Boy, was I wrong when I claimed that spin classes at my gym got easier as the week nights progressed. Going along to the Tuesday night class, this week, I expected nothing more challenging than a medium-level workout, being that Monday nights reek of Tour de France aspirations and Wednesdays are for invalids (and me. I usually fake a limp as I walk in). What I hadn't counted on was the fiery little woman instructing, who I will now forever know as.. The Spin Nazi. What she lacked in size, she made up with terrifying intensity. Her top heavy body looked built for taking and dishing a punch and even without a mic, she managed to fill the room with her Lleyton Hewitt style, "C'MMMON!"
Although on time, the class was already well underway when I arrived (Interesting that the regulars knew to show up early, no?) and I was left to take a star-pupil spot in the front row. I realised why the front was so undesirable when we warmed up with a standing sprint and I breezed into my dainty, boppy pedalling; the Nazi gave a clear look of disgust over my style (later to be replaced with the more direct command "FASTER!!!") and I knew I wasn't in Kansas anymore.
As the Australian Idol judges insist, song choice is everything. Whilst your regular instructors like to throw in the odd sadistic track like, Highway to Hell (tell me about it..), Spin Nazi's choices were truly disturbing. She hit us up with Addicted to Love early into the piece, so that we were left to visualise Robert Palmer's slinky women swaying with ease as we, on the other hand, strained against adequate resistance to match our pedalling with the slow bass line. Mere sweating and grunting does not sexy make.
Apparently, I even grunt daintily, though, and when I pushed through the pain to go "HARDER!" in obeyance of my master, I felt a twang in my butt and waited for something to snap (and not just the nose [let's hope that's all it was] of the guy sitting behind me, who was somehow way too close!).
The Nazi's next move, confirming her Nazidom definitively, was to take down the clock, flashing me a cheeky smile as she did so (being that I'm a chief culprit of clock-watching. Or, as I like to call it, 'when-can-I-get-the-fuck-out-of-here-ing'). I wondered, if I was to take her over my bike and spank her now, would that add the sexiness we were lacking earlier?
The moment that more passive mode of escapism was removed, our eyes all moved to the door. We watched the merry and free passers-by with longing, for we knew, "I was once like you!" Those pedalling close enough to the windows wrote "Help me!" in the sweat induced fog. But, it was to no avail. We soon became immersed in our slog until pedalling was all we knew. In fact, without a clock, who's to say how long we were there? I'm convinced that in our hard-working trance, we were all shipped off to Thailand and used as slave-labour for several months. We were forced to generate power by pedalling in factories, then returned to our bikes none the wiser.
No, it so happened that my seat in the front came in handy, as I was able to sneak a look at the flattened clock every time we got into a standing pedal. Naturally, the Nazi was running us overtime, and just as I decided I'd be leaving at the scheduled moment, she pulled out this little chestnut: "The next number will be a competition between the boys and the girls." Dammit! She knew my weakness: feminism. And proving I'm better than everybody. (Naturally, I won. And those that I didn't beat, I beat down later in the parking lot).
By the time our 45 minute class had turned into an hour and I'd lost all feeling in my body, I waddled out of there with all the other stunned fools who had just paid to be subjected to unspeakable torture. It's ok, though. I unwound when I got home with a nice, warm cry in a nice, cold shower. Ahhh....
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
10 Reasons I Should Be Dead.
1). When mum was just 2 months along with me, she got into an horrific car accident. A nurse who related her injuries to a doctor friend was told that such an early foetus would just naturally abort. Much to people's shock and dismay, however, I hung in there, plotting my future achievement of world domination. (Stage 1, Annoying the Entire Population, is already well underway. I started with my mother's recovery, as her pain medication was restricted due to her pregnancy, and I'm proud to say that I've been giving her a headache ever since.)
2). My older sister was not so pleased that I made it and sat on my head in protest. She herself was only 1 and a half at the time, so there's no need to beat her up for my sake. A few empty death threats will suffice.
3). When I was around 3, some older girls said it would be funny if I ran out on the road in front of cars. Sounded good to me. The first driver was very unimpressed, but decided not to kill me. She stopped her car and flew out in a rage, asking if I understood the dangers. "You could have been strawberry jam! They'd have to scrape you off the road!" I was very intrigued by the image of becoming jam and getting scooped up by a giant eggflip, but decided to save my death for the less predictable future. Maybe I could become a Curly Wurly, somehow.
