Holiday

Posted on July 26, 2012 by Learning the hard way

I confess to a level of apprehension approaching our impending holiday. Am I scared to fly? Not at all. Do I relish new experiences? Utterly. So what, I hear you ask, is the basis for my concern?

My beloved and I have a fraught holiday track record having survived holiday mishaps that would have broken a lesser bond.

The first one was about five months after we met. Lulled into a false confidence by a relatively unscathed long weekend to Halls Gap, we had decided to pool resources and book a romantic island getaway. Settling on Brampton Island due to its less-than-excited attitude to small children, we duly planned and packed. Turning my phone on when we landed in Sydney I discovered half a dozen frantic messages from my travel agent to return her call. This can’t be good, we thought.

“So, there’s this cyclone…”   

Brampton and every other adult only resort were now off limits. However, we could make it to Dunk.

“Sure, why not. We’re packed and primed.”

Dunk Island is a family resort. In a bid to further increase their market share they had advertised free accommodation for every child under five. We arrived at a tropical crèche.

I don’t dislike children. My own are quite nice and I was one once, but this was the ROMANTIC holiday. We arrived for dinner the first night and were ushered to a table next to the Walton’s. How do you keep track of that many kids? Surrounding tables were more nuclear but it felt like we were at a giant summer camp.

A particularly strong antibiotic the week before combined with a monsoonal moistness ensured I woke the next day to the most raging case of thrush I had ever had. Did I mention this was the ROMANTIC holiday? Scouring the gift shop for a handy tube of canestan proved surprisingly fruitless. A pharmacist was required and the closest one was at Mission beach which, in the absence of a private chopper, was only accessible by an infrequent ferry.

There was undeniable tension at this juncture. We both harboured private concerns about the longevity of our fledging relationship. What could help? Oh, I know, let’s go tandem kayaking!

We set off to the beach club for a brief kayaking lesson that I half listened to and my beloved ignored because he is a man and he can kayak, dammit. Paddling out we struggled to coordinate strokes for some time which meant a fair bit of circle work, but eventually with the help of an imaginary Viking at the stern, I got it. Things were going quite well and we were enjoying the views as we traversed the islands shallow perimeter. Straying a bit further out proved adventurous, but increasingly choppy water panicked me and striking out with my paddle I managed to clock my future spouse in the side of the head sending his brand new holiday sunglasses flying into the water.

I like to think a very hip and retina protected dugong benefited from our unintentional largesse.  

When in doubt drink. My sweetheart called to me from the stairs of the bar area but I was unable to hear what he was saying over the caterwauling of infants. I left our banana lounges and tripped lightly across the pool area in what I imagined to be a carefree and insouciant manner. I leapt gazelle like across a large patch of water slick with sunblock and goodness knows what else, but fell short and skidded across the poolside pebblemix  on one knee like an Olympic ice-skater’s big finish.

“What are you doing?” he enquires having missed the entire performance whilst tracking the progress of a flock of ibis.

“Bleeding.”

The bulk of our holiday photos show us in varying stages of deterioration. Bandaged, bruised and burnt. I like to blame cyclone Hamish, but I now believe there were larger forces at play.

Two years later we had another go. We had friends in Singapore so figured we could combine a visit to them with a resort style holiday somewhere in Malaysia.  I spent hours on the internet looking up properties and eventually settled on the Langkawi Lagoon resort – a four star establishment with lovely photos. I booked a studio room at the sea village in the part of the resort that was built on stilts over the water.  

We checked in with a remarkably detached concierge who, while not exactly rude, was distinctly unwelcoming.  Milling about the lobby were several Muslim family groups. Makes sense we thought, it is after all, a Muslim country. We arrived in the middle of a torrential downpour so the various pool areas were deserted. Directed to a golf buggy we were driven to the sea village which was a lot shabbier than the on line photos suggested. Our room was appalling. Broken shower screen, filthy bathroom and the world’s most uncomfortable bed. Most objectionable of all however was THE EMPTY MINI BAR.

