23 Dec 2012
Its hot. The background is coloured with the sound of cicadas and the crackling of dry grass underfoot. The smell is baked concrete and sprinkler mist. It’s a perfect summer’s day. Take a girlfriend, find a bar with air-conditioning and cold chardonnay and a twist of gossip and it’s Sunday afternoon nirvana.
Slightly shattered by an ugly reality I’d been hitherto immune to and I’ve found the revelation somewhat distressing. Here it is – bear with me as I share this simple and sad fact. (Big breath) In young males of a certain age, the rat’s tail has become mainstream. Small curly ones pasted on the neck, large Billy Ray Cyrus inspired locks, straggly flyaway frizzy ones. Some coupled with goatees or facial hair I’d have assumed ironic if it was still November. But nope.
And I try and be open minded. I pride myself on trying to live and let live. But I wanted to throw my maxi-dressed self to the ground and wail ‘WHYYYYYYY’. Keen in a proper keening type of way. Rent clothing. Tear hair. Gnash teeth. These young men in their twenties, handsome faces and otherwise cunningly disguised by a hairstyle that had its day in the eighties and was deemed a failure. It’s been resurrected, embraced, bouffanted. Mocked. MOCKED JUSTLY.
And here I was in hipsville. Not the ‘burbs’. Not the sweltering outer suburbs where flannelette and referring to your partner as ‘the missus’ flourishes. My middle class sensibilities and vague aesthetics were being offended in the heart of the city, in a popular bar, frequented by the young and trendy (and older folk such as myself drinking cold chardonnay in air-condition surrounds).
And I despaired for mankind.
21 Dec 2012
There is so much to be mad about in the world. The worsening situation in Syria, gang rapes in India, human rights violations in Australia, mass shootings in America, attempted assassinations of 14 year old students in Afghanistan and for those that only read the entertainment pages of a newspaper – the duet by Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta.
If you are going to have an opinion, express a viewpoint, GIVE A SHIT, do it about something that really truly matters. Where your voice can be part of a cacophony that brings change. Where speaking up and pointing out wrongs makes the world a better place for everybody.
Whether or not my two year old daughter is wearing shoes in a shopping centre is not one of these issues. And while I appreciate that the lady in the mall that pulled me up on this travesty yesterday was motivated by genuine horror at my lax parenting and the possibility of germs latching onto my daughter’s feet, it really wasn’t worth the rant. I’d call her energy completely misdirected. If she really wants to put that much effort into caring – I wish she’d chosen something that really mattered. Not the fact that I forgot to put her shoes in the car and so she was going shoeless in an indoor mall.
And the world is full of people with these ‘things’ that genuinely affront them, that they give voice to, that they would tackle a stranger in a mall about. Can you imagine how the world could be so much more than it is if we took the time to care about the big things and less about the little things? More about people and less about brands? More about people and less about etiquette? More about two year olds with no food or clothes or shelter than two year olds not wearing shoes in a mall?
All that rage and righteousness people – use it. But focus for fuck’s sake. Focus.
17 Dec 2012
“I think housework is far more tiring and frightening than hunting is, no comparison, and yet after hunting we had eggs for tea and were made to rest for hours, but after housework people expect one to go on just as if nothing special had happened.” Nancy Mitford
I saw the above quote this morning in a blog by Reservoir Dad guesting on Woogsworld and it spoke to me. Lordy me, it yelled actually. Yodelled across the room and finished off with some fancy footwork. And while Nancy Mitford and her sisters were a perplexing and bigoted bunch of individuals, Nancy nailed it with that quote.
You see – as far as I am concerned – Housework is an art. And like all the arts, what appeals to one person definitely does not appeal to another. Some are fans of realism and minimalism that draws parallels with housework fans who like clean lines and things to be as they are. Some are fans of the abstract approach where the concepts are more important than the execution. Still others favour the expressionism style where their housework is spiritually or psychologically intense.
I have always been a proponent of the abstract style of housework where people get the gist of what I’ve attempted without it needing to be presented in any kind of coherent way. Since the arrival of my two forces of nature, my beautiful man and I have developed a fondness for the kinetic style. Kinetic art is sculpture based but comprised of moving elements and powered either by wind, the viewer themselves or a motor. Families are big on engaging through the kinetic style of housework – no matter what frantic preparation is done prior to their visit, they’ll blithely dodge the small people and run a vacuum cleaner about the place using their own energy to engage with the existing construct.
In the modern household, most housework is a collaborative affair. A shifting of art preferences from the singular to the plural and then again to encompass the addition of small people, animals or permanent houseguests. Housework, like art, is an intensely personal experience and what appeals to one does not appeal to another. And just as you wouldn’t walk into a house and criticise the art they hang on their wall, nor should you comment on their style of housework. For it is chosen to suit them, not you. One man’s Gauguin is another man’s Monet. Both of value but appealing to different audiences and different approaches to life.
And that my friends is that. And please don’t open that cupboard without a hard hat.
13 Dec 2012
I don’t get why people don’t like birthdays. They are inevitable so why not just enjoy them? Me – I adore them – they are the one day of the year where despite all my insecurities I just enjoy everybody being lovely to me. Because people are lovely on your birthday. They don’t let your little habits annoy them, they find lovely things to say and you are allowed to do all your favourite things and ignore the housework.
