Today in this world a good man is dying. He is not famous and when he does take his last breath, no media outlets will report the loss. Like many men in their mid-thirties, the Good Man is a father, a husband and a friend. He is loyal to his mates, and pretty much as honest as they come. He is not the sort to want me, or anyone else to list his achievements or attempt to use rhetoric to make the ordinary seem extraordinary, and so I won’t. Nor will I dwell on the fact that we will once again lose someone far too young far too soon, because that just seems to be a growing aspect of our world. I won’t focus on the scourge that is ‘the C word’ and its random and ruthless attacks, nor will I use this as an opportunity to remind others of the importance of maintaining a ‘healthy lifestyle’ because let’s be honest, that is no protection against the cruelty of fate.
What I will do is attempt, in my own awkward way, to thank the Good Man for what he has given those around him, perhaps without even knowing he has done so.
I am told that the diagnosis of a serious illness can often prompt people to seek a different lifestyle and with that an alternative means of income. Perhaps those test results, those moments in a sterile doctor’s office is the impetus to do something you never really had the courage to do in the past, or always figured there was still time to do. When he discovered he was ill the Good Man left his job teaching at a local High School and began doing something he had always loved – using his hands to build, to create. He had already built his family home (I mean really build, not the Jewish version, in which “We’re building a house” actually means, “We’ve hired an overpriced architect to design us an obnoxiously large family home – just imagine Tuscan villa meets ‘The Jetsons’ -, and we keep calling our equally overpriced contractor changing our minds about what we want where”), and he began to share his talent.
The Good Man built our back room – the place my children go to play and have parties, to hang out with their friends. This is the room that sees them use their imagination. It is in there that my youngest son paints his random and colourful canvases and it is there that he and his sister often go to create buildings and worlds of their own, granted on a slightly smaller scale. My eldest son uses the room as a space of solace and escape from his two younger and often noisier siblings. My husband exercises in that room – an attempt to reclaim physical and mental health. The space is often referred to as “The Room the Good Man Built”, and whenever Hubby and I consider knocking the entire house down to build a slightly larger, more practical home for ourselves and our three children, our throats catch, for we know it would me the demolition of “The Room the Good Man Built” and the part of himself man puts into everything he creates – not something either of us are prepared to do.
The Good Man built my parent’s deck, a place that is now the site of family barbeques and meals. It is a space we now often gather and a place that allows my mother – now also suffering with ‘the C word’ – to sit and enjoy her newly landscaped garden – something the Good Man also had a hand in. I know this space brings my parents peace – something they have not actually been all that good at finding throughout their lives. My father sits out there and feeds his birds, content to commune with a few small members of Australia’s wildlife. My mother sits at the table, with a mug of coffee or tea, reading a trashy magazine and for a moment at least manages to forget all she has to call me and complain about – something I am truly grateful for.
The Good Man built a pizza oven in his backyard. He called us together and we ate too much, drank too much and laughed far too hard for a group of friends who had recently found out one of their own was now at the mercy of the limited power of medicine. Then he built another oven in the back garden of a mutual friend. Once again, we came together to eat, drink and laugh. To live.
Then it was our turn. Right next to “The Room the Good Man Built” stands a pizza oven which has provided warmth, heat and light as well as mouth-wateringly good homemade pizzas which our families and friends have all shared. Everything tastes better when you’ve had a hand in it. Fresh pizza, hot from the oven was the food of choice at my daughter’s third birthday party last year, as well as at my father’s birthday dinner this year and friends will gather around it in less than a week, when we see in the New Year together.
The Good Man has fixed odds and ends for friends of ours and for people across Melbourne I have never met and will probably never know. When I get angry and frustrated over what has befallen the Good Man and his family I attempt to find consolation in the fact that years from now, after we’re all gone, there will hopefully still be a part of the Good Man dotted all over Melbourne. He will be in a mended fence or step, in a deck and a garden bed, in a back room and a house, and in a series of pizza ovens that will hopefully continue to bring families and friends together to eat and drink, laugh and live.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Room 101
Yesterday I was compelled to sit through my eldest son’s THREE-AND-A-HALF HOUR dance concert.
I’ll just give you some time to let that little fact sink in.
That’s right. Three-and-a half-hours.
Now, I know there are parents out there who will declare me an unfit mother and be on the phone to DHS within seconds for this confession, but I’ve decided the truth must come out regardless of these risks. And the truth is, watching children perform, for the most part, sucks arse.
