Blossy Bogan - The Way I See It.

Express Yourself

2011-10-21T14:52:00.000+08:00

Dilemma.

I received a thankyou card yesterday in the mail. Lovely card. From a friend who had stayed with us for a few days and had done the proper old fashioned polite thing of sending a thankyou card afterwards.

My dilemma, besides admiring her lovely old-fashioned handwriting and beating myself up for my daggy went-to-school in the 80’s script, was what to do about the card. In today’s world of excess communication, how was I to thank the sender for the thankyou card, or indeed, was I to at all? Do I text and say ‘what a lovely card!’ Do I mention the card next time we speak on the phone (which is not often because we text…) Do I email? Do I thank her on Facebook? Do I post on my Twitter? Should I ‘Google Plus’ my ‘circle’ and ask for advice? How long do I keep this card for? Do I display it? Do I cut the front off and decoupage with it or something? Isn’t that what people did in the olden days????????

No. I simply asked our teenager. A young brain, unaffected by the cynicism and substance abuse of adulthood.

LOL. ROFL. WTF.

Are you ready for her take on thankyou cards?

“Oh. That’s nice.”

Uhuh. Nice. It is. Thankyou cards ARE nice. Pretty much everyone who has stayed here recently has sent a thankyou card (or even a present!!!) My MOTHER sends cards to everybody. And, as BHG (the teenager) says, “that’s nice.”

I, therefore, suck. And I, from now on, shall be consistent in my sending of thankyou cards.

HOWEVER, this scenario does lead me to contemplate modern communication and how one expresses oneself. Oh, that and watching Downtown Abbey. Where the gentry have time in the afternoon to ‘return correspondence’. Between ‘tea’ and having one’s hair tonged for dinner. Lady Blossy shall investigate having her own wax seal. Obviously. And having a maid or two. And a driver.

These days, we’re all about people learning to ‘express’ themselves. I wonder whether modern technology has made communication and therefore, expression, better or worse. It has certainly made it easier in that I can make a free video call to the USA to say something that would’ve taken me months to say via sea mail a century ago. And yet, whilst Skyping, I don’t really have to think in advance about what I’ll say. I certainly don’t need to paragraph. Using my computer this Christmas I could mail merge my contacts list with a downloaded greeting and attach a couple of family pics and have it in people’s Inbox without ever lifting a pen. In fact I don’t forget birthdays anymore because an App on my iPhone syncs with my contacts and my Facebook to ensure that at noon each day I’m given a pleasant reminder to send an electronic birthday wish somewhere in the world. Today I started using iCloud on my iPad. I don’t know why but it helps me communicate… or something.

But all of that is different to the art of ‘correspondence’ is it not? Do I still KNOW how to write a proper letter? By… (shudder) HAND?

I once had penpals.

Susanna from Svveeeeden for example. I was part of some fancy registry that linked up children from all over the world and let them correspond via handwritten letters. Susanna and I were very close… by the time we got around to writing a letter (“Hello, I am going on holidays to Keepit Dam soon and I am verrrry excited. Even more excited than when we went to Dubbo last year. How are you? Is it cold in Sweden? Do you have to eat meatballs to stay warm? Did you know Smorgasbord is a Swedish word that means you can eat as much as you want?”) , conning an international stamp out of our parents (woah… a DOLLAR!), actually posting the letter and letting a ship take it to the other side of the world…. Well. Susanna and I got about two letters a year each. And yes. She did eat meatballs. The tyranny of distance and handwriting let us down in the end, Susanna from Svveeeeden and I. Had we been able to Facebook, or Skype, or email, perhaps we wouldn’t have given up. Maybe. At least I wouldn’t forget her birthday.

My mother doesn’t have email. There. I said it. I mean… geez, even my bushie dad has a Telstra ‘dingle dongle’ for the ‘netterweb’ and a mobile phone.

I have a family member who I have to call, by phone, on a HOME number. Attended by an answering machine with one single button. She doesn’t text, email, Facebook, Skype , Twitter, read blogs or Google. She writes. My mother writes hundreds of letters a year, in two languages. Which I think is fabulous, except that it inconveniences Modern Me terribly. I have to print photos off at K-Mart for her instead of attaching them, or MMS-ing them. Recently she and I had an exchange (by phone…) where she was delighted to inform me that a cousin of mine had given birth the night before. “Yes, I know”, I said. Ooops.

“You KNOW. How do YOU KNOW?”

“Ummm, the pictures were on Facebook by breakkie mum.”

Silence.

“Yes, of course they were. I’ll get a picture in the mail. Eventually. Lovely looking baby I imagine. Excellent gene pool.”

My teenager will never have such luxury.

Her parents are ‘friends’ on every form of social media she uses. We watch her every move online (kind of) like stalkers. We could GPS her whereabouts on the mobile phone we provided her… if we wanted to. Which means, in effect, that we have made her SO accessible in communicating with us that she does so ALL the time. We had to cut off her unlimited texting plan on the mobile because she drove us all up the wall communicating. Like, I don’t care whether you’re on your way to Maths kid! Just bloody well go there. We have limits on the frequency of status updates on Facebook and have banned ‘Facebook marriages’ to best friends. We also screen all her digital photographs but have stopped short of hacking her email account. That's the modern akin to making your teenager leave their bedroom door open apparently. God knows how people with six children do this. No wonder teenagers don’t DO anything anymore. When BHG went for a bike ride yesterday afternoon, the first thing I asked was, “Do you have your phone?” Gone are the days of “Be home by dark, don’t talk to strangers, don’t have sex. Use your MANNERS!!!!”

And that is what this all comes down to. Manners.

The actual art of saying, ‘thankyou’. We are all trained in the ways of the time that our culture accepts as appropriate. Be it at Mrs Jones’ place when I was eleven and on my bike and she gave me an orange, or be it when I’m thirty-nine and a good turn is received. However you choose to do it, please express yourself. With gratitude. Because that’s nice.

Say it with me…

“Thank you”.

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Express Yourself, Madonna, 1989.

Baby you can Drive my (new) Car

2011-09-19T11:07:00.000+08:00

Brad the Tradie bought a new car.

Two weeks after getting me a second hand pushbike.

I'm not cross. It's a work car. But it is a little ironic. He has done the whole 'Baby you can drive my car' thing, and I fully intend to, given that he purchased a gorgeous new Holden Thunder ute thingy. Eventually. After I forgive him for buying a MANUAL gearbox. Gah! I've never understood the logic of buying a car with a manual gearbox. I mean... when are you supposed to drink your coffee if you're bloody well changing gears all the time?

I like my Urban Assault Vehicle.

It's a four-wheel drive, or as the yanks would say, an SUV. I drove it off-road once, but mainly I take Kimmy to Woolworths and back. An automatic, God bless her. And HIGH off the ground, so I can just run over any gutters or kerbs in the way. I'm not good with any lower cars, aka, 'cars you can't run over gutters in'. I don't know why they bother making those type of cars really. And, of course, Brad the Tradie's new ute is not only a bloody manual but also is LOW to the ground. A bitumen caresser.

Baby you can drive my car.... as long as you don't break it.

SO picky.

Just because there was that little incident a few years back with the car before the Navara, a little white Nissan thingy he called Bluey. It was quite an interesting gutter, the one I ran up in Bluey. Came out of nowhere really. It was only a little crunch for such a lot of damage too. Gutters are likely to make me nervous in New Ute. BUT, in event of emergency of HAVING to drive New Ute before it has any scratches not caused by moi, I have calculated route of minimal gutters between here and Woolies. Just in case... ie, I am forced to drive BtT's ute because Kimmy is elsewhere or temporarily incapacitated. Have got plan involving drinking coffee BEFORE driving (v unusual and quite inconvenient circumstance, so will have to plan house exit well in advance...) Have even chosen potential carpark at shops such that I don't have to reverse AND turn at the same time in the precious ute.

Don't get the wrong idea. I do like a good ute.

I grew up in the heart of Bogan B & S land...that's the good Aussie tradition of Bachelor & Spinster's balls for you youngens. Those classy events weren't really 'balls' in the same way as a Debutante soirée, though in my experience there were plenty of the other type of 'balls' dressed in their bestest moleskins and Levi 501's. And utes a plenty. In fact, bringing a ute was quite handy, given that it doubled as a bed for the night once the keg(s) ran out. Sleeping in the back of a ute was generally a bit on the nose with the aroma of cattle dog, hay and the previous night's technicolour yodel, but acceptable emergency accommodation none the less. So, I KNOW utes. I even owned one for a while. It was a chick ute, so I called her Uterus. A humming V8 Holden, bought in the days before you needed to be an heiress to afford the hooning fuel. (BTW, to my knowledge no one ever hurled in my ute... maybe a dog...)

But, being a bit scared of running over a gutter that jumps out of nowhere in BtT's glamorous New Ute, and having BtT drive my SUV on days he needs to tow three tonnes or use 4WD, I'm facing a very 1970's dilemma...

Having to ride my bike.

I say 'having' to ride my bike because that's different to 'wanting' to ride my bike. See, when my pre-loved fuschia Malvern Star 'Stella' first appeared I wanted to go for a ride. Like people do on Sundays in states of Australia where seven-day trading isn't legal (oh, that's just Western Australia apparently where life is stuck in 1982 and can't get out...) I like to WANT to ride my bike, not HAVE to.

Wanting to ride Stella necessitates a variety of conditions to align at once.

Sunshine, temperature in the mid twenties, no heavy wind (but slight breeze to cool face), good night's sleep, clean leggings, charged iPod, cold drink bottle, etc. Let's face it people...I'm not Cadel Evans. I don't ride up French mountains in the rain for the hell of it. I like optimal riding conditions, or.... I won't go. Riding is hard enough without adding yukky things like wind or warm drink bottles into the mix.

Just one condition out of place is enough to turn wanting to ride into having to ride. I have documented this in the past few weeks, and I give you my list of cycling preparation disasters:

1. Couldn't find iPod arm band. Wasn't major problem as discovered I could shove iPod down my undies. Looked like weird pelvis mutation, but acceptable.

2. Wet bike seat. ick. Why is it you never notice something like a wet seat until AFTER you've sat on it?

3. Helmet malfunction. mental note... Do up the clippy thing under the chin BEFORE taking off. That way the helment stays on.

I don't remember riding a bike to be this hard. I used to do it every day as a kid. It didn't take me half an hour to prepare, nor was I a danger to self and others. This theory that you can pick one up thereafter in your life and it's 'just like a riding a bike' is bullshit. I used to be able to wave quite successfully at passers-by and still steer with one hand. Can't anymore apparently. Have taken to using smile-n-nod as my greeting strategy. Also, have discovered that I cannot change songs on the iPod whilst in motion. Granted, that is a little more complex given that the iPod needs to be fished out of the front of my undies first. Nor can I turn the bike suddenly in gravel, dodge broken glass in the underpass like chicanes, or hang onto a leashed dog and let her pull me along (for exercise for HER you understand, not to make it easier for ME...)

So this begs the question of just how I will manage when my car is at work with BtT and the shiny new and as yet unscratched ute remains in the garage. I wouldn't want to HAVE to ride Stella to the shops and cart milk home or return library books in drizzly weather.

No choice really. Shall just sit it out until New Ute loses his sheen, acquires a mark or isn't looked at so lovingly by his owner. Shouldn't take long given that the teenager is due to learn to drive soon.

And when BtT insists, "Baby you can drive my car" I'll just reply, "Nah, it's fine thanks darl. I've got my bike if I need to go anywhere... is that a scratch there?????"

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Baby You Can Drive My Car, The Beatles, 1965.

Glory Days

2011-08-10T13:38:00.000+08:00

Forgive me if I seem a little tense.

It’s just that I’ve been out grocery shopping. (Cue collective understanding sigh….)

Yes, I’ve been out hunting and gathering so that the grasshoppers that live with me don’t starve to death. I have told them, particularly the teenage grasshopper, that starvation is unlikely in our semi-affluent suburb; however, she looked at me and repeated, “I’m hungry, and there’s NOTHING to eat.”

Apparently teenagers are not happy to go out the back and graze on herbs anymore.

I pointed out to her (using appropriately dramatic word emphasis and eye rolling, as understood by teenage girls), that there is PLENTY of parsley… the posh variety, not that curly one, and a couple of under ripe passionfruit, continuing that she’d be well advised to check the garden in future before generalising that there is NOTHING to eat.

And when did teenagers even eat at home anyway?

I remember swallowing the contents of my friends and neighbours pantries when there was ‘nothing to eat’ at ‘my house’ (technically my parent’s house, although in my egocentric adolescence I too believed that they were there to serve me just because they brought me into this world and that it was their dying wish to ensure that I was constantly content). And I wasn’t that fussy as to not to check for garden produce, out-dated jars or unusual edibles. In fact, once, I was so hungry that I ate a jar of Vitamin C tablets at Natalie’s house. So (and I did emphasise this to my starving teenager) I DO get it… that’s she HUNGRY. My point was to argue that there was, in fact, SOMETHING to eat.

And I was winning.

Until Brad the Tradie came home from work, opened the fridge, stared at it and said, “Our fridge looks like a Uni student’s”. Hmmm. My angst here existed on several levels. 1. How did BtT even KNOW what a Uni student’s fridge looks like? (unlike myself who has four tertiary qualifications… I would KNOW.) 2. Did he HAVE to say it when the teenager was IN THE FECKING ROOM? And… 3. To make matters worse, my friend Smurfette, who has a full-time job and is coordinating building a house, bloody well cooked white chocolate and raspberry puddings the other night from the Masterchef website. Bugger.

Cue collective sympathy.

Oh alright. I don’t even deserve sympathy. I don’t work, I have a couple of measly things to do each day and then I … could… I suppose… go grocery shopping. Except that I don’t like it. Hang on, let me say that with more emphasis to see if I can wring a little, teensy bit of sympathy out of you…

I don’t LOIKE IT.

We all have to do things we don’t like, you know. (Yes, thanks mum….) So I did it. Not the ‘top-up shop’ or ‘popping in and grabbing a few things’ or even the ‘I’ll grab a smaller-version trolley that holds flowers and baguettes’ shop. The ‘allocate at least half a day, three different supermarkets and don’t forget the eco-bags’ shop. So, I figured that if I was going to go grocery shopping, I may as well put myself in contention for wife and parent of the year awards and … yes… not only write a shopping list, but also… hit some recipe books. Well, not exactly BOOKS, but a couple of Good Taste magazines and my Ipad. Quicker. And I might’ve, you know, browsed the Masterchef site a little.

I’ll spare you the gory details. Except to say that there is a dried sage leaf shortage in my suburb.

Uhuh. I couldn’t believe it either. You know those herb racks where the little buggers are all alphabetically arranged? Three brands. Two supermarkets and a discount produce store. No dried Sage leaves. What to do? I temporarily considered ducking into Bunnings and flogging a handful from the garden section (and yes, I know I should be growing my own Sage, thank you, I’m getting there…). In the end I just substituted Rosemary and still don’t know whether that affected the taste of my Beef & Chorizo Ragout with Crispy Potato Stacks.

And THEN there was Sunday evening’s Masterchef debacle.

If Coles is where a Masterchef shops, then I would kindly like to know in WHICH frigging aisle the maltodextrin and liquid nitrogen are kept. I, based on the success of the Ragout, would like to make Frosty the Snowman demonstrated in the Masterchef finale, complete with yoghurt snow crystals, carrot sorbet and … well… everything. But I can’t, can I? Because I shopped where a Masterchef bloody well shops, and there was no maltodextrin or liquid nitrogen. Even asked the assistant, who, by the way, promises to take you to the exact spot in Coles where your ingredients await. A necessary addition to the modern supermarket because of the crap we now cook. She laughed. Apparently a few people have asked since Sunday.

Which brings me to my point.

My mother (yes, mother, as my father merely tended barbecues and gutted fish caught from the river like other good bogan dads) cooked meat and three veg most nights. Except Friday night, which was ‘special night’ (eg, fish n chips, or my fave, ‘I bought a wok, let’s make homemade Chinese food!’). And except Saturday, which was ‘get it yourself’ night (eg, stay at someone else’s house or make a toasted sandwich). And except Sunday, which was packet soup night (eg, Cream of Mushroom, Chicken Noodle) with sliced white bread (toasted sometimes). But every other night, we had meat and three veg. At 6pm. With a glass of water. Happily. And said ‘thankyou’ afterwards. No dessert. Just the washing up (“wipe the bench too!”), and then settled in to watch The Sullivans or A Country Practice before gleefully skipping off to bed at 8:30pm. I did not eat pomegranates unless they grew close by. Bananas were not $15 a kilo, nor considered a luxury item. Cordial was a luxury item. As were Tim-Tams.

