Learning The Hard Way

Rose coloured glasses.

Posted on September 14, 2013 by Learning the hard way

Zinna promises to find a pair of glasses that will make me look ten years younger.

They must be rose coloured.

Which, coincidentally, was the actual colour of my very first pair at the tender age of thirteen. Thick rimmed pink plastic with actual glass rather than the infinitely lighter polycarbonate, they were hidden amongst my school books as I travelled between classrooms. I would furtively pop them on and stare straight ahead hoping one or other of my current crushes wouldn’t notice.

Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.

Which was pretty much true throughout high school but mercifully disproved as I headed myopically into my twenties.

I spent a couple of years heavily involved in amateur theatre. The glasses would be removed during performances and I developed a squint that was often employed for comic effect – think Mr McGoo.

Eventually I was relying on fellow cast members to steer me away from the ever present threat of careening head first into the audience. It was time to explore the possibilities of contact lenses.

A genial ophthalmologist in the City conducted another eye test and checked the health of my eyes. Apparently they were extremely healthy with all the ocular prowess of a fruit bat.

He assured me that I was the perfect candidate for contact lenses and that he had yet to meet a set of eyeballs he couldn’t fit.

Given my general skittishness to anyone attempting cosmetic congress on or around my eyes or that I was utterly incapable of fishing out the odd rogue eyelash, this was set to be a challenging exercise.

Chuckling at my nervousness, the good Doctor sat opposite me with his plastic container of disposable contact lenses. Our knees met as he leant toward me with the tiny transparent disc balanced delicately on his index finger.

Now I want you to relax; I’m just going to open your eye with this hand and –

My head reeled back like a striking cobra and the lens pinged off onto the floor.

That’s ok. It takes a few goes but you’ll be fine.

I’ll spare you the commentary and fast-forward to the point where Dr I-Can-Fit-Anyone is crawling around on the floor retrieving 27 contact lenses and sobbing quietly.

I left with a huge pair of pink, white and gold Christian Dior frames that worked so well with my bouffant 80’s hair and shoulder pads. For clearly this was the decade when my eyewear choices were truly tasteful fashionable.

There were several variations on the ornate Dior’s before a pair of heavy black Clark Kent ones, followed by a series of whacky primary coloured frames to match the Jenny Kee jumpers and Ken Done tee shirts.

The decade that taste forgot.

When I turned up for my eye appointment Zinna was nowhere to be seen…and yes, I was wearing my glasses.

Well that’s just great, who’s going to make me look ten years younger now?

She had been replaced with Amelia, a veritable foetus behind the desk.

Take a seat, I’ll be with you when i’ve finished confirming these appointments.

Excellent, there’s every chance I’ll leave with a pair of Katy Perry diamante embellished cats eyes now.

Alright, I grant you, she could wear Sir Elton’s 70’s cast-off frames and look amaaaazing

I met the optician, Van, a twelve year old, who conducted a most thorough eye examination featuring all the usual flashing lights, drops and pressure tests that one has become accustomed to over the years.

Finishing up she cheerfully announced that my right eye had deteriorated. Just how many freaking carrots do I need to eat in a lifetime???

Van suggested popping a pair of contact lenses in to assist my new frame selection while deftly inserting one under each lid. I had absolutely no time to react negatively. Genius – the woman was an optical ninja.

Wandering out into the showroom it was time to select face furniture to reflect the twenty teens….No? Ok, what would you call it then? What is this decade called? Anyone?

I stood before a column of frames ruefully contemplating my face in the mirror along side. While the contact lenses were not my exact prescription they afforded me clarity of vision that bordered on the forensic.

I SAW TOO MUCH

Right, girls, here’s your task – from what I’ve observed I have a good decade before unaccountably shearing off my hair, dying it an implausible hue, adorning my ears, neck and wrists in gaudy resin jewellery, swathing myself in luxe pashmina’s and sporting glasses of such alarming colours as to frighten small children – for now, I just need to look stylish and a bit fabulous. Are you up to the challenge?

Amelia finished updating her Facebook status and snapped into action.

I quickly settled on two pairs, which Van obligingly photographed me wearing so I could send the images for familial consensus. Fortunately we all agreed on the same frame, which, as so often occurs, was the first pair young Amelia handed me.

I should probably appreciate the gentle blurring world created by my current lenses and if, when my new glasses are ready, everything is just way too HD, I’ll whip out the vas and give them the Doris Day treatment.

…the future’s not ours to see –
– no really

Que sera, sera.

Posted in humor | Tagged ageing, Christian Dior, Contact lens, Doris Day, Eye examination, Glasses, humor, Jenny Kee, Katy Perry, mr mcgoo, optometrist | 9 Comments

Art for art’s sake.

Posted on September 11, 2013 by Learning the hard way

From the moment my youngest daughter could hold a pencil the world at large became a colossal sketchpad. Every surface was an invitation to illustrate and I swear she developed her own graffiti tag at 18 months.

She was an infant Banksy.

The week we moved into a newly renovated house she set to work boldly autographing every single one of the pristine white vinyl wrapped kitchen cupboards with a black permanent marker. We found a couple of covert works on the polished floorboards behind a TV unit and she was just starting on a door when we walked in.

Nothing was sacred. Books, dolls, tables and walls – even the poor dog was routinely doodled on with felt tip markers. Relatives were similarly rewarded when she visited their homes. Her uncle and aunt could not thank her enough for adorning their new lounge suite with pink nail polish.

It was difficult to maintain any kind of rage at my child’s wanton disregard for property because she was so incredibly gorgeous. A bob haired, blue-eyed blonde whose first properly articulated word was, to my eternal shame, ‘McDonalds’, it was impossible not cuddle her to death shortly after wanting to strangle her.

Bored at the home of her grandparents one day she decided to draw on the bonnet of my father’s Mitsubishi Magna with a rock. The swirly design kept her amused for at least twenty minutes before someone realized it was very quiet all of a sudden. The silence did not prevail as my father blew the proverbial gasket. Some sixteen years on, he still has the car with its bespoke vehicular etching – neither of which is worth much.

After some judicious aversion therapy and the threat of a foster home, she eventually moved away from decorating every available surface and concentrated on the permanent canvas of her own body.

Her artwork at kindergarten was in the vein of Pro Hart’s famous carpet advertisement complete with body slide.

and dressing the child in rainbow hues was the only way of camouflaging the daily self daubing of paint and paste.

Of course, give her a pair of scissors and she would be practicing the ancient Chinese art of jianzhi on anything that could be cut. She re-worked the hemline of many dresses during this, her Tang dynasty creative period.

I had to admire my daughter’s willingness to embrace new mediums as hanks of her own hair were lopped off and hidden amongst the cardboard rolls and pipe cleaners of a pasting or tucked away for later use in a bathroom drawer.

Primary school was every bit as as chaotically and colourfully messy although by this stage it was less about art and more about being a bit of a klutz.

This child of mine has never learnt in the conventionally passive manner of her older sister – the listen and learn approach. To really learn something she had to understand how and why. Much like the time she took the home telephone apart to figure out how it worked. I’m not sure it cleared very much up for her but I am quite sure I couldn’t get it back together again.