There. I’ve said it. I absolutely hate it. Notice of an upcoming school concert sends cold tingles down my spine. While for Winston Smith it was a rat chewing at his face, my Room 101 is being stuck front row centre at a primary school’s musical evening. If I could be transported back in time, I would not choose to kill Hitler or Attila the Hun. I would hunt down the sadistic monster who decided that children needed to learn to play the recorder and save mankind from that particular tragedy. Seriously, who in the world declared that device to be a musical instrument? And what crazy person first put it in the hands of a child?
Every year I am forced to sit through my younger son’s school concert. For me it is like nails down a blackboard. The ridiculous narrative, the god-awful dialogue, the clumsy little kids who can barely walk in a straight line, never mind actually dance. Then there are the jazz hands.
I truly believe audience members should receive a Valium and a hip flask filled with vodka with every ticket purchased.
And just when you think it can’t get any worse, the singing starts. The horrendous, off key, it would be funny if it wasn’t so god damned torturous, singing. It makes me want to scream.
Then there is the post-concert nightmare. All the parents, glowing with pride, “Weren’t they just wonderful?! Weren’t they absolutely amazing?!” No they weren’t. They were absolutely awful. They made me want to stick pins in my eyes and champagne corks in my ears. They were a blight on the performing arts industry. They were the furthest thing from “wonderful” possible.
And it seems the more god-awful a particular child is in said performance, the more over-the-top the parent’s response is. Parents who know their offspring are actually okay at being on stage tend to say very little about it. However, in what can only be described as the most bizarre correlation know to science, the parent of the tone deaf, talentless hack who continuously falls over her own feet and spends most of the show pulling her underpants out of her arse crack, will go on ad infinitum about how “blown away” she or he is by Junior’s “amazing” performance.
Is it just me? Surely there are other parents who also head to their little one’s end-of-year kindergarten performance with the same level of enthusiasm they bring to an impending root canal?
I don’t dislike the theatre – quite the opposite. I really enjoy watching a play, or attending the ballet. I love the arts – visual and performing. And I am in no way saying that this area should not be the domain of our children. It absolutely should. I have no problem spending a small fortune on little Nureyev’s lessons every year and I am very happy about the fact that he is doing something active, something that he enjoys and something that affords him the chance to express himself. I enjoy taking him to dance performances and musicals, discussing what we enjoyed about them, and then singing along to the overpriced CD-soundtrack we bought at the theatre on the way out.
However, for the same reason we do not allow little Johnny who may, one day, in many, many years become a brain surgeon, to operate on an actual human until he is trained, qualified and ready, so too should we not allow bumbling little Betty tread the boards until she has proven that she can carry a tune and put one foot in front of the other without falling over. And even then, there should never, ever, ever be jazz hands. Ever.
I’ll just give you some time to let that little fact sink in.
That’s right. Three-and-a half-hours.
Now, I know there are parents out there who will declare me an unfit mother and be on the phone to DHS within seconds for this confession, but I’ve decided the truth must come out regardless of these risks. And the truth is, watching children perform, for the most part, sucks arse.
There. I’ve said it. I absolutely hate it. Notice of an upcoming school concert sends cold tingles down my spine. While for Winston Smith it was a rat chewing at his face, my Room 101 is being stuck front row centre at a primary school’s musical evening. If I could be transported back in time, I would not choose to kill Hitler or Attila the Hun. I would hunt down the sadistic monster who decided that children needed to learn to play the recorder and save mankind from that particular tragedy. Seriously, who in the world declared that device to be a musical instrument? And what crazy person first put it in the hands of a child?
Every year I am forced to sit through my younger son’s school concert. For me it is like nails down a blackboard. The ridiculous narrative, the god-awful dialogue, the clumsy little kids who can barely walk in a straight line, never mind actually dance. Then there are the jazz hands.
I truly believe audience members should receive a Valium and a hip flask filled with vodka with every ticket purchased.
And just when you think it can’t get any worse, the singing starts. The horrendous, off key, it would be funny if it wasn’t so god damned torturous, singing. It makes me want to scream.
Then there is the post-concert nightmare. All the parents, glowing with pride, “Weren’t they just wonderful?! Weren’t they absolutely amazing?!” No they weren’t. They were absolutely awful. They made me want to stick pins in my eyes and champagne corks in my ears. They were a blight on the performing arts industry. They were the furthest thing from “wonderful” possible.
And it seems the more god-awful a particular child is in said performance, the more over-the-top the parent’s response is. Parents who know their offspring are actually okay at being on stage tend to say very little about it. However, in what can only be described as the most bizarre correlation know to science, the parent of the tone deaf, talentless hack who continuously falls over her own feet and spends most of the show pulling her underpants out of her arse crack, will go on ad infinitum about how “blown away” she or he is by Junior’s “amazing” performance.
Is it just me? Surely there are other parents who also head to their little one’s end-of-year kindergarten performance with the same level of enthusiasm they bring to an impending root canal?