So. When did the bar raise?

I missed it. The glory years of stay-at-home parenting/wife-ing. Where you watched, I don’t know, The Midday show in a housedress, and then trotted off to watch the kids ride their bike home and take them for a fresh apple, at Charlie's down the road, before reciting times tables and opening a packet of sausages for dinner.

That’s it. I want my glory days people.

And there will be no dried sage leaves required.

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Glory Days, Bruce Springsteen, 1985.

Holiday

2011-07-16T13:17:00.000+08:00

OMG. I sooooooo need a holiday.

Oh shut up. Like, I KNOW I just got back from Ayz-ee-ah, but it's post-Asia depression (PAD) that's kinda the iss-you. I just can't take three weeks off my life and expect to come home and resume a normal state of unemployment. There's too much to bloody well do!

Not that I've really started 'doing' any of it. Yet. Bless my VGF (Very Good Friend) Organica, who stepped into the role of my mother and rang me at nine am the first morning home (after a 2am bedtime... Thanks darl!! Although, granted, she HAD found the on-sale Dr Feelgood thongs I want...) and asked me whether I'd put the frigging washing on yet. The answer to which was no. We hadn't even looked at the suitcases, one of which was trashed by Tiger Air's roooly careful handling of our baggage between Thailand, Singapore and Perth. And here I was thinking that a hundred and thirty-three bucks got you quality air travel. How naive I am. Although, we did get seats in Row 1, which gave extra leg room and quick access to the loo (Yes, we went to Asia, quick access to the loo is more than a bit handy!) and first crack at the six dollar can of red wine from in-flight service (2.6 standard drinks! Value!) which went down well with a 'Christ I hate cheap flights' diazepam tablet.

I hate getting home and finding that the welcome home elf hasn't been.

In my perfect world, a little elf crawls in through a crevice (or chimney...but let's face it, this is Perth, not the North Pole so a crevice or broken window is a bit more likely) and puts a litre each of milk and Pepsi Max in my cleaned fridge, washes the dogs, mows the lawn, sorts the mail, does the groceries and checks the bin doesn't stink. No elf. So Brad the Tradie and I went to bed (which isn't as good as the one at the Marriott resort in Thailand) without a Pillow Menu (a la Intercontinental Singapore) and lamented the PAD... sigh... we're not on holidays anymore Toto.

Stuff happens while you're away.

It's like being in some alternate universe where you expect that everything stays the same unless you're there to watch it change. Example: in order to get a coffee with milk on our first morning back I needed to venture out of the house (yeah, righto I went to Maccas drive through so it wasnt really that hard...). After attempting to pay a pimply 15 year old with a Singaporean five dollar note ("Hey miss, is this even real money??") I lamely drove off, sucking on my overdue morning coffee (and it was not 'extra hot' as I had instructed... is it too damn hard for people to understand extra hot? Really?) I noticed that there was one less take away open. Yep, Pasta in a Cup had closed down whilst I was in Asia. I'd never eaten there (seriously, Pasta in a CUP as a take-away concept? Blech) but the thing is, I felt a little tug of loss anyway, because it had closed down while I was GONE. Three new house slabs were poured nearby, a half finished abode completed (where are we supposed to steal bags of cement from now??) and loaves of bread are suddenly cheaper. We even had a power problem that means we missed three weeks of telly (thank god they delayed the grand final of Dancing With the Stars until i got back! Phew!) Things did not stop just because we went away. Bugger it.

Even though I've got less to 'get back into' these days, I still hate that 'getting back into it' feeling.

The Unpack. The wash of the holiday clothes (sigh, pack the sarong away...). The four-day digestive system flush (those who go to Asia know what i mean....) The letting everyone know you're back (which would be much simpler if everyone was on email or social networking quite frankly). The sleeping on non-hotel not-that-crisp and really not-at-all white sheets. The hoisting of photos on Facebook (a bit depressing and gloaty at the same time). AND... The Shop. Turning the fridge back on and hunting, gathering, chopping, cooking, cleaning up afterwards.... Makes you wish you'd brought half the staff of a cruise ship or resort back with you really. Surely it doesn't take twenty five ingredients to make a four-dish Thai buffet platter? It only took me five trips to the supermarket to make me think that I might not need to go back for a few days (Thai cooking attempt not included). Then there's the taking back of overdue books, the opening of a bucket of mail (seriously? has the offspring's school got nothing better to do than send me bills for Voluntary Contributions? I've told them that the contributions are bloody well voluntary, what's with the monthly reminder????) and the placing of Thai Silk table runners purchased only a week or so ago in a warm, tropical climate where bright things look pretty.

None of which is terribly stressful or difficult.

It's just.... not as good as being on holiday. But then, if our everyday life WAS as good as being on holiday then we wouldn't need JetStar, Tiger or Southwest airlines would we? Perhaps holidays, like many things in life that used to be deemed 'extra-spesh' and rare (like hair mousse and floppy disks) are simply closing the gap. I remember when most kids didn't have passports and overseas was somewhere rich people went for their honeymoon. Any family that went OS to somewhere posh, like Fiji, had to host a neighbourhood slide night with detailed description of the destinations that the rest of us had only ever seen in Encyclopedia Britannica and the occasional David Attenborough documentary. Where we all went "OOO... Ahhhh... how NOICE!!!!" whilst eating something new and different from overseas like stir-fried pork in plum sauce. Now, you just whip the photos from the iPhone to Facebook and see if anyone cares. And if you travel in winter no one can even appreciate your tan ("They traveled to THAILAND!! AND SUNBAKED? Well that's just asking for an early grave!!") Except that my weird looking face that looks like a raccoon where my sunnies were permanently glued can't really be ignored ("What's wrong with your face darl? Have you been skiing or something?")

And now, a week on from our arrival back home, life has returned to normal, albeit with a tad more Pad Thai on the dinner menu.

Sighing, I longingly read the ingredients of pastes and sauces in the 'weird shit' aisle at the supermarket. And we live our lives in preparation to do it all again. Holiday... it would be so nice. Slide night anyone?

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Holiday, Madonna, 1983.

Yellow Polka-dot Burqini

2011-07-06T17:13:00.000+08:00

Bogan parents of the world unite.

Yes, I have found the solution to international tensions and racial conflict between cultures.

It is... The hotel swimming pool and bar.

Being in Thailand this week has enabled BtT to slip into a coma, and me to observe a range of international forms of boganism. After two luxurious nights at the Intercontinental in Singapore with complimentary everything, it was time for us to detox and have a wee little lie down. At one of those family holiday resorts that tight arsed middle class holidays makers go to.

You know. The places in developing countries that exploit workers and cheap resource suppliers happy to be underpaid in order to provide a fascimile of luxury. Where Bogans like moi can collect bathroom vanity products to take home and call them 'gifts'. Places where the quality and size of the hotel pool dictates the level of poshness of the holiday. "Mayyyyyyte, shoulda seen the bloody pool! massive! Swim up bar, little helpful pool boys brought us a towel, those back massaging jets, beee-yoooo-ti-foool!"

And it would seem the same for people from non-Oz places.

Different swimsuits styles, different accents, but still the same middle class values. Where the word 'bliss' is defined in two words, 'kid's club' and happy hour means the same thing in any language...half price booze and nibbles. The yanks, bless 'em, have that permeating tone to their voice that radiates across the serenity of pool-side, "AUDREY! auuuuuuuuud-dreeeeeeeee! get out of the pool now. Ya burnt as a French fry in Louisiana girlfriend!" And out Audrey schlumps. Pink, like the rest of us. Half her togs gaping open at the back and her hair dripping all over her iPhone.

There's the Indian family who travels in a large sparkly Bollywood lion pride, with their kids dressed in glow-in-the-dark life vests for evening safety. The Middle East families in swim-burqinis (yes really, that's what they're called) fashionable covered head to toe in all manner of polka dots, patterns and colours (not so itsy-bitsy actually). Quite a use of Lycra compared to the Japanese bikinis, which are so small, yet still cover tiny little Japanese frames. The male Chinese swimshorts, tight around the nether regions and high waisted are worth the price of a Singha beer to watch. The pink Poms and their kids covered in floaties ("Oooi now, dont go too bloody far...oh OK, whatever, I don't care, I'm going to the bar..."). The Malaysian family whose little girl just was dying to go back to kid's club because her parents "just want to sleep". And the Aussies, bless us, whose children all have their hair plaited into little braids with beads on the end (compulsory Asian holiday treat) and wear nasty Tar-jay swimmers all day long. Parents at the bar, grandparents asleep with a book (or pretending to be in case the kids want attention again) and people like BtT and I, just lying there in the pool floating, wondering whether the Third world is a good place or a bad place to holiday (Safety? Huh??? We'll be fine mum!)

Ah well, regardless of culture, you'll all find us at the Mai Khao Marriott Beach Club pool bar this arve at five comparing whether the Banana Colada is better than the Southern Shakeshake.

In any language, it beats workin'!

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Yellow polka dot bikini, Brian Hyand, 1960

Somewhere Over the Wainbow

2011-07-06T17:07:00.000+08:00

Prepare yourself for a sob story.

When I was a little Bogan my parents didn't take me to fancy hotels. They took the family .... camping. Uhuh. Practically child abuse. Possibly even worse, we occasionally, every five years or so, we'd do a realllllllly special holiday to the beach at Port Macquarie or Surfer's Paradise and stay at a two-star motel. The kind where we could park the EH Holden station wagon at the door. The kind that had a hole in the wall to pass the bread through in the morning for breakfast. The kind with a little pool for the kids, where my older brother would try to drown me then threaten to kill me if I dobbed. And yet, this was somehow better than staying at home.

I no longer have the desire to camp, and have replaced the front of 'otel' from a 'm' to a 'h'. Five star preferably.

And quite frankly, I think Asia has nailed luxury hotels. Which I quite strange for a continent that smells as bad as it does. I'm a bit of a snot really. I like at least an hour or two of complimentary drinks and nibbles in the evening. And a pillow menu with my choice of scented inserts (Jasmine naturally). And high-speed free internet. And scented face washers on little trays. And mirrors that make me look just a tad thinner than usual (nothing like traveling to Asia to give one an attack of Hippopotamus-itus.)

I contemplated Asia over my complimentary high tea (aloe vera jelly with dragon fruit seeds anyone?) at the Singpapore Intercontinental. Asia is such a hotchpotch of people, hygiene standards and currencies that I think I'd like whoever runs Singapore put in charge of Asia. Of creating the Emerald City at the end of the wellow bwick woad. To create a fully air-conditioned Asian paradise that has the beaches of Phuket and Vietnam, the shopping of Shanghai, Malaysia, China and Hong Kong, the airport, hygiene, organization of Singapore, the hotels of Macau and a Thai massage to round it all off.

Asian people are so damned little.

I think, having tripped here a little, that evolution created them this way so that their thighs don't rub together in the humidity. Like mine do. I have a little penguin waddle I do to avoid chafing... TMI? Yes, probably. Standing, waiting for a taxi, I thought I was coping well with the humidity until I felt trickles of perspiration dripping down my legs, my arms, my back.... It's why you wear a dress in Asia, to cover your modesty and also to mop up with afterwards.

Travelling in the wet season does have its advantages in Asia.

Like being able to afford a club room at the Intercontinental for a start. And also, it rains, which for us Perth Bogans was quite a treat. "Wook!!!" said Brad the Tradie. "a rainbow! been a while since we've seen one of those!" "Ahhhhhhhh...." replied the taxi driver, "Many, many wainbow here. but many, many building cover wainbow to make Sing-uh-pore wery wery rich, so sometimes not see wainbow!" Poor successful as hell country with all the money and progress covering the wainbows.

Pass me another Singapore Sling and I'll sympathise for them.

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Somewhere Over the Rainbow, Judy Garland, 1939

Born To Be Wild

2011-06-27T10:46:00.000+08:00

Old people are frightening.

Not recent retirees or the spring chickens in their 60's. It must be some sort of combination of being let out of the 'Lifestyle Villages', being tube-fed martinis and knowing that every day may be their last. I've never seen so many over 80's getting jiggy with it.

Seriously. Cruise ships on longish voyages outside of school holiday season ARE generally known to attract of white middle class elderly chooks spending their late husbands' (plural) superannuation. They remind me of packs of teenage school leavers, travelling together and enjoying absolutely everything that comes their way.

Including Brad the Tradie.

Yep, he's a superstar on this cruise ship. Tall, 'strapping', doesnt mind helping people up from the table or into a wheelchair and he's good at trivia. He's a keeper. As twice-widowed Rae from our dinner table said to me, "If you're finished with him love, I'll have a go!"

The activities on board are pretty wild too. Each night we get a Princess Patter, a little newsletter with the following day's activities listed. For the old chooks this document is their lifeblood. You see them pacing around with highlighters, meeting in packs for a lar-tay to decide what the pack schedule for the day entails. Tai Chi at seven. Breakfast (stewed prunes...gotta keep reg-oo-lah!) Photography talk. Choir practice. Morning tea. Trivia. Bag making ( "ooo look Beryl! we're putting an origami fish on the bag today!") Lunch. port lecture. Movie. Afternoon tea. trivia. Craft of the day ("Is it advanced quilling do you think June? I wouldn't want to waste my time going to a beginniners class...") wine tasting, blackjack, pilates, Snowball Jackpot Bingo, Line dancing.... It goes on and on.

Brad the Tradie is an old-person's holiday fantasy. He nails away his trivia team on the first day at sea. Always. He practically interviews candidates in order to get a winning composition of people who know useless stuff. He plays to win too. Lanyards, playing cards, hats. Trivia is a competitive sport on cruise ships. Which mountain range divides Tunisia and Morocco? How many hurdles are there in the 400m event? Who was the 1938 Time magazine man of the year? when I go along occasionally, I take my vodka. Our team contains a married couple in their late sixties who are Buddhist Vegans who make money renovating pubs. Yes, really. And they know stuff. Weird stuff.

And then there's the night time.

Comedians telling viagra and prostate jokes. Formal nights with as many nanna sequins as Lincraft could muster. Juiced up iverive-shot cocktails by nine, they are all up doing Karaoke. I've never quite seen Kentucky Rose done the way Joyce did it the other night. All she needed was a pole and her bar tab could've been taken care of by the smattering of old codger dudes. We, of course, do NOT karaoke and poor BtT looks a little pained whenever we pass through. These people stay up until all hours swaying and singing along to Barbra Streisand tunes.

But moi?

I'm a little tame for this wild crowd. I'm happily alternating between reading in the sun and swimming in the sun and making sure I don't miss the free champagne at the Art show at 2:30 each day. I need to pace myself. Unlike the octogenarian pack, I've got too much to live for.

Like making sure the Wild Things don't capture my husband and cover him in honey for endless evenings of Guess That Tune. Unless he's managed to get written into the will of course. Then all bets are off!
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Born To Be Wild, Steppenwolf, 1968.

Hungry Like The Wolf

2011-06-25T10:40:00.002+08:00

Brad the Tradie gets hungry. Really hungry.

If you are ever on a survival-type TV show, you know, the ones where you live on clams and seaweed, it's best to vote BtT off the island rather quickly. Before he eats you. It has been in Blossy's best interests as a wife to learn to provide food quickly and in large quantities. BtT gets hungry after he works, when he wakes up, when he watches Telly, when traveling.... And yet Brad the Tradie is not fat. Not even close. He's a tall, athletic, hungry man, from a family of hungry people. It's not normal.

So when we go to book travel, there are a few things to consider. Only a few. He doesn't like to be 'earth sculpting' (posh new term for landscaping) whilst on breaks. There has to be food. Footy or cricket scores. Bourbon. If I can arrange that, then I am a goddess.

Duh, cruise ship.

Even though Brad the Tradie loves big cats and is happiest among cheetahs, tigers and lions, when hunting he is more like a wolf (less hairy though thankfully). For some, embarking a cruise ship is about frou-frou drinks, swimming pools, sequinny stage shows or the casino. But after boarding in Fremantle at lunchtime Saturday, BtT was HUNGRY. Like a wolf, he snarled ever so politely past photographers, little umbrellas and the reggae band, sliding effortlessly between floppy Australian pensioners slathering on the free hand sanitiser, dodging retirees' custom walking frames in a direct path to the buff-ay.

