Ah, the life of a travelling actress. Depending on nothing but your suitcase and script; having no time for friends or the simple pleasures in life; never knowing where your next meal will come from or whether you'll have a bed, come dark; just hoping that it's worthwhile when you bare you soul for the world to see, night after gin-fueled night... (Actually, I've only performed in about 4 festivals in my entire life, but it sounded more interesting when I said all that other stuff. Or, 'lied.' Stay tuned for more amazing embellishments.)
Last weekend, the gang and I took our 'little one-act that could,' Fur Better Or Worse, to Ararat. The play is about two lesbians and a cat, and we all GET IT ONNN. No, no, we don't.. But you can imagine if we did, right? The play is actually good, family fun and we've managed to nab a few awards, thus far. Look, I don't want to boast, or anything, but we are pretty much the best theatre team.. in the world.
The first step in crushing all the other plays with our award-winning amazingness, was a road trip down to good ol' Ratty (that's what the locals call it. Well, I would, if I lived there. Which, having visited once, now, I pretty much am). It's an understatement to say that I'm not a fan of navigation, especially when it comes to unfamiliar areas. As my alternative to driving was to sit on our set couch in the back of a windowless van (well, it has one window. A dumb one), I finally decided I valued my pathetic existence and hit the road with multiple, intricate, hand-drawn maps and my husband's promise of a GPS for my next present.
My first stop was for the collection of my castmate James (a.k.a. Catman), which, although the closest point in the journey, somehow inspired my most detailed map. I studied the whole of Hawthorn vigorously, determining which points of entry would be most likely for a terrorist attack, and where I would go from James' house if I was craving some bandaids and a carton of milk (I assume his place lacks such necessities. [Yes, I crave bandaids]). Despite my weeks of research, and keeping my eyes peeled for the final turnoff, I began to feel uneasy when my estimated travel time of 25 minutes turned into 35. All hopes of turning-off were cruelly extinguished when I reached the end of Glenferrie Rd, the crescendo of my fears expressed through an unhappy-Rainman reenactment. When I was done rocking back and forth and chanting, "Always fly with Qantas, never crash," I strapped on a pair and successfully looked up an alternative route. But, the damage to my nerves was already done, setting the tone for the rest of the trip. James could only watch on in discomfort as I let go of the wheel to water my parched throat or to wipe the tears from my suddenly hayfeverish eyes (it was hayfever, I swear!). I was horribly paranoid we'd get lost, again, occasionally screaming in a 'Nam flashback style, "Is this the way?! Oh, god! - We'll never make it!!!"
It was only once we were a good distance along the Western Fwy that I thought it safe to stop for coffee and refuel my expended energy. Naturally, I made the common error in freeway-driving and passed a perfectly good stop, thinking, 'there'll be something again, soon.' A good while later, I was less fussy and made do with a BP, telling James, "All I want is something with caffeine. Everywhere has coffee nowadays, right? It's like a basic right for all humans, and animals, and rocks. Very, very tired rocks."
Now, is it just me, or do you think it was a horribly cruel act of that magical creature in the sky that when I strutted up to the BP coffee machine, I was faced with the sign, "Hot water only"? Hating myself all the while, I nevertheless asked the attendant the kind of question that kills me in my cafe job: "So, like... Can you only get hot water, or something?" The sweet, old, ocker girl out in the middle of Whoop Whoop had the patience of a saint, wanting to please the stuck-up Melbournite (she'd heard they were prone to explosive rage), and came out of her bulletproof cage to "give it a try, anyway, eh?" She looked more relieved than me when the machine spluttered out half a cup of coffee-like substance, so that I was sorry to ask for some milk to add to the long black it had produced instead of a cappuccino. Her profuse apologies and offer to refund my money (all $2.50 of it!) only added to my feelings of bastardness as I scrambled back to the car to enjoy my luke-warm beverage (turns out the machine wasn't producing 'hot water', afterall!). Well, I did say that caffeine was all I needed, so.. guess I got what I wanted! I should be grateful I didn't walk out of there with only a jar of instant and a straw.
(Also, I twice walked in on little girls in the BP bathroom. Not once, twice! Little shits used all the toilet paper, though, so now who's the bastard?! Should've flushed their heads. Oh, nevermind, there's more paper sitting on top of the sanitary disposal unit. Mmm.. hygienic).