I don’t dislike the theatre – quite the opposite. I really enjoy watching a play, or attending the ballet. I love the arts – visual and performing. And I am in no way saying that this area should not be the domain of our children. It absolutely should. I have no problem spending a small fortune on little Nureyev’s lessons every year and I am very happy about the fact that he is doing something active, something that he enjoys and something that affords him the chance to express himself. I enjoy taking him to dance performances and musicals, discussing what we enjoyed about them, and then singing along to the overpriced CD-soundtrack we bought at the theatre on the way out.
However, for the same reason we do not allow little Johnny who may, one day, in many, many years become a brain surgeon, to operate on an actual human until he is trained, qualified and ready, so too should we not allow bumbling little Betty tread the boards until she has proven that she can carry a tune and put one foot in front of the other without falling over. And even then, there should never, ever, ever be jazz hands. Ever.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Natural Talent
This post goes out to all those true believers out there, those who cling passionately to a conviction, despite the critics and the naysayers. This post is dedicated to all those mummies and daddies out there who believe their kids are awesome and amazing, despite the very clear and very precise evidence to the contrary.
As a teacher I have had the pleasure of encountering these kinds of parents, and let me say, there is no greater nightmare. There is no comment that causes a teacher to quake with fear quite like, "I just don't think you have the skills to really bring out the best in my child". The very fact that the seemingly sane parent standing before you believes there even is a "best" in their child pretty much proves how delusional they actually are.
As a parent I believe I am fairly aware of my children’s flaws. While my eldest is quite bright academically, he can also be incredibly bossy and self-righteous. In fact, he has the propensity to be quite obnoxious at times. My youngest, at the tender age of three, is totally indulged thanks to two big brothers and a mother just thankful she was blessed with a daughter after two boys. As a result she can be a bit of a drama queen and a tad - okay, more than a tad - of a princess. My middle child is, well, a middle child in the most extreme sense of the term. To coin a phrase, he has 'issues'. Lots of them. So, in no way do I believe any of my children is even cresting the boarder of perfection. They are each, in their own very special way, incredibly and utterly flawed.
Caught in a conversation with two kinder mums today I was struck by the rose-tinted glasses many parents choose to don whenever they look towards their children.
In past blogs I've mentioned Little Miss It's All About Me. Apparently, it's now also all about Little Miss It's All About Me Jnr, Little Miss IAAM's youngest child. I was not aware this child was so exceptional. I was under the assumption that Little Miss IAAM Jnr was just your average three-year-old. Cute kid, quite friendly and fairly well-mannered. I will admit, I have noticed that she does possess an amazingly beautiful head of hair. Long, luxurious black locks that tumble down her back and gleam in the sunshine. I was not however aware of the fact that she is, according to Little Miss IAAM, "a born leader". Here I was, stupidly thinking that when a three-year-old is picking her nose, she is doing just that. How remiss of me not to realise that she is actually demonstrating keen and insightful leadership skills. But then again, what would I know?
So, Little Miss It's All About Me is chatting to me and a woman I can only refer to as Completely Delusional Mummy - CDM. The three of us are discussing the kinder teacher all our children have shared over the past year. Now, while this particular teacher isn't my favourite, I have found her to be a totally acceptable educator. She has taught my child to be independent, and has been thoroughly honest about my little princess's strengths and weaknesses. All-in-all, I have been quite happy. The two women I was chatting with however were of quite the opposite opinion.
"She hasn't really appreciated how special my son is", complained CDM. Now, CDM's offspring is indeed 'special'. He's known in the class for being the loudest, the craziest, the most 'special' in a whole bunch of ways. According to this woman however, it is the teacher's failings that have resulted in her son being known for being an unruly little shit. It's not, of course, because her child is in fact an unruly little shit.
"I know what you mean.” sighed Little Miss IAAM, "She hasn't given Little Miss IAAM Jnr any real chance to shine..."
What?! No election of class president so Jnr can reveal her instinctive leadership skills? At least give her the chance to be toilet-flush monitor! Or put her in charge of covering the sandpit so the local cats don't piss in it overnight. And to think, this is a private school. Tsk, tsk!
"She really relates best to the parents of the ordinary kids. You know, the ones who have no real clear talent or ability." Little Miss IAAM smiles sweetly at me. I stifle the urge to punch her in the face.
But she's right. At the tender age of three, my daughter has no real clear talent or ability. I consider it a win if she manages to wipe her bottom AND wash her hands after doing a poo. At no point over the past three years and ten months has Princess demonstrated any particular aptitude. So, clearly my little one is not as talented as the offspring of Little Miss IAAM and CDM. I think I can cope with that. And as I spy all three of our children jumping up and down in the dirt, chanting, “I’m the king of the castle and you’re a bit of an arsehole” I wonder which particular genius taught them that little diddy. Surely it was a ‘special’ child, or a “born leader”.