Determined to make the most of things we changed into swimming attire and headed for the pool bar which was a couple of wonky semi submerged stools at a deserted wade up area. Perhaps we will just read then…It took very little time for us to realise that the Langkawi Lagoon resort was a fully fledged Muslim oasis. Burkhas to the left, moustache’s to the right; we appeared to be the only Westerners in the entire place.

Another clue was the honking great poolside sign directing the women to swim in a burkhini. This is akin to swimming in your dressing gown and I had panicked flashbacks to going for my primary swimming certificate in grade 5 where you were required to dog paddle fully clothed in preparation for falling off a cruise ship. 

The actual beach area was a rocky spit with random patches of gritty sand. At the end of it was the beach bar. We thought a sunset drink might soothe the soul. The drinks list consisted of Tiger beer and a series of mocktails. I spied an ancient bottle of gin on a shelf at the back and requested a gin and tonic. Judging by the state of the label it had last been opened in 1958.

So there we were nursing our respective beverages as a procession of feral cats wove in and out of our legs stopping only to frequently defecate beside us.

The sunset was quite nice.

The next day we woke very early to the sounds of a construction site beside us and a note under the door advising that our room was to be fumigated for bugs today – sorry for the inconvenience.

We decided that being away from the resort as much as possible was our wisest course of action so we taxied into the main drag and hired a motor bike. The trickiest part of this exercise was finding a helmet to fit my pin head. Eventually I sported a loose helmet with a dodgy chin strap that was about as effective as a hollowed out pumpkin.  I was excited about getting out onto the roads and checking out the local colour – and monkeys. We cruised around and ended up at a resort all the way round the other end of the island. It was so beautiful I wanted to cry. Returning to our derelict sea village room that was now covered in fine white powder was torturous in the extreme. My holiday joie de vivre had all but evaporated.

The last straw was being ignored at breakfast for the second morning in a row by the coffee pouring staff even as they offered it to my partner. I exploded and demanded we find another place to stay immediately…if not sooner.

A quick bit of on-line research directed us to a place at the opposite end of the island. Having been fooled by photos before however, I was sceptical as I clambered onto the back of the bike sporting my bobble head helmet and trying to muster some positivity.

Weaving our way down the sweeping jungle driveway to the Andaman resort we cruised into the circular reception area where uniformed staff directed us to the lobby. Unlike the Langkawi Lagoon which smelt of stale food and cat shit, the fragrance of spice and tropical flowers filled the air in this oasis of serenity. My slightly manic booking enquiry and look of wild eyed desperation was fortunately overlooked as Western holiday enthusiasm and a room was found for the remainder of our trip.

The drive back seemed to take forever so anxious were we to begin our proper and deserved holiday. The girl manning reception at the Lagoon resort was as unmoved by our departure as she had been by our arrival despite the fact we had prepaid.

Later that afternoon when we had revelled in the luxury of our room and admired the accompanying ocean view, we sat in the beautiful open lounge area clutching our choice of alcoholic beverages, crunching on our bar snacks and holding hands; each of us slightly emotional with gratitude.

With these memories still fresh my need to thwart the holiday Gods and avoid a National Lampoons European vacation has insured a vaguely military approach to planning, but given its Italy… how militarily precise can it possibly be?

And now, only days before our departure to sunnier climes, my beloved is admitted to the emergency department at Royal Melbourne Hospital with kidney stones. The pain of which I was assured by each and every medical staff member, surpasses even childbirth. After enough morphine, endone and anything ending in ‘forte’, to stun an elephant his discomfort was eventually assuaged and the next day he was released under the impression the offending stones were close to passing.

Three days out and an Olympic pool sized quantity of water consumed, we are still waiting. So now our preparations also include insuring no stones remain unturned….

The holiday gods are smirking in the wings; just how benign they will be this time remains to be seen.