Back on the road, James and I passed up many appealing opportunites, like hiking up the Grampians or panning for gold at Sovereign Hill. We even considered setting up shop and living quiet lives in a small town, a welcome alternative to that last, treacherous leg of our journey. But, we pressed on, both of us knowing the people of Ararat awaited us - nay, needed us - to brighten their sad little lives (and that love is a battlefield).
The show went down without a hitch, except for when I decided to stare into space instead of saying my last line. It was my new interpretation. We also hoped the play's reference to Skippy wouldn't aggravate our adjudicator, Ken James, who no longer wished to discuss his involvement in the series! It was apparently a non-issue, as we picked up awards for Best Comedy award and an Encouragement for James (keep working on it, little buddy. Almost there!) The truth is, the crowds absolutely love James' portrayal of a cat. In fact, he was so convincing in Ararat that one guy told him afterwards, "I've got 2 female cats I'd like you to meet." Pretty sure that's illegal, mate! And not quite the kind of.. 'cat' a man hopes to attract..
Later that evening, we sought our thrills in ye olde country pube, where the recommended special was a granny smith cider called, Dirty Granny, and the bargirl put her slowness down to 'drinking all day.' No worries, love. Bottoms up. We sat outside, gathering around the warmth of Aynslie's cigarettes and sharing the type of hearty laughter that can be fed only by post-performance air. We also shared some more personal stories that I will respectfully keep to myself. I don't think the gang will minding me repeating the one secret we found we had in common, though: It just so happens that, come nightfall.. we are all masked avengers. This became apparent when we simultaneously sighted the bat signal and tried slipping off into the toilets and phonebooth to change into our costumes. Awkward...
The next day, James bravely became my passenger once more, risking his life for the chance to return home. After spending over 24 hours cooped-up together, by this point, we didn't speak and could barely stand the sight of each other. Even our scents, which became concentrated in such a confined space, made the other gag. I'm only joking! I had a great time with you all, Laura, James and Ayns, and I look forward to the next trip, if you can handle me.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Spinning in Horror.
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....
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....
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*.)
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
How I Came to Sleep in My Mother's Bed on Mothers' Day.
Went down to the old girl's house for Mothers' Day, as you do. When it came to sleeping arrangements, Ben and I were shown to the queen size bed in the bungalow, where there was already one black spider making itself at home through the open window, and the air was 90% ice. We recalled sharing a single bed in our early days, and thought we'd take our chances comfort-wise on the bottom bunk in my sister's room, being that I already had a cold and thought less cold air would be suitable (and happen to find minimal spiders an ideal sleeping condition). In fact, we decided, it would be utterly adorable and most certainly cosy.
So, about an hour into our being twisted together like pretzels, I questioned how the hell we'd ever managed to nocturnally cohabit such a teeny space. (Although, the fact Ben's muscles now burst out of the shirts he used to wear should've sounded alarm bells). Not one for snuggling, I quickly grew boiling hot, and fidgeted around removing pajama pants, a sock.. My wig. Ben's undies (what? I was bored). I was clearly disturbing my co-sleeper, in any case, but what finally drove me to the brink was an indistinguishable, repetitive thudding sound somewhere in the house that grew into a very loud banging. Wig, sock and pj's went back on (I kept Ben's knickers as a trophy), and I whisked up a blanket to find a new sleeping space.
I sourced the banging to a demonic shower with an unworldly dripping volume, stumbled across a sleeping bag (score) and, once I had climbed over / cleared unpredictable items typical of my mother's house (such as a ladder..?), settled down on the floor of the lounge room. My brother had the couch and upon hearing me enter even lit my way with his phone (helpful for the ladder clearing). Things were looking up.
By waking Johnny, though, so did I wake his chest infection, and the poor bastard's blood-curdling death rattle ensued. Just like when you're stuck in traffic and you wonder whether to change lanes, though, I was relieved not to have changed rooms when (20 minutes later..) the coughing subsided. With a cold of my own, I discovered that lying on my back (the most comfortable floor-sleeping position) sent a continual stream of snot down my throat. I turned onto my.. "child-bearing" hips, thus discombobulating my spine, but nevertheless began to drift into a soundless dreamland... But, while some of us like such quiet and oh, I dunno, SLEEPING during the night, do you know what other people like doing?: TEXTING MY BROTHER! ARRRGH!!! The lounge had served me poorly and was added to the list of places I'd like to explode (maybe, or maybe not giving Johnny time to evacuate) as I packed my sorry, tired arse up and returned to Belle's room.