Or even more likely, it was a middle child with ‘issues’.
As a teacher I have had the pleasure of encountering these kinds of parents, and let me say, there is no greater nightmare. There is no comment that causes a teacher to quake with fear quite like, "I just don't think you have the skills to really bring out the best in my child". The very fact that the seemingly sane parent standing before you believes there even is a "best" in their child pretty much proves how delusional they actually are.
As a parent I believe I am fairly aware of my children’s flaws. While my eldest is quite bright academically, he can also be incredibly bossy and self-righteous. In fact, he has the propensity to be quite obnoxious at times. My youngest, at the tender age of three, is totally indulged thanks to two big brothers and a mother just thankful she was blessed with a daughter after two boys. As a result she can be a bit of a drama queen and a tad - okay, more than a tad - of a princess. My middle child is, well, a middle child in the most extreme sense of the term. To coin a phrase, he has 'issues'. Lots of them. So, in no way do I believe any of my children is even cresting the boarder of perfection. They are each, in their own very special way, incredibly and utterly flawed.
Caught in a conversation with two kinder mums today I was struck by the rose-tinted glasses many parents choose to don whenever they look towards their children.
In past blogs I've mentioned Little Miss It's All About Me. Apparently, it's now also all about Little Miss It's All About Me Jnr, Little Miss IAAM's youngest child. I was not aware this child was so exceptional. I was under the assumption that Little Miss IAAM Jnr was just your average three-year-old. Cute kid, quite friendly and fairly well-mannered. I will admit, I have noticed that she does possess an amazingly beautiful head of hair. Long, luxurious black locks that tumble down her back and gleam in the sunshine. I was not however aware of the fact that she is, according to Little Miss IAAM, "a born leader". Here I was, stupidly thinking that when a three-year-old is picking her nose, she is doing just that. How remiss of me not to realise that she is actually demonstrating keen and insightful leadership skills. But then again, what would I know?
So, Little Miss It's All About Me is chatting to me and a woman I can only refer to as Completely Delusional Mummy - CDM. The three of us are discussing the kinder teacher all our children have shared over the past year. Now, while this particular teacher isn't my favourite, I have found her to be a totally acceptable educator. She has taught my child to be independent, and has been thoroughly honest about my little princess's strengths and weaknesses. All-in-all, I have been quite happy. The two women I was chatting with however were of quite the opposite opinion.
"She hasn't really appreciated how special my son is", complained CDM. Now, CDM's offspring is indeed 'special'. He's known in the class for being the loudest, the craziest, the most 'special' in a whole bunch of ways. According to this woman however, it is the teacher's failings that have resulted in her son being known for being an unruly little shit. It's not, of course, because her child is in fact an unruly little shit.
"I know what you mean.” sighed Little Miss IAAM, "She hasn't given Little Miss IAAM Jnr any real chance to shine..."
What?! No election of class president so Jnr can reveal her instinctive leadership skills? At least give her the chance to be toilet-flush monitor! Or put her in charge of covering the sandpit so the local cats don't piss in it overnight. And to think, this is a private school. Tsk, tsk!
"She really relates best to the parents of the ordinary kids. You know, the ones who have no real clear talent or ability." Little Miss IAAM smiles sweetly at me. I stifle the urge to punch her in the face.
But she's right. At the tender age of three, my daughter has no real clear talent or ability. I consider it a win if she manages to wipe her bottom AND wash her hands after doing a poo. At no point over the past three years and ten months has Princess demonstrated any particular aptitude. So, clearly my little one is not as talented as the offspring of Little Miss IAAM and CDM. I think I can cope with that. And as I spy all three of our children jumping up and down in the dirt, chanting, “I’m the king of the castle and you’re a bit of an arsehole” I wonder which particular genius taught them that little diddy. Surely it was a ‘special’ child, or a “born leader”.
Or even more likely, it was a middle child with ‘issues’.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Climbing Ladders
It has come to my attention that some people are just shit at their jobs. Not simply incompetent, but really and truly awful. They don’t truly understand what the vital aspects of their role are and perhaps most disturbingly, they have absolutely no idea of how to get the best out of those around them.
These flaws are most clearly revealed in those erroneously placed in positions of responsibility and leadership which far outweigh their natural talent and abilities. This has been abundantly clear in the case of Ms UnPC.