During the less active classes that often define secondary learning she would regularly pass the time drawing on her arms or knees. I spent six years yelling at her to ‘go wash that off!’

By year twelve the Pi sign was an almost permanent fixture on her wrist. This was less about a particular affinity with mathematical constants and more about an odd crush on her math’s teacher – a sweaty young man with a penchant for the sweater vest.

Compute to the last digit of Pi !

This little Greek letter was re-penned daily and my daughter declared that as soon as her emancipation from life as a school girl allowed, she would have the symbol professionally tattooed there.

I couldn’t wait.

Two and half years later and 9146.5 nautical miles away from me she has finally come through on the promise of ink.

An artistically filtered Instagram photo revealed to the world a tattoo of two crossed arrows.

…unless you cross me and then it’s WAR!!!

Despite some vague assurances that the symbol was Native American in origin denoting happiness and a reminder not to live a boring life, some rapid fire Google research suggests it means friendship and peace…or possibly war, depending on which way the arrows point and which authentic Native American Symbology website you happen to be looking at.

I toyed briefly with drawing a comparable Indigenous Australian Aboriginal symbol on my arm and sending her the image, but every one I found was entirely literal – an arrow is just that, an arrow and I’m not sure that the message implicit in a bush turkey or honey ant would really work.

ah, ok…grounded like the fire ant but um…feisty…

Given the indelible nature of this latest artwork, youngest offspring is understandably thrilled beyond measure with it.

However, with no connection to an image symbolizing my daughter’s independence and no understanding of its genesis, I have found myself kind of wishing she’d gone with the Pi sign after all.

Posted in Family, humor | Tagged children, Ethnicity, humor, instagram, Mitsubishi Magna, Pro Hart, Symbol, tattoo | 2 Comments

The Cabin in the woods – part 2

Posted on September 6, 2013 by Learning the hard way

So to recap –

My youngest daughter, D2, had returned for a second tenure working at a summer camp in Massachusetts. She had spent the previous American summer there and had fallen in love with the culture, the location and one of the senior staff.

Returning home for another summer in Australia she spent the ensuing months miserably willing away time before returning to the States. It was not a happy period for her or for anyone who cared about her.

Meanwhile, having rejected the delights of celebrating a milestone birthday with an extravagant party, spouse suggested we flee the country and visit D2 instead.

In my infinite wisdom, for that is what one garners after 50 years on the planet, I decided that along with beloved spouse, it would be divinely wonderful to have my eldest daughter, D1, accompany us.

I know.

No one is buying the infinite wisdom line anymore.

So there we were, three of us excitedly heading over to America – land of the free, home of the brave and spiritual home of junk food. A fact never more amply exemplified than by a segment we watched in New York on morning television – which, by the way, is the same all over the world; a smarmy anchorman, a couple of interchangeable blondes and a whacky weather guy who reports rain while zip lining. So the hosts were talking about the ‘cronut’; a cream filled croissant / donut hybrid (and we wonder at French ambivalence, mon dieu!) invented in New York.

Explaining that the Dominique Ansell bakery produces just 200 cronuts a day, our perky morning show blonde produces one for the camera. Apparently wannabe diabetics queue for hours before the bakery opens for the opportunity to purchase no more than two of the sugary delights and their limited availability has ensured a tidy blackmarket with people paying up to $40 a pop for each $5 pastry. That’s a month supply of Modafinil for your average Wall Street venture capitalist. NUTS!

It was clear when it came time to sample this foodie equivalent of the one hit wonder, that blondie would rather handle plutonium. She regarded the cronut with vague terror as if all 400 calories were ready to jump straight onto her skeletal hips. Our alpha male harboured no such reservations and bit into the calorific delight with the kind of enthusiasm you’d expect from someone who’d been at work since 4am.

Where was I? Oh yes, making our way across to see D2 in her new natural habitat – the wilds of Massachusetts and home of Bo Burnham, a fact that I’m guessing she doesn’t know but will after reading this blog post. Always educating.

So we have navigated our way to Granville’s Shabby chic cabin in the woods https://jane63.com/2013/08/30/the-cabin-in-the-woods-part-one/and survived the night – barely.

Good afternoon. I am a representative of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I would like to share a successful family program with you and your family, without any obligation on your part, and with nothing to buy. May I come in for a moment?

The following day was spent in drowsy contemplation of the local area while we waited for visiting instructions from D2. We noted that every house sported some form of patriotic decoration with several homes appearing to compete over the size of their flags and the sheer amount of bunting festooning their porches.

While it’s entirely possible the ante was raised to observe the fourth of July I can’t help suspecting this is a permanent display of nationalistic fervor. I’m uneasy about overt symbols of patriotism. Inevitably the Southern Cross decal on the back of a V-8 in the outer suburbs of Melbourne or Sydney belongs to someone who also sports a “Fuck off, we’re full” sticker plastered across their bumper.

oi! oi! oi!

The highlight for all of us was discovering Wi-Fi at a Laundromat in the next town. We passed a pleasant hour of clothes washing, tumble-drying and Facebooking. D1 was simultaneously overjoyed and incredulous that she had passed her recent Economics exam while spouse pored over real estate magazines. He marveled aloud at the bargain basement prices and wondered if we could relocate.

‘Ah, honey, there’s just a cheese shop, remember…nothing else…I’m just saying’

Feeling like a spy waiting for details of the next mission I logged into my emails to finally receive information about visiting D2.

She had instructed us to arrive at exactly 5pm. We were to head directly to the office and under no circumstances wander about on our own as the children would be extremely alarmed to see strangers. This seemed a tad melodramatic, as we are fairly benign looking people favouring, for my part anyway, handbags over handguns. But rules were rules.

Camp Chimney Corners sprawls rustically across an idyllic slice of the Berkshires in Massachusetts. Surrounded by massive fir trees the camp site is dotted over with wee log cabins entirely reminiscent of the Parent Trap – I half expected Lindsey Lohan to run out yelling ‘I have a brilliant beyond brilliant idea!’ (Which we all agree now is, Linds, back away from the crack)

We duly arrived at 5pm on a sticky Tuesday afternoon and presented ourselves at the office.

“Ermagard! It’s the Australian’s!”

An excitable pony tailed staffer radioed our presence into her walkie-talkie.

Eventually my darling girl appeared around the corner of the administration block all tanned and blonde and fairly bursting with health. After squeals and hugs all round she took us on a whistle-stop tour stopping to introduce us to every co-counsellor, administrative staff member, camper and animal we encountered along the way. We wound up at a cabin where her adorable young charges had lined up, a la Von Trapp, to meet us.

It was here we met young Sonia who provided the following exchange –

Sonia “How did you learn to speak American so good?”

D2 “Now Sonia, just have a think about that question for a minute.”

Sonia (thinking) “How did you learn to speak American so well?” (Sonia is quite pleased with herself here)

D2 “I want you to really think about the question you’re asking me.”

Sonia (Pauses. Revelatory expression) “How did you UN-learn Australian so well?”

Sonia wasn’t the only one who wondered aloud if we spoke English. I’m thinking less canoeing and more global awareness.