Posted in humor, relationships, Travel | Tagged , , , | 6 Comments

Cranbourne

Posted on July 13, 2012 by Learning the hard way

I’d always thought it was pronounced Cranbourne as in Melbourne – but it’s not; it’s Cranbin or Cranny if you’re a local.

I headed out to Melbourne’s outer south east in my capacity as an independent sales consultant with a company that designs and sells lingerie. It was direct selling…ok, it was party plan.

I’d done this many times for many women in many different suburbs; however nothing prepared me for my Sunday in Cranbourne.

The day was a scorcher. One of those west wind dusty days that make you feel gritty as soon as you walk out the front door. I drove for an hour and pulled up out the front of squat 70’s built house in dark brown brick. Walking up the driveway dragging my suitcase and bags, I passed the open garage where the Gold Coast 600 was blaring out over the sound of an outboard motor. A midsized boat called Wiplash was being worked on by some unseen smoker.

I knocked on the amber coloured glass panel at the front door and eventually the flywire was flung open by a blowsy young woman. Clouds of cigarette smoke billowed out behind her. Tennille was my hostess for the day. While we had never met before, she had been blithely ordering bras sight unseen for a good year or so. It was probably time she was actually fitted.

The wheels on my case got caught in the matted shag pile as I followed her along a narrow hallway. We passed several doorways until she stopped at a bathroom with an enormous corner spa bath. While I agreed that the mirror therein was undoubtedly good sized, and the dim lighting flattering indeed, my concern about arranging my samples in a spa bath coated in ash and pubic hair was grudgingly acknowledged by Tennille and we found a bedroom.

The spare room. A room that contained a double bed, a cot, a dressing table that ran the length of one wall, several bulk bags of nappies and mountains of folded washing which gave me approximately 1.5 square meters of space to work in. This in itself would not have presented quite such a challenge had the average guest not been a size 20.

After doing my best to squeeze my wares in between the folded Dora the Explorer bed sheets and polar fleece hoodies I was ready to meet today’s audience. I took my small display bag into the sunken lounge. A number of flat faced women sat on a collection of overstuffed leather lounges and recliners watching an enormous plasma screen at full volume. I stood awkwardly in the middle of the room waiting for a break in The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills to introduce myself. Tennille was busy emptying packets of chips into plastic bowls.  

Older sister, Janell (no ‘e’) was there with her two daughters Madison and Tenika, whose names were lovingly tattooed on the back of her neck. ‘Mum’ and ‘Gran’ who had evidently forgone Christian names, completed the immediate family. Cousins Taylah, Brianna and Sherrin arrived with Aunty Bev and Bev’s friend Gwenda.

Janell was busy juggling a cruiser and swatting 18 month Tenika out of her hand bag. “Gerrraway from mummy’s fags”.   

Madison, high on jelly babies and cola, bounced around the room in her barbie runners shrieking “what’s in the bag?” to me every time she flashed by.

I managed to catch Tennille’s eye before she dived into the next bag of chips.

“We’re going to the good room”, she bellowed.

Clearly ahead of the game was Tenille’s BFF, Bilynda who was already waiting for us ensconced in yet another large leather recliner picking through a bowl of Cadbury favourites.

With nothing but a mismatched assortment of bar stools left to sit on, I awkwardly hoisted myself upon one and swivelled around to face them all. My presentation, usually a humorous and interactive affair, was met with stony silence.

“Jason would effin’ laugh his arse off if I went home wearing one of them ones,” snorted Janell as I extolled the virtues of the everyday collection; a range of basic tee shirt bras in black, white or honey. 

Ignoring her I went on to advise that the range catered for women from an A to a G cup which meant I could fit most women. There was some mutinous muttering and stifled snickers as I held up various lacy confections with matching slips. Somewhat daunted by Tennille’s frequent exhortations for her mum to fetch fresh bags of chips and tumblers of cola, I became as shrill as my audience. I finished up defensively declaring that I had driven for over an hour on a Sunday in 38 degrees and it was my mission to fit each and every one of them in the best bra they had ever worn.