In the illustrious educational institution that I currently call home Ms UnPC occupies a significant administrative position, a role which requires her to lead and inspire both staff and students. Unfortunately, at present Ms UnPC is about as inspiring as that little bit of drool which oozes out of the corner of your husband’s mouth after he has passed out from drinking a dozen or two too many beers.
However, it must be noted that this was not always the case.
Ms UnPC arrived at the school around the same time I did, and when she first came here she was amazing. She was a wonderful teacher to her students and mentor to other staff. She had previously been teaching at another equally illustrious institution and so was able to instruct a novice like myself on how to navigate the perilous waters I found myself in, or as she put it, “play the game”. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Ms UnPC played the game so well that she was eventually promoted to a position far beyond her natural talents.
Since taking on that position she has become increasingly, well, shit. Now, I firmly believe that people, both young and old will forgive a multitude of sins in their leaders. They will forgive when issues arise or when matters don’t go exactly as planned. Most reasonable human beings understand that everyone at some stage makes a mistake or allows what they should have attended to, to slide under the radar. What is not so easily pardoned is when those in positions of leadership treat those around them, and perhaps more importantly, those they perceive to be under them, badly. Colleagues get even more disconcerted when they’re treated poorly over again not because they have done anything wrong, but because the individual treating them shoddily is simply frustrated by her own inabilities. Simply stated, Ms UnPC got a job too big, too complicated and too demanding, and quickly metamorphosed into an infantile bitch who treats everyone around her like crap because she is stressed. A true leader.
Ms UnPC has been on a sliding slope for a number of years now. Her popularity has plummeted like a post-Divine Brown Hugh Grant. Even her previous fans are no longer singing her praises. Or even whispering them. The shine has indeed rubbed off this once special little lady.
The other day I passed Ms UnPC in the school quad. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping. VCE exams over, most staff are feeling reasonably light-hearted. I smiled and greeted her, “Hi, how are you?” Snout up in the warm air, aging shoulders slightly hunched, she grunted coldly, “Fine.”
I used to be quite close to this woman. I would go to her for advice, to share stories about students. She danced at my wedding and was one of the first colleagues to hold my newborn daughter. For over a year now I have been wondering what I have done to her. Had I put an inexcusable foot wrong? Had I said something I shouldn’t had? Surprisingly, I’m the sort who often says the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time. Who would have guessed?
But I have come to the realisation that this not about me. Even if I have said or done something wrong at some point, she could have come to me and asked about it, at the very worst, told me she didn’t appreciate what I had done and even at a stretch, told me off for it. But the reality is, this is not about anything I or anybody else may have said or done. This is about poor leadership. It’s about someone who still plays favourites and who is so overwhelmed by a job she doesn’t really enjoy that she treats those around her poorly.
So, the teacher that I am, I look for lesson in all of this. It’s okay to make mistakes, it’s okay to have moments when you’re not the best at your job, however, it is not okay to alienate and wrong those you work with. After all, Ms UnPC isn’t the only one able to climb ladders...
These flaws are most clearly revealed in those erroneously placed in positions of responsibility and leadership which far outweigh their natural talent and abilities. This has been abundantly clear in the case of Ms UnPC.
In the illustrious educational institution that I currently call home Ms UnPC occupies a significant administrative position, a role which requires her to lead and inspire both staff and students. Unfortunately, at present Ms UnPC is about as inspiring as that little bit of drool which oozes out of the corner of your husband’s mouth after he has passed out from drinking a dozen or two too many beers.
However, it must be noted that this was not always the case.
Ms UnPC arrived at the school around the same time I did, and when she first came here she was amazing. She was a wonderful teacher to her students and mentor to other staff. She had previously been teaching at another equally illustrious institution and so was able to instruct a novice like myself on how to navigate the perilous waters I found myself in, or as she put it, “play the game”. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Ms UnPC played the game so well that she was eventually promoted to a position far beyond her natural talents.
Since taking on that position she has become increasingly, well, shit. Now, I firmly believe that people, both young and old will forgive a multitude of sins in their leaders. They will forgive when issues arise or when matters don’t go exactly as planned. Most reasonable human beings understand that everyone at some stage makes a mistake or allows what they should have attended to, to slide under the radar. What is not so easily pardoned is when those in positions of leadership treat those around them, and perhaps more importantly, those they perceive to be under them, badly. Colleagues get even more disconcerted when they’re treated poorly over again not because they have done anything wrong, but because the individual treating them shoddily is simply frustrated by her own inabilities. Simply stated, Ms UnPC got a job too big, too complicated and too demanding, and quickly metamorphosed into an infantile bitch who treats everyone around her like crap because she is stressed. A true leader.
Ms UnPC has been on a sliding slope for a number of years now. Her popularity has plummeted like a post-Divine Brown Hugh Grant. Even her previous fans are no longer singing her praises. Or even whispering them. The shine has indeed rubbed off this once special little lady.
