17 Nov 2013
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Somebody left their umbrella outside.
Result – awesome picture |
I wish I was the kind of writer that could describe accurately how much I love storms – thunder, lightning and rain.
When the first thunder signs scrape across the sky and groan in anticipation, it is not unknown for me to clap my hands, grin like a lunatic and even, when the signs are indicative of Mother Nature being particularly cantankerous, for me to engage in a bit of on the spot jigging.
I love the grumble and scrape of the thunder across the sky, the flash of lightning so bright you do the rapid blink and when the storm moves directly overhead and the thunder makes your body shake with an instinctive thrill.
I love standing in rainstorms with my arms spread and my face upturned to the sky.
I love the smell of fresh rain, the pittering sound of a dripping branch and the gurgle of drains swirling and sucking the water back out yonder start all over again.
I love the luminescence of leaves on suburban trees washed free of city grit and the swish of tyres on shiny black streets.
I love the squelch of bare feet or gumboots in puddles and the slightly acrid smell of spring flowers falling under thick drops of cold fat rain.
I love the drumming of heavy rain on skylights and the solid warmth of small bodies cuddled to yours under blankets on the couch as the rain drips down the windows and ABC2 diverts their attention from their desire to go jump on the trampoline.
Happiness and rainy sundays – I salute you.
13 Nov 2013
Last month I came across the following blog post – Golly Blog – by a guy called Lemn Sissay. Now before I even start – let me just state I don’t have an answer to several hundred years of horrid. None.
In brief, and without the nuances, this fellow was offended by the sale of gollywogs in a shop in Scotland and what he perceived as a perpetuation of racism by the woman that owned the shop. She sold them, therefore she was racist. I have read the blog, the comments, the spin offs, some of the media pertaining to the story and I say that the truth is somewhere in the middle.
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| The ‘offending’ photo (source) |
You see, if you do not live a life blighted by bigotry, you don’t necessarily see it. It’s not that you are selfish, it’s not that you are horrid or racist or mean. If you hear people talk about the effects of bigotry on their lives, it can be hard to imagine it, because it is not your reality. And most of us are busy just getting on with the business of living. We don’t spend loads of time wondering why we aren’t somebody else, and we VERY rarely wonder why we aren’t somebody else with more problems.
I mean we say things like “but I don’t see why the gays need to get married” when you yourself would be mortified if your heterosexual children had babies without being married because you think that true commitment means marriage.
We say things like “but everybody knows that the Aboriginals were here first, why does it have to be in the constitution” when we get offended that we weren’t mentioned in Joe’s wedding speech because we bloody well introduced them.
We say things like “well of course its best to detain refugees somewhere like Villawood because they could be a rapist or a criminal”, at the same time as we wonder if the girl wasn’t just a bit stupid going back to the home of a footballer on Mad Monday.
We say things like “that’s just Al on her soapbox again” completely dismissing the fact that there is room on my soapbox for two. Or three. Or four. And that we have plenty of time to complain about the price of bananas or smelly people on the train.
And that was what really struck me with the Lemn Sissay blog. He lives his life expecting bigotry. She lives hers expecting none. And instead of a dialogue there was defensiveness. Hurt. Anger. A distortion of two truths which are equally valid.
I confess that up until recently, there have been gollywogs in our household. I have never seen them as sinister, in fact, they have been beloved toys gifted to me as a child and then my children. The fact that they were black and dressed in stripes had absolutely no relevance to me. They were just beloved toys in stripy clothes.
And that is good on one level. We should make sure that signs that are indicative of evil or malice lose their potency by reducing them to nothing. It is ultimately a rag doll no matter who dreamt it up when and where. But it’s symbolism is something extraordinary, its power is ongoing. It represents a big big issue which is still not resolved.
It is something on which people can focus their rage, their hurt and their bewilderment. And that makes it bad. For if we can take away those symbols, if we acknowledge that these small toys which mean nothing negative in our own bigotry free world, but which means a world of pain in another… we can in a small way make a difference.
So the gollies are gone from our house. Because in reading Lemn Sissay’s blog, I got to thinking about how we can all justify small breaches of peace and tolerate small acts of bigotry. I read the comments and was embarrassed to find that even this bleeding heart leftie socialist was understanding the points of view that basically said “duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude, it’s just a doll, chill.”
Ouch.