Brad the Tradie knows buffets. The positioning of dishes, Bain Marie etiquette, plate work, how to get the attendant to refill the hot chippies or prawn platter with fresh ones. He knows to avoid the bread and jelly cups. He's a stealthy buffet hunter. Not the Homer Simpson all you can carry type. an observer would only realize BtT's buffet savvy behavior if they spied me next to him, reading, playing on my phone, doing a crossword.... For a buffet, like a fresh kill for the hungry wolf, takes time to devour properly. It's not a stuff-n-run event. It's a marathon. Good thing he still has his own teeth. And a very efficient digestive system. All that food has to go somewhere.

The cool thing about cruise ships is not only the bulk of food they carry on board, but also the fact that they employ lots of little South east Asians and Ukrainians to do the hunting and gathering (and carve faces into watermelons and make artworks from packaged chopsticks). I like this about holidaying with BtT. We rarely self-cater. Which means that I read. And sit in hot tubs. and watch movies. And go to activities. And eat salad with a side of Diet Coke. I can enjoy the food vicariously after all. A fingerful of whatever BtT is devouring is usually enough for me to come home the size of a Kelvinator. Besides, theres bananas on board and at fifteen bucks a kilo back in Oz I haven't had a the little golden meal of monkeys in sooooooo long, so a constant stream of those and a seat at the papaya stand and I'm pretty happy. I go around the ship scabbing free champagne at Art shows, captains parties... Wherever really. I have a kids drinks card which means I can get unlimited fizzy, juice, smoothies and mocktails. I think I might look just a trifle strange carting around my flask of vodka kindly gifted by one of our American friends, topping up my newest virgin daiquiri or lime & soda.

The way the elderly approach the food is quite entertaining. At our evening 'proper dinner table' of ten, we're the youngest by forty years (not joking). Keith and Elsie holiday often from their base in a Lifestyle Village in Perth. They both have new teeth, so the lobster and veal wasnt as much of a challenge as for octogenarian George. Les and Dot from Bunbury grow lambs and eat it most nights, yet still wanted lamb chops for dinner. (oooo, mint jelly!!!! )Joy, sixth wife of George (and a good deal younger at sixty three) wasn't too sure about the cumin and coconut sauce on her fish the other night and wanted to know why BtT had been given mango ice-cream and George hadn't ("put your glasses on George, it's on the menu... See? No, UNDER the rice pudding, well just ask for some then George, it doesn't matter if they have to go back and get it, these Philippinos are very wiry, won't hurt at all... Oh fine then have it tomorrow night.") Rae, traveling with a friend from the lifestyle Village in Erskine, likes a wine with dinner, but adds ice to water it down and make it last longer. Pat, her mate has one VB beer a day, straight from the can during the Appetizer ("youngest of eleven and the rest were all boys, can't take to frissy wine"). It's kind of like eating dinner at your grandparents, except with more Philippino servants and less mashed potatoes. and two flavours of jelly cups instead of one.

What I don't have to do is check the time to make sure we haven't forgotten a meal, because there's always, ALWAYS food. A cheese plate the size of a coffee table is delivered to our cabin at five. We send the tray back that held the hamburger, chips, Moroccan hot pot, pita bread and milk, but still need to duck to the dining room for a three course meal of little hot things, salmon and ice-cream before popcorn at the Movies under the stars and second dessert during Sports Trivia at 9:30. We may swing by the pizza place because they have hunks of Italian cheeses that BtT likes and it's really hard to leave there without a pepperoni pizza and an antipasto plate. Or maybe just grab a platter of bbq prawns. It is quite a walk to the cabin after all and breakfast is HOURS away. Unless you get hungry in the night and need to go to the buffet. Or get a kebab, or meat pie (yes Americans, Cruises leaving from Australia have meat pies and vegemite on board!!)

They do say that when you go on a cruise you arrive as a passenger and leave as cargo. Although lots of people get 'one of everything' just to try, especially with dessert. The leftover food is munched down and expelled from the ship to feed the sealife. We've got some porky little fishies following along. I could almost hear a collective 'mmmmmm creme brûlée leftovers....' last night.

No leftovers from our table, although it does take a while for the olds to chew, slurp and dribble through their meals.

and it takes a fair bit to fill Brad the Tradie up. On the sixth day at sea (yes it does take a while to drive a boat to Thailand), he has hit the wall. He gave a little nose wiggle at the buffet today, and couldnt even be swayed with a doner kebab from the Terrace Grill. nor a hunk of Italian cheese, or even a bowl of ice-cream. By dinner he was more peckish and I've never known him to turn away shellfish or steak. Even so, perhaps he has transformed from wolf into camel, saving up all this protein to sustain him through the less-than-ideal world that is Malaysian market shopping.

but enough about food and drink..... Excuse moi, it's time for another free champagne at the art show. Then maybe a mocktail with added vodka....

Hungry Like The Wolf, Duran Duran, 1982

You Should Have Killed Me When You Had the Chance

2011-06-17T14:41:00.000+08:00

"Am I talented?"

Please. What would YOU say if your teenage girl asked you that? Yep. You say something like I did the other day in the car, driving the self-proclaimed prodigy to Music or Modelling or Underwater Macrame or something. "Everyone is talented in their own special way darl."

Vomit.

But she didn't stop there. She saw through the generic answer and wanted more.

"But like... Am I gifted? You know, am I THAT good at something that everyone would go ... (long sigh) ..... Ahhhhhhh......."

Why can't kids just accept your first answer? And why can't they ask these questions during home-baked cookies or after a perfectly nutritionally balanced meal when you're in a gold-star parenting mood, rather than in the car running late for something? And why is it, when you pause for that moment too long, trying to manufacture an answer, that they sense it and go in for the kill.... and say ....

"OMG! You don't think I'm GIFTED do you? I'm not good at ANYTHING am I? Are you saying that I'm JUST a regular person or that I SUCK AT EVERYTHING?"

No, I thought, I wish you'd shut up.

Is it all these talent shows on Telly that's the problem?

Or is it true that we've raised Gen Z (or whatever they're called) to whine 'What about me?' at any opportunity. When did it become a bad thing just to BE? Or, God forbid, go through like without being an amazing singer, dancer, fire-eater or be able to cook a fennel-crusted salmon dish (with caramelised onion) in under fifteen minutes by the age of twelve? Just to grow up and have major achievements listed as learning to ride a bike and getting a special woggle at Scouts? Isn't the whole idea of the word 'gifted' that most people aren't and some people are? Reality TV has proven that everyone can be a Fabulously Famous Nobody, except I'm not quite sure whether this is what I want Gen Z to be when they grow up.

Ironically, we had to go to the Prodigy's School Concert the other night.

I bribed Brad the Tradie into it by offering dinner at the tavern beforehand. After running about six thousand school concerts and talent shows myself, I'd pretty much rather roll in broken glass than go to another one and, as it turns out, most of the Year 9, 10 and 11 parents felt the same way because the audience was mighty light-on. And playing on their smart-phones. I should tut-tut at that type of parent behaviour, but that would make me hypocritical, as I too was checking Facebook during the School Band's never ending Les Miserable medley. OK, and the Year 11 'representational drama excerpt' from Waiting for Godot. And the flute group's four-verse rendition of In The Jungle (you know.... wimma-way a-wimma-way....it goes on and on and on and on...) and a couple of hip-hop acts. I paid attention during Act 15 on the program, which was the Prodigy's self-penned play 'Three Friends and Her' starring her (and three friends). I dutifully took pictures with my IPhone, waved and applauded, then went back to playing Bejewelled.

But the highlight was a Year 11 Death Metal Band belting out a song called 'You Should Have Killed Me When You Had the Chance.' Six minutes of screaming, head banging and shaking greasy long hair about. Brad the Tradie starting laughing. I filmed them (damn I love my iPhone) to play back to the Prodigy in the car on the way home to remind her just HOW MANY parenting points I earned by sitting through another freaking awful school concert. And without wine too.

Ironically, the concert was held on the same night as the weekly showing of Australia's Got Talent on the telly. The thing about gifted and talented people is that they're basically freaks. My favorite on the show so far has been the gay pole-dancing Aboriginal male nurse from Walgett. If he'd been at the school concert the other night I might not have wanted to be killed at intermission.

But when the average teenager sees fourteen year old freaks on the Telly singing Opera then they want that attention too. So they keep practicing.... And practicing.... Dancing in front of mirrors dressed in polyester/lycra blend outfits from Supre and belting out Karaoke in suburban houses all over the nation. I suppose it all comes in handy at Greek Weddings and Friday night at the Blacktown RSL.

As for moi? Well, my acting gets better all the time: "Suck? You? Oh noooooo darl, you're the most talented kid I've ever had the pleasure of parenting. Really. Now let's go get some hot chips."

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You Should Have Killed Me When You Had the Chance, A Day to Remember, 2010

My Corona

2011-06-06T19:35:00.000+08:00

A wedding invitation arrived in the mail a couple of weeks ago.

That's the thing about moving to the other side of Australia to be near Brad the Tradie's peeps. Suddenly there's a lot to be involved in. Mostly so far it's been poker tournaments, birthdays, the odd family barbecue and school reunion.

But this weekend heralded our first west coast wedding.

As the 'plus-one', these kind of shindigs are right up my alley. Having met the groom thrice now (and the bride not at all) my responsibilities at the wedding are quite clearly outlined in our culture.... eat, drink and be merry. And who was I to argue.

The wedding we attended on Sunday was held in a Catholic Church. If I wasn't so agnostic I'm sure I would've heard God grumbling with distaste at the way people interpreted the term 'smart-casual'. I was assured by my VGF Organica that pants and sensible shoes were suitable given that the reception was of the backyard variety. However, I think that some guests took a few too many 'smart-casual' liberties. I counted six pairs of leggings, a Goth ensemble (complete with corset) and several too many polyester/Lycra dresses that entered this world as shirts or swimwear. When one of the best dressed is the Page-Dog, you know they should've avoided the word Casual at all on the invitation.

Being brought up by Heathens and wolves, our teenager (who tastefully avoided animal print and black lace when dressing) was dreadfully excited at seeing the inside of a Catholic Church. I felt sooooo proud when she commented, "I haven't done this much...should I spit my gum out here into the garden or do you think there's bins inside?" Dear God, forgive us agnostic Bogans, for we have binned... I mean... sinned.

I used to be a wedding singer.

Once upon a time, long, long ago people paid me (in green hundred dollar bills) to turn up at their ceremony and belt out a pretty tune. I used to loathe the Catholic ones. The nuptial mass comes with a booklet in Latin and headache pills. I did a few Italian Roman Catholic weddings where I really couldn't understand a thing and had to rely on the pianist staying awake and being cued by the priest. One couple begged me to learn the love theme from The Godfather and wanted it sung in haunting tones whilst they signed the register. Freaky much. And I charged extra in case I was struck down by lightening on my way out of Saint Christopher's.

Meanwhile, back at the no-ties weddin', we were delighted to discover that having a reception in a backyard means that the couple can buy whatever drinks they feel like. And quite frankly, I agree whole-heartedly with whoever chose the Margaret River Cab Merlot as table wine. Was thinking of having a beer until I realized I don't have a bottle opener on my keyring, but nevertheless there were a few partygoers singing My Corona for the evening (mental note re keyring... shall be better prepared next time) and when there's eskies full of free Corona, you can be guaranteed people are gonna show. With no bar rules (help yourself!) no frills and enough plastic portaloos, we Bogans from far and wide just tucked in.

I love informality.

With no speeches, no waltz, no cake, no 'chicken or fish', and a good 80's soundtrack from the bride's ipod, we were all fairly sloshed by eight o'clock. I managed to impress with my ability to construct a dinosaur sculpture from wine corks, skewers and used canape sticks. I met a new friend called Sue, whose flannelette jacket I was quite taken with, and it turned out that she's married to Brian who stayed at our house in Canberra years ago during Summernats. The Goth joined our group and commented that she hasn't met me in a couple of hundred years (uhuh...) and I learned all about corsetry and how to dye a bright red stripe into my hair.

Margie River Red does soak up a bit of harm food-wise.

After a few rounds of canapés, pizza and profiteroles I was a little dyspeptic, however, the wine was terribly good, so I pocketed a bottle into my handbag (carry-all type, not posh-hold-a-lippie type). I did ask BtT to check if the guest-gift was a whole case...

Not since the sixties have backyard weddings been so popular. Is it the GFC? A new 'bugger it, we can do it ourselves' attitude? I'm not sure how much a traditional wedding costs anymore, but I believe it's a LOT. And, unlike the First Home Buyers Scheme, the government doesn't give any form of rebate for weddin's. So, I'm up there with the DIY wedding. BtT and I are both agnostic and also not terribly into pomp n tromp, so we eloped to a Queensland beach, and consequently I'm not a terribly good example of how to hold a traditional wedding.

So here's my thing.

I reckon Jool-ya could move this whole ummm.... Movement.... Forward by having a backyard weddin' herself. Dontcha think it'd be noice? We could hold it in the backyard at the Lodge or just in the grounds of the Rooty Hill RSL perhaps. A few sausage rolls, some little boys with sauce (she likes eating children) and a noice croquenbouche like the ones they make on Masterchef. Everyone could come, especially the Greens. Yes, I think a Wine Weddin' could distract nicely from nasty matters like Carbon Tax thingies. A few boat children could even sing 'I Still Call Oz-tray-lyahhhh Home' before being packed off to Malaysia. The First Bloke needn't wear a tie and Jools could just don an ugly pantsuit from her fortnightly rotational wardrobe. Yes, I think I'll suggest it to her.

I know where she can get a nice red. And I'll make sure guests are told to bring their own bottle-opener for the Corona.

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My Sharona, The Knack, 1979.

Born This Way

2011-05-31T11:37:00.000+08:00

I'm having a mid-life lie-down.

There's no crisis or anything. It's a half-time break, without the oranges. I figure if I'm going to make it to eighty (and that's just the average now, I could well go on for longer!) then a half-time lie down is entirely warranted.

And I quite like it actually.

I figure that I'll have to rejoin reality eventually, but for now Brad the Tradie and The BHG (adolescent who loves Better Homes & Gardens on telly) know me as Stay-at-Home. I am enjoying a variety of pleasurable daily activities, such as zesting limes, sleeping in and having conversations with my dogs, one of whom we've discovered is actually a Maltese Shitz-oodle (part poodle... who knew???) because I have actually had the time and inclination to take him to a vet for only the second time in his life.

When one takes a step off the hamster wheel, lots of interesting things happen.

Like... Parenting. I do these fabulous gold-star parent things now, like researching plug-in heated throw rugs for the teenager's upcoming trip to the nation's capital. I bake muffins for afternoon tea and give them to the random adolescents that enter our house, along with glasses of milk (and lectures on calcium serves). I now give a shit about Pythagoras homework and Science class and buying polyester stuffing for tomorrow's Textiles project. I drive the offspring to modelling class, piano class, surfing lessons, work, friends' houses and sometimes I don't even complain.

But I will NOT go to Parent Modelling Group.

I know it sounds harsh, but I just can't do it. BHG, aka 'The Model' was quite straight-faced when handing BtT and I the nasty blue information sheet last week. Brad the Tradie had us in fits as he pranced up the hallway 'doing catwalk' (better than me I must say, and I do think he would make a passably gorgeous trannie if he ever felt the pull). Obviously aimed at Stay-at-Homes like myself, these Parents-who-Care classes promise to be 'fun and sociable in a relaxed surrounding' whilst learning the life-altering skills of fashion show choreography, sequin sewing and nail art.

Part-guffawing, part-vomiting, I texted my VGF Organica with the dilemma. She wanted me to go just for social research purposes, but I just can't bring myself to enrol. You see, I generally collect The Model from class on Thursday arvos with a parcel of hot chips under my arm, dressed in leggings and a flannelette shirt. Last Thursday the teacher-model took five minutes to explain to me how compulsory the fifteen dollar 'neck scarf' is that I hadn't ordered and why I have to run out and buy a comb with a metal stick at the end (looks like a weapon to me) to make side-part braiding neater. Modelling is NOT my thing. I do NOT sew sequins over morning tea whilst debating whether 'the girls' should do a 'turn, turn, sashay' or just a 'turn, walk, pose, turn'. I suppose I should be pleased that we don't have to learn to administer Botox.