The other day I passed Ms UnPC in the school quad. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping. VCE exams over, most staff are feeling reasonably light-hearted. I smiled and greeted her, “Hi, how are you?” Snout up in the warm air, aging shoulders slightly hunched, she grunted coldly, “Fine.”
I used to be quite close to this woman. I would go to her for advice, to share stories about students. She danced at my wedding and was one of the first colleagues to hold my newborn daughter. For over a year now I have been wondering what I have done to her. Had I put an inexcusable foot wrong? Had I said something I shouldn’t had? Surprisingly, I’m the sort who often says the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time. Who would have guessed?
But I have come to the realisation that this not about me. Even if I have said or done something wrong at some point, she could have come to me and asked about it, at the very worst, told me she didn’t appreciate what I had done and even at a stretch, told me off for it. But the reality is, this is not about anything I or anybody else may have said or done. This is about poor leadership. It’s about someone who still plays favourites and who is so overwhelmed by a job she doesn’t really enjoy that she treats those around her poorly.
So, the teacher that I am, I look for lesson in all of this. It’s okay to make mistakes, it’s okay to have moments when you’re not the best at your job, however, it is not okay to alienate and wrong those you work with. After all, Ms UnPC isn’t the only one able to climb ladders...
Monday, November 21, 2011
A Very Incovenient Truth
If I am to be completely honest, I must admit that I am a judgemental bitch. I have absolutely no qualms about passing judgement on the lives and choices of others. Alongside this lovely facet of my personality is the virtue, or perhaps the failing, of having absolutely no problem letting people know when I believe they have made an error of sorts – regardless of whether or not these choices are actually any of my business.
I know it’s wrong. I know a better person would stand by silently, acknowledge that the choices of others’, even best friends’, are not up for critique. Perhaps if I was a better friend I would be able to simply empathise with those I love, and acknowledge that when they come to me they seek support, not a solution. Unfortunately, I am by nature a seeker of solutions. I have never understood the desire to complain about a situation if you are not going to actually attempt to resolve it. In my mind, if there is an aspect of your life that is not working for you, then by all means have a whinge, but then do something to change it. If you don’t, odds are, whatever it is you are complaining about is actually working for you to some extent.
It angers me to see those I love living lives that I believe are hurting them or perhaps, more accurately, living a life of compromise, missing out on what should be theirs, on the existences they should be able to live, simply because of the failings of the men or women they choose to share their lives with. When I see friends in relationships that fail to provide them the love, care, respect and attention I believe they deserve I feel frustrated and occasionally and no doubt ironically, I even find myself angry at these same friends for accepting a life for themselves that I cannot accept.
I acknowledge that at the base of this issue is an assumption that my friends desire the same sort of lifestyle I aspire to, and rationally I know this may very well not be the case. I try to remind myself that the lives I presume to be hurting them or limiting them or frustrating them may in fact be the lives they desire. Perhaps the reality is, the only one their lives are really frustrating is me.
My judgements are based on the assumption that everyone I know and love has similar values and basic desires to mine. I presume that all those I perceive of being similar to me in some way, also share my belief in the value of owning their own home. I presume that they also seek a partner who supports them emotionally, mentally and financially. My judgements are based on the assumption that all parents I know also believe that education is the most important gift they can ever give their children and that dressing up, putting on a spot of lippy and a pair of killer heels makes every woman feel sexy and better about themselves – even if only for a moment. My judgements are based on the assumption that everyone finds the identical attributes worthy of respect and admiration. I am learning that this is very much not the case.
Hubby, hunched over his computer, working late into the evening to ensure he is good at his job, is not a factor which would cause all wives to flush with love. Some would resent the hours he puts in, the endless discussion which centres on our working lives. Some would say that often we pay more attention to our students than our own biological offspring, and at times, they would be right.
I have many failings, but perhaps one of my greatest is that I assume that what I believe is ‘the right way’ is indeed ‘the right way’. We talk about cultural sensitivity, and how as a global society we, in a more tangible way than ever before are willing and able to embrace and respect the multitudes of traditions, values and beliefs that colour our world. And we do. For those who are visibly different, and reside in a world that is clearly alien to us. I would never dare bring my assumptions to some woman living in a mud-hut in Africa with eleven children and a goat. That would be presumptuous and insensitive. But for some reason I have absolutely no problem imposing these same assumptions on my friends living down the street, around the corner or in the very next suburb.
And so, to those I have judged based on my own assumptions regarding what I believed you should want out of life, I apologise. I promise to try to adopt the old “live and let live” adage. But, I give fair warning, come whinging to me about your life and I will tell you the truth... as I see it.