Well as if anyone doesn’t know that the capital of Tuvalu is Funafuti?!

Finally we were able to leave and whisk D2 away for dinner. In the car she announced that her girlfriend would be joining us. There was some grumbling dissent from D1 who would have preferred to have her sister to herself, but we all agreed that as there was the potential for awkwardness, we best jump straight (if you’ll pardon the expression) to the introductions.

“Is she nervous about meeting us?” I asked D2

“Hell yes! She wanted to know if she should cover up her tatts”

“Well that’s silly, it’s hot.”

Walking into the tapas bar I immediately recognized D2’s girlfriend from photos as she stood up and smiled uncertainly. I embraced her without finding out if she was a hugger first. D1 and spouse followed suit. D2 sat beside her and darted anxious looks across the table at us all.

“DON’T EMBARRASS ME!” she yelled, telepathically.

There were few opportunities to have a conversation let alone embarrass anyone as the regular Tuesday night open mike began.

So much enthusiasm, so very little talent.

After a succession of tuneless vocalists, a woman with a violin entered the restaurant, set up a small video recorder and proceeded to impersonate a conflagrant cat.

With the benefit of hindsight, this may have been a cunning ploy on behalf of my child to avoid any errant conversational gaffes. Kudos to her, it worked well.

D2 had agreed to spend the entire following day with us. D1 insisted on breakfast at a real American diner. She seemed genuinely surprised that it had no juke box or louche young men sitting in booths with girls in twin sets.

In belated honour of my birthday, both girls were paying for dinner at place that D2 had described with the kind of hype reserved for Spain’s El Celler de Can Roca and its dancing icecream.

When the dance floor meets your plate

The Dreamaway Lodge is a remote restaurant in the backwoods of New England on the edge of the state forest. Originally a brothel and speakeasy, the place has become the stuff of legends due to the likes of Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Allen Ginsberg and Arlo Guthrie having visited. A folksy joint with the type of retro kitsch sensibility that appeals to hipsters and boomers alike, it was here that my songbird daughter had performed to an enthusiastic local crowd accompanied by her girlfriend on guitar – The Dreamaway was less a venue and more a romance.

Dinner however, was a tense affair due, in no small measure, to our futile attempts to circumvent the underage drinking policy. D2 is twenty and had been enjoying a civilized Shiraz with her frequently quaffing family in Australia for a couple of years. The sudden prohibition served to highlight in a particularly public manner, the age disparity between my daughter and her girlfriend.

Wandering out onto the verandah afterwards spouse and I decided to explore the gardens while D1 happily melded into the various groups of young camp counselors knocking back beers and cider around the fire pit.

We sat on wrought iron chairs in a fairy lit grotto and noted how D2’s vibe was becoming increasingly resentful. It was screamingly obvious that having her two worlds collide at this time was not what she wanted.

I found my youngest child standing alone observing her girlfriend drinking and laughing at the centre of a large group. I took the opportunity to ask her to accompany me on a tour of the fabled maze. She had very little to say and strode ahead of me through the hedgerow. Eventually she stopped and we stood together silently watching the flicker of fireflies.

It was clearly time for me to leave her.

It took a while to locate D1 who had disappeared into the crowd. Eventually she wended her way back to us slightly stoned and very happy with her new acquaintances – especially the dude with the weed.

I left feeling regret and relief in equal measure.

Posted in Family, humor, Travel | Tagged australia, Berkshires, Bo Burnham, facebook, family, humor, Massachusetts, New York, travel, United States | Leave a comment

The cabin in the woods – part one

Posted on August 30, 2013 by Learning the hard way

I booked the majority of our recent trip to the States through a travel agent. The one section I decided to plan on my own was four days between New York and San Francisco. The idea was to find somewhere in Massachusetts not too far away from the summer camp where my youngest daughter was working and hang about until she was able to roster a day off to see us.

In the interest of keeping costs down, for we had already shelled out the GDP of Luxembourg, I utilised an accommodation website favoured by hip young folk, and searched for places in the Berkshires area.

Being summer, a lot of places were already booked by frazzled New Yorkers looking to decompress. Eventually I found a spot in Granville, MA that looked relatively convenient. The self-described ‘Shabby chic cabin in the woods’ seemed to possess all the features we required but more importantly, was as cheap as chips.

Wood chips.

Armed with a Google maps print out, my husband drove our mid-sized hire car across New York State to Massachusetts on a humid, overcast Sunday afternoon.

Eventually we reached a spot which Google had officially decided was off the radar and our directions abruptly ceased – it was at this point I also realized that while I had a street name I had no house number for the Shabby Chic Cabin in the woods.

It was an unfathomably long street in the middle of nowhere.

At this point it should be explained that while my spouse is proficient in a great many areas his sense of direction is not one of them. Combine this with my failure to nail the details of where we were actually going and the somewhat sullen attitude of an eldest daughter ripped prematurely, in her opinion, from the shopping delights of New York City, and you have a recipe for tension.

“You’re going to have to ask someone,” they said between gritted teeth.

Stopping at the T-intersection where Google had deserted us we spied a squat white home with an oversized American flag draped along its balcony. Adjacent to the house was Carol’s Greenhouse Nursery. I ventured across the driveway just as the heavens opened and the sky lit up with forks of lightning.

Carol bounded out of her house brandishing an umbrella and offering assistance.

“Hello! I hope you can help me. We seem to be a bit lost. I’m looking for the Shabby Chic cottage in the wood,”

So there’s this cabin where this old lady lives and this wolf…

Carol looked confused, which may or may not have had something to do with my sounding like some kind of antipodean refugee from a Hans Christian Anderson fable.

“I know it’s somewhere along this road and I know it’s next to another house on the same block and…um…Ok, so Angie and Marnie are the owners? Do you know an Angie and Marnie?”

After a lengthy pause whereby my heavy non-American accent may have started to make sense, the penny appeared to drop and Carol sprang into direction giving action.

“RIGHT! Okey-dokey then. SO you need to go down this road and turn down the THIRD driveway on the left. You can’t see it from the road though, you have to drive all the way down the driveway and then you’ll see it. There’s a BIG house there. But it’s NOT the big house, ok? It’s the one next to it. NEXT to it, ok? DON’T go into the big house now.”

Profusely thanking Carol for her emphasis punctuated explanation I clambered soggily back into the car and off we went.

Rising out of a clearing at the end of a tree lined driveway was a large timber house with clean architecturally pleasing lines, the sort of bespoke property favoured by Grand Designs Kevin McCloud, as he waxes lyrical over self composting toilets.

Because I live in the countryside, I want a building which encourages me to have a fully formed relationship with the environment. It gives me an opportunity to not just be inside or outside, but in a range of contexts.

Beside the house was a slightly smaller timber garage of an equally aesthetic nature and next to that, lurking in the undergrowth like an oversized toadstool was the shabby chic cottage.

The rain had eased off a bit, but the occasional lightning strike accompanied ominously rumbling thunder. It was not a cheery start to our time in Massachusetts. Summoning up every ounce of faux jollity I could muster I bounded from the car and fumbled with the lock on our cottage door. Spouse followed up with our bags and my daughter reluctantly mooched along behind.