I squished down in the narrow floor space between the bed and a pile of clothes, where I was kept alert by the fear of Ben stepping on me in the night, or Belle jumping on my head from the top bunk in the morning (due to either their not knowing I was there, or the simple fact that I'm an evil bitch who deserves it). The room was considerably colder than the warm lounge where sicko Johnny had possession of the only heater (an oddly rare device in freezing cold Fish Creek), so I rested the sleeping bag over my face like a frigging grub in a cocoon and tried not to think about the potentially grimy journey it had endured prior to my finding it in the middle of the floor (and why it was full of Nerf bullets...). I had again reached an acceptable condition for sleep when my step-father's alarm clock reminded me that he's a dairy farmer (Yay!) and then, once he'd left for work, a rooster told me it was dawn!!! Thanks, thoughtful bird!!!!!!!! Ah, the country.. How's the serenity?
I basically laid awake until 7 am when my mother rose, her consciousness signalled by a smoker's cough which joined in beautiful unison with my brother's chesty baritone (both usually followed by a puff of ventolin [and the lighting up of more cigarettes. Ah, just what the doctor ordered]). I could hear them talking (probably about what an amazing night sleep they'd gotten and how lame it would be to be lying on the floor right now. Bastards!) and considered joining them when it dawned on me, "Geoff's out of bed. Mum's up. Free bed!" Not leaving my sleeping bag, I shuffled down to the kitchen in cocooned grub form (although I didn't morph into a fucking butterfly later, I can tell you that) and literally begged the pathetic words: "Mama, can I sleep in your bed?" (At least it was on Mothers' Day. I'm sure my vulnerability was a precious gift). And there I slept in my mummy's bed for a brief but gratifying 2 hours, before heading back out into the world to tackle more bullshit, and to inflict tenfold of my own.
So, about an hour into our being twisted together like pretzels, I questioned how the hell we'd ever managed to nocturnally cohabit such a teeny space. (Although, the fact Ben's muscles now burst out of the shirts he used to wear should've sounded alarm bells). Not one for snuggling, I quickly grew boiling hot, and fidgeted around removing pajama pants, a sock.. My wig. Ben's undies (what? I was bored). I was clearly disturbing my co-sleeper, in any case, but what finally drove me to the brink was an indistinguishable, repetitive thudding sound somewhere in the house that grew into a very loud banging. Wig, sock and pj's went back on (I kept Ben's knickers as a trophy), and I whisked up a blanket to find a new sleeping space.
I sourced the banging to a demonic shower with an unworldly dripping volume, stumbled across a sleeping bag (score) and, once I had climbed over / cleared unpredictable items typical of my mother's house (such as a ladder..?), settled down on the floor of the lounge room. My brother had the couch and upon hearing me enter even lit my way with his phone (helpful for the ladder clearing). Things were looking up.
By waking Johnny, though, so did I wake his chest infection, and the poor bastard's blood-curdling death rattle ensued. Just like when you're stuck in traffic and you wonder whether to change lanes, though, I was relieved not to have changed rooms when (20 minutes later..) the coughing subsided. With a cold of my own, I discovered that lying on my back (the most comfortable floor-sleeping position) sent a continual stream of snot down my throat. I turned onto my.. "child-bearing" hips, thus discombobulating my spine, but nevertheless began to drift into a soundless dreamland... But, while some of us like such quiet and oh, I dunno, SLEEPING during the night, do you know what other people like doing?: TEXTING MY BROTHER! ARRRGH!!! The lounge had served me poorly and was added to the list of places I'd like to explode (maybe, or maybe not giving Johnny time to evacuate) as I packed my sorry, tired arse up and returned to Belle's room.
I squished down in the narrow floor space between the bed and a pile of clothes, where I was kept alert by the fear of Ben stepping on me in the night, or Belle jumping on my head from the top bunk in the morning (due to either their not knowing I was there, or the simple fact that I'm an evil bitch who deserves it). The room was considerably colder than the warm lounge where sicko Johnny had possession of the only heater (an oddly rare device in freezing cold Fish Creek), so I rested the sleeping bag over my face like a frigging grub in a cocoon and tried not to think about the potentially grimy journey it had endured prior to my finding it in the middle of the floor (and why it was full of Nerf bullets...). I had again reached an acceptable condition for sleep when my step-father's alarm clock reminded me that he's a dairy farmer (Yay!) and then, once he'd left for work, a rooster told me it was dawn!!! Thanks, thoughtful bird!!!!!!!! Ah, the country.. How's the serenity?