Scooping up armfuls of samples and cramming them back into the bag; I swept out of the room and waited for my first fitting. Bilynda squeezed into the room and stood before me looking defeated. “You won’t have one that fits,” she said.

Snatching up my tape measure I brightly assured her that even if I didn’t have her exact size we could certainly work with some alternatives and possibly an extender…or two. When I actually focussed on the task before me, it was quite evident that nothing but a couple of tarps and some octopus straps would work here. The poor girl was a double J cup. I’m not entirely convinced there is such a size, but she was certainly off the grid. It was official – Bilynda was my Waterloo.

Next up was ‘mum’. She stood in the doorway offering up a scrap of greyish fabric across both hands like a dead rat. “What can you do about this? The bloody underwire snapped! Can you replace it?”

Given its indeterminate colour and generally distressed appearance I guessed this was not a new purchase. “It sits on me gut when I bend over”

Despite establishing that this was the second sports bra to experience underwire breakage in ten years and that there was every possibility she needed a bigger size to counter the encroaching ‘gut’ issue, ‘mum’ was reluctant to take a gamble on another “unreliable” garment. Mumbling something along the lines of ‘fuckin’ customer service, my arse’, she angrily shuffled back to the family.

My commission cheque was looking fairly lean.

Several interchangeable cousins came in next. They all looked and sounded the same. They each had tattoos. It was very cramped in the tiny airless room and the rising temperature made things particularly pungent. All the girls wanted ‘something sexy’. Lord knows I tried. With a size range spanning 38EE to 44F their options weren’t vast. Eventually we found something they all liked that did they job. Finally, the day didn’t seem quite so financially disastrous.

Janell slouched in next toting Tenika on one hip. Dumping the child on the bed in the middle of my samples she ferreted around the pile of camisoles and briefs as if I wasn’t there.

“So, Janell, do you know what size you are and what you’re looking for today?” I interrupted.

I watched Tenika’s dirty little feet scrunching around the display of colourful fashion bras, a lolly snake hanging from her mouth.

“Look,” Janell turned and levelled me a look of barely disguised contempt, “I hate your fuckin’ product, ok? I’m only here for me sister. I’m here for Tenille.”

Miraculously, given her clear antipathy for me and my product, I was able to fit her and admire the triptych of tattoos across her back at the same time. I’d never seen a series of themed tatts before. She was grudgingly appeased by my wonderment. Settling on a violently floral bra and g-string set and a purple lace push up bra, she retrieved Tenika from the tangled mass of bras and shot out of the room.

Gran was the last guest to wander in. A gentle woman with tired eyes, she clutched at her deflated breasts and said she probably needed a good bra. Madison charged in and flung herself on the bed. I’d just straightened up after Tenika’s assault. Gran batted the child away with surprising vigour and she flew out the door yelling “Gran’s an ol’ bitch” over and over.

“Little bugger,” chuckled Gran affectionately.

After complimenting Gran on the durability of her own vintage 70’s tattoo, and fitting her for a bra, she bought three and wandered back out again.  

Finally it was Tennille’s turn. She asked if I could check the fit of the last bra she had ordered. There it was, positively grafted onto her body. The miracle ¾ contour bra in belladonna pink and I had never seen anything filthier.

“Ah, did you hear me say how important it is for the longevity of your bras that you wash them every second day?”

“Yeah. I do. Usually.”

At this point I will confess to a deep and abiding need to escape.

No one, save Gran, looked away from the plasma as I waved goodbye. Throwing my hastily repacked bags in  the boot, I jumped in the car and reached for the dettol soap less wash lathering my hands and arms as though I was about to perform brain surgery.

After a long shower and several glasses of wine I was able to assess the day objectively. The experience had provided a useful template for bookings to avoid in the future; while my commission cheque handily covered petrol and the laundry powder required to wash the smell of cigarette smoke and crinkle cut BBQ chips from my entire kit.

….and it was something to talk about.