Shabby it was. Chic it was not.

My daughter quickly laid claim to the downstairs bedroom as I ascended the ladder to our attic room. A double bed of prison issue foam rubber sat on top of a custom built wooden plinth. The air-conditioning was a mistral fan wedged into the open window.

‘Honey, you should probably leave our bags downstairs.’

There was no room to stand upright let alone get dressed.

I suggested we head out and forage for food as it was getting dark and everyone’s nerves were a little frayed. Discovering that Granville possesses nothing but a cheese store we ventured further afield; aware as the kilometers passed we were closer and closer to being hopelessly lost again. Spouse, however, motored on determined to find chocolate for him and alcohol for me.

Eventually we happened upon a complex of shops with a supermarket. Each of us grabbed a basket and headed up the aisles. The general mood of irritation was in all likelihood responsible for our collectively poor food choices as the cashier scanned fudge brownie bars, chocolate chip cookies, microwave popcorn and toffee brittle.

Shortly after successfully navigating our way back my daughter experienced some type of emotional spontaneous combusting. Without warning she burst into floods of hysterical tears and ran into the tiny sunroom at the back of the cottage.

Spouse sat on the couch and contemplated his fingernails intently.

“OH MY GOD, mum! This is hideous. There’s no Internet! I didn’t tell my friends where I’d be and how will they know where I am? They’ll think something happened to me or I hate them. I hate this place. You’re so mean to me. You asked me what I wanted for dinner and I said spaghetti Bolognese and you bought a BBQ chicken and salad instead. You don’t hug me anymore!”

At this point my adult child was more or less rocking in the foetal postion on the floor and sobbing uncontrollably.

I left her with a chocolate bar, bottle of water and some paracetamol. Eventually the wailing subsided and I wandered back out to find her finishing off a tower of Jenga blocks, occasionally erupting into teeny hiccoughing sobs.

Agreeing we would all try to make the most of our less than salubrious accommodation in an area bereft of any really obvious tourist attractions (unless you are a chipmunk who loves cheese) we settled in to eat chicken, chocolate and popcorn washed down with red wine. Despite the lack of actual television reception there was a DVD player with a collection of DVD’s that was possibly Angie and Marnie’s idea of a joke.

Eschewing ‘The Princess Bride’ , ‘Rosemary’s Baby‘ and ‘The Shining’, my slightly manic offspring chose ‘An American Werewolf in London’; a film she imagined to be every bit as comically entertaining as Michael J Fox’s ‘Teen Wolf’. Spouse and I looked at each other and silently agreed not to disabuse her of this fact.

So you see, David reanimated corpses can be fun too.

As a result we didn’t sleep very much that night. Crawling up to the attic space and lying with our heads wedged into the angled roofline we listened to her pacing about beneath us trying to find a nightlight that wouldn’t cast monster shadows. She stood at her uncurtained window anxiously peering out to the forest adamant it was only a matter of time before a serial killer surfaced. For what cabin in the woods is not visited by a psychopath at one time or another? In fact, who knows where the Ingalls family would have ended up had they not hightailed it from the woods to that little house on the prairie, right?

‘So Half pint, what we lost in serial killers we made up for in locusts’ *sigh*

I spent a long time reassuring her that we were not in Cleveland, only five people had been bitten by coyotes in Massachusetts since the 1950’s, those red flashes were fireflies and not laser dots from a customized Ruger 10/22 and eventually we would have access to the Internet again…SO GO TO SLEEP!

End of part one.

*See how the author cleverly employs serialisation of her tale to get us back?

**What??? C’mon! I was really getting into that. Who does she think she is? Tolstoy? Ppppfftt!

Posted in Family, humor, Travel | Tagged cabin, family, Grand Designs, humor, Massachusetts, relationships, travel | 6 Comments

Back to the fold.

Posted on August 27, 2013 by Learning the hard way

I’d like to say that the weight of expectation is heavy indeed, but the fact remains that my scant handful of mostly American followers are probably just wondering where that blogger from Austria went?

Maybe she’s skiing or listening to eine kleine nachtmusik and eating Mozart kugel for inspiration.

I can’t wait to get back and blog about AAAGGGHHHHH !

The truth is that my head is so fuzzy with failure that the usual tumble of words can’t escape to the screen. I spend all day wrestling with an internal dialogue so fraught that there is no room for the one pursuit I am measured favourably by. Not award winning, mind, but readable and possibly relatable if you’re a tad neurotic and easily irritated.

I’m sitting now at yet another shopping complex cafe that is pumping an unfathomable mix of techno music to a suburban crowd – there is no twerking so far – downing a $4.70 cup of soy froth infused with the merest hint of a coffee bean. No one that should care knows I’m here; they are busy in another part of the country figuring out how to beat the retail downturn. The fact that introducing new brands doesn’t seem to be working doesn’t deter – they are doggedly fixated on an eventual turnaround – a consumer awakening if you will.

As I linger over my cup of foam I am recalling time recently spent with a new friend. I like that I can find a new friend during this personal era of entrenched habit. She is one of those women who can elicit the truth in all its unvarnished glory. Listening as I vented, much as I appear to be doing now for therapy thy name is WordPress, she wisely intoned the following:

You appear to me to be one of those people who thrive when thrown into the lion’s den.

This is the truth – the uncomfortably palpable truth. I have enormous admiration for self-starters; those disciplined folk who unfailingly act with certainty and purpose. They are winners.

My form suggests, however, that I will remain miserably installed in a paying gig that affords all the job satisfaction of a toll booth operator until I AM FORCED NOT TO.

Frankly I would have fired my unmotivated arse aeons ago.

Forced challenges (or the electric cattle prod effect) have been historically effective in my case. When the Year 10 coordinator ‘volunteered’ me to represent the school in a statewide public speaking competition I was forced to rise to the occasion. Crafting an engagingly humorous paper on the place of patriotism in Australia, I threw about words like jingoism, quoted Orwell and Habermas and flailed both arms about to demonstrate my disdain for palm cards. I was on it. Unfortunately the rapidity of my delivery rendered the entire speech unintelligible and I came second to an Albino soporifically explaining the mysteries of computer science.

At university I was obliged to meet the essay writing briefs of an Arts degree with a double major. All I did for three years between raising children and part time administrative work was write to deadlines. So very many words and such quantities of cask Shiraz as I valiantly typed away at literary critiques, short stories, profiles, travel articles and poetry – it was unrelenting and wonderful.

Cocky with HD’s and a tutor’s vague suggestion that some of my work may have been publishable I submitted articles to newspapers and for a minute at least the life that should have been was tantalisingly within reach.

It has been suggested to me that a depressed state does not lend itself to creative endeavor and while it’s fortunate no one thought to mention that to Dickens, Conrad or indeed, the entire Russian canon, just quietly I’d prefer to avoid the paths of Plath and Dickinson.

So right now, as I dust the film of cocoa off the screen of my ipad, I am going to hit publish on the WordPress site and for better or worse, get back on board. It is not the end of uncertainty and self doubt and it is most definitely not the final word on dealing with the paralysis of indecision, but it’s a bloody start.