I basically laid awake until 7 am when my mother rose, her consciousness signalled by a smoker's cough which joined in beautiful unison with my brother's chesty baritone (both usually followed by a puff of ventolin [and the lighting up of more cigarettes. Ah, just what the doctor ordered]). I could hear them talking (probably about what an amazing night sleep they'd gotten and how lame it would be to be lying on the floor right now. Bastards!) and considered joining them when it dawned on me, "Geoff's out of bed. Mum's up. Free bed!" Not leaving my sleeping bag, I shuffled down to the kitchen in cocooned grub form (although I didn't morph into a fucking butterfly later, I can tell you that) and literally begged the pathetic words: "Mama, can I sleep in your bed?" (At least it was on Mothers' Day. I'm sure my vulnerability was a precious gift). And there I slept in my mummy's bed for a brief but gratifying 2 hours, before heading back out into the world to tackle more bullshit, and to inflict tenfold of my own.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Remembering Dave, one year on.
For Dave’s anniversary (Feb 27), I’d like to share some of my own fondest and funniest memories and impressions.
My first impression of Dave was actually as a scary older brother of a school friend, who he dealt with roughly for sitting in his chair one day when I came over to play. Mel and I retaliated by sticking lumps of clay onto his skate ramp, which was probably cleared by the rain before he was even inclined to use it (especially since he had no idea what I was talking about when I inquired as to its vengeful effects, years later). But, take that, Dave! Yeah… You’ll know not to mess with us again, when we’re kids (?)
I next took note of Dave in the latter stage of his Goth phase, when he wore long hair, black nails and a KILT to school. Being that this followed Braveheart’s release, it might not have been such an odd look if we weren’t living in a small country town, where you get teased for doing, oh, I don’t know.. ANYTHING differently. Dave somehow carried it off, however, which only reinforces what I always tell my girlfriends: You can get away with wearing any dress you like, as long as you wear it with confidence.
I got to know the quintessential (backward cap, white tee wearing) Dave, however, as of 2001, when I first moved to Melbourne
Whilst Dave and I had little interaction on that first day, he did introduce me to my future husband who was visiting at the time, which is kinda important.
From his initial, “Welcome to my humble abode,” Dave made me feel right at home, even insisting I take my pick from his impressive collection of videos (remember those?) to watch in his room any time he was out. With such a considerate nature, it didn’t seem at all unusual then when he began calling by my bedroom in the evenings to simply sit on the bed with me, as sweetly as a girlfriend, and ask, How was uni? Was I settling in ok? Oh, and were there any boys I liked? I answered such seemingly innocent questions openly, never suspecting that my feelings for the hot guy at Taekwondo were all the while being directly reported to Dave’s best mate, Benjamin John! (That’s what he gets called when he’s in trouble.) Whilst my most intimate feelings were freely (and widely, for all we know!) dispensed, Ben had sworn Dave to secrecy over his own. Dave did such a good job that when he told my sister he had a friend who liked me (technically not breaking his vow..), Bec and I ran through who it could be, not once picking poor Ben!
When the secret finally was unveiled and I was still enamoured with martial arts boy, it was nevertheless sneaky Dave I looked to for advice. Expecting a run down of his mate’s selling points, Dave instead took a moment to consider his answer: “You know, Rose, Ben’s my friend, but so are you. And I say that until you make a decision, keep 'em both on a leash.” Ben and I obviously ended up getting married, so I guess I react well to reverse psychology!
Dave always took credit for getting us together and we liked to tease him and say we would’ve managed on our own. But he really did play a big part, he and Mads even chaperoning us on double dates when we were shy, young dickheads (leading to the inevitable creation of the unstoppable forces, Mave and Bosie), and for that I am eternally grateful.