This whole modelling thing has been, wait for the pun, totally FASH-in-ating. A recent activity, the BHG has finally given in to public pressure to give modelling a go, given that she's a genetic freak. It might just stop people asking if she's good at basketball, just because she's tall and long-limbed. She can say, "No, I'm not a basketballer, I'm a MODEL. I was BORN THIS WAY."

Kids’ activities are fabulous aren’t they?

Growing up in the country my extra-curricular dossier consisted of sport and music. Netball, basketball, softball, cricket. Stuff that didn’t require a lot of equipment. Just a parent-coach and a rowdy bunch of kids hyped up on Cottee’s cordial and sherbet. It didn’t really matter if you weren’t any good, because there were always positions for those who sucked (seriously, ‘right outfield’? You may as well take a book…)

We’ve been doing ‘activities’ with the BHG forever. Well, it seems like it. There’s been:

· Horseriding (she vomited a lot)

· Little Athletics (not my favourite due to level of parent involvement required at 8am on a Saturday morning but watching the kids throw heavy objects was always a hoot)

· Gymnastics (“Can I have a purple leotard?”)

· Ice skating (my favourite – parents allowed to go shopping for two hours to avoid freezing to death)

· Piano (bloody expensive)

· Drama (more vomiting)

· Years of swimming lessons (another favourite – parent coffee & cake area)

But we have managed to avoid the Olympic selection and major injury that some parents (and their kids…but it’s not really about them is it?) endure. And all BHG has had to put up with is our moaning. Seriously, since when has weekends been about children and ‘their needs’? Saturday morning activities, Saturday afternoon birthday party, Sunday morning playdate, Sunday afternoon emergency homework projects… all meticulously photographically recorded so that we can bring up the topic of what wonderful parents we have been whenever need be.

Modelling school happens once a week where she learns exciting eye-rolling skills such as how to look at the camera in a fashionably uninterested manner and how to protect her hair from heated styling devices. She finds the diva teens that attend a little intimidating and overwhelming. One such creature stayed with us last Thursday night and took ninety minutes to get ready for school the next day (compared to BHG's twenty minutes including dishwasher unstacking and breakfast) and told me that pasta makes you fat (but apparently ice-cream does not...)

We did a five hour day last Sunday to attend a catwalk competition where the sprog had a whole 45 seconds of walking glory. It was a little like an under-16's netball carnival, with the same teenage girl attitudes, but more spray tans, and less actual excitement. There's only so long you can stay interested when watching fifty girls trot one at a time to doof-doof music. (Actually, the girl that did the pole-dance routine at the end of the runway in thigh-high red boots caused a stir, but for the most part it was just reminiscent of a Target catalogue).

Fortunately one thing that modelling has taught our fearless teen is how very little she'd like to actually be one. "The other models are scary. Some of them don't even eat you know. Maybe I'll be a Zoologist.... I love animals. I was just born that way. "

Hallelujia.

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Born This Way - Lady Gaga, 2011.

Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?

2011-05-15T19:30:00.001+08:00

Once upon a time it was enough to take the whippersnipper to the Venus Butterfly before each swim season. THAT was considered grooming in the 80’s you know.

I miss the 80’s.

I had Brooke Shields eyebrows, which were considered quite glam. I used clear mascara to make them stay put whilst out dancing. Shaving one’s legs up to the knees was more than enough. Nothing in the manual about plucking facial hair. In fact, no one noticed facial hair under all those spiral perms. And a quick nick over with dad’s razor each November was all the ol’ Conch Shell desired. Swimmers weren’t as … high then. In fact, my mum wore one of those little swimskirt things. Now I realise why.

It just wasnt a big deal for women, or men. And I can’t remember when things in the grooming department got so damned serious! And technical! When did it all change? Was I awake at the time?

In exchange for a couple of hand-me-down school tops recently, a new Bogan friend of mine offered me a free wax. Seriously. Like… “Darl! Thanks for the clothes! Anytime you need a trim of the love rug or a full Brazilian, just come on over. I’ve got all the stuff!” Hmm. Including a general anaesthetic? A home Brazilian? Ahhhh, no thanks.

And then I come across…. Vajazzling.

Not only are we now ripping the lady fur off the bearded clam, we’re …. sparkling it. Taking to the silk igloo with the equivalent of a bedazzler. And not just in the ‘shake some glitter over the love glove’ kind of way. Actually ripping off the hair and sticking sparkly little crystals on the waxed whisker whacker. Patterns and what-not. The thought of associated daily practicalities make me cringe a little actually. God forbid how those with well-endowed pubes of middle eastern and Mediterranean descent are supposed to cope with the maintenance.

When did pubic regions start requiring art? Are they that starved for public attention? I’m all for freedom of grooming and all that. I think it’s great that we live in an age where women (and men) can glue crystals on their hoo-hah.

But it becomes my business if …

A) I feel societal pressure to chintz the cha-cha. Or...

B) My taxes are being paid to treat minor cuts and grazes in the ER caused by bedazzling injuries to otherwise healthy vajay-jays.

So far, I’m fine with Part A. Seems to still be OK not to vajazzle (thank goodness). But if anyone gives me a home-vajazzling kit when an aromatherapy candle would’ve sufficed, then look out. Or if I get invited to a vajazzling party. There’s just nothing wrong with a good old Tupperware do, with bikkies and a sweet chilli-philly. I'm not being pressured into buying love-heart Swarovski stencils for the honey pot, no matter how good the nibbles and party games are.

I haven’t heard much about vajazzling injuries draining our emergency services sector, but believe me, I’ll be keeping tabs on that. Whenever I (rarely) go to an ER, I like it to be fairly empty. I certainly don’t appreciate having to wait whilst bogans with unnecessary and stupidity-related injuries syphon my tax dollars and use up all the panadeine forte.

Oh. And …. C) Vajazzling becomes my business when it is featured in the mass media, particularly television. I watch quite a bit of telly, being newly unemployed and all (ooopps, I mean ‘a stay at home parent’….) and I’m partial to a predictable evening schedule Monday to Thursday. That new show, Winners and Losers (yes, the Bogan Aussie drama) has caught my attention with classy ice-sculptures and that tall chick who looks like a lesbian but really isn’t and is secretly in love with her business partner and everyone knows it except him (even her gay secretary knows…) and APPARENTLY there’s some mention of vajazzling on my new fifth-possibly-sixth-or-seventh favourite show this Tuesday. Really. So I AM affected by way of mass media cultural influence or … whatever. I am FORCED to learn about how to decorate the stench trench.

But I tell you what. It's not going to happen.

It'll take more than a short-run Aussie drama on channel 7 to get me to change my grooming habits. Nope, there'll be no sparkly Collingwood Magpie on my muff. No twinkling down in tuna town.

Do ya think I'm sexy? If I have to vajazzle in order to get a yes to that question, then frankly, I don't give a damn what you think!

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Do You Think I'm Sexy? Rod Stewart, 1979

The Chapel of Love

2011-05-02T23:19:00.000+08:00

Not since Charlene and Scott married on Neighbours has Brad the Tradie been less interested in a wedding.

Thank God The Royal Wedding (TRW or simply The Weddin') wasn't held on a day when Collingwood was playing Carlton or similar. I'm quite certain that the reason these things are held on a weekday is so that world sporting events don't suffer, but still, we did manage, through the magic of the International Dateline, to have Friday evening Weddin' coverage in Oz.

Yep, across the nation Bogans wore plastic tiaras, made cheese n cabanossi plates and cracked open a fresh box of Cardonnay. I was a bit slow on the uptake re TRW celebrations, but thank goodness for Facebook... I managed to get into the slipstream just in time (ie, before Woolies and the grog shop closed).

So, before Blossy tells you what she thinks.... Tell me... What did YOU think????

Yes, I thought as much. Everyone's got an opinion don't they? Funny how we all seem to develop opinions on stuff that doesn't matter, like royal weddings. Nothing like a frock and a handsome prince to get us all fired up. I have never had an actual conversation with the chick at the petrol station until Saturday morning when we gabbed at the photo on the front page of the newspaper and suddenly became the world experts on doiley dresses and flower girls (seriously... Would a coloured ribbon have killed them?) Is it that we like to see a commoner do good? Or that we know that really, any televised wedding will get us going all gooey. There wasn't much diff between the nuptials of Scott and Charlene and the Will-Kate was there?

Personally, I think Katie looked like a praying mantis covered in a lace doiley. A regal playing mantis of course. One that had been groomed within an inch of its skinny little life. And she's mute. The perfect royal. One that has glossy hair, likes horses and doesn't want a career of her own, but just to serve the people (a funny term, considering she's the one that gets served, and that by serving her people she ends up with loads of flowers and a wardrobe allowance.)

I think Australia needs royalty.

Prince Darren could meet Sharryn (from Garren) at the Liquid Lounge one Friday night... Or TAFE perhaps (much classier). yes. They meet across a crowded lecture theatre (who am I kidding... The lecture theatre isn't crowded as most of the students have chucked a sickie and will copy Sharryn's notes later). Darren just can't take his eyes off Sharryn's glorious mane of freshly permed and streaked hair (he need not know they're extensions bought with her Aunty Shirl's 21st gift voucher). Sharryn knows immediately that Darren is her prince. He winks at her and says, "How bout it?" and off they ride in his shiny, white Torana.... Naturally they get married (at the local park), he wears his best jeans and thinks he's the luckiest royal Bogan in the whole land. After a lovely Chinese buffet reception at the local golf club, Sharryn can't wait to quit her part-time job at the Woolies Deli, go on their honeymoon in Coffs Harbour and start having sprogs called Taylah, Kaylah and Josh-you-ah (let's hope Sharryn isn't barren!!) and alternate Christmas lunch between her parents, the in-laws and a cheap rental in Surfers Paradise.

On a different note, why is everyone saying the Queen looked like a canary? The poor old chook is 85 years old. What's she supposed to wear? Geez she's probably part blind and let's face it, she had to keep checking whether Prince Phil was asleep or dead (no one wants a Weekend at Bernies moment at a royal wedding...) And there's a limited range of colours that lend themselves to matching handbags and hats.

But enough about what I think....what did you think of the royal weddin'??? Which celebs did you like? Did you think Princess what's-it who used to be fat but isn't now's hat looked like she made it at pre-school and stapled it to her head? Reckon Phillipa looked pretty hot and snuck off for nookie with Harry behind the chocolate fountain??? Reckon the balcony pash was a bit lame, even for a couple of Poms? And do you reckon the yanks held off on killing Osama until a fashionable three days after the royal wedding so as mot to hog the headlines?

I asked Brad the Tradie which part he liked best. Predictable answer: "The bloody end!" Dressed up that red suit singing hymns and having the world look at his bald spot from seventy-five camera angles whilst his grandad is either asleep or dead in the front row, I reckon Prince William might agree.

Long live romance.

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The chapel of Love, The Dixie Cups, 1964

I fought the law (and the law won!)

2011-04-15T13:44:00.000+08:00

Some of us are just law-abiding citizens.

Brad the Tradie and I come from good working class families who pay their own way, eat lamb on Sundays and are good for their word.

So it's hardly surprising that neither of us have ever needed to engage the services of the court system, or a lawyer or actually .... anyone to do with the law. But the security blanket is still there. We all know that when you fight the law, the law wins right? Our parents teach us that when they instil our values system. EVERYONE knows that the bad guy loses in the end.

I'm a good girl.

VERY good. I'm not only a law-abiding citizen, I'm also not very naughty generally. I've actually never shoplifted. Or wagged school. Or assaulted anyone. Or ... anything really. I got a speeding ticket once... a long time ago... and was mortified that I was caught doing five kilometres over the limit. FIVE kilometres. Practically a criminal. Ohhhh, the shame, the shame....

I do like Law & Order on the Telly though.

BtT and I have a series link on Foxtel for SVU. He's a bit like Elliott the tough cop, all brawn and biceps. I kind of fancy myself as the tough, blonde ADA or whatever they're called. The one that trots into court, like Alex Cabot on SVU, and kicks bad guy arse. Imagine Blossy turning up to prosecute, in my best denim skirt (the Just Jeans one, not the Kmart one), a quite posh (clean...obviously) tank top (perhaps a little sequin action) and glam thongs (not the rubber ones, the silvery ones from Colorado darl!!!)

"You! Bad guy! You SUCK! I'm the law and the law wins, so you just go to jail. NOW! MOVE IT!"

SO, when a tradesman skipped town without finishing our pergola, it was ON.

Brad the Tradie was mightily pissed off. See, in his world, on Planet Brad, tradies are good for their word (and eat lamb on Sundays). If a Tradie says he'll weld and put up a pergola then that's what he bloody well does. And our pergola guy didn't. He didn't return calls. He took our deposit money and buggered off. So, after a conversation with an old mate from high school who now works in Perth somewhere in legal aid, we decided to kick some Tradie arse in the small claims tribunal.

Except that it isn't quite as easy as it should be.

Have you noticed that since everything is online now, that you don't actually TALK to anyone about anything any more? We filled in one of those online forms, trying hard not to make any unnecessary typos, paid seventy bucks using the credit card and ...ZAPPO! We'd officially dobbed on a Tradie.

It wasn't very satisfying at that point. I kinda wanted a sympathetic ear instead of a 'your form has been successfully submitted' pop up message. I wanted some old nanna to say, "ohhhh you POOR thing! Did that nasty man not come back and finish your lovely pergola? And now you can't buy an outdoor spa and a daybed because there's no roof over your new alfresco area??? Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh DARL!!!! How AWFUL!"

But that didn't happen.

What DID happen was that we got a letter in the mail telling us (not even inviting us, no please whatsoever!) to turn up to court on April 14th. That's it. No phone number to call, no additional info, no brochure, nothing. And was woefully not enough in retrospect. Because these little black ducks have no court or legal experience and .....

We were hammered.

Sitting in the waiting area, Brad the Tradie and I didn't even know how to 'announce our attendance' at court. Upon reflection, I'm really not sure what we were expecting, but it certainly wasn't a bulk billing-style medical centre approach waiting room filled with .... ummm.... criminals. The quality of the riff-raff was impressive, all in one place, sitting up (kind of) straight in manner of waiting to go into a Principal's office. I was keen to take photos with my iPhone, but Brad the Tradie wanted to be discreet. Lets just say that I haven't seen that many home-made tattoos, acid wash jeans and mullet hair cuts in quite some time (if ever quite frankly! Although, the Gunnedah NYE 1990 Bachelor & Spinsters ball may possibly be the exeption). I liked the addition of props, eg, faux neck braces, crocodile tears and limps. I didn't touch the toilet door though. I opened it with my elbow and used a LOT of hand sanitiser. Didn't require the complimentary sharps disposal unit either, and am still not sure if I want my tax dollars to support this magistrates court for Bogan offenders. I think it perhaps should be 'user-pays.' Or maybe they could all exchange whatever weed they have for a court hearing or something.

Here, small claims civil cases are chucked in between all the riff-raff cases. Yep, a breeched AVO, a drunk driver, then... wedged in... us and our unfinished alfresco area. We were all shuffled into court and onto the pews and called one by one. Fascinating as it was to watch the criminals squirm, we kinda wondered whether this was really how we needed to spend a Wednesday. So here was Brad the Tradie, in his best T-shirt with a Manila folder in hand, standing in the magistrates court trying to explain to Judge Grumpyarse (who looked a little like one of the old muppets up on his pedestal flinging big words around and judging people) that all we wanted was a finished pergola. Really, that's all we want. Or our money back. I really like outdoor areas and I've got my eye on a rather special outdoor furniture set with a daybed and a 'reading egg', but it's got cushions and what-not so I need it to be covered with a roof. You know?

The yukky Tradie that ripped us off didn't show of course. And Judge Grumpyarse had the hide to ask BtT whether he could prove that this piece of shit even existed! And then told us not to bother wasting everyone's time. Needless to say, our day in court lasted on the minimal side of five minutes. Down went the gavel (or not... I may be being dramatic) and we hung our heads and left (trying ever so carefully no to touch any door handles). Our Judge Judy moment had passed.