I had a few of the “not long until 40 digs” – (well no – but lots can happen in two years so let me get to my 39th first) but I’m loving the idea of 40. Because birthdays that end in 0 mean you can legitimately organise a ‘big party’. Like huge. You can have it fancy dress, out bush, in fine restaurants – whatever appeals. And people will come along and party like its 1999 just because your birthday ends in 0. It’s genius.
I always organise my birthday in advance. Dad said to me years ago “Why don’t you just leave it and see if somebody organises something for you?”. Good point. But if they didn’t my birthday would be ruined and that seems like an unnecessary risk when there is only one of them a year. I don’t mind going with the flow on some things but birthdays are not one of them. The bigger the better.
And I am just as happy about your birthday as I am about mine. I love them for everybody. I love all opportunities to celebrate and be happy just because. Weddings. Babies. Birthdays. Promotions. New homes. You name it. But birthdays happen the most regularly.
My last huge bash was my 21st which is the one exception to the 0 rule and it was great fun. 30 was a little more low key so I’m basically going to have 19 years of HURRAH stored up to celebrate my 40th. So you can all start preparing now. And I can most guarantee it’s going to be fancy dress because I love that shit. LOVE IT.
A birthday grinch said to me yesterday “I don’t get why you enjoy getting older.” You don’t? Well if you think of the alternative it’s pretty clear. You want as many as you can get – there is a lot to fit in to life and if you ran out of birthdays that would be a very sad thing indeed.
And that my friends is that. The Festival of Al is over for another year. Now your Christmas celebrations can begin in earnest. Mwa.
10 Dec 2012
There is a lot to be said for good manners. Please. Thank you. How do you do? After you madam. And so on. They smooth interactions, make for pleasant exchanges and are the social lubricant that keeps us all ticking along side of each other despite a myriad of differences of personality and approaches.
People hide passion, disagreement, dislike behind civility and good manners. They can also tamp down love, enthusiasm, desire and humour. Manners moderate. Sometimes, they subjugate. Or liberate. Always, but always, they impact.
Which is why they are their own tyranny. But a tyranny that can be used for good. If you spend an entire day consciously using good manners, no matter the reaction you get, there is an immense amount amusement to be had.
For instance, go into a store staffed by surly teenagers more used to being ignored or told off then greeted with a smile.
Smile big. Big. Big. Big.
Them: “You right?”
You: “Hi, yes, I’m fine, thanks for asking. Aren’t you a gem? I’ll let you know if I need anything”
Them: (muttering behind hand to colleague when back behind the counter – warning – batty bitch at the back of the shop)
You: “Hi, can I have these please? This is a great shop isn’t it?
Them: “$50”
You: “Thanks so much, I hope you have a lovely day”
Them: (mutters to colleagues as you depart – I dunno what that bitch is on but its killing me)
And its not just teenagers. Thank the bus driver. Smile at a colleague. Greet the receptionist. Wave at the postman. Let the horn heavy wanker in the BMW in front of you with a smile and a nod. Pay for the coffee of the guy behind you. Let the person with only a few items in front of you at the supermarket. Agree with a colleague. Hold open a door.
It makes you feel remarkably good and it discombobulates the rude. Knocks them off course. And that’s not a bad thing. Not when you’ve done it so politely.
Go on. Try it.
8 Dec 2012
There are two types of road trips – those with kids and those without.
Those with kids can never be taken spontaneously and without snacks. And by snacks, I mean the resources to feed the 5000 should Jesus fail to appear.
Those without kids only need the tic tacs in case you meet a cute policeman at an RBT.
Road trips with kids require additional clothing for both children and adults in case of spillage, blowouts or some kind of random travel sickness never before invented.
Road trips without kids can be done in the nude if that what takes your fancy.
Road trips with kids require an in depth knowledge of action songs, cheery songs, songs with clapping and repetition.
A road trip with out kids can be done entirely by surfing the radio channels or re-enacting Queen’s finest hits while head banging, playing air guitar and driving.
Road trips with kids require an understanding that you drive with only about 1/4 of your attention on the road and the rest on the houdini in the back seat trying to extricate themselves from their shoulder straps. (They’ll win – no matter that you’ve drilled holes in their shoulders to loop the straps around)
Road trips without kids involve scenery and sunsets and impromptu stops at strawberry picking farms that you never notice when you’re watching Houdini.
Road trips with kids are full of tense silences with your partner while you fume about the myriad of misunderstandings that have happened since you got in the car and they messed up your system of bags designed to make the journey easier.
Road trips without kids are full of long silences, intertwined fingers and sporadic conversation about shared experiences, or nothing. Lots of gentle nothing.
Road trips with kids are full of moments where they eventually slumber and your heart wells up with love for their little selves, their adorable little selves and their bored, inventive little minds filling in time on a road trip with the olds.
Road trips without kids are full of moments where you wish you could be singing action songs and doing funny seat dancing or yelling ‘CAR’ whenever you see one.
Verdict. If road trips without kids mean giving back my girls I’d probably keep them. Probably. Maybe. Okay, yes. YES. But I still think a road trip in the nude should be on my bucket list.