Once, when Ben abandoned me for a spell (to visit his family, I think. What a jerk!), Dave and Mads invited me to intrude on their romantic picnic and scuba-diving. We went out to a quiet little beach on the Peninsula and broke Turkish bread over dip for our ‘nutritious’ pre-workout lunch. I was a bit nervous, as I’d never really gone scuba-diving and was also terrified of vicious sea-monsters (like seaweed), so Dave took my hand as we walked out, like a big brother.
It wasn’t the most amazing adventure (the water was choppy and all I really saw was murkiness [filled with killer seaweed though, no doubt..]), but it was a really lovely day and is a fond little memory of mine. It was also the day, after years of knowing me, that Dave and Mads discovered my hair is actually curly, being that it dried naturally back in the car. I remember their shock, as though they’d collected the wrong girl from the beach. “Uh-oh, we’re gonna be in the shit with Ben for losing Rosie!” Or rewarded? Not sure what they’d agreed upon, there.
One lonely Christmas eve, when I had somehow scored the job of staying at home to cat-sit (Ben was AGAIN visiting his family. What is that, twice in 5 years, now? They’re SO demanding), Dave came to the rescue and kept me company online. I asked what pressies he’d received for his recent birthday, and he raved on about this new fancy mouse that had replaced his old one and cost a fortune. Not ‘clicking’ at all, my mind went straight to a furry rodent, which was very confusing because, as I told him, “You have a mouse? I don’t even remember your OLD mouse! And why did it cost so much?”
This was met with a hearty, “HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” (he really rubbed it in) and I immediately realised my mistake.
He did turn my misery to cheer with ease that night, though, even if the funniest moment was due to my idiocy (which is terribly surprising…).
Thanks to Dave, I now also can’t hear the title CSI Miami without laughing. We were playing Charades and Dave came up with this insanely intricate rhyme to help us guess the show. He was certain as hell we’d get it but instead ended up doubled over in laughter when Ben, Melody and I all looked at each other, confused, repeating, “Sea-breast-eye-my-fam-bee. See-breast-eye-my-fam-bee.. What does it all mean?!” Oh, Dave.. You wasted your brains on a pack of dumbasses, that day.
Dave was one of the most thoughtful, considerate men I’ve ever met. He used to ask how you were, as you do, but then follow it up with, “How are you, REALLY?” Ben and I used to repeat this privately in mockery, of course (heheheh), amused that he would overanalyse such a customary greeting, but I think it says a lot about his genuine nature; he wanted to mean everything he said.
He once told me that he liked the number 13 because it got a bad rap and was considered unlucky. He even cared about the feelings of a NUMBER, for Christsake! I don’t think you can top that in sweetness levels.
When such a bright force of life like Dave is yanked from the universe, you feel the void like a wrecking ball to the guts. But my life is so much richer because he was a part of it, and I am grateful to have had him for as long as we did.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
I Think I'll Take a Swim.
http://www.heraldsun.com.au/news/national/blokes-banned-from-dance-sister-dance-at-brunswick-town-hall/story-e6frf7l6-1226013934362
I read an article today about an all female dance party inBrunswick
Failing to accommodate religious requirements can only result in these women staying at home, which is the very segregation supposedly resented. Where special consideration is given to Muslims, people make the quick leap to a topsy turvy world in which, as predicted by Ratepayers Victoria president Jack Davis, “the next step [may] be buses only for various nationalities.” It seems there is little entertainment of the concept of shared power, but rather a misconception that by giving a minority a little power, we lose some of our own; that it will indeed lead to us becoming the minority and that ‘they’ will do unto ‘us’ as we have unto them.
I read an article today about an all female dance party in
Failing to accommodate religious requirements can only result in these women staying at home, which is the very segregation supposedly resented. Where special consideration is given to Muslims, people make the quick leap to a topsy turvy world in which, as predicted by Ratepayers Victoria president Jack Davis, “the next step [may] be buses only for various nationalities.” It seems there is little entertainment of the concept of shared power, but rather a misconception that by giving a minority a little power, we lose some of our own; that it will indeed lead to us becoming the minority and that ‘they’ will do unto ‘us’ as we have unto them.
In a country that boasts its multiculturalism, it is apparently the mostly white and/or Christian Australians who are promoting segregation, and not the newcomers. We should be encouraging those of other nationalities and religions to participate in our community, whilst allowing them the freedom to do so in adherence to their own beliefs. The fact they require our allowance at all is grossly indicative of where all the power currently lies.
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