Posted in humor | Tagged australia, Austria, coffee bean, depression, failure, humor, internal dialogue, Shiraz, Wordpress, writing | 7 Comments

With a song in my heart

Posted on June 14, 2013 by Learning the hard way

It’s like I said I’d joined the space programme. The reaction to my joining a choir has been universal –

You joined a choir. A choir? Can you even sing?

Yeesss, I can sing! Of course I can sing. Why would someone who can’t sing join a choir?

I’ll tell you why – because they imagine they can sing. It only took one group vocal warm up session for me to realize I had the lung capacity of an emphysemic pygmy marmoset. Inhaling up to a count of ten, holding the air intake for a further ten counts and exhaling for ten left me not only red faced but decidedly bluish about the lips.

So. Very. Tired.

I joined after attending my niece’s high school production of Jesus Christ Superstar – the Arena Gymnasium spectacular. Traditionally I shy away from other people’s children’s school musicals – I’ve always felt that no one other than immediate family should endure what are generally discordant offerings from pubescent performers. But I had fond memories of JCS – the original Rock opera in the late 70’s – and I wanted some fond memories of my niece – so I went.

I’d fortified myself with a glass of robust red before hand and was prepared to squirm uncomfortably in the plastic seat for a couple of excruciating hours. But bloody Norah, it was actually quite good!

I mean, it was a bunch of school kids, but having grown up watching a plethora of Television talent programmes, they were working it like professionals with their hypercardioid microphones and funky dance moves.

I was front row right at the end of the hired stadium seating where most of the cast were entering and exiting. This ensured I was regularly knocked as the chorus tumbled like excitable puppies into the performance space. An over zealous leper, having gotten into character well off stage, mistook my black clad arm for a supporting rail, as he limped out like an extra from The Walking Dead. Bless him if my accompanying shriek didn’t faze him at all though – an absolute pro!

BE the zombie. no, no…BE the leper

I drove home bellowing out the entire musical catalogue at the top of my unexercised lungs and it felt fantastic. I really enjoyed singing.

The next day I shared my operatic driving revelation with a friend as we power ambled around Albert Park Lake.

You should join my choir, the Decibelles!

Whoa! Graphics…this crowd is serious!

So I did.

The first question from Nick, our Choirmaster, a man who fairly oozes good will towards all, was what do you sing?

Ooh, I don’t know…anything really, I probably draw the line at Goth Rock and I’m not sure about yodeling…

No, I mean what is your voice type?

Um…ok, not high. Definitely not high. Years of yelling at kids, red wine and coffee have well and truly roughened up these old vocal chords.

Slightly pained expression from Nick.

I’m guessing from listening to you talk you’re an alto. We could do with more altos.

So with three weeks to learn ten songs and some awkward accompanying choreography, I am preparing for the first two serious concerts of the year.

We had an official first outing a week ago at the Dolly Diamond show. Dolly is a hilarious drag act with stupendously good legs. She generously and whole-heartedly endorsed us as we performed three songs to an enthusiastic audience.

Inaugural performance nerves aside, the show was also being filmed and blinded by television lighting meant a mere quarter of the actual choir could eyeball Nick as he valiantly conducted us left of stage.

Surrounding by electrical cabling and crammed into an area the size of a picnic rug ensured our dance moves were somewhat hampered. As the entire front row gracefully raised their arms in a salute to Amy Winehouse, the rest of us bashed the woman before us in the back of the head before eventually settling into a kind of penguin flap. I think Amy would have enjoyed that.

Awww, you flippin’ the bird on my behalf? Nice.

Back at rehearsals it was generally agreed that the evening had been a blast and we are all super pumped about the upcoming full performances. A quick summary, however, of our choral attire highlighted the delineated nature of choir cultural politics. The sopranos are thoroughbreds – skittish, excitable and preternaturally obsessed with the specifics of hosiery. An anxious discussion surrounding denier and the banning of leggings clearly touched a chord with the mezzos (choir’s middle child?) who tentatively joined the fray with their own leg wear concerns. Meanwhile, the altos are just waiting for their cue to sing and quietly cursing that sheer pantyhose require leg shaving.

Opaques? Sheers? fishnets?

I’m looking forward to tunelessly belting out the numbers I remember and artfully lip synching next to the genuinely talented altos beside me. The dance moves, however, are another thing entirely – is there any foolproof way to distract the audience from my complete lack of coordination and rhythm? Please – I have a week.

I got rhythm, I got music…

Posted in humor | Tagged Albert Park Lake, Amy Winehouse, Arts & Entertainment, Choir, Conducting, humor, Jesus Christ Superstar, Music, singing, Walking Dead | 9 Comments

Cautionary tales – part two.

Posted on June 11, 2013 by Learning the hard way

So the Bolivians are happy again but a couple of Greenlanders are pestering me for the next installment.

Tell us what to avoid!

So here you go –

I spent my mid to late 30’s at University valiantly struggling against the unabashedly suburban experiences I had so far lived, to come up with suitably enthralling topics for writing classes.

Deciding I was ready to hit the singles scene after nineteen years out of the loop, a friend and fellow student suggested that any dating encounters, good, bad or otherwise could conceivably merit an article or two.

And indeed they did.

It began harmlessly enough. Responding to an advertisement in the personals section of my local newspaper – Attractive, 37 year old, intelligent professional seeks same – I found myself teeing up a 4pm coffee one Saturday afternoon with a heavily accented Polish man.

Having told anybody who would listen that I was meeting A COMPLETE STRANGER, I took comfort in the fact that when the ‘Four O’clock Strangler’ struck, the police would have some good solid leads.

A tall dark haired man stood against the brick pillar beside the door of the café we’d arranged to meet at. He was extremely thin, vampirically pale and I really wanted to keep walking. Reminding myself of the anthropological reasons for continuing, despite every fibre of my being screaming that I never wanted to see this man naked, I nevertheless followed him to a table by the window and began the process of acquainting.

Apparently our awkward initial phone conversation had not revealed the fact that I had two young offspring. He looked pained and suggested that his slightly consumptive constitution would not tolerate small children – way too many germs.

Fast forward to the point where the conversation was too excruciating to bear any longer.

‘Is that the time?’ (4.22pm)

I am mentally rehearsing my description of him as he pays for coffee.

Despite his pathological fear of juvenile germs, he asked if we could have dinner some time.

‘Look, X, you are a very nice person, but I just don’t see us travelling along the same road (where did that come from?), thanks, good luck, take care…etc…’

He took it well.

Realizing I needed to be in control of the situation I wrote my own advertisement and waited for a couple of resultant voicemail responses.

Four days later there were one hundred and forty seven messages.

After the initial shock of my instant remote popularity wore off I began the laborious task of sorting the wheat from the chaff.

There were bales of chaff.

I was forced to be ruthless – the truly desperate were deleted, the smokers and non-drinkers – OUT. Equally the unintelligible, quiet talkers, religious fanatics, sleaze-bags, married men, transsexuals, yobbos, those out on parole, anyone under twenty six and over fifty six…but the numbers were still alarmingly high…anyone called Trev, Daz or Gaz: Marvin, Conan or Rocky – all gone. I was getting there. Reduced to eleven, down to six and then there were three.