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Relationships

Posted on June 22, 2012 by Learning the hard way

Far be it for me to call myself an authority on happy relationships, but here’s the thing: this is a brief saunter through life, and I think that remaining alongside someone who makes you feel bad about yourself, or who doesn’t bring out the best in you, is just stupid.

This is my counsel to a daughter who, for reasons of security, social credibility and, if she is completely honest, sporadic financial support, remains locked in a long term relationship that has clearly run its course.

I have four relationship models from my own life to draw on.

The first, my biological mother, adopted the Cut and Run approach to marriage; leaving behind a six-year-old, a three-year-old and a lot of confusion. She ended up in a lifetime relationship that ensured her happiness—at the cost of her children.

The second is my step-mother who went with an Endure At All Costs approach which, as it turns out, was also at the cost of her children. I can safely say there were more losers than winners here.

An early marriage of my own produced my two daughters and a lot of self doubt. In, what initially looked like a chapter of history repeating itself, there ensued a decade of soap operatic events: an affair, a stint at University, separation, dating, reconciliation and several career changes. Sadly, they all collided with the sanctity of marriage, and our partnership came to its natural conclusion.

Forward to the three-year relationship that would change me forever and slice up my heart like sushi; thin and incremental.  This was the great passion that you read about. All consuming, self-sacrificing, torturous, Heathcliffe-ian. I clung on long after it was apparent he was incapable of returning my love, while my daughters stood on the sidelines and watched me behave recklessly. They watched him chip away at my self-esteem, constantly inflicting tiny, demoralising divots. They watched him leave and return and promise, over and over again.

One day it was really over. I had survived a triple hold down in the biggest surf beach on earth. I was shaken, bruised and thinner, but it was over and my children were still talking to me.

Forward again to 2012. I am married again, this time to a man who is my greatest fan. My lesson, and what I want my daughters to understand, is that the best you can be often reveals itself after the worst you’ve endured.

There is always a better way if you are willing to find it.

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Facebook Rant

Posted on June 13, 2012 by Learning the hard way

Ok, I despise myself for being on it. Facebook in your forties is torturous in the extreme.

Apparently, it’s not used to find out “what’s doin’?”; rather it’s used to announce that you recently finished the latest Jodie Piccoult novel and it was really quite good and you also had dinner with your hubby at a cute little Italian place in Knox, which was lovely. Dare I say it? OMG.

For the sake of my marriage and the forbearance of my prolifically-FB-utilising offspring, I will vent now and then forever hold my peace. ..Maybe.  Probably not.

Ahem…I don’t want to see 45-second blurry videos of your small child being inarticulate or behaving just like any other small child. I don’t. I would, however, like to see your child explain Euclidean quantum gravity or say something genuinely amusing such as Good Friday is the day Jesus was ‘chrismasfied’. That was funny.

I don’t want to know that you aren’t happy with a 25km bike ride as measured on your Runkeeper app—ever. I realise this probably annoys me more than it should because I’m not sharing the endorphin rush, and the only thing I could comparably post is that I enjoyed an amble around Albert park lake, but your regular personal fitness updates are just not interesting.

Your dog. I get that you love your dog. I loved my dog too. Happily for all of us, we get to witness the daily metamorphosis of your puppy to full grown…oh hang on, we are still in the puppy phase, still a puppy, a bit bigger, looks almost full grown…wait…just another 90 days or so until he’s a year old…ENOUGH ALREADY!

Selfies. That’s what they’re called. Your face filling the screen with some unrelated descriptor such as Summer in St Kilda or the ever reliable Random shot. Spare us and just sit in front of the mirror for a couple of hours. Please.

Of course Selfies are slightly less tedious than the endless albums of vaguely-themed images posted by young women wearing small clothes. These images have a variety of special effects to enhance their appeal and the women all feature in a series of slightly varying stylised poses. Now, five or so snaps of your halcyon days posted occasionally will potentially serve an archival purpose; however, 105 almost identical shots requiring tagging and individual commentary is just a monumental waste of time. Volunteer at a homeless shelter, learn Spanish, get a dog… (see paragraph four).