What is that teaching my girls? What if they ask me later on ‘Mum, did you know that gollywogs are symbols of oppression and really upset some people because it reminds them of some really horrible things?’ and my only answer was ‘Yeah, but duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuudes aren’t they are cute’?
What then? What next?
12 Nov 2013
I was at a celebration of life on the weekend – a real one. Cancer 0. Friend 1. Lots of really lovely people were there – friends from all over the place, all parts of her life, all come together to be part of a giant circle of love.
Awww – awesome huh?
However, winning line of the weekend goes to a female person who shall be known as ‘Harley’. I wasn’t even present to hear this line but it was retold so brilliantly by ‘the accused’ that when it pops into my mind – I genuinely laugh out loud. And my face hurts from grinning.
So to make your Tuesday a little bit happier, I present to you The Conversation.
‘The accused’ and ‘Harley’ hadn’t seen each other in ages. After the face kissing and general chit chat, ‘Harley’ says to ‘the accused’
“Something has changed since I last saw you? Something is a little bit different? Maybe your hair? Don’t tell me, I’ll work it out”
General conversation and convivial atmosphere continue.
Then all of a sudden
“I know what it is! YOU’VE SHAVED YOUR ARMPITS”
Silence.
Laughter. Of the tear streaming down your face variety.
In between hiccups of laughter.
“Nope, that’s not it, I’ve always shaved my armpits”.
A hand thrown in the air dismissively.
“Well I don’t know what it is then!”
And there it was – the funniest, the most random comment of the weekend. May the rest of your week continue a hidden gem like that one. You’re welcome.
11 Nov 2013
My dad says I’m like my mum.
My mum says I’m like my dad.
There are times when they say this and they are not being complimentary.
But it is true.
I am like both of them. And nothing like either of them.
Sometimes the similarities are ephemeral – a reflection in a window, a memory that matches a moment, the emphasis in a sentence, a facial expression under a new hat.
And others are more permanent. Elements of me which after almost 39 years are just part of who I am and what I have learned along the way.
I look at my little people and I am entranced by their emerging personalities and strengths. They seem so unique, so individual. But I know that one day, they will accept that some of their good habits they learned from me, and all their bad ones, from their dad.
That was a joke. Obviously.
I look like my dad but with more hair. Which means I look like my uncle, but with less beard.*
I like lists like my mum. Handwritten, long, actionable.
When I was younger I taught myself to sign from the Auslan alphabet that used to be printed in the Yellow Pages. I can still sign the entire alphabet plus the useful phrase ‘bad moon rising in Russia’. Just in case.
My dad recently took a course in blacksmithing and is now doing a course on mindfulness. Just in case.
I am never wrong. Neither is mum.
My dad likes to have records of his journey. Diaries, photographs, notebooks full of ‘this happened’. I have cupboards, full of shoeboxes, full of books, full of ‘this happened’.
My mum has a strong, vocal and proactive sense of social justice. We don’t always agree but we’re probably bothering somebody, somewhere, to change something.
My dad thrives on ‘doing stuff’ and ‘new ideas’. Travel, explore, discover. If he can do it on his motorcycle all the better. Though my beautiful man and I are yet to resolve the ‘Why I should get another motorcycle’ discussion.
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| Well said Mr Rohn |
I have my mother’s hands. Not literally obviously. That would be really weird.
My dad likes to dance.
My mum is curious.
It’s not an exhaustive list by any means. Not at all. Nor is it black and white, but many shades of grey.
So many things, often small, make up the individuals that we are. We can deny, we can embrace, we can have genuine moments of ‘Oh shit’ and others of comforting familiarity. But ultimately, each of us have to take responsibility for ourselves and the people we become and the things that we do. The good, the bad, the ugly.
For if we apportion blame for that which we don’t like about ourselves, we can not claim credit for that which we do like.
And personal responsibility is at the very heart of both happiness and humanity.
#justathought #justsayin’ #seethepointaboutmeneverbeingwrong
*This is only true because when I was getting my eyebrows waxed last week the lady tweaked a hair on my upper lip and said ‘No Movember for you lady’ and proceeded to remove any hint of hirsuteness with such ferocity I’ve had a trout pout for a week. And I thank her obviously. Now.
6 Nov 2013
Recently, I found myself physically grimacing when somebody referred to my daughters as ‘adorable princesses’. I really feel strongly about the word ‘princess’ in relation to MY small people. Really strongly.