Three seemingly normal, charming men.

Assume if you will, that I spent some considerable time on the phone ‘sussing’ these potential love-interests out. Lots of common interests, lots of laughs – I was feeling reasonably confident that my Romeo was one of them. Now – which one?

Was it ‘Persistent Paul’ perhaps? So dubbed because he left three of the one hundred and forty seven phone messages extolling his many American born virtues. Was it ‘Patrick the Younger’ ? – at just thirty-two years old, he was the junior suitor. Or was it ‘Marvellous Mark’? Divorced father of two and masterfully empathetic.

Paul was up to the batter’s plate first. We had arranged to meet at a popular St Kilda hotel on a Monday night. I arrived early and loitered self-consciously by the doorway. The late summer sky was streaked with orange and there was a chill in the air. I was alert for a tall man bearing a strong resemblance to a young Nick Nolte. There he was – Nick Nolte’s mug shot, dressed in jeans, dun coloured shirt and marine blue japara. If he was thirty nine then I was ten! He took my arm and propelled me into the hotel.

‘You’ll have a champagne, of course, bella dama?’ he asked confidently. It was patently not a champagne moment.

‘A gin and tonic, thanks.’

He went with the champagne, blithely unaware of my antipathy. Apart from an annoying propensity to lapse into snatches of Spanish when he spoke, I noticed with growing alarm, that he carried a bulky calico tote. Was it the head of his previous victim, or his dismembering tools, perhaps? The long silences were unnerving.

‘I thought we could watch the sunset on the beach. Me encanta la playa!

‘I can see it perfectly well from the window here.’

I was edging off the chair when he asked whether I had eaten or not. My intestines had been impersonating Krakatoa since we arrived and I was aware that gin on an empty stomach was stupid.

‘Maybe we could go to a little Thai place I know?’

I must have looked less than enthused, because he went on hurriedly,

‘Actually, I’ve taken the liberty of packing a small picnic, ‘ he brandished the tote bag in the air, ‘we could enjoy a spot of El Fresco dining.’

I weighed the options – while I loved Thai food, a restaurant would mean hours more with this man. A picnic on the beach? Once that sun had set I’d be out of there.

We sat on a bench and Paul popped the bag down between us. With a flourish he produced a bottle of domestic sparkling, two glasses, two shrink wrapped wedges of cheese, a loaf of olive bread (from which I quickly removed a knife he had handily plunged inside) and two oranges. I tore hungrily at the bread and cheese, taking unnecessarily noisy gulps of the wine whilst trying to avoid eye contact with an increasingly touchy Paul.

By 8pm the sun had officially disappeared which was my cue to vanish similarly. I strode back to my car as he struggled to re-pack the remnants of the picnic. Flinging his jacket around my shoulders just as I reached the car, he held open the door and inclined his face towards mine. Extending my hand for the ‘dream-on-if-you-think-you’ll-score-a-kiss’ handshake, I thanked him, jumped into the car and screamed off into the night.

Strike one.

I had organized to meet number two midweek for a coffee. He had described himself as very tall and dark with looks that frequently got him into trouble. I could only speculate as to what this kind of trouble could have been.

I stood looking in the window of a jewellery shop next to the café when daylight was temporarily obliterated. An exceptionally tall, disconcertingly thin man appeared behind me. He had no chin and was wearing a pair of enormous Ray Ban Wayfarers that made him look like ‘Fearless Fly’.

Nabbing a spot by the window Patrick arranged his long limbs under the table, removed his sunglasses and revealed that his name was not Patrick but Justin – leaning conspiratorially toward me, he explained,

‘I have to be careful who I reveal my identity to.’

can I trust you?

I was obviously with Batman.

Aware that I may be sitting across from someone with the severest form of multiple personality syndrome, I remained respectfully silent as he revealed the man behind the imaginary mask.

Where to begin? Justin spent ten years working in the funeral industry, enjoying the full gamut of experiences that culminated in an excellent working knowledge of embalming – a much maligned art. His enthusiasm for the delicacy required to massage a corpse fit to view went some way to explaining why he was no longer invited to dinner parties and why I eschewed his offer of a neck rub.

He was enormously active in the Catholic Archdiocese and regularly organized crowd control at St Patrick’s Cathedral – because, let’s face it, there’s nothing more socially disruptive than a crowd surfing priest or a group of moshing nuns.

Driving private school kids around Melbourne as a bus driver led to the first of several nervous breakdowns and then he was diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome – It’s entirely possible I contracted some CFS symptoms myself during his comprehensive explanation of the condition’s MANY manifestations.

The tipping point, however, was the revelation that Jason was in the midst of studying for his dream job, which was a PARKING OFFICER – a career that combined his love of people with being outdoors…

I fled back to the car, which had a $100.00 parking infringement notice taped to the windscreen – of course.

Strike two!

I held out no hope at all for number three. I was convinced he would have a disfiguring hump or distracting facial tic and was gearing up to cancel when he rang to confirm and I found myself agreeing to a Friday night dinner.

I gave him my address and hoped my instincts were back on track.

Mark arrived half an hour early. He also had no chin and a mullet to rival Billy Ray Cyrus.

Don’t break my heart

Even the presentation of a cellophane enshrined rose in its floral death throes could not salvage this one. With all the fashion sense of Jerry Seinfeld and none of his wit, I considered a fainting spell as he asked to use my toilet and then DID NOT WASH HIS HANDS.

I spent the entire dinner avoiding contact with anything Mark had touched and listening to his sleazy stories about the many other women he’d met via the personals. Apparently, according to this relationship sage, I’d have more luck if my breasts were bigger and my hair was blonder.

Thanks for that, good to know. ..bye bye now.

And strike three…you’re OUT!!!!!

Posted in humor, relationships | Tagged blind dates, Dating, humor, Nick Nolte, Personals, Ray-Ban Wayfarer, relationships | 4 Comments

Cautionary Tales part one

Posted on May 31, 2013 by Learning the hard way

So for those of you following along at home, my literary output has been noticeably absent. There is an understandable void in the Blogosphere as a result and frankly my huge Bolivian fan base is getting antsy – so let’s get back in there!

I thought I might treat you all to a number of reasons why my blog is titled “Learning the Hard Way” by sharing some dating disaster stories. I’m doing this because I have a newly single friend who is bemoaning the quality of material on offer when she logs into a certain Internet singles site …and because I have SO many tales to compare (and compete) with her.

Heads up, unless she dates a serial killer, I’ll win.

Now, as this could conceivably turn into a blog piece the length of War and Peace I am going to drip-feed you in instalments.

Stay with me here.

There are key moments in our lives when we realise that something has got to change. Over the years I’ve experienced several of these, but this particular revelation was marked by the realisation that I was arguing with my vibrator. Both of us had respected the utilitarian nature of our dealings and he in particular, had always upheld his end of the deal. Despite an unfortunate tendency for him to lose power at crucial times, I was forced to own the failure of this relationship. It was time to leave the house and interact with a real person again, or risk conversation with all my appliances.