4). My sis and I got into strife one day when dad left us alone in the car while he ran into a mate's house. We hopped into the front seats to watch the clouds roll by through the windscreen, quickly noting the optical illusion that the car itself was moving. Due to our having knocked the gearstick climbing over, however, we finally realised this was no illusion. As the car rolled very slowly toward a gate (behind which barked a Doberman, hungry for little girls) we stayed in the car, screaming in our wait for the gentle collision which we knew would spark a movie-style explosion. We'd be forced to drag our charred bodies from the vehicle (against our father's instruction!) and live out our final moments as dog food. Luckily, Dad heard our cries and liked us (or his car, at least) enough to prevent this meaty fate.
5). Horses have occasionally tried to kill me. We had a very arrogant bay, Casey, who was above being ridden. Every time I'd trot him down the hill, he'd pigroot back to the top and drag me under the low-hanging cypress trees, trying to scrape me off his back.
We also horse-sat an evil little mare who repeatedly threw me off in one riding session. (Luckily, she was almost classed as a pony, so there wasn't far to fall. I was still tough, though, dammit!) After perhaps my 3rd time eating dirt, I decided my mother's literal policy of 'always getting back on the horse' could go to hell. Mum was so insistent with this rule that she once tried to enforce it with my teary sister, before it was pointed out that Bec's bone was sticking out of her arm! She did feel guilty over that one, though. A little.
6). One time, a giant anvil fell on my head. (There may be some phony reasons in this list. See if you can spot them!)
7). At the age of 10, my friend and I found a black snake near my house. Quickly weighing up the sensible options, we went with putting it in a bucket and frightening our mothers. Whereas my friend's mum was furious, mine was oddly unfazed. She never did seem to mind me playing in the long grass.. In fact, she'd sometimes cover me in honey and leave me in the forest, but I always followed those darned breadcrumbs back home.
8). When my mother left me home alone one day (needing more proof that I shouldn't be left to my own devices), I realised that if I climbed the wood pile and gave myself one final boost of strength, I could get on top of the shed. I grew quickly bored once up there, however, and realised that there was no gentle version of a 'boost' with which to get back down. So, like all intelligent folk, I jumped off. It hurt a lot, but, "Ta-da!" No death!
9). I have almost died of embarrassment on many occasions. And laughed my head off. Literally.
10). Ninjas.
In light of all these stories, and the fact I've never broken any bones, I hope you've reached the only logical conclusion: I am a superhero and should not be messed with. Stayed tuned and submissive for my world domination.
2). My older sister was not so pleased that I made it and sat on my head in protest. She herself was only 1 and a half at the time, so there's no need to beat her up for my sake. A few empty death threats will suffice.
3). When I was around 3, some older girls said it would be funny if I ran out on the road in front of cars. Sounded good to me. The first driver was very unimpressed, but decided not to kill me. She stopped her car and flew out in a rage, asking if I understood the dangers. "You could have been strawberry jam! They'd have to scrape you off the road!" I was very intrigued by the image of becoming jam and getting scooped up by a giant eggflip, but decided to save my death for the less predictable future. Maybe I could become a Curly Wurly, somehow.
4). My sis and I got into strife one day when dad left us alone in the car while he ran into a mate's house. We hopped into the front seats to watch the clouds roll by through the windscreen, quickly noting the optical illusion that the car itself was moving. Due to our having knocked the gearstick climbing over, however, we finally realised this was no illusion. As the car rolled very slowly toward a gate (behind which barked a Doberman, hungry for little girls) we stayed in the car, screaming in our wait for the gentle collision which we knew would spark a movie-style explosion. We'd be forced to drag our charred bodies from the vehicle (against our father's instruction!) and live out our final moments as dog food. Luckily, Dad heard our cries and liked us (or his car, at least) enough to prevent this meaty fate.
5). Horses have occasionally tried to kill me. We had a very arrogant bay, Casey, who was above being ridden. Every time I'd trot him down the hill, he'd pigroot back to the top and drag me under the low-hanging cypress trees, trying to scrape me off his back.
We also horse-sat an evil little mare who repeatedly threw me off in one riding session. (Luckily, she was almost classed as a pony, so there wasn't far to fall. I was still tough, though, dammit!) After perhaps my 3rd time eating dirt, I decided my mother's literal policy of 'always getting back on the horse' could go to hell. Mum was so insistent with this rule that she once tried to enforce it with my teary sister, before it was pointed out that Bec's bone was sticking out of her arm! She did feel guilty over that one, though. A little.
6). One time, a giant anvil fell on my head. (There may be some phony reasons in this list. See if you can spot them!)
7). At the age of 10, my friend and I found a black snake near my house. Quickly weighing up the sensible options, we went with putting it in a bucket and frightening our mothers. Whereas my friend's mum was furious, mine was oddly unfazed. She never did seem to mind me playing in the long grass.. In fact, she'd sometimes cover me in honey and leave me in the forest, but I always followed those darned breadcrumbs back home.