So the question remains.. . Do good girls really finish last? After paying squillions of tax dollars do I feel just a little ripped off that someone who belts his defacto gets more time with the Mag than us?

Yeah.

But we still believe that what comes around goes around and that if we lead a clean Bogan lifestyle we will eventually be rewarded. What form this reward takes is unknown. It certainly isn't in the form of a pergola. But I must say, that today at the Greasy Spoon my five bucks worth of seasoned hot chips did seem a little more generously portioned than usual. Like the universe knew I needed a sign that good prospers in te end.

The law might've won this week, but karma kicks arse.

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I Fought the Law and the Law Won (The Clash, 1977)

3D, or not 3D. That is the Question!

2011-03-25T15:20:00.000+08:00

I’m so ashamed.

We’re SO Bogan. We had THE most Bogan day yesterday. But it was inevitable, given our pattern of reoffending.

Yep. Brad the Tradie just bought a new TV. Another one.

Not to replace a broken one. Nope. ‘New Telly’ (it doesn’t have a name yet but we're thinking of calling it Sammy), was bought yesterday because BtT had to have a bigger television. To watch sport on. Which brings our Telly Tally (thanks to Smurfette for asking… I hadn’t previously indulged myself in a head-count) to… four. For three people. And what’s even WORSE, is that we looked at each other on the way home from the Telly store (ginormous telly box secured into the back of the ute) and realised that this is the fourth consecutive year that we’ve bought a new telly. And we got rid of three when we left the East Coast (no HD or 3D, or LED… HUGE iss-you). See? SO ashamed.

It all started yesterday morning when I asked BtT to pick up a towel rail from Bunnings.

Seemed an easy enough request given that he has a couple of rest days and we’re preparing the house for an invasion of yanks (VGF’s from Oregon, so not truly the annoying ‘from Texas’-type yanks, but American all the same). We’ve travelled to America several times and know that they like towel rails. And the bathroom in our new house is a little short in towel-hanging devices (I don’t know why, it just IS). So, BtT + Going to Bunnings = Towel Rail. Or, in simple mathematical terms, BtT+GtB=TR. Not a lot can go wrong with that. Perhaps the odd ‘we don’t need those screws but he bought them anyway’ hardware item.

Then comes the phone call.

BtT: Darl! Wanna come for a drive?

Blossy: Uhhh, OK. Where to?

BtT: TV store.

Blossy: Why?

BtT: I’ve just been and I’ve narrowed it down and you need to come and help me decide which telly.

Blossy: A telly? Did you get the towel rail?

He did, as it turns out, get the towel rail, and checked on fold-up beds, and dismissed the bar stools at Fantastic (the package deal kings!) as not of the right colour, AND he’s been working REALLY hard for actual real money (as to opposed to me, who… hasn’t…), so what could I say? Except, “Great! New telly!” And grab the car keys and prepare myself for the sight of BtT in a recliner watching the cricket wearing 3D glasses.

What is it with this Bogan obsession with huge tellies? It's the new Bogan drug of choice.

For something that's only 60 years old or whatever, it's certainly made an impact on the human race. Well, not as much as penicillin or anything really important, but you know, things are different with a telly. And i also wonder whether I could be one of those parents that gets out board games after dinner. You know, do the unthinkable... live without telly.

Not that I’m letting mine (all four of them) go anytime soon. I was raised by a telly.

My Baby Boomer parents put one in my bedroom when I was six. A little black and white one. I thought they were FAN-tastic parents, but I’m fairly sure I got a telly for Christmas to stop my whining about wanting to change the channel (yes, we had TWO channels) to the ABC every five minutes to check whether Kimba the White Lion had started. Anyway, that telly began my ‘cave’, my own space where I could put MY STUFF. Near MY TV. I realised that Christmas that I suddenly had power. I could choose whether to join my family, or I could be in my cave. Yes, excellent Bogan parenting. Get annoying kids a whole lot of their own stuff, set up a room and leave them to it. I remember when the SBS channel (or ‘the wog channel’ as my dad called it) came and I stayed up late one night in my cave so I could watch naked foreign people rolling around on grassy knolls. Now THAT’S sex education at its Bogan finest. My cave was SO popular for sleep-overs I had a waitlist. And that's the power of a tiny black and white box in 1978.

So no wonder as a society we're happy to spend our family tax assistance payments on a new plasma (or LED in our case).

In the Bogan world, Foxtel is a more common monthly expense than private health insurance. When choosing our house floor plan, nearly every single building company had renamed the Lounge Room a 'Home Theatre'. In Brad the Tradie's home theatre the lounge suite has recliners, inbuilt stubby holders and a snack bucket console. We don't entertain in the theatre like you would in a lounge room, unless the guest has come over to watch the footy and have bourbon and a bag of chips.

What happened to The Good Room?

You know, the room in the house where the lounge suite was floral, where cups of tea were had, there was a spare corner for the Christmas tree and posh families had a piano against a wall. (My parents had an ugly glass cabinet full of unused Noritake china and port glasses... In case the Queen came to dinner). Good rooms do NOT have a 58 inch 3D HD LED wifi-ready television thats worth more than the lounge suite.

Does anyone besides my nanna have a good room anymore?

And does it really matter? If my favourite bogan Brad the Tradie is more comfortable at the end of his work day in his cave watching sport wearing 3D glasses then all power to him. Bugger it. He doesn't drink tea anyway.

Television - The Drug of the Nation, The Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy , 1992.

It's My Party and I'll Scream if I Want To!

2011-03-22T08:44:00.000+08:00

I'm not really a baby person.

They're a little poopy. And they lack independence. And cry a lot. But they seem to like me. As do children (which I've pretty much had enough as well). So, what's the chance, after resigning from a career in children raising, oops, I mean 'teaching' for a quiet life near the beach, that we'd land in a street full of children next to a baby family. You know the ones, the parents are barely out of childhood themselves and they've got a baby. And this baby family don't have any parents or siblings in the suburb.

Sigh. The writing was on the wall after the baby limped in one day with a runny nose and a perma-grizzle, stayed for a few hours and left in better shape than it started. After that, BtT (an experienced baby person) and I seemed to 'just happen' to end up with the baby quite a lot and have hence taught it to talk, walk, eat solids, wear shoes, survive the Western Australian emergency health care system, and stop screaming for short periods of time (the last one was mandatory training and required a few phone calls to my psych friend Organica for expert baby tips). Where the tissues live on our buffet there is now a large box of latex gloves as well, although we still do put the dirty nappies in her parents' bin. Might teach it not to poop next (as a matter of priority).

We've taken to calling our little patch of Bogan paradise 'Hysteria Lane'.

There's bloody scooters and minibikes and raffle ticket selling all over the place, with the joyful sound of children screaming and putting bandaids on between the hours of 3:30 and 7pm on weekdays (and more on weekends!!!). Apparently it does take a village to raise a child. And that village is in our front yard. They all have lovely Bogan names like Summer, Taylah and my all-time fave Josh-you-arhhhhhhhh. We dont live in a ghetto, but the problem here in Western Australia is that the mines have made everyone rich enough to buy a nice house. They're called CUBS, 'Cashed Up Bogans'.

So it came as no surprise that I scored a leading role in planning baby Summer's first birthday party.

Fortunately I managed to pull off making a hundred cupcakes and convince the parents to hold the party at the local park instead of in our street. With all those V8 Bogan cars the road surface would've looked like a BP oil spill.

Whilst daddy is Italian (and a miner of course), the baby's mother is from pure Bogan stock. The Bunbury Bogans. For those not in the know, Bunbury is a country Bogan Mecca about a hundred k's south of Beachvillea. Where K-mart ugg boots count as dressing up. Where the teenage girl 'guffin' phenomenon is rife (that’s a front muffin…the fast-food inspired jellybelly bit that hangs over the front of the Boganette leggings or Supre size-too-small skirt), dentists are few and far between (but there are scores of tattoo artists) and adolescents are more fertile than frogs.

So what do YOU think happens when fifty Bunbury Bogans and fifty Italian-Ozzie wogs (mayyyyte!!!) turn up at a baby's party at the same time?

Brad the Tradie, the BHG and I decided to undertake formal observations at the party this past Saturday (given that there wasn't a lot else for us to do. Whatever happened to party games?). There are definite similarities between the groups. Both sides brought gifts, the Bogans' dropped by Big Dub on the way and wrote on the bag instead of a card. The wogs put cash in an envelope. Both sides like a sausage sambo and a cupcake. Both enjoyed eating food from 'the other side' .... "Oi! Luv! There's a cheese plate...what's that one you like? Cammybert?"

Then there's the things that just don't translate, like fart jokes. Like the Bogans bringing cases of Toohey's New on their shoulder (to a first birthday party in a local park at 10am on a Saturday? really?) and wearing board shorts and denim skirts. Or the wogs lamenting the lack of fresh espresso and dressing their children in Pleather for the party (that's fake leather, and yes, it comes in black, red, pink and a lovely shade of puke).

In the end everyone got along great guns by just sticking to their own group, no police or security was required (although there were a few tears after the Toohey's New ran out and they had to crack open the home brew bourbon) and the party kicked on at the park...and yes, then back in Hysteria Lane. Right throughout the night. Baby Summer chucked it in after screaming her guts out being passed from Bogan to Wog all day, and went to bed leaving her mum to open all the plastic bags of gifts and count the cash whilst daddy topped up the bourbons out the back. Our poor dog Tasha the Wonderguts is feeling the pinch a little too with all the leftovers (she lay on her side for much of Sunday).

God forbid this couple have a wedding if this is what a first birthday party is like. Maybe we could just cordon off Hysteria Lane for the celebrations, much like the WillyKate hoohah. Although Summer's parents have mentioned that the latest Cashed Up Bogan wedding dream is to get married on a beach in Bahhhh-li or Poo-ket.

One can only hope.

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It's My Party and I'll Cry if I want To, Lesley Gore, 1963.

I am Woman

2011-03-08T15:27:00.000+08:00

Happy International Women’s Day.

I just checked Facebook and everyone’s wishing each other a happy I.W. Day. The front page of the paper is devoted to celebrating successful women. All blokes have gone into hiding. But I really don’t think we (the females) have gone far enough in our demands for today. Did Julia legislate a day off? Why the hell not? And furthermore… who’s cooking dinner?

I note with interest an article on the telly about women's body shapes being renamed from pieces of fruit to artists.

Can’t see it taking off though myself. How many people are going to say "Corrrrr, she's an alright piece of Rembrandt" or "It’s TUNA. I'm trying to lose the Reubens. I am WOMAN. Hear me DIET!)" or “Embrace your Donatello shape my child…ohmmmmm….” And why these old, Romantic Teenage-Mutant-Ninja artists? I want to be a Dali, you know, kinda dripping towards the ground and slightly burnished. I can’t even remember half the artists the body shapes are named after. It’s just easier to be a pear, banana or apple really.

But it raises a point for me. Where the hell are the men's shapes?

We don't get articles on what to name men's bodies after. I’ve taken a vote amongst my Reuben-esque bits and we think perhaps we’ll call men after vegetables. Like, ‘cucumber’ for tall, thin men, ‘tomato’ for squat red men (you know the ones…they look like Santa all year round) and ‘broccoli’ for the blokes with a big green head. And where's International Men's Day??? On second thought, let's not. Could you imagine? A men’s day would go for a week, involve a motor sport of some kind and I'd just have to heat up the sausage rolls and pick up afterwards anyway.

I celebrated today by…. ummm, going about my business, which is kind of the women's way don't you think?

Let’s have a day to celebrate women and then make them overachieve all day like usual. We can do whatever men can do and vice versa, although I felt kind of queasy at the Post Office working out the ratio of male managers (1) to female servers (7) and wondered how far we'd actually come when the twenty-something next door offered me a Vodka & Cranberry for lunch to celebrate the auspiciousness of today... "because we CAN."

I was raised to believe that I could do anything. Except underachieve.

In the era of being bombarded by 'women can be mechanics or fighter pilots if they want' the message resounded loud and clear. Go hard or go home. On the other hand, boys of my era gave up a bit in the face of so many pro-girl messages. My brother (from the same gene pool and intelligence) was told he was ‘good with his hands’ whilst I was pushed into as many maths and sciences as humanly possible in an attempt to show girls they were equal to or better than those inferior boys over there. We were all about girl power and by golly did we achieve. By the time I finished high school in the late 80’s, my group of overachieving friends and I practically thought boys were only good for putting the bins out and that women would one day rule the world.

Not that any of our group ended up being the first female Prime Minister.

On international women's day the news was ablaze with Jool-ya in a classroom in the USA letting them all know how we're mooooov-ing forrrrrr-ward (cue hand movements) making us Aussie chicks proud by batting her eyelashes at Barry O and giggling about vegemite. Way to go for the women's movement there Jools. And for goodness sake luv, being a smart, progressive, modern woman doesn’t mean you have to dress like a K-Mart catalogue.

So now, due to the hard work in the mid to late twentieth century, the next gen of gals can benefit from being raised by women who lived through the ultra-capable superwoman era, the Hell Yes generation and Generation X-tra work. I see girls now who know they can do anything... so much so that some of them choose to do nothing. Girls who are so confident in their body that they just let it all hang out. Anywhere, anytime. I call them 'Generation Y-should-I' or 'Generation Y-the-hell-can't-I'?

And they've got a good point. The gals of today live in a world that changes constantly. They'll have a handful of careers, some of which haven't been invented yet and keep being told that the world will end anyway. Why shouldn't they just wanna have fun?

There’s a Gen Y-the-hell-can't-I on the teaching team at the tax course I'm doing on Tuesdays.

Kelly, the trainee assistant, rocks in kind of on time with her phone buzzing away, holding two takeaway coffees ("one for now, one for in a minute") and her job is to mark our homework according to the manual. Today, on International Women’s Day, Ms Kelly wore a skintight black skirt and a sheer (see-through actually) top with ruffles kind of covering a fluorescent pink bra. Her dreadlocks flowing, she called to us to "give in ya homework" which she looked fairly unthrilled about marking, then checked her email, facebook, texts and goodness knows what else, whilst the actual teacher smiled apologetically and told us how exciting Superannuation income streams could be. Since when can you wear sheer tops to work that fully show off a fluorescent pink bra? I'm not just talking the bra straps here. THE WHOLE THING. Apparently Gen Y-the-hell-not rules the roost in that office partnership.

Kelly left me thinking today about what each generation of women leaves the one to follow.

If my mother's generation's message to me was being able to have any career we wanted, is my generation teaching Kelly's that individuality means they can wear whatever the hell they want? Or is the shock of this new office wear just me being 'old'? Maybe I'm all for individuality in theory, but then cherish conformity in certain places. "Yes, be an individual dear... wear flourescent undies... just not to work... or to the shops...or a funeral...or anywhere really where people can see them...." Yes, the Boomers and Gen X are the rule enforcers and Gen Y aim to break them.

Perhaps the fact that Kelly is able to break the rules and make me question her officewear today is cause for celebration of today in the first place. Happy International Women’s Day. I’m off to make dinner. And get the washing in…

Oh yes I am wise

But it's wisdom born of pain

Yes, I've paid the price

But look how much I gained

If I have to, I can do anything

I am strong (strong)

I am invincible (invincible)

I am woman (and I can wear a pink bra to work if i want to....)

I am Woman, Helen Reddy, 1971. (wearing a turtleneck and brown flares with no showing of underwear whatsoever)

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Love Me Tender

2011-02-13T13:36:00.002+08:00

I detest Valentine's Day. All that fluff and nonsense and...red crap.

Case in point. I was walking yesterday through the Geri-Dome (our local Beachvillea mall, so called because of the disproportionate amount of elderly with walkers and 'mobility scooters' ). Usual reason for visit to Geridome. Flying trip to Big Dub for supplies and a whole heap of stuff we probably don't need, etc. On the way back to my car I was required to walk past Bras 'n' Things and the Cheesecake Shop, both of which were glaringly adorned with Valentine rubbish.

I have never and will never ever desire to wear a maid's outfit on Valentine's Day, or a nurse or in fact anything in sheer red or black polyester. Nope, can't even be swayed with the addition of faux fur to the ahh..tiny little area of the garment designed to hold one's bosom. It concerns me that in a clearly old-person dominated shopping centre there even ARE displays of this kind of lingerie. Crikey, if you need a mobility scooter to get around and your favourite store is the Chemist, then i'm not sure you need to be browsing at anything with nylon, whips and corsetry. I also do not wish to feed my beloved a chocolate swirl cheesecake, especially one the size of a small fridge, however 'good value' it may be. Perhaps the large sized cheesecakes and love-outfits are designed for the Nursing Home (sorry... LIFESTYLE Village) 'swingers and grinners' Elvis night.