Look, I realise I’m all piss and vinegar here, but honestly, are we in need of such constant validation that we believe status updates about needing coffee, getting hair extensions or sitting by your pool are worth sharing? I’m not sure if the world’s less exciting folk understand that simply posting banal personal observations still makes them…well, dull. Fortunately, amongst the terminally insipid FB Friends, there a few gems—fabulously interesting people. People who are doing things we all want to read about and see pictures of. People who perform or direct or volunteer overseas; people who read widely and share worthy information; people who discover new music and feel compelled to educate the FB brigade. To those people (and you know who you are), I say thank you. To the rest of you, I say lift your game!

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The Search for good vibrations.

Posted on June 13, 2012 by Learning the hard way

Once upon a time there was a divorced woman who was bit lonely…this was her story

 

Mr Osaki had officially given up the ghost. His little dragon’s-head stimulator, which originally had all the vibratory powers of a jack-hammer, was a mere reminding purr.  His main component had assumed a limp appearance and just between us, his batteries would fly out at the most inopportune moment. I had to up-date.

Mr Osaki (and after four years you’d think I’d have dropped the title) was purchased after a night of rejection and way too many vodka slammers. I coerced an unsuspecting friend into accompanying me to a sex shop, assuring her that there were perfectly valid anthropological reasons for going. We expected a dimly lit den of iniquity, but discovered instead, a bright, if tasteless, magazine lined room. The walls were hung with sundry items of lingerie and associated paraphernalia while several of those surprised looking, blow-up dolls dangled in various stages of deflation above our heads.

I had come here for a reason. It was time to gird my loins. Taking a breath and assuming the practical consumer approach, I ordered the shop assistant to present his vibratory wares to me in order of quality and durability.  Due to a latex allergy, my choices were limited. Of the dozen or so whirring about the counter, three were composed entirely of silicon: a short, gnarly black one, a thin, slightly angular white one, and Mr Osaki- lolly pink and sure to intimidate any guy stupid enough to suggest a comparison.

So that was our history.

Around the time of Mr Osaki’s demise I was working for a small film production company that had the laudable job of editing some fairly tame pornography for Sexpo, Melbourne’s annual health and erotic lifestyle exhibition. I was warned not to enter the editing suite, which of course ensured that I offered cups of coffee as soon as humanly possible. Five men sat around TV screens examining each frame as dispassionately as if it had been a documentary on the life cycle of the newt.

My coffee must have been fabulous because I scored two free tickets to ‘Ladies Day’ and the chance to replace my erstwhile little friend.

I wasn’t sure if ‘Ladies Day’ would involve wearing a hat or not, but I figured there might be champagne. Accompanied by an enthusiastic girlfriend, we set off for the Melbourne Exhibition Centre. On entering we were presented not with champagne, but a small box which featured the picture of an ecstatic looking Nordic blonde holding a small cylinder of black plastic to what appeared to be her trapezius muscle – evidently a potent erogenous zone.

Wandering about from stall to stall we tried to appear nonchalant and were succeeding admirably until confronted by the waxing display. Ok, so I’ve done the legs and the bikini line and I’ve even gone the XXX; but there are just some places that surely were not intended to be smeared with hot wax and duly depilated. At least, so I thought until we hit the lingerie stalls, where it became screamingly obvious why this level of hair removal was required.

The exhibition had taken on a festival air, complete with a giant ‘member’ lurching through the crowd. I wondered what other functions could possibly be enhanced by an enormous penis costume  – a Brith maybe?

Reluctant to brush with Godzilla’s appendage, we hurried by to the stage area where a karaoke male strip show was beginning. Number one looked very comfortable. There had clearly been some “Risky Business” dancing-about-the-house-in-underwear going on here. Number two looked most uncomfortable. This was largely due to an unsurprising inability to divest his pants from over his shoes. We left him sitting on the floor with his trousers bunched around his knees, frantically tugging at his shoelaces. Here’s a word for you number two –Velcro.