8). When my mother left me home alone one day (needing more proof that I shouldn't be left to my own devices), I realised that if I climbed the wood pile and gave myself one final boost of strength, I could get on top of the shed. I grew quickly bored once up there, however, and realised that there was no gentle version of a 'boost' with which to get back down. So, like all intelligent folk, I jumped off. It hurt a lot, but, "Ta-da!" No death!
9). I have almost died of embarrassment on many occasions. And laughed my head off. Literally.
10). Ninjas.
In light of all these stories, and the fact I've never broken any bones, I hope you've reached the only logical conclusion: I am a superhero and should not be messed with. Stayed tuned and submissive for my world domination.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Why I'd Like to be an Elderly English Gentleman.
It may become apparent after spending a little time with me (assuming you first overcome the horror of my appearance and my excruciating attempts at conversation), that I behave somewhat like an elderly male. This includes such qualities as my partiality for dad jokes, my abuse of dated terms, such as 'pish posh' and 'poppycock', and my vigilant daily partaking in a sherry and enima at 4 pm, sharp. Being only a young, spritely woman of 21 (ahem...), my thus unfitting nature can actually be explained in the telling of the tale of my grandfather's influence.
My Grandfather had a lot of shoes to fill. Our Grandmother suffered a stroke as she was walking us to the park one day (we sure could be trying!), and left the scene shortly thereafter; our Nonno died as he lived - in a fight (though, I personally looked forward to the fleeting visits of this intimidating man, who would consistently produce little packets of smarties from his trenchcoat); and the only toys to be found at my Nonna's were the cold, hard, collectable dolls in her immaculate collection. Also.. we were scared of her warty kisses!
Whilst we three olive-skinned brats (then, at least. My British complexion kicked in when I actually started caring about a tan, which I can now only find in a bottle) were too much trouble for some, our well-to-do Grandfather showed us endless love and patience. That's not to say he never gave us a good whooping, but I can assure you we had it coming, and you can bet your bottoms I'll be belting my own kids, by crikey! (Starting from their first word, as we all know their speaking will only lead to swearing. Little fucks.)
Now, you may be thinking at this point (as other jerk kids used to comment when I was kid [that's right, you're a jerk, now. Woh, what happened?!]), "You call your Pa, 'Grandfather'? That's a bit formal.." (which I imagine you'd say in a very jerk tone). But, I can assure you the term was borne of affection. Mum began calling her dad "Father" after reading some ridiculously romantic Russian novel as a girl, in which the heroine did the like. When my older sister mimicked this (ahahaa.. Dum dum) and called him father, also, the quick fix was to extend it to Grandfather, which was used with familiarity and sweetness thereafter.
Less sweetly, (and unbeknownst to him) he also went by Grand'farter'. His poor hearing and our cheekiness led to this invention, which we thought was of utmost genius and hilarity, at the time. 2 years ago. Nooo, we were kids! We were less successful in abusing his deafness when we were misbehaving in the car and he'd tell us to be quiet, however; He'd catch us continuing to whisper in the rear view mirror and blast, "I can see your lips moving!" Seems his vision was fine!
Our Great Gran was also terribly deaf and, as she lived til 101, suffered some memory trouble. When Gran asked Mum a question, she would shout her answer to no avail, then try writing it down. By the time Gran was done reading, though, she couldn't recall the conversation and looked at Mum like she was a complete nincompoop for handing her an irrelevant note!
Thanks to these deaf old dears I'm now in the habit of speaking face-on and loudly (lips exaggerated to show word formation) to anyone over the age of 60, who tend to respond with a look that says, "I'm old, not stupid."
Our final term of endearment for Grandfather was 'Gramps', which we lifted straight from Back to the Future and he took in his stride like a champ. We thought it very fitting that among our many caravaning adventures with Gramps was a trip to the Grampians.
Caravaning was a huge part of the Grandfather experience. We kids had many a night's sleep contested by the rumble of a little heater set on a stifling full-bore, jazz tunes left to bumble away from the 'wireless,' and Grandfather's van-shaking snore, which I imagine resembled the same brassy depth and volume produced from his euphonium back in his band days. I am grateful for all those trips we took, though. Grandfather's love of Australia (reflected in his quick-draw of a camera or binoculars, and his inability to pass any look-out without stopping) and his wonderful grandchildren (self-evident) produced many a picture of my ugly mug spoiling some fine Aussie backdrop. Gramps partook in his own share of photos, which showcase his old man pose of one foot stepping onto a bench or the like, an elbow on the knee and a slight lean forward. You show 'em, Gramps, another pretty hill conquered! (In fact, as he never let his emphysema hold him back on boardwalks or a hike, I suppose that credit is due!) I was also lucky to live the childish dream of having a million Rosellas, typical caravan park residents, feed from atop my head. Some burrowed through to my brain and I contracted many incurable bird diseases, but it was still worth the pain.