I know it’s wrong. I know a better person would stand by silently, acknowledge that the choices of others’, even best friends’, are not up for critique. Perhaps if I was a better friend I would be able to simply empathise with those I love, and acknowledge that when they come to me they seek support, not a solution. Unfortunately, I am by nature a seeker of solutions. I have never understood the desire to complain about a situation if you are not going to actually attempt to resolve it. In my mind, if there is an aspect of your life that is not working for you, then by all means have a whinge, but then do something to change it. If you don’t, odds are, whatever it is you are complaining about is actually working for you to some extent.
It angers me to see those I love living lives that I believe are hurting them or perhaps, more accurately, living a life of compromise, missing out on what should be theirs, on the existences they should be able to live, simply because of the failings of the men or women they choose to share their lives with. When I see friends in relationships that fail to provide them the love, care, respect and attention I believe they deserve I feel frustrated and occasionally and no doubt ironically, I even find myself angry at these same friends for accepting a life for themselves that I cannot accept.
I acknowledge that at the base of this issue is an assumption that my friends desire the same sort of lifestyle I aspire to, and rationally I know this may very well not be the case. I try to remind myself that the lives I presume to be hurting them or limiting them or frustrating them may in fact be the lives they desire. Perhaps the reality is, the only one their lives are really frustrating is me.
My judgements are based on the assumption that everyone I know and love has similar values and basic desires to mine. I presume that all those I perceive of being similar to me in some way, also share my belief in the value of owning their own home. I presume that they also seek a partner who supports them emotionally, mentally and financially. My judgements are based on the assumption that all parents I know also believe that education is the most important gift they can ever give their children and that dressing up, putting on a spot of lippy and a pair of killer heels makes every woman feel sexy and better about themselves – even if only for a moment. My judgements are based on the assumption that everyone finds the identical attributes worthy of respect and admiration. I am learning that this is very much not the case.
Hubby, hunched over his computer, working late into the evening to ensure he is good at his job, is not a factor which would cause all wives to flush with love. Some would resent the hours he puts in, the endless discussion which centres on our working lives. Some would say that often we pay more attention to our students than our own biological offspring, and at times, they would be right.
I have many failings, but perhaps one of my greatest is that I assume that what I believe is ‘the right way’ is indeed ‘the right way’. We talk about cultural sensitivity, and how as a global society we, in a more tangible way than ever before are willing and able to embrace and respect the multitudes of traditions, values and beliefs that colour our world. And we do. For those who are visibly different, and reside in a world that is clearly alien to us. I would never dare bring my assumptions to some woman living in a mud-hut in Africa with eleven children and a goat. That would be presumptuous and insensitive. But for some reason I have absolutely no problem imposing these same assumptions on my friends living down the street, around the corner or in the very next suburb.
And so, to those I have judged based on my own assumptions regarding what I believed you should want out of life, I apologise. I promise to try to adopt the old “live and let live” adage. But, I give fair warning, come whinging to me about your life and I will tell you the truth... as I see it.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Kitchen Nightmares
Hubby considers himself quite the chef, and to be fair he does do the majority of the meal planning, preparation and cooking in the household. While he is obsessed by the Lifestyle Food channel and can watch the likes of Jamie Oliver and Rick Stein for hours, the one small aspect of cheffing life that has not been picked up by his culinary radar is the cleaning of the kitchen. For some inexplicable reason he does not get that good chefs, real chefs, understand that a clean kitchen is a fundamental aspect of the whole cooking thing.
And while I greatly appreciate the home-cooked meals I and our children are served most evenings, the fact that he seems incapable of actually cleaning up after himself drives me insane. He seems to enjoy using every possible pot, saucer and spoon he can find. Oil splatterings on the backsplash are a specific area of expertise, as are vegetable peels left in a heap on the counter. Perhaps he is waiting for them to grow legs and walk themselves over to the rubbish bin. However, keep in mind that even if this miracle were to occur it would only be of limited assistance as the rubbish itself would have to work out a way to take itself out. No matter how full the bin is, as far as Hubby is concerned, "There's still room".
Hubby's cleaning regime consists of shoving whatever can fit into the dishwasher, and whatever can't fit in, he deems to be in need of 'soaking' - code for leaving it filled with water until I get so sick of seeing it there I wash it myself. Hubby has yet to develop the understanding that if you leave a dirty cooking implement lying on the kitchen counter you will at some stage need to actually clean said counter. Cleaning the oven, stove top, microwave, toaster, is, in Hubby's world, an optional extra. Yet, he laughs furiously while witnessing Gordon Ramsey going through shockingly dirty commercial kitchens, totally unaware of the irony.