Oh, it's all too much. I simply will extend my agnosticism regarding Religious holidays to Valentine's Day as well.

If I'm not dressing up, then apparently I'm dictated by catalogues and marketing to buy my beloved a gift on Valentine's day. Like, wasn't it just Christmas? Do i really need to watch ads on telly for his and hers tingly lubricant? And chocolate body paint? Soon the whipped cream will be kept in the personal care aisle instead of being classified as dairy! V. Day becomes known as 'V.D. and foreign object removal night' in the Emergency Room! You know, in the old days we used to just know how to 'do it' without tingly glow in the dark tubes of goo and sugary stuff. Now you're a fail whale if you can't pop a pingpong ball! And who's going to wash the sheets after putting that muck everywhere? Hmmmm????

This weekend's newspaper insert tried to help out with a V.Day Shopping spesh. Apparently I'm to pop out and acquire a chocolate fondue set, red lips telephone and salt & pepper shakers called 'bump n grind'. How romantic. "Hey darl, here's some tableware. Ya want salt n pepper on that cheesecake?" I think not.

I've already been asked whether BtT and I are booked into a restaurant for V.Day. The asker, who doesn't know us well just yet obviously, seemed shocked when I said that we'd rather stay home and watch telly, and go out some night when it's not so busy.

"But don't you want to have a romantic dinner on Valentine's Day?" I was asked.

"Oh darl," said I. "BtT's idea of a good dinner is a rack of tender ribs, a steak and calamari. And I'm happy with a carafe of house wine. Hog's Breath isn't exactly fine dining. We can go anytime."

And it's true. Brad the Tradie and I like to go out occasionally. We're close. We're tight. We're just not mooshies. We love chocolate but we just don't buy imported wrapped ones with little teddies wrapped to them. Seriously, the junk mail just about has me convinced tha Valentine's day is a day of homage for synthetics Made in China. BtT and I are all for public displays of affection. We've even ... Ahhh... publicly displayed quite a lot of affection in various ... places before (I won't list them, but the High Court grounds in Canberra come to mind). We just don't necessarily do it on Feb 14th each year with Katy Perry playing 'Firework' in the background. I mean... The pressure of having a date locked in. And the lack of predictability. "Hey darl, ya wanna do it on the 14th? I'll wear a polyester outfit, you bring the nasty chocolate spray mousse... We'll spend heaps of dough on some crap food then go pash next to the streetlight..." And for goodness sake, telly's pretty bloody good on a Monday night! BtT and I will do something truly romantic and Bogan... ie, curl up with bed with a bag of chips to watch Good News Week and piss ourselves laughing. Someone who doesn't mind that I snort when I laugh... Now that's true love.

Not quite as impressive as our fave Bogan cricketer Warnie at the mo.

He's batting way above his average hooking model/actress/walking Barbie doll Elizabeth Hurley, so, in preparation for her visit down under he went and bought a new mattress and has been tweeting his followers asking for restaurant suggestions other than Macca's. The paps are all staked out for Lizzie-watch, and who knows what other delights Warnie has in store. Black satin sheets? A little manscaping so he can throw a little shrimp on the ummm... Barbie?

Being one to have an open mind (and plenty of time on my hands), I read an article by clinical psychologist recently about the steps to reaching 'relationship harmony'.

Perhaps I should share this with Shane. Recently, i have had a few friends in a place of, lets say, relationship non-harmony and thought reading the article might help me sympathise and offer something if asked for advice. I then related these 'Abodes' whatsits back to BtT and my harmonious Bogan marriage, to help interpret the, well, very big words.

So here it is. Blossy's interpretative guide to a zen marriage (or de facto arrangement or whatever):

1. Consider loving kindness. So apparently this is about "truly wishing your partner is free of suffering". Easy. Note to husband: I can be truly free of suffering if you'd finish our yard, unpack the groceries and not make me interact with a car servicing centre of petrol station ever again. In return I will cook bacon and egg rolls once a week, freeing you from suffering the injustice of a no-cholesterol Sunday morning. Done. Oh, and if you have a sore back or whatever, I'll personally administer the pills & Jim Beam to alleviate us all from suffering.

2. Display compassion. Here, we are being considerate of our partner's mistakes. I don't make any obviously, but I'll try to be considerate when BtT stuffs up. Could be tricky. Perhaps see Jim Beam point above for that as well. Good thing he's bought a Still.

3. Find sympathetic joy for your partner. We're supposed to show interest in what is joyous to our partner. Celebrate their happiness. Well DUH. I DO let him watch Fox sports when he gets home from work AND I know who the captain of Collingwood is. I even made sure the new house had a whole room where he can store sporting crap erm...memorabilia. I'm happy for him. When he builds a great retaining wall at work, we share the pride. "Noice wall darl." "Thanks babe. Gettus a drink?" "Yeah hon. Happy for your wall. Celebrating your success." See? I'm a natural.

4. Respond to your partner with equanimity. Had to look this one up as thought it might've been a new bedroom trick. No. Apparently I'm to live with patience, and limit extreme and reactive emotions. Accept that the relationship will experience Winters, but that Spring will follow. You see, I don't mind Winter actually, because footwear is at its best then, and I'm quite happy to shop for boots. In fact, I'd say our relationship had a 'winter' once when I wore nothing to bed EXCEPT my new faux fur knee high boots. But, this equanimity stuff is obviously more for men than women. Given that I am not prone to getting the craps with BtT. I am VERY patient with BtT. Who is reading this rofl-ing no doubt.

So, in short, in order for a relationship to work, we need to actually work at it, not just wear a French maid outfit every Feb 14th in lieu of shows on telly.

If you're a V.D. sucker and have an annual routine, then by all means, cut sick. Bogan it up if you must with whipped cream and polyester, but in my opinion, it's just as good, if not better, to show the occasional interest in the beloved's footy team, go out for ribs every now and then and let him admire your beauty and admit that you're perfect. Go on. Try it. Be spontaneous on the 15th. Or 16th. With all the equanimity you can shove on top of that damn cheesecake!

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Love Me Tender - Elvis Presley, 1956

Celebration of a Nation

2011-01-26T13:40:00.000+08:00

Excuse my cynicism if it rears. It's just that I've just discovered that I'm a great, big Aussie hypocrite.

Yesterday, along with the rest of Oz, I went to the stupid-market to get supplies for Australia Day. And came away feeling a little crapped off because I'm apparently one of the few things in there that came from a Land Down Under. When the deli didn't have any West Aussie Exmouth prawns on display, I was offered some from Vietnam. Shocked, I abruptly demanded the adolescent server go out the back and find prawns from Exmouth because I am NOT buying Vietnamese prawns. Did Hoges throw an Asian shrimp on the barbie? I think not. Whilst waiting for my true blue crustacea my mind wandered ... to the fact that half the furniture in our house and part of my shoe collection are Vietnamese. Hmmm, but not my bloody prawns. They're Aussie. It's different.

I then found some Aussie lamb (because we apparently need to eat dead local animals on Australia Day) and bbq-ed tofu burgers don't quite cut it. Thought a coconut might be nice on the beach, but they were from Samoa, which was a bit of a dodgy decision considering half of the National Rugby League players and most of our Pub bouncers are Samoan, so it's 'kind of' Ok. The pomegranates were Californian, so that was obviously no good (nothing yank on Australia Day... only Oprah!) and I decided against a five dollar Mango as well, just because it was too expensive. Nothing wrong with a bag of Aussie chips on the beach, I reflected, whilst passing through a carpark full of imported cars wearing Aussie flags made in China.

I was listening to the ABC radio broadcast of the cricket in the car this morning and today was described as 'Australia's national public holiday'.

What exactly are we celebrating on Australia Day besides white European settlement/invasion of this continent? The fact that we've got a day off? Am I meant to be wearing a polyester flag bikini, a funny headband with green & gold pompoms and singing Kylie Minogue songs whilst BBQ-ig my lamb? What are the rules anyway?

Brad the Tradie has it sorted. He reckons Australia Day is about cricket, relaxing and drinking some of the bottle of home made bourbon he procured from Davo (father of Lara next door) made in a good old Aussie backyard with a still. Jake with the boat is off to catch crays with his brother Luke and some mates for dinner. He can't remember if his boat flags are made in China, but if they are he reckons they've done well, "coz mate I've had em for a bloody long time". The adolescent, BHG, is off to the city to see the fireworks. She's celebrating all that is good about Australia, like free public events with reduced-priced public transport, fireworks and music concerts full of acts from Australian Idol.

The radio and telly ads are telling me to celebrate 'what's great' today. And it's been quite a week for Ozzzz-tray-le-ah, so there's lots of 'what's great' still fresh in our minds. Oprah seemed to find a lot of it. I was so taken by the Australia Oprah presented that even I wanted to go there. Especially with the treatment she got. I want that Australia in my package. When piles of tourists come as a result of this campaign, dear God, let's rope off Blacktown, Redfern and Coburg.

But still, even for us ordinary Bogans without a yellow brick road, there's lots of 'what's great' about Oz.

Here's my What's Great list for 2011 in case you're stuck writing yours:

* I reckon you've gotta love the way Aussies help clean up. Doesn't matter if it's a flood, fire, backyard party or Christmas lunch. We're all in.

* I love that I can say I'm a true blue Aussie even though my heritage is a combination of Dutch and Irish. In fact, my mother's side are what we might now call 'boat people' (before we developed some sort of national intolerance towards them), fleeing post-war Europe. As Con the Fruiterer says, "Duzzzent matter mayyyte!" We're Aussie.

* Cheering on Aussie Kim Clijsters at the Aussie Open tennis today. She from Belgium, but she's forever Aussie because she was once engaged to Lleyton Hewitt (before he did the truly Aussie thing of snagging a Home & Away actress). And we can say her name. Kimmy. Kim versus Hittheballbackerorova. We like Kim because she's funny and she's a brute of a chick. With boobs. We like that.

* We're a nation of people who take everything for granted. Including public holidays. We try to be grateful occasionally, but it's hard, because we've got it so bloody good! Because we work to live, not live to work, we make sure our public holidays are packed with relaxing. And fun. We're Aussie. We invented the word "whatever".

* We're girt by sea. In the middle of nowhere. And as such we have lots of weird and cool stuff. Like animals with pouches to cart their young in. What a cool idea huh? "Come on kids, jump in, we're off down the billabong." Like the animal kingdom's version of a ute. Wonder if I'll see any Roos with pouch flags hopping about today. Won't be long and they'll be on the bandwagon. I reckon it was the kangaroos that started the 'Eat Lamb' campaign to stop being eaten themselves. Smart little buggers.

* Chicks are in charge in Oz. From the nation's top 'ranga to your mum's kitchen, we've trained Aussie blokes to be strong, tanned, pussy-whipped creatures who know their place. In front of the Telly or out next to the BBQ.

* In a similar vein, today we celebrate that Bogan cricketer Shane Warne can snag a hot chick like Elizabeth Hurley. Maybe she likes mobile phone sexting. I want to see Madame Boganette roll the arm over at the G with Warnie then down some VB. THEN I'll believe that she's smitten with our top Aussie Bogan. But you go Warnie! Cop a feel mate!

* Bunnings is open on Australia Day. Handy, in case you need screws or paint or something. Which Brad the Tradie did, so we went to Bunnings earlier (before the home made bourbon obviously). I was particularly impressed with the spirit of those working on our 'national public holiday', especially the sheila operating the 'throw a thong through the plastic dunny seat' competition. She was much perkier than the facepainter artfully drawing Aussie flags on squirmy small children. The snag cookers in the sun seemed to be even less thrilled to be working today. Ah well, all for the greater good of having a fully-operational hardware store. Hardware's important to us Aussies.

* As they say (and sing), you can always widely roam and call Australia home. Live overseas, fly to the moon, whatever. You're allowed back in mate, as long as you're an Aussie and you can pass Quaratine. Especially Hugh Jackman. He's always allowed in. Preferably topless.

So, on this Australia Day, I share with you a Facebook post from my bogan mate Tan (as in "Tannn-yahhhh!!!") who's got her Aussie flag polyester bikini on in front of the computer today. Sing along Poms and Yanks. I know your bloody anthems from the Olympics and the cricket, so you can stand for our ode to 'work to live' (if you can by this time of day...otherwise stagger) and help celebrate our nation:

Australians all let us rejoice

The weekend now is near

We've worked all bloody week for this
Dear God let's get a beer.

Our desks abound in paperwork

Our hands are stained with ink

In desperate stage, we'll fly the cage

Advance to Friday drinks!!
With joyful strains, destroy our brains

Advance to Friday drinks!!

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Celebration of a Nation, Official Australian Bicnetennial Song, Les Gock, 1988.

Surfin' W.A.

2011-01-19T01:10:00.000+08:00

Don’t blame it on the sunshine

Don’t blame it on the UV

Don’t blame it on the good times

Blame it on the Boogie (board)

OK, So I live in some sort of fantasy-land.

Google. This is truly how it happened. I swear. Don’t hate me. It was luck. When Brad the Tradie and I decided to up sticks from Boganvillea, there were a couple of criteria. Not many, but...

• There had to be one of those Paradise Lost beaches near my lovely new house,

• Close proximity to International Airport and Cruise dock (one doesn’t like to travel in order to travel if you get my drift),

• There had to be family no more or less than an hour away (close enough to get to, but far enough for them to have to make an appointment),

• I got to quit work to do whatever I felt like each day, and

• We’d have no mortgage.

Not many criteria, but… you know, I am a bit demanding. How was Super-husband supposed to fulfil the brief? Using the bloody Netterweb of course.

Within a blink the man had Googled our new life.

Beachvillea. South West Western Australia. He showed me Google Earth this and thats of a block of land and house floor plans and … blah blah… I saw the ocean and said, “Yeah, go for it.” Given that I was getting permission to chuck in my job and live like a beach bum, the only thing left to worry about was lady fur removal from the nether regions really. And building up a decent collection of thongs.

I grew up with no ocean.

Which, if you consider all the advertising for Australia and the ‘typical Aussie’ whatsits, made me feel a bit ripped off. Nope, I wasn’t even a farmgirl. A bogan towngirl in the middle of nowhere with a public high school and a river (yes, one of those rivers that would break its banks and flood the town every now and then), dreaming of beachside living with a man called… Brock, or Brent, or Brick… or… some other Br name. And a snorkel.

And so here we are, our first summer in Beachvillea and as it turns out it’s bloody nice here.

Like… reallllly nice. I have a snorkel. I splashed out, and after much research, braved it at Rebel Sport, where all the ... ummm... sporty people hang out, spoke to an adolescent in board shorts and bought a snorkel. I go to see my fish each day at our beach, which has a reef just out a bit. We play a game, the fish and I. I look for them. They swim a little. I follow. They swim faster. I swim faster. They win by hiding or swimming away. Simple, yet fun and excellent exercise. Good for that ‘back of the knees’ tan that I’ve been aiming for. When I get sick of that, I lie on the beach and read the free books the over-funded public library likes to buy me. Whilst I haven’t fallen asleep yet… I may be slipping into a lifestyle coma.

Which is why it’s good that the adolescent (BHG) invited the BFF from Boganvillea to come stay for a bit this summer holidays.

Two fifteenish girls built like praying mantises (praying mantii???) who don’t so much eat, but ‘harvest’ and keep me young whilst making me feel old. They giggle. And like mini hair-straighteners. And buy each other gobstoppers and have sleepovers in each other’s rooms and all those other cute things.

We call BFF ‘Bounce’. She’s the Energiser Bunny who just keeps on keeping on. An impossibly nice and cute little gymnast, who, in her size nothing pink wetsuit, managed to learn to surf in three days. The next time she gets in the water Bounce will possibly be doing a three and a half rotations twist with perfect ten landing whilst riding a pipeline wave. Whilst photographing Bounce and BHG (who can stand on the board which is much better than expected… I was hoping for anything above a trip to Emergency) I pretty much felt like Greenpeace might come along and roll my nearly forty year old self back in the water. Except that all the other parents with cameras were much fatter than me and some were jiggly with VERY low hanging boobs, which, I must say, gave me a moment of indulgent vanity. I had a nicer pair of togs on too. And I got to point at my two gorgeous twiggies and say, “Yes, they’re with me. Which one’s your child? The ugly fat one who can’t stand up on the board? Or the one that’s drowning over there….”