Although Grandfather treated us to these trips, he was careful not to spoil us in other ways. Whilst we were guaranteed a yes after pushing through the first two no's from my mother, Grandfather never budged on his stance that lollies rot your teeth. He'd occasionally wiggle forth his falsies to prove this point (to our delight), nevermind the fact that he and my Grandmother had their teeth replaced only as a popular cosmetic procedure back in the day. We were placated by an endless supply of biscuits and ice cream to which we could help ourselves at any time. I knew better than to point our this hypocrisy and, although I no longer like biscuits, full-access to those overstuffed jars is a fond childhood memory. In fact, when my own grandchildren come to visit (that's right, I have grandkids. I'm incredibly youthful) I will be sure to provide the same service. And if they don't like biscuits either, they will be forced to eat them until they do, by golly (so that one day, they can blog about my biscuit jars, and so on and so forth).
Gramps tried expanding our little lolly-obsessed minds, where he could.
He blew the jelly beans right out of my brain when he set a complex math problem ending in 'x0', allowing me to work out some of the initial components before revealing it was a complete waste of time (which is actually a fine analogy for my life. Full circle).
Grandfather taught me how to spell 'friend', and I don't mean that as a cheesy line. I peeked at the word (or, 'cheated', as some may say) when he gave me a spelling test one night. He was so proud that I knew about 'i before e' (except after c!), however, that I discovered guilt as a wonderful motivator for learning and always remembered it since.
Finally, I would say that Grandfather's best quality was his wicked sense of humour (which you may say he passed down to a certain member of the family. *Ahem. AHEMMM!* Sorry, furball. I take my role as cat mama very seriously). I remember when I remarked on the handiness of a little travel shower cap I saw at his house. He asked, "Want one for yourself? All you have to do is book in for surgery at the hospital. Then, after your stay, they give you one of those at no cost." That easy, huh?
My family is very stuffy when it comes to expressing affection. As opposed to the more clear cut hug and kiss approach, we hide our mushy feelings by taking the time to come up with some horribly witty bit of derogation. Grandfather was fairly sick for at least as long as I knew him (I have that effect). When he found his emphysema overwhelming and needed a rest, he'd complain to my mum, "I think I'm dying, Daughter" and she'd say, "Well, hurry up, then." I'm sure you had to be there, but it was their favourite comedy routine, Mum's remark always met with a breathless chuckle from Gramps.
So, with that upbringing in mind, the next time that I flip you the bird or tell you to kiss my arse, just think of my Grandfather and know that I love you. (Not quite the 'British gentleman' conclusion set out in my contention, but it'll do. Now, on your way. *Flips the bird*.)
My Grandfather had a lot of shoes to fill. Our Grandmother suffered a stroke as she was walking us to the park one day (we sure could be trying!), and left the scene shortly thereafter; our Nonno died as he lived - in a fight (though, I personally looked forward to the fleeting visits of this intimidating man, who would consistently produce little packets of smarties from his trenchcoat); and the only toys to be found at my Nonna's were the cold, hard, collectable dolls in her immaculate collection. Also.. we were scared of her warty kisses!
Whilst we three olive-skinned brats (then, at least. My British complexion kicked in when I actually started caring about a tan, which I can now only find in a bottle) were too much trouble for some, our well-to-do Grandfather showed us endless love and patience. That's not to say he never gave us a good whooping, but I can assure you we had it coming, and you can bet your bottoms I'll be belting my own kids, by crikey! (Starting from their first word, as we all know their speaking will only lead to swearing. Little fucks.)
Now, you may be thinking at this point (as other jerk kids used to comment when I was kid [that's right, you're a jerk, now. Woh, what happened?!]), "You call your Pa, 'Grandfather'? That's a bit formal.." (which I imagine you'd say in a very jerk tone). But, I can assure you the term was borne of affection. Mum began calling her dad "Father" after reading some ridiculously romantic Russian novel as a girl, in which the heroine did the like. When my older sister mimicked this (ahahaa.. Dum dum) and called him father, also, the quick fix was to extend it to Grandfather, which was used with familiarity and sweetness thereafter.