1. They are not. I’m not a monarch, but husband is not a monarch and there is no monarchy in our history apart from a rumour that we are distantly related to the woman referred to as the “Catholic whore of King George IV”. Which we are not according to the chief genealogist in our family. Which is a pity – because everybody likes a salty story in the family tree.
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| No frog when kissed becomes a prince |
2. Even by the urban definition of princesses as ‘spoilt, pampered and sheltered from real life’, my girls don’t qualify. They’ve been involved in social justice marches since they were babes-in-utereo and we don’t automatically switch off the news or avoid stories that don’t have happy endings. They might be but 1 and 3 but we talk about it all. If they are to learn compassion, empathy and how lucky they are, they need to learn about it as naturally as they learn about using please and thank you, or how yelling the word ‘bottom’ is never going to lose it’s comedic value no matter how old you get.
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| She thinks they fit and that’s all that matters |
3. The Disney definition of a princess as somebody who needs rescuing (preferably after being kissed by a man they have never met) goes against the grain of all sensible personal safety messages that we seek to ingrain in our girls. Firstly, if somebody is kissing when you wake up and you didn’t ask for it – kick the bastards in the bollocks and run like the wind, screaming as loudly as you can. Secondly, if your stepmother is a bitch and makes you work rather than going out and getting an education and doesn’t give you the love you deserve – I will be coming back to haunt your Daddy for his ill conceived choice of a second wife with every supernatural bastardy I can lay my ghostly hands on.
4. My 3 year old wants to be taller so she can drive a cement mixer. I’m proud of her for having the foresight to understand that the cement is always going to be a useful thing and therefore being the driver/operator of a cement mixer is a valid, long term career option. A career like that will always have relevance. Unfortunately, monarchies will not.
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| Tiaras are not just for royalty |
5. People use the word princesses to indicate that they think girls are beautiful. All small people are beautiful. When my 3 year old was a baby she looked like Chairman Mao. When my 1 year old was a baby she looked like Paul Livingston’s Flacco. I can tell you quite honestly, that I have never seen two more beautiful babies in my life.
I am proud that when you ask Tully what she is she’ll answer all sorts of things like “I am hiwarious”, or “I am impossible” or “I am orrrrrrrsome”. If I say to them “who are my favourite girls in the world?” they’ll both answer “ME”. They interchangeably hear me refer to them as “my girls”, “dudes” or if I’m cross they even hear “GIRLFRIEND WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”. I throw my “sweethearts” and my “darlings” and “my beautifuls” and “my gorgeous'” around with the gay abandon of the endearment over user. I have no problem with them understanding that they are beautiful to me in every single way, inside and out.
But they aren’t princesses.
They are better than that.
5 Nov 2013
Discovered Bitstrips yet?
It is the Facebook and smart phone app that lets you create a comic you and make little comics where you are the star. It started almost a year ago but only went onto the app stores about a month ago and is taking over the world.
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| Duuuudddeeeee. Uncool. |
And your Facebook feed is probably flooded with these cartoons at the moment and fundamentally I love the concept – comics are a great way of storytelling and some people have nailed it – seriously clever and very funny. And most at least raise a smile.
But the thing that is making me seriously consider blocking Bitstrips is the passive aggressive pity poster.
You know the ones – they never have anything positive to say and post statements which are supposed to have you engaging and sympathising about their dreadful lives. They’re all woe is me and fuck my life. Using the correct textspeak abbreviations of course. They are generally people you like or even love – but they do tend to see the world as out to get them. Every single day.
And for them, I have this public service announcement:
BITSTRIPS IS NOT YOUR FRIEND PEOPLE. Being a passive aggressive pity poster in PICTURES is just poor form. It does NOT reflect well on you.
And it’s not just me – all around me in the office over the last little while, there have been muttered conversations about people’s feeds being cluttered with Bitstrips bitching about boyfriends, bad days, and so on. Bitstrips is supposed to contribute to engaging story telling and world peace. It is not an illustrative tool for the self perpetuating disaster your life currently is…. unless you’re Fiona McLoughlin – that woman makes the dark places in her life seem like a trip you want to go on.
So my dear passive aggressive pity posters ask yourself this – are you Fiona McLoughlin?
No. Then trust me, help me HELP YOU – get the eff off Bitstrips.