ERMAGARD you are hilarious!

Newly single, I’d found the company of cask wine and DVD’s a good enough reason to stay in. This quickly evolved into a permanent hermitical existence. There was an upside; a week of pre-menstrual chocolate bingeing and the resultant donning of stretch-pants, was followed by no recrimination whatsoever. The need to wax, pluck and camouflage was similarly obviated. Of course the downside was that the likelihood of ‘Mr Right’ landing on my doorstep in a Domino’s Pizza van was slight. Faced with the condition known as, ‘pick-up technique amnesia’, the only way I was prepared to search for a mate was by shopping for him –

– on-line (and hopefully home delivered).

I logged on to RSVP.com , and in the exuberant words of Big Kev, “I’m excited!” The site vibe was really positive. I was going to meet the love of my life.

Administrative formality was the first order of business and this required some thought. There were logon names, passwords and profile names to be invented before I could do anything. The advise was to pick a unique identifier, something that would get me noticed. This proved more difficult than I imagined as all the good names had been taken – ‘LuckyLady’, ‘SweetCheeks‘, ‘BikiniGirl’ and ‘PinkPearl’ were some other girl’s anonymity ensuring moniker. Of course if I were a bloke it would be equally challenging, with dibs already on ‘HairyMan’, ‘HarleyMan’ and ‘Hard4U’.

Eventually the system accepted one of the many profile names I had imagined myself so inventive with, and it was time to write a little teaser about myself. I laboured over this seemingly simple task for hours and came up with nothing. How did I want to come across? Seductive? Sincere? Smart? I entreated my nearest and dearest – ‘What’s good about me?’ Apparently I cook a really mean chocolate soufflé.

That’s it.

According to the confirming RSVP email, including a photograph of yourself significantly increased the chances of attracting someone. Nevertheless, after sifting through piles of pictures from a depressingly fresher era, I decided against this. Many people had not been so reticent. The web-site was full of interestingly cropped grainy shots and professional ‘boudoir’ portraits. I admired one honest lady, who admitted to being a trifle on the chunky side, and whose photo revealed nothing but a pretty head peeking over an enormous rhododendron bush – a difficult prop to maintain.

Despite the lack of photo, I received a couple of e-mails almost immediately. One was from a man who stated that I could be just what he was looking for. As the only information he had access to, was that I was female and over 18, I figured he was just some kind of desperado welcome committee. The second one was from a guy with the profile name of an aging movie star. I checked out his photo and we exchanged a few awkward emails. There was no cyber-spark and the communication soon died a natural death.

Shortly after becoming a member I received an email inviting me to attend a cocktail party at the bar of a big city hotel. It was a function organised by a woman who called herself ‘Goldilocks’. I appreciated the fairytale irony. The selling point was, “we know what you like”.

Not too big, not too small, just right!

Accompanied by a charitable (and attached) girlfriend we made our way to the Hotel venue. A cheerful woman wearing thick glasses welcomed us at the entrance to the bar area. She ticked off our names and offered us a sticky label; “You can put any name on it you like.” Resigned as I was, to the fact that naming myself Angelina Jolie would not make it so – I stuck with the truth. Bolting to the bar seemed the logical first step. We quickly realised it was also everyone else’s modus operandi and consequently the small area was five deep.

Standing with a twenty in my hand gave me a legitimate opportunity to survey the outlying terrain. I had to confess to a tinge of resentment at the dress stipulation: suits’ for men, (it was an after work function), and cocktail dresses for women. Presumably we girls were to have worn the taffeta all day or changed at work, while the blokes merely straightened their ties. There were many interpretations of the code – from the indispensably chic LBD, to the strapless formal frock.

Eventually the bar was reached and a cheeky, beyond-budget Chardonnay was sculled. I eventually released my tenacious grip on the burnished timber and was propelled into the centre of the crowd. A second drink went some way to quelling the rising panic from conversation with strangers, and soon my breathing returned to normal. It appeared, from observation, that we were expected to take a turn about the room – all very Austen-esque. We promenaded around the perimeter of the lounge, with tight-lipped smiles, that say – ‘I am approachable, but just don’t try to gnaw on my neck’. That, from experience, is an entirely different sort of smile.

I say, Miss Bennett, check the breeches on that fellow!

The challenge to organising this type of function is getting the age mix right. The invitation stipulated 34 to 48. I’m laying odds that this was a roomful of people from the latter end of the scale. A clue to the median age theory occurred when the performing duet struck up “Rock around the clock”; the dance floor filled with people who appeared to have experienced more than just re-runs of “Happy Days”. Hair loss, per se, is not a reliable indicator of age, but I believe the comb-over and toupee is.

I’ve still got it

My married friend was holed up at the bar with a couple of speculative looking southern European men. She flashed her wedding band and seemed relieved at my approach. Introducing me to Tony and Nick, she added, “I’m just here to get this one paired off.” I told them I was just there for the food and they left us.

The point of the evening, whereby certain women begin dancing with their arms above their heads, had been reached. Apart from the amusement afforded by a prat-falling couple whose ‘dirty-dancing’ got out of control, the night could not really be termed a success. Heading back to the car I was reminded that this newly single caper was only just beginning and there would be some amazing men out there for me to meet.

Amazing was right. As was astonishing, flabbergasting and unbelievable.

But I’m going all teaser on you asses here and you’ll have to come back…

Posted in humor, relationships | Tagged Angelina Jolie, Bolivia, Chardonnay, Dating, Domino's Pizza, DVD, humor, Personals, relationships, vibrator | 18 Comments

Coffee

Posted on May 17, 2013 by Learning the hard way

It’s been one of those days when I wish I wore a uniform and carried an electric cattle prod. As if my job isn’t excruciating enough without having to deal with large life forms in stretch pants meandering in pairs on the travelator and blocking my passage. It’s as though paralysis sets in the moment their lumpen feet contact the conveyor belt. I just want to bellow as I struggle with bags and boxes behind them,

Listen up, you dolts (for dolt, I find, to be an tremendously underutilised word) this is a MOVING walkway, the purpose of which is to INCREASE the speed at which you travel between floors probably in search of doughnuts – by standing stock still you are retarding the entire process for everyone and now I must, for the sake of busy or simply more energetic people everywhere, zap the crap out of you.

and then when I finish with you…

I don’t say this though; I just fume silently and mentally punch them in the head. Then I reward my great forbearance with coffee. I say this, but the reality of shopping centre cafes is almost universally undrinkable beverages and I curse my short-term memory.

I think I know good coffee. A mug-of-‘cino at Jill’s Café at Werribee Plaza is not good coffee and that sea foam atop the greasy beige mug is not an authentic crema.

I am compelled to cut short my high pressure work day trawling about far flung suburban shopping centres to ensure consumption of a decent coffee. Fortunately my inner city abode is amongst some serious cafes where coffee pretension has hit an all time high.

The streets are redolent with the acrid smell of burnt coffee residue from the overworked Synesso. Clusters of hipsters perch on upturned milk crates covered by hessian coffee bean sacks and order café latte’s made from Rwandan single origin beans that were possibly picked by endangered Gorilla’s cared for by an order of blind vegan monks.