Less sweetly, (and unbeknownst to him) he also went by Grand'farter'. His poor hearing and our cheekiness led to this invention, which we thought was of utmost genius and hilarity, at the time. 2 years ago. Nooo, we were kids! We were less successful in abusing his deafness when we were misbehaving in the car and he'd tell us to be quiet, however; He'd catch us continuing to whisper in the rear view mirror and blast, "I can see your lips moving!" Seems his vision was fine!
Our Great Gran was also terribly deaf and, as she lived til 101, suffered some memory trouble. When Gran asked Mum a question, she would shout her answer to no avail, then try writing it down. By the time Gran was done reading, though, she couldn't recall the conversation and looked at Mum like she was a complete nincompoop for handing her an irrelevant note!
Thanks to these deaf old dears I'm now in the habit of speaking face-on and loudly (lips exaggerated to show word formation) to anyone over the age of 60, who tend to respond with a look that says, "I'm old, not stupid."
Our final term of endearment for Grandfather was 'Gramps', which we lifted straight from Back to the Future and he took in his stride like a champ. We thought it very fitting that among our many caravaning adventures with Gramps was a trip to the Grampians.
Caravaning was a huge part of the Grandfather experience. We kids had many a night's sleep contested by the rumble of a little heater set on a stifling full-bore, jazz tunes left to bumble away from the 'wireless,' and Grandfather's van-shaking snore, which I imagine resembled the same brassy depth and volume produced from his euphonium back in his band days. I am grateful for all those trips we took, though. Grandfather's love of Australia (reflected in his quick-draw of a camera or binoculars, and his inability to pass any look-out without stopping) and his wonderful grandchildren (self-evident) produced many a picture of my ugly mug spoiling some fine Aussie backdrop. Gramps partook in his own share of photos, which showcase his old man pose of one foot stepping onto a bench or the like, an elbow on the knee and a slight lean forward. You show 'em, Gramps, another pretty hill conquered! (In fact, as he never let his emphysema hold him back on boardwalks or a hike, I suppose that credit is due!) I was also lucky to live the childish dream of having a million Rosellas, typical caravan park residents, feed from atop my head. Some burrowed through to my brain and I contracted many incurable bird diseases, but it was still worth the pain.
Although Grandfather treated us to these trips, he was careful not to spoil us in other ways. Whilst we were guaranteed a yes after pushing through the first two no's from my mother, Grandfather never budged on his stance that lollies rot your teeth. He'd occasionally wiggle forth his falsies to prove this point (to our delight), nevermind the fact that he and my Grandmother had their teeth replaced only as a popular cosmetic procedure back in the day. We were placated by an endless supply of biscuits and ice cream to which we could help ourselves at any time. I knew better than to point our this hypocrisy and, although I no longer like biscuits, full-access to those overstuffed jars is a fond childhood memory. In fact, when my own grandchildren come to visit (that's right, I have grandkids. I'm incredibly youthful) I will be sure to provide the same service. And if they don't like biscuits either, they will be forced to eat them until they do, by golly (so that one day, they can blog about my biscuit jars, and so on and so forth).
Gramps tried expanding our little lolly-obsessed minds, where he could.
He blew the jelly beans right out of my brain when he set a complex math problem ending in 'x0', allowing me to work out some of the initial components before revealing it was a complete waste of time (which is actually a fine analogy for my life. Full circle).
Grandfather taught me how to spell 'friend', and I don't mean that as a cheesy line. I peeked at the word (or, 'cheated', as some may say) when he gave me a spelling test one night. He was so proud that I knew about 'i before e' (except after c!), however, that I discovered guilt as a wonderful motivator for learning and always remembered it since.
Finally, I would say that Grandfather's best quality was his wicked sense of humour (which you may say he passed down to a certain member of the family. *Ahem. AHEMMM!* Sorry, furball. I take my role as cat mama very seriously). I remember when I remarked on the handiness of a little travel shower cap I saw at his house. He asked, "Want one for yourself? All you have to do is book in for surgery at the hospital. Then, after your stay, they give you one of those at no cost." That easy, huh?
My family is very stuffy when it comes to expressing affection. As opposed to the more clear cut hug and kiss approach, we hide our mushy feelings by taking the time to come up with some horribly witty bit of derogation. Grandfather was fairly sick for at least as long as I knew him (I have that effect). When he found his emphysema overwhelming and needed a rest, he'd complain to my mum, "I think I'm dying, Daughter" and she'd say, "Well, hurry up, then." I'm sure you had to be there, but it was their favourite comedy routine, Mum's remark always met with a breathless chuckle from Gramps.
So, with that upbringing in mind, the next time that I flip you the bird or tell you to kiss my arse, just think of my Grandfather and know that I love you. (Not quite the 'British gentleman' conclusion set out in my contention, but it'll do. Now, on your way. *Flips the bird*.)
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