It hadn’t computed with me, or the twiggies, just how much we’d rely on the water for entertainment in summer.

Bounce met me at the Qantas counter with luggage resembling a mini-fridge for a ten-day beach break. Whereas what we wear ‘round these parts is pretty much togs and thongs. Took me ages to get used to that too. I have a walk-in-wardrobe full of high heeled boots and leather jackets, yet arrived here with one pair of rubber thongs. Actually, we even skip the thongs unless the sand’s hot. Accessories consist of a beach bag and a water bottle. Maintenance is a shower afterwards. And yet, funnily enough, you end up with clear skin, fab hair and a healthy glow. And a few tanlines. And a thing for vacuuming sand off everything. I have my own ‘man with a Br name’ now too. He doesn’t like to use my snorkel because it’s purple. Real men have a black snorkel apparently. Like Darth Vader.

So with Bounce now gone and BHG the locust off learning to sew with her Gran (yes, Western Australia is SO quaint isn’t it?) I’ve been left to go spend time with the fishies, pretending to chase them and watching them laugh when I try to dive under and choke on sea water in my snorkel.

Surfin’ W.A. is quite noice though. There’s nothing quite like watching the sunset over the Indian Ocean with a bevvie in one hand and ‘Bucket of Skin’ in the other. It’s worth exfoliating, waxing, shaving, moisturising, vacuuming and ummm… doing that all over for. Any day. Every day. You can hate me now.

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Surfin' USA. The Beach Boys, 1963.

Six White Schooners

2010-12-16T23:43:00.000+08:00

I’m a bit Grinchy at the mo.

I used to like Christmas once upon a time. Before it turned into ‘Chrissy’ and took all of December to celebrate. Before cards turned up in the mail that look like they cost five hundred for a dollar at the Reject Shop and say “Have a wunnerful Chrissy from all of us” inside. Christmas has gone Bogan on us.

Think I’m cynical?

Go on. Round half a dozen suburban Aussie youngsters and ask them what Christmas means and see if you get answers like “to remember Santa’s birthday”, “to get a new Wii/Xbox/Nintendo” or “to eat heaps and watch Aunty Cheryl get wasted and jump in the pool in her knickers”. Apparently Chrissy doesn’t need to be on the 25th anymore. People now say, “We’re doing Chrissy this Sunday coz we’re off down the coast”. It’s like Yuletide Month.

Being a bit agnostic and apathetic myself, I asked our adolescent (the BHG) if she believes in Christmas:

BHG: Duh! Like… who doesn’t?

Me: Lots of people around the world actually.

BHG: Well they’re dopey. If you don’t believe you don’t get presents.

Me: That’s Santa, not Christmas itself.

BHG: Same same (eye roll).

Me: So if you believe, tell me…would you like to dress and Mary or Joseph for a mock front yard nativity scene?

BHG: Like… LOL. As IF!

Me: Like…Seriously. And which church service would you like to attend? Being a Christian and all suddenly?

BHG: ROFL. Like you have to go to church at Christmas.

Me: Well once upon a time people did. Christmas being a religious holiday and all.

BHG: Nah… I’m good just with the present side of things. Can I have mine early seeing as though Christmas goes for all of December? And do we have to go all greeny again this year and ‘reject’ (said with a tone) wrapping paper? And I don’t want one of those stupid charity goats to help some poor family in Africa. How many of the grandparents do you think are good for an Itunes voucher this year if I tell them how to buy one?

Hmm. I’ve obviously done some excellent child-rearing there. Deck the halls with boughs of gold parenting stars.

Remembering back to my childhood Chrissies, I can see her point. It WAS all about Santa, wrapping paper, presents, food… lights… Hmmmm. Maybe we have a cultural problem here.

In an attempt to redeem my parenting points, I decided to research some ultimate Bogan Chrissy stuff to see whether Aussies in general just do Chrissy differently to what we see on Telly (a la the Brady Bunch special that runs every year) or whether we've just buggered it up in our house.

I think Christmas for Bogans is actually about minimalism.

As in effort. It’s hot. We’ve all had a big year, blah blah. So we don’t want to go to a lot of trouble, us Bogans. We go look at other people’s Christmas lights because it’s easier than putting up our own. With any luck we don’t have to ‘host the family Christmas’, because quite frankly it’s easier just to take a Sara Lee cheesecake along to someone else’s house. Whoever owns a pool, a barbie and a dishwasher usually qualifies.

My mum used to have some traditional Aussie Christmas things that she’d cook. Being a Dutch immigrant they were all found in the CWA cookbook, but never-the-less, impressive each year. Like the boiled pudding that took five million hours to make. I have the instructions. I did it once. Didn’t taste the same and was a pain in the arse to make. I found a new recipe this year that I’m calling Bogan Cake. What you do is soak a kilo of mixed fruit in a litre of chocolate milk overnight, add two cups of self-raising flour the next day and bake it. Voila! Chrissy cake Bogan style!! In fact, if you wrap them in Reject Shop cellophane and put that sparkly silver ribbon on, they double as a gift. Noice!

Brad the Tradie is always Grinchy.

Being self-employed he is quite happy to call off all holidays except Australia Day and ANZAC Day (his religion is Capitalism). So we’ve made a pact. We’re going to spend next Chrissy in the Northern Hemisphere, where they apparently still call it Christmas in some parts, have snow, roasted chestnuts on an open fire (in Oz an open fire will get you a fine from the Ranger at this time of year), silent nights (ohhhh for a silent night!) and families gathered round drinking egg nog and being pleasant to each other tugging gently at ribboned gift-boxed mittens. Then we'll be able to truly evaluate our data set.

Being newly retired, I’ve had the opportunity to absorb some Northern American culture via daytime TV.

And besides the Oprah hoo-ha I’ve noticed that Ellen’s been giving away heaps of stuff to audience members each day leading up to Christmas. Why do these people go mental over a kitchen tool or a plasma telly? Do they sell the freebies on Ebay and then go on a Caribbean cruise? I guess it’s the spirit of giving (or advertising), but it’s getting kind of annoying watching all these people get stuff they don’t really need. One year when the BHG was young and particularly ungrateful at Christmas (she COUNTED the presents and sighed 'there's only nineteen!'… grrr) we made her pick an unopened present to give to charity. Maybe Ellen should make the audience members give up one of their gifts to put under the Kmart wishing tree. I know that task certainly made the BHG more appreciative of gifts, however few and cruddy ("Oooo!!! Look! A bag of Twisties! Great! Please don't make me give them to a homeless person!!!").

I’ve been avoiding ‘the shops’ lately. It’s like there’s a secret tribe of Bogans and old people living somewhere that only come out to the mall in December in search of tinsel and nasty Christmas T-shirts (and baby Santa outfits strangely). On an outing the other day (for necessities only) I was zoomed into by a fat person in a motorised scooter! Isn’t the point of being obese to do more walking? And who invented those stupid kid-sized shopping trolleys that bang into your legs? Or decided that shopping centres are a good place for Santa to hang out? On Saturday in our quite poorly airconditioned Big W the Sad Santa looked like all he wanted for Christmas was Prozac. And why do people insist on using the self-serve registers when they DON’T KNOW HOW? And is the middle of the haircare products aisle really the right place for people to catch up and gossip? Would a backyard not be a better place to discuss their child’s year at school and recent acquisition of a second-hand campervan? And seriously, I hate it when pimply sixteen year olds wearing flashing reindeer antlers tell me to “have a luvly Chrissy won’t cha!” as they hand me the docket. Makes me want to go sit on Sad Santa’s knee and ask for an axe.

There is a saving grace in my Bogan Chrissy.

I’m through to the final round in being selected as a Summer Ambassador for a brand of beer called Hahn White. This non-paying gig essentially results in being gifted with free beer, glasses and T-shirts to share with others during the party season. Figure I could earn some popularity points in the suburb. Nothing spells ‘we’re new, gotta love us’ like an invite to a party with free beer! Six White schooners anyone? BYO prawns and pav. Isn't Christmas about indulgence? Bugger it. Let's get a pasta salad from Woolies as well.

So, from Blossy, anytime in December, whichever day you deem fit… I wish you a Bogan Chrissy and a wasted New Year. May the holiday force be with you. If not, just turn on the cricket (pretend you don’t care that we’re being crapped on by the Poms), hide under the doona in an air-conditioned room with a box of Lindt Balls and wait for mid-January. See you in rehab!

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Six White Boomers - traditional Australian Christmas song

If I Could Turn Back Time

2010-12-02T12:30:00.000+08:00

If you could turn back time, if you could find a way, what would you change?

Even though I quite like my life the way it is, I sometimes fantasise about my ‘parallel lives’. You know, the lives you’d be living if you’d changed just ONE little thing. Like a ‘choose your own adventure’ book. If you took one path instead of another, or been born sometime else, somewhere else, what would’ve happened? Like… if I’d been born into royalty last century, would today’s Queen wear leopard print?

What if you could just change something from high school?

Would I really have paid attention in Maths classes? Would a success maybe be something else besides bartering deals with Science nerds in exchange for help with Shakespeare? If I could turn back time I wouldn’t have wasted valuable playground flirting time with a certain young man who I now know is GAY. I certainly wouldn’t have bothered feeling bad about getting a C (I don’t get C’s…) in P.E. in Year 8 (Do I LOOK LIKE I’m good at hurdles? Long jump? Anything athletic except Javelin?) I wouldn’t have bothered working in a supermarket on Saturdays for $4.30 an hour when I could’ve been swimming in the river. I may not have even spent quite so much time keeping an accurate economics journal with weekly snippets from the Financial Review. (But quite frankly, in those if you weren’t having nooky on the riverbank or playing football there wasn’t much else to do except study and sunbake covered in vegetable shortening). And I definitely wouldn’t have spent years believing I had fat thighs, bad hair and unacceptable feet.

This past Saturday, as we drove to ‘the Hills’ to Brad the Tradie’s high school reunion, I asked him the question. What would he change if he could go back? Not much apparently. In fact, after hearing about his high school years, I kinda want to go back and be him as well. How can two people have such different versions of high school? BtT had… FUN. Loads of it. He didn’t study, didn’t care, was hugely popular, left school early and still turned out OK. WHAT??!!!

Suspicious, I asked BtT to recall some fond moments of high school. Apparently breaking someone’s nose was memorable along with wandering around sand dunes and getting a car to speed up the Lesmurdie Hill in. So, this is what I had to work with last Saturday night accompanying BtT to his school reunion as the ‘plus one’ partner. And desperately praying that the recipient of the broken nose wasn’t attending.

As a ‘plus one’ at a school reunion there’s really not much you can hope for.

Except finger food, chairs and… unlimited wine. Tick, tick and tick. Great organization, weedy ‘not very sexy’ barman excepted (seriously, doesn’t everyone ask for ice in their red wine?) A ‘plus one’ doesn’t have an identity. I gave up trying to tell people I was a neurosurgeon and was satisfied with being known as ‘Brad’s wife’. I entertained myself by playing with people’s heads when approached with “Hi! Did I go to school with you?” I morphed through different roles with strangers, from being a chick called Tania’s vegetarian lesbian lover (thanks for the lovely hand gestures across the room by the way darl!), to ‘that Danish exchange student’, to taking photos using other people’s posh cameras, to just being the hot Bogan chick at the bar (OK, so ‘hot’ might’ve been a temperature thing rather than an indication of my ability to ‘pull’). And I perfected the universal reunion greeting: “Ohhhh. My. GAWD! HIIII!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Have you had a school reunion? I did.

The bogans of Bushbogan public high school were called together a few years ago (via a big bushpig whistle that carries in the wind…) to a gathering at the local basketball hall. We feasted on Bbq chooks and Woolies salads and compared stories. My school wasn’t nearly as classy as Brad the Tradie’s. We couldn’t rustle up newspaper success articles about SAS officers saving the children of Rwanda. But, damn, in our best stonewashed denim and stretch boobtubes, we rocked the makeshift dancefloor to Abba and Jimmy Barnes and ran out of Tooheys.

High school is only a short time in the scheme of things, yet shapes us in many ways.

And as such, we’re usually keen to go back and find out ‘what happened’ to our schoolmates. In the era of Facebook and email there’s not really many reunion surprises anymore. Fortunately, mine was held a while ago now, so there were still shocks to be had. Like the girl no one recognised who turned out to be the dumpy chick who’d lost 60kg and dyed her hair. Like the meathead footy captain getting a law degree. And a certain boy (not the gay one… a different one) marrying an Actuary called Saffron. And the depressing news that one of my Science nerds had committed suicide before he even made it to twenty.

You can’t see it coming. Life, that is.

Try as you might to sit with the Yearbook and predict the paths of your schoolmates, it just can’t be done. Some of it we make ourselves and some of it just… happens. It might be fun to pretend to go back and turn back time. But you can’t. And we shouldn't want to, because everything we experience makes us who we are, bogan warts and all.

I know this, because if I could, public high schools everywhere would let girls wear leopard print heels and serve wine at the canteen. Duh!

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If I Could Turn Back Time, Cher, 1989 (the year I finished high school)

Blossy in Tradieland

2010-11-10T18:28:00.000+08:00

Being a landscaper’s assistant is a little like being a student teacher. Kind of.

A bit of ‘jack of all trades, master of none’ kind of thing. And as it turns out, just like everything is a classroom can be fixed with blutak or a bandaid, everything in Tradieland can be cured with concrete or a screw.

Blossy has entered Tradieland. Yep. Walked through the magic mirror past the rabbits or whatever and here I am. A proper Landscaper’s Assistant. Or as we say in the trade… an L.A.(great abbreviation given that L.A. has incredible shopping…tangent thought… ignore it…)

With Brad the Tradie relocating his business across the nation to here in Beachvillea, I’ve taken it upon myself to act in a variety of roles. Given that I’ve got all these ‘skills’ from twenty years in the Education game (not a total waste of time that career…)and currently have not much else to do I’m quite a useful L.A. Especially when there’s colouring-in of plans to be done. GREAT at colouring in.

First and foremost lately, I’m Promotions Officer. To… you know… promote.

Apparently, a good tradie in Beachvillea is one who turns up. So, being clever at marketing, that's what we're promoting. Turning up. Seems effective too. People are genuinely surprised at times when BtT finishes their garden. A client gave him a quite expensive bottle of bourbon last week, just for finishing. Gotta love entering a low-expectation community.

Being a good eco-capitalist, I started with the old faithful method, letterbox dropping. Kind of ironic really. An eco-landscaper and an eco-store providor bombarding letterboxes with promotional material. Those who are most eco-conscious of course, have a No Junk Mail sign on their mailbox, meaning we couldn’t give them a flyer. Sometimes, when walking the beat, I’d ‘accidentally’ put one under their windscreen or poke it through the fence… really. These silly signs should say, “no junkmail unless it’s really important.” Sheesh. So extremist these people are.

So then we went all techno. Got the business on the Twitbook. Used web-footed net pigeons to create pages full of interesting eco-stuff and environmentally-responsible doovahs. Got the Google click thing going and we're practically viral. I'm I.T. Manager you see.

I’m also ‘Business Manager’ (which means that I manage the business… clever title huh??!!!) I do all manner of exciting and unusual things. Adding up the money on the Netterweb banking is my favourite task. I also quite like phoning non-payers and threatening to sick a bikie gang member on them. I’m not sure that people in these parts are used to a chick being an L.A. though. Take this morning’s phone convo’s for example. Two tasks: order a water tank and do a quote for a limestone wall. Sounded simple when BtT said it, so Blossy waved him off to do something landscapery.

Phone call A. Mission: Order a water tank.