No, really.

The milk must be Jonesy’s and the muscovado sugar served in teeny rusted baby food cans that hail from the 60’s. Yay, retro!

Of course the real aficionados huddle around counters where pour over coffee is prepared. They will peer through their non-prescription horn rimmed glasses as each precious drop filters through with glacial speed, eventually delivering an unrivalled caffeinated experience that is, I’m assured, simply impossible to achieve with a French press. Pppffttt!

I order a soy cappuccino that is ready at the machine ten minutes before the tiny, tattooed waitress stops discussing a Jens Lekman song to deliver it to me. Tepid soymilk tastes like wet cardboard so I drink the water served in a jam jar, clanging my front teeth on the ridges of the screw top in the process and contemplate ordering herbal tea instead.

It is impossible not to feel ripped off by ordering peppermint tea at an inner city café. Even if the tea comes in one of those gossamer fine, chiffon bags, it’s still, after all, a pot of water and a tea bag…for $4.50. Coffee just seems to represent better value by satisfying more of your senses – the smell, the taste and look of a great coffee helps you ignore the fact you could be paying for your gym membership if you just stuck with water.

The only way I am going to procure a coffee of reasonable temperature is to order a take away. I hover by the machine flicking through a copy of WETHEURBAN magazine waiting for my cappuccino and nodding along to the Lumineers.

I know nothing.

Heading back to the car I realise that drinking through plastic is nearly as bad as tepid soymilk.

I am forced to go home and find the gin.

Posted in humor | Tagged Beverage, Coffee, food, French press, humor, Jens Lekman, Lumineers, Shopping, Taser, Werribee Plaza | 9 Comments

Bio mum

Posted on May 10, 2013 by Learning the hard way

Let’s be quite clear about this – the gene pool probably needs a good dose of chlorine. That’s mine, not yours – I’m sure yours is a mine of inherited intellect and unalloyed attractiveness.

This introspection generally arises around the time of your Hallmark commercially celebrated days, which, in this case, happens to be Mother’s Day. And so once more I ponder the great mystery and accident of birthright.

Interestingly – to probably no-one but me – a visit to a psychic last year revealed the somewhat startling news that my ‘old soul’ had been in such a hurry to get going again in corporeal form, that it rushed headlong into the first occupied uterus it could find. Apparently I was completely off-piste and should have aimed for someone infinitely more, oh I don’t know, maternal? This theory speaks volumes about my struggles with patience along with decades of ill-judged relationships.

My earliest memories of bio-mum consist of watching her sit at a Queen Anne dressing table carefully penciling a beauty spot just above the corner of her top lip (kissable) and next to her eye (provocative). The ozone layer was still intact, despite industrial quantities of Taft Superhold anchoring the neighborhood bee-hives, and no-one questioned the cosmetic application of a couple of melanocytic nevus. I guess now she’d have just gone for some discreet facial piercings.

Early photos reveal a well-kept child. Immaculately turned out with long, brushed and shiny hair. I looked like a doll. There are very few photos taken of the two of us. One I salvaged shows a young woman with a vague disconnected look; she holds my infant body away from herself, she is uncomfortable.

The summer I was six she disappeared. She had run off with the next door neighbor, a charismatic German who left behind a wife and son.

Photos from beyond this period reveal a seriously unkempt child. My father, clearly unable to cope, left me and my younger brother to the incompetent ministrations of an elderly grandfather and chain-smoking grandmother, prone to violent grand mal epileptic seizures. My hair was wild and knotted; I looked like a Troll doll.

I hated Mother’s day when I was at school. It was, I grant you, a particularly insensitive era where divorced families were definitely not the norm and the effect on children was largely ignored. The annual Mother’s day stall was particularly torturous. Each class would file into a room manned by zealous parent committee volunteers. The children, clutching a coin purse of loose change, would mill about choosing ugly wall plaques with dried flowers, decoupage soaps and tie-dyed scarves.

How thrilled will mummy be when she unwraps this knitted dolly toilet roll cover?

Inevitably my teacher would catch me hovering uncertainly at the door, remember aloud that I didn’t have a mother and send me back to wait at my desk until the class returned. If only my sarcasm gland had been at maximum operating capacity back then.

Eventually my father remarried and the tantalizing prospect of a nurturing mother figure dangled before me. Alas, like all the very best fairy tales, what we had here was another stepmother cliché. While ‘evil’ seems a bit cruel – actually, come to think of it, cruel is better – she was grade A Grimm material.

Moving on.

Some 40 years on I became reacquainted with bio-mum through the dogged investigatory work of the mad Serbian, who was anxious to prove a point about some psychological issues he attributed to my lack of mothering. He was no psychologist.

Despite some reservations I was at a point in my life where questions of familial medical history were being asked and I was curious to learn how the ravages of time had treated her. I was extremely interested in the genetic deck of cards, which ones had I been dealt and who did I credit?

Bio Mum looks good for her age. She has great skin and bright, sparkling blue eyes. She was genuinely aggrieved when a young man at the local supermarket suggested she enlist the help of a grandchild to carry her shopping – The cheek! He thinks I’m a grandmother! She is a grandmother – hell, I could be a grandmother – I’m guessing she traded on a long held faith in her youthful appeal for longer than it was viable.

I don’t look like her really. My skin is pretty good and I have blue eyes, but unlike hers, mine are myopic in the extreme – I’ve worn glasses pretty much my entire life while Bio mum only succumbed to reading glasses a year ago.

I have invested several years now in trying to make some sense of our estrangement. She doesn’t comprehend my struggle. She has lived with justification and denial for so long that it’s easier to perpetuate the myth of our relationship than to accept the reality. I can only unpack the truth so far before she changes her story, so the biographical goal posts are always shifting.

Bio mum had, complicit with der stiefvater , chosen to omit from her personal history the previous marriage and children. This was awkward when I resurfaced and she was forced to recount the sorry tale to a wide coterie of friends. Her version was florid, tragic and ultimately redemptive – the crowds went wild. She was bombarded with congratulatory gift cards, flowers and balloons – It’s a Girl! It’s a Boy! It’s a fairy tale ending!

IT’S REALLY MESSED UP!

I met a few of her friends, but they make me uncomfortable – they talk about a woman I don’t know.

Bio mum is rampantly right wing, homophobic and racist. She’s a climate denier and has no issue with recreational hunting. Our views it seems on most things are diametrically opposed.

I should take solace in the good stuff, the mutual love of reading, theatre, classical music and travel. We both cope by believing life is a series of amusing anecdotes, even when finding the funny bit proves tough.

These days we see each other infrequently, always at her home and often in the company of my youngest daughter and her sister, my aunt. It is clear we both require some form of conversational shield, something to prevent the superficial from attaining some depth.

I want to feel about her the way my daughters feel about me but I can’t. There’s no contrition, no acceptance or understanding of the train wreck she left behind. She tells herself it all ended happily ever after for us.

But it didn’t.

Posted in Family, Not so funny | Tagged divorce, Fairy tale, Grandparent, Grimm, Hallmark, Holidays, humor, Mother, Mothers Day, psychic, Shopping | 16 Comments