Staff from a bondage-wear shop entertained next, with a spirited medley from “The Rocky Horror Show”. What a treat that was. A couple of leather clad dominatrix led rubber encased men, and studded women about on leashes, stopping for an occasional flogging. The audience, rowdy from the amateur strippers, grew progressively quieter. The men displayed interest and the women looked amused. That was until they noted the expressions on the faces of the men – then they looked dismayed. We listened to gritted teeth conversations between couples as they headed back to the lingerie stalls – “You have got to be joking! Do you really think I’m going to get into THAT?”

I was getting caught up in the spirit of things by now and felt ready to purchase something. But exactly what? The range of equipment was immense and unlike shopping for a dust-buster, involved potentially embarrassing questions. I gravitated towards a pleasant looking woman extolling the virtues of ‘The Butterfly’ to a couple of Japanese girls. Her dulcet tones convinced me that the jelly-bean coloured insects on her counter would obviate my need to find a bloke. SOLD!

Feigning exhaustion I bade my companion adieu and broke the land speed record to get home and trial my new toy. Ripping the box apart I looked at my purchase with much the same expression that I had once regarded the Rubik Cube. Checking the wrapping for instructions went no way to relieving my bewilderment, another sublimely happy looking Dane just smiled at me from the front of the box giving me no clue as to how she achieved this apparent bliss.

I gave up and switched on the black plastic muscle massager. It had barely enough power to stir a martini. I felt ripped off and peeved that my quest for self-sufficiency was not ending with my toys – just another episode of ‘Sex and the City’ and a cup of tea.

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Fashion?

Posted on June 13, 2012 by Learning the hard way

My 22 year old has just been telling me how eleven year old girls are posting elaborately staged, glamour photos of themselves on Instagram and how confusing these images must be for boys of the same age. We both bemoaned the early onset of puberty and the hypersexualisation of images presented to children.

She has decided that in the event she has children, she will have to bring them up in total media isolation – “On a farm, mum”

I found something I wrote when my daughter was eleven and we both realise that things have been heading this way for quite some time…

*        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *

“Buffy wouldn’t wear this,” declares the eleven year old solemnly. We scan the wall of posters devoted to the very blonde, white, skinny and breast-enhanced, for an outfit idea that conforms to strict pre-pubescent standards.

“No, I just can’t go – I’ve got nothing to wear.” Reasoning that two hours of pass-the-parcel, pizza and birthday cake did not warrant this level of sartorial analysis, proved fruitless. I resolved to counteract what I viewed as an obsession with all things Britney/Christina/Mandy, before my daughter’s perceptions of feminine beauty and worth became as seriously skewed as my own.

We settled in to watch the Aussie soaps, notable for gentle stories about real people. Had I perhaps switched on to SBS by mistake? Apparently Erinsborough, like some Nordic outpost, is home to an inordinately high population of flaxen tressed waifs with concave bellies and clear skin. This was not aiding my cause. Tuning in to “Sale of the Century” offered three stodgy male contestants and a vacuously smiling Katrina Brown – flawlessly blonde, thin and dewy.

“Who did you want to look like when you were young, mum?” I scanned the memory bank for recalled back issues of that undisputed teen bible, ‘Dolly’ magazine. Encyclopaedic in its explanation of hormones and hair removal, ‘Dolly’ provided information on pulse points and the correct application of metallic blue eye shadow. It showcased our cultural icons and fuelled the ongoing debate: Anna or Freda?

Was Abba responsible for the advertising plethora of cavorting alpine nymphs, who sold everything from deodorant to dessert whip? While every Craig, Wayne and Darren ogled television’s smorgasbord of platinum babes, Leanne, Debbie and Sharon were wondering whether the direct application of Big Banana M would culminate in whopping boobs. Similarly, boys of this era must have believed that the
things that went better with Coca-Cola, were impossibly tanned and clad in microscopic macramé (which, for the record, was not such a good look wet).

