later, your boy is going to bump into your 'rents. You might think it's the end of the world, but he's probably freaking out about you meeting his crazy family as well!' Well hurrah for that, we're all friggin' embarrassing!

This same article - labelled '10 things you think guys care about (but they don't) - also covers the highly embarrassing social dilemmas of, 'You burped in front of him', 'You've worn the same outfit... twice' and 'You eat like a horse'. Wow. I don't know how I ever managed to get through my difficult teen years without the likes of GF mag to guide me. With an eating disorder, as it turned out, but I can't help wondering if the pearl 'You have an appetite to rival a sumo wrestler, but don't want to look like a pig in from of him. But the truth is, he'll love that you're a healthy gal with an appetite!' would have convinced me that eating two oranges in one day is not a sin punishable by 50 sit-ups and an hour's aerobic exercise. Nevermind.

Despite the throw away quips of 'good advice' for teenage girls, however, I suppose their heart is in the right place and from this 'rent's stand point, there is actually some stuff in GF mag that is sensible and helpful and if a rent tried to say it probably wouldn't be given the same regard, so you know, whatever.

But still I have to ask, am I that out of touch as a rent that I didn't even know I was one? Has anyone else - who has reached adulthood, that is - heard the term 'rents' as an endearment or malignment for parents?