Me: Ohhhhh helllloooooo. This is Blossy from Planet Fabulous… yes… how are you? Yes, noice day, quite warm this week… anyhooo, would like to… ahhh yes, he’s fine, quite busy, out moving dirt. Yah huh, yes he is quite fab isn’t he? Yah huh, yep, shall tell him that… oh good, I’m glad the visit went well with your mum… mmm hmmmm…. anyyyHOOOOOO, would like to order a tank… ummmm…. Tsixteen hundred. Yaaaa, ripple thingies… torress blue… hmmmm…good, good, glad we can make one of those, client will be pleased… can I have a price for that? Yah huh doing invoice… mmmm, can be tricky… yes, he is lucky that I do it (I AM the effing business manager lady!!!!) good, good, FAB-ulous, yes, address for T1600 is 14 dolphin fin way… yes… lovely dolphins here… mmmm…yes, shame about the whaling situation in Japan, totally agree… yes I had heard they're sending asylum seekers to live near you... ANYHOOOOOOOOOOO, must go, send the bill. BYE!!!! (click)

Mental note: order tanks via email. Or courier pigeon or something.

Phone call B. Mission: Get prices for quote on limestone wall.

Him (thick Scottish accent): Lo! Lo! This is (indeterminable name… shall call him Grillpot), whatcha be wantin’?

Me: Ahhh, yes, hello Grillpot, this is Blossy Bogan from Planet Fabulous. I’m needing a quote on a whole heap of limestone blocks so that my dreadfully talented landscaper husband can build a dirty great wall on someone’s new property.

Him: Ahhghhh! A dirty great wall you say? Well lassie, best you tell me how many of the blocks ya want and we’ll go and add it up for ya then.

Me: FAB-u-lous.

Him: Warm this week.

Me: Yes.
Him: Like the warm do ya then?

Me: Oh… ummm… yes.

Him: Off to the beach are ya then?

Me: Possibly. Did you want to know how many blocks?

Him: Ohhhh yes lassie. You’re wantin’ blocks.

Me: Well. I’m terribly orge-an-ised, so I’d like two hundred of code 135356 in a plain, and two hundred of the 135352 in the bevelled. And I want them delivered to Cookerfannyyupkippanup which is out the back of over there somewhere, so best give me a delivered price. I’ll need a lead time as well, with accuracy plus or minus a day. I’m assuming that you’ll quote me trade price. I’m ringing around right now and I’d like to nail this away (like that? Nail this away? Tradie chick talk… I’ve come SUCH a long way!!!). How are we situated in getting this sorted today Grillpot?

Him: Well then, I’ll be wantin’ to write this down lassie.

Me (Oh for CHRIST'S SAKE!): Yes. You will. Sorry, I should’ve told you to get a pen or something. Live 'n' learn.

Him: Wanna tell me all that again then love? Hang on… pen… somewhere….

Me: (bang, bang, bang): Oh sorry, Grillpot, that was my head banging on the desk. You don’t have email do you?

Him: E-what? So, you want a lot of blocks then lassie or something else? Have to ring the quarry and call ya back then.

Me: Good-o Grillpot. Talk soon. (bang, bang.... bang).

Surprisingly, Grillpot and I, after some more exchanges seem to have an understanding. He confided on our second phone call (it takes three calls to find a price for 68 metres of limestone blocks as it turns out) found it unusual to be dealing with a female. So I put on my deep voice, which he liked very much (unsurprisingly) and I ‘nailed away’ a magnificent price. No idea on what really, except that I gather they are … limestone blocks of some description, and that we ‘mud’ them together to build a wall.

Which brings me to L.A. role four: Labourer.

It’s a great role this one. From what I gather, it requires one to not have any form of brain. All the blood flow goes to the muscles. And boy, when you labour for Brad the Tradie, do you discover PLENTY of muscles. My mono-ab (currently in training for swimwear season) thanked him for all the lawn-mix shovelling yesterday. When labouring, one must also be compliant. Phrases of use are, “Yes boss”, “No worries mate” and “Yep, on it”. Not once does a labourer complain, or… in Blossy’s case, get a headache, bleed from any form of wound, ask to go home, or… cry. Labourers do NOT need to go to the toilet, eat, sit down, nor do they give their own opinion (“ahhhh, reckon that’s straight? Sorry... going back to shovelling...”)

Blossy is better at roles one, two and three. Role four… not great just yet. BtT’s very generous in his feedback though, particularly when I cry. I don’t have to pull the ‘But I’m a GIRL!” card very often.

Yes, I know. It’s WRONG. But every now and then you just HAVE to pull the I’m a Girl card. When it suits.

When I was about thirteen I asked our milkman for a job. He laughed me off with a snorting type of “Hell No!” I thought it was because of my gender, so I threatened him with the Discrimination tribunal (yes, I was a very strange adolescent… I also wrote regularly to Derryn Hinch and Peter Garrett with my political concerns… stories for another day perhaps). Turned out you could actually have a vagina AND be on the milk run. Bless, I was rejected because I looked unfit and the milkman doubted my ability to run with crates for two hours a night. When he put it like that, I kinda doubted my ability too.

I do, in theory, believe that anything a bloke can do, so can a chick. But in practice it gets a little blurry. So, Brad the Tradie and I are adopting a ‘strengths-based’ system. Mainly, he’s the strength. I help out here and there and try not to whine. And I DO enjoy counting the Netterweb banking money.

How long will Blossy last in Tradieland?

Dunno. It might not be a career path, but when all the elements combine and it's a nice sunny day, not too hot, not too cold and we've just finished turning the colouring-in into a real garden, it's quite nice being a quasi-tradie. I'm learning heaps too. Like, the real meaning of 'slurry' and how to mix one properly in a wheelbarrow. But don't worry, I haven’t invested in steel-capped boots or anything drastic. Gosh. That WOULD be serious!

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Alice (Underground), Avril Lavinge, 2010

Everybody Wants to Rule the World

2010-10-14T18:20:00.000+08:00

We’re gripped by it.

We’ve practically come to a standstill.

Yep, it’s the Commonwealth Games. The Comm Games. The C Games. Or, as our house is now referring to it… the Commies.

Every four years the countries of The Empire (that’s the British Empire for you insular Americans) come together to play games. In the spirit of participation, sharing, pursuing one’s goals… oh, no it’s not. Sorry. Brad the Tradie just reminded me that the Commies are about winning and dominance. Which makes a lot of sense really. Only countries once dominated by British rule (when they mistakenly thought they could rule the world) are allowed to compete at the Commonwealth Games. All these nations come together to see who NOW rules the Commonwealth. Oh. Look at that. It’s the Aussies. By a landslide.

And we bloody well love it. Bugger the citizenship exam. You can tell a true Aussie because they downright want to win. Especially against the Poms. “Ha! Take that for British rule! Can’t beat us in the swimming or netball can ya… huh? Shove that in ya monarchy and smoke it!”

I think we like to… want to… NEED TO dominate the Commies because it reassures us that as a nation we don’t suck that badly after all. Australia doesn’t lead the way in many things, let’s face it. It’s not a popularity problem. Everyone likes us. How could you not? There’s just such as lack of achievement in Australia that we end up having to pride ourselves on having a dreadfully safe national airline and a good reef. The world is actually ruled by China and the U.S.A. They make everything and tell everyone what to do. We won’t ever invite them to the Commonwealth Games. EVER. So there. The Commies belong to us Aussies.

We’ll never tire of the anthem being played as chlorine-drenched swimmers get gold medal after gold medal.

We wince a little at silver, but clap and say, “Good try mate!", put in a protest and kick the winner in the shins. Although, have you noticed this time around that we excel at some rather unusual, not-usually-Australian sports? That immigration program is working wonders isn’t it? We’ve got a barely English speaking Greco-Roman wrestling champ that can do backflips on command (we like that… did you see him being interviewed? “Hey mate! Do a backflip! Pwwoahhh! Look at that!”), Chinese diving coaches and some darn good rhythmic gymnasts (who wear an awful lot of glittery hair gel and are dressed by trannies). I reckon I know the secret actually. All those illegal boat people sneaking into our waters? Well, they’re chucked off the boats within sight of Darwin to see how fast they can swim. “Ahhh mate! You’ve practically got bloody flippers! Welcome to Australia!” As long as they win gold medals, they’re welcome here anytime.

Of course it doesn’t hurt that most of the other Commonwealth countries are the size of Brisbane. How did I get to be 38 years of age and not know about a country called Nuie? Although with darts being their national pastime I can kinda understand my ignorance. The nation of Samoa I get. They grow ‘em BIG and fuzzy in SAM-O-A. We don’t begrudge them a couple of weightlifting medals. They can’t really swim, the poor things.

It’s been exhilarating watching poor old host country India win some medals in exciting sports such as discus and shooting. I’m hardly surprised they’re good at self-defence sports, given their living conditions. Who invited India to host the Comm Games anyway? Did no one else apply? I love how the village and stadiums were all falling down and the Indians weren’t that worried. “Ya dudes! We did our best! Less things are broken than we thought huh?” India’s one of ‘those countries’ that BtT and I will maybe one day visit, providing we go there on a cruise ship and look at the Indian culture on a day tour with lots of hand sanitiser. India has resonated strongly with us Aussies hasn’t it? I mean, Curtis Stone even cooked up some Indian slop for his ‘feed your family for under ten bucks’ segment at Coles. By the looks of Indians, you could probably feed half a street of them for ten dollars, but anyway, good on you Curtis for enlightening us on the joys of Madras Chicken.

Brad the Tradie’s been glued to the Commies.

The sport side, not the cultural side. There’s really only so many sari’s you can look at. It’s like these Games were scheduled the week after the footy grand finals (but before the cricket season) just in case he got the shakes from a lack of sport on the telly. With Foxtel showing half a dozen different Commie events in our home theatre 24/7 I feel I’ve been thoroughly exposed to the kulcha of the Games. BtT doesn’t mind which sport’s on. We’ve cheered for lawn bowls (“robbed they were! Robbed!”) and by golly, how exciting’s that cycling road race. Phew! About as interesting as watching paint dry actually. Which we were, given that our new house was being painted and so we didn’t have a great deal else to do except watch Kenyans run around a track fifty-seven gazillion times.

I have wondered this week how Commie sports are chosen and how I go about adding new ones.

I could Google it if I really cared, but instead I thought I’d come up with some extra sports for the next Games in Scotland in 2014. Here’s my list:

• Highland Fling – very Scottish and fashionable. I may defect to compete in the Scottish national team in this one just to wear the kilt. Argghhh! Blossom McBogan I am!

• Cricket – I mean REALLY. How is cricket not in the Commies? It’s the only sport Indians will watch for goodness sake and it still wasn’t in the Comm Games. Surely even Lesotho could field a side. So that we could win of course.

• Drinking games – another of our national strengths obviously. It would give the athletically-challenged a chance at Commonwealth Glory and I think ‘scull scull’ would make compelling TV viewing. Give the Welsh and Irish a chance to win a silver medal too.

• Pom Thumping – not just beating the English, but ACTUALLY thumping them. Give that medal to Samoa as well. Do we get immigrants from Samoa? Anyone?

• Of course, in the spirit of including people with a disability in the Comm Games (how amputees swim that fast is beyond me), we could have the conjoined discus and S10 rolypoly down the hill. The more the merrier!

As long as us Aussies still win. We might love our sport in Oz, but we sure as heck don’t like losers. Because, you see, although everybody wants to rule the world… for twelve days, we actually do. That'll teach the Poms for dumping all their convicts here. Oi! Oi! Oi!

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Everybody Wants to Rule the World, Tears for Fears, 1985

The Final Countdown

2010-09-26T17:49:00.000+08:00

Fine. I’ll just say it. Get it out there so we can move on. Brad the Tradie is a Collingwood supporter and therefore, by the laws of our vows, so. am. I.

For those still reading (for I fear the news has disgusted most and motivated them to move on to another blog), you must know what this means after yesterday. Yes… condolences. The Team, The Boys, Mick’s Mob…they got the CollyWobbles in the second half of the Grand Final and let the Saints sneak up and claim a fecking draw. A DRAW. Which, in stupid Australian Rules, invented by some Victorian moron back in the days before life was worth living, means that the Grand Final has to be replayed next weekend. The whole. Damn. Thing.

Brad the Tradie was, as they say… Devo. Maaaaaaaaate. Such an unexpected outcome. And yet, we’re all upset that we didn’t put twenty bucks on a draw. Would’ve paid for the flight to Melbourne to watch them all play the bloody match over again. In every other sport, they just play extra time. Nope. Not Aussie Rules. It’s a do-over.

It’s all rigged, I reckon. By party pie companies and QANTAS. Just to make a crapload more money out of people squealing at grown men running around a paddock.

Blossy’s not really an Aussie Rules kinda gal. Even though I live in The West, I like Sydney papers. Ones that don’t care whether AFL exists really. In my childhood town of Bush Boganville in outer New South Wales where the dust shines as bright as the sun, there was no AFL. Never heard of it. There was just Footy. But now we have to distinguish between TYPES of Footy. My type is now called League. I can’t get used to it really. I still call it Footy. With a big ol’ pigskin, a scrum and a goal kicker. It was good for the town thugs. Gave ‘em something to do. A reason not to drown babies with thick necks at birth. “Oooo!!! Look at this one Sharon! Little Bill could be a Prop! Play for Australia with that neck and those thunder thighs! Better get him a jersey!”

So when I met Brad the Tradie, naturally I had to covert. Like marrying a Jew. I had to learn the rules of the game (there aren’t’ many apparently), learn to stand up and belch at quarter time, half time and three-quarter time, memorise the words to the club song (yes there was an exam…) and basically promise BtT that if Collingwood ever got into the Grand Final, then we would go to Melbourne to watch it. Seemed a safe bet. They don’t generally do very well. And we only lived a comfortable morning’s drive from the holy grail anyway.

And so, typically, the year we move to the other side of the bloody country, his team get into the Grand Final. Bless him, BtT turned to me last Sunday arve (in his Home Theatre recliner, stubbie of Jim Beam and coke in hand) and sincerely announced, “Well babe, I guess I’m goin’ to Melbourne next weekend.”

Ummm… no.

“Yeah babe. You agreed. If The Boys ever made it, we’d go to the G and watch them.”

Ahhhh… no.

“BABE. We agreed.”

Yes hon, before we moved to The West. Before Grand Final ‘packages’ cost three grand! I didn’t actually let fly that it’s only bloody football and that really, quite FRANKLY, if I was to go to Melbourne it’d be for an emergency shoe top-up (a la modelling shoot in major national magazine or similar situation…obviously…), NOT to watch football.

Grown men don’t sook with dignity.

I had a teensy little window of time in which to make it all better. There was only one choice. (no… not Melbourne… geez!!!)… GOOGLE.

I Googled and Googled. Combinations like ‘what do people who live in Beachvillea do on grand final day?' and 'what makes a Collingwood supporter happy?' Score. Got it. We would go to the movies. Uhuh. There was my solution on the flat screen monitor in white and… black. Hoyts, in the Bogan-ist part of town was offering a Grand Final screening in THREE D. With unlimited popcorn, self serve fizzy drink and a hot dog. We could even upgrade and get a ticket to the mezzanine level where the comfy chairs and slaves are kept. DONE. PHEW.

So there we were. A vision of Collingwood-ness, be it with more teeth than the average supporter.

All going swimmingly in our big old chairs, hot dog juice dribbling on our Collingwood tops whilst diving into unlimited popcorn, watching teenage employees clean up after us. I was quite rapt with the 3D. Slightly weird watching a heap of footy supporters wear the nerdy glasses usually reserved for kid’s movies, but there were advantages (beyond the catering obviously). In 3D, on the big screen, The Boys were HUGE. The ball popped out at us. The ground was ‘right there’. The goalposts were realllllllllly freakily 3D. And I managed to find a free newspaper and swipe the weekend telly guide to take home. Score!

Turns out that there is a limit to how much popcorn you can actually eat.

Three buckets. But I filled it up again anyway to take home to the teenager (and the dog as it turns out). Had to go fill it up again half way through the last quarter when Collingwood started looking really wobbly because BtT’s arms began flailing and he knocked our food and drink into my handbag (suede… yes. I KNOW.) Thank goodness it was dark.

So, as they say, that's now history. The game was a draw. Everyone was speechless. BtT’s iphone started beeping with condolence messages. I tried to put a positive spin on it for him on the car on the way home, but instead he just used road rage as an outlet.

And, no. We’re not damn well doing something special all over again next weekend. Bad enough we have to dedicate another Saturday afternoon to this insane sport. It will not be in 3D. We will NOT be in Melbourne. Just in the Home Theatre recliners with some sausage rolls and RTD’s. It’s the final, FINAL countdown. I bloody well hope.

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The Final Countdown, Europe, 1986.