Flicking through my offspring’s CD collection of homogenised female warbler’s, it is apparent that their generic look is steeped in history. As film clip after film clip reveals golden hair and bare midriffs, the recollection of Countdown springs to mind. Essentially identical, from the wind-machine to lashings of lip-gloss, it should perhaps be noted that all these music clips of the 70’s, featured boys. Leif Garret, Shaun Cassidy, Andy Gibb and Roger Vodouris, all clad, to coin the Dire Straits song, in their satin baggies and platform shoes, were exactly what we wanted to look like – but with breasts.

From the back, the gender of intertwined couples, was impossible to distinguish.

back to today…

Thank heavens for the  propensity of young males today towards low slung jeans and a fair whack of underwear on show. The hipster beard and beatnik glasses also serve to nicely distinguish the sexes, just as they did in the 1970’s (although I wish they’d don a sock…what’s with the blue/white ankles in the middle of winter?)

The child is musing on the future of fashion – which, when you have lived through nearly five decades, you realise is entirely recyled and occasionally reinvigorated by the discovery of a super fabric from time to time.

Perhaps we are on a path toward unisex space suits that reveal no hint of gender at all. I hope I don’t live to see that.

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Family Tree

Posted on June 13, 2012 by Learning the hard way

The ubiquitous family tree project has been sent home from primary school. Beyond the who’s who among the figurative branches, is the directive to provide interesting facts or lessons learnt from our forebears.

Unfortunately, I explain to my daughter, the, ‘older but wiser’ maxim has been misunderstood by these ancestors of ours. If there was a “How not to…” range of books on family dynamics, we’d have the market sewn up.  A legacy of ineptitude, ill judgement and general bad luck has been variously recorded or retold….

I blame my great-great-great grandmother, Sarah Butts, who got the ball rolling back in 1781 when she married Obadiah Ikin – a, none too bright, Shropshire soldier. I’m blaming her, because women should know better.

Obadiah enlisted in the 11th Light Dragoon Guards in 1785 and was discharged seven months later when it was discovered that he couldn’t actually ride a horse. Persuaded to enlist in the specially formed New South Wales Corps in 1789, he, Sarah and their seven children, boarded the Second Fleet convict transport Surprize, and sailed uncomfortably toward a new life.

So far, so good. The next recorded evidence of these familial forerunners to failure, was the court transcript of a trial involving a keg of rum stolen from outside Corporal Ikin’s hut. This not only establishes Obadiah as a bit of a squealer (the suspect was a fellow officer), but also cements the Ikin family’s enduring passion for alcohol. I note that my daughter is nodding a little too emphatically here.

Fast forward to 1794 and Obadiah has been granted acres of land at Lane Cove, Pyrmont and Bankstown. Sarah, the kids, and some four generations to come, should have been set up quite nicely. But what does Obadiah want with prime real estate when there is rum to be bought?

Sarah, realising that she had not married the sharpest tool in the shed, left Obadiah and the children, to hook up with a miller – proving that you can live by bread alone.

Great grandmother Rosina Zanoni, holidaying in Queenscliff in 1886, exceeded the boundaries of maidenly propriety with a fisherman called James, and gave birth to my grandfather some nine months later. This effectively ended a promising operatic career, to the disappointment of family and friends back in Genoa.

Grandmother Emily let us all down by quietly dying when my father was twelve. The mother of sons, she is pictured smiling sardonically at the centre of grainy family photographs. Her legacy is the enduring fear of abandonment that resonates inherently within each of us.

This fear is again realised in 1969 when my mother does a runner with the German bloke next-door. Apparently it was offensichtlich to everyone but my father, what had been going on under his nose.

Is it fate or destiny, when my husband and I separate exactly thirty years later? I advise my daughter that when you blame genes you’re really just blaming yourself. She tells me that she will never marry or have children.

While Sarah Butts would probably endorse this view, I still hope she changes her mind.

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