I am completely aware that in my last post I contended that I am in no way a domestic diva. And I'm not. At 2:01pm on a Saturday afternoon none of the beds in my home are made and 'The Saturday Age' is strewn across the dining room table. My mother is appalled by my lack of interest in cooking an array of traditional Jewish dishes and bemoans the fact that her most valuable treasure - her secret chicken-soup recipe will die with her (mostly because she prefers that to the idea of passing this family secret on to her Irish-Catholic son-in-law). My mother-in-law is just appalled. But that's a whole other story. I stand by the fact that I do not enjoy cleaning out the family fridge or scrubbing the insides of a grease-coated oven. I can think of many activities I would prefer to participate in . But I do these things. Not because I gain any pleasure out of them, but because they have to be done. Hubby just does not see the necessity. In fact, until I raised the issue he was not even aware that toasters have a crumb-tray.
Foxtel programmers and executives, allow me to suggest a new program for the Lifestyle Food channel. I like to call it, 'Clean the Fuck Up After Yourself'. I want to switch on and see Jamie teaching male viewers how to clean the roasting tray after roasting a "pukka" chicken. I want him to explain how leaving the tray filled with greasy water for 17 days to 'soak' is NOT a precursor to cleaning and will have an adverse effect on your sex-life. I want Rick Stein to explain that when one barbecues a whole bunch of shrimp for a Christmas lunch, it's really important to remember to take out the rubbish. And if you fail to remember to do so, it is totally reasonable for your wife to be very upset with you. I want Gordon Ramsey to start doing home visits, telling men who have been taken in by the 'Masterchef' phenomenon that their kitchens are disgusting, liberally using the 'F-Word' as he does so.
Now that is a cooking program I would watch.
And while I greatly appreciate the home-cooked meals I and our children are served most evenings, the fact that he seems incapable of actually cleaning up after himself drives me insane. He seems to enjoy using every possible pot, saucer and spoon he can find. Oil splatterings on the backsplash are a specific area of expertise, as are vegetable peels left in a heap on the counter. Perhaps he is waiting for them to grow legs and walk themselves over to the rubbish bin. However, keep in mind that even if this miracle were to occur it would only be of limited assistance as the rubbish itself would have to work out a way to take itself out. No matter how full the bin is, as far as Hubby is concerned, "There's still room".
Hubby's cleaning regime consists of shoving whatever can fit into the dishwasher, and whatever can't fit in, he deems to be in need of 'soaking' - code for leaving it filled with water until I get so sick of seeing it there I wash it myself. Hubby has yet to develop the understanding that if you leave a dirty cooking implement lying on the kitchen counter you will at some stage need to actually clean said counter. Cleaning the oven, stove top, microwave, toaster, is, in Hubby's world, an optional extra. Yet, he laughs furiously while witnessing Gordon Ramsey going through shockingly dirty commercial kitchens, totally unaware of the irony.
I am completely aware that in my last post I contended that I am in no way a domestic diva. And I'm not. At 2:01pm on a Saturday afternoon none of the beds in my home are made and 'The Saturday Age' is strewn across the dining room table. My mother is appalled by my lack of interest in cooking an array of traditional Jewish dishes and bemoans the fact that her most valuable treasure - her secret chicken-soup recipe will die with her (mostly because she prefers that to the idea of passing this family secret on to her Irish-Catholic son-in-law). My mother-in-law is just appalled. But that's a whole other story. I stand by the fact that I do not enjoy cleaning out the family fridge or scrubbing the insides of a grease-coated oven. I can think of many activities I would prefer to participate in . But I do these things. Not because I gain any pleasure out of them, but because they have to be done. Hubby just does not see the necessity. In fact, until I raised the issue he was not even aware that toasters have a crumb-tray.
Foxtel programmers and executives, allow me to suggest a new program for the Lifestyle Food channel. I like to call it, 'Clean the Fuck Up After Yourself'. I want to switch on and see Jamie teaching male viewers how to clean the roasting tray after roasting a "pukka" chicken. I want him to explain how leaving the tray filled with greasy water for 17 days to 'soak' is NOT a precursor to cleaning and will have an adverse effect on your sex-life. I want Rick Stein to explain that when one barbecues a whole bunch of shrimp for a Christmas lunch, it's really important to remember to take out the rubbish. And if you fail to remember to do so, it is totally reasonable for your wife to be very upset with you. I want Gordon Ramsey to start doing home visits, telling men who have been taken in by the 'Masterchef' phenomenon that their kitchens are disgusting, liberally using the 'F-Word' as he does so.
Now that is a cooking program I would watch.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Unbounded Domesticity
Recently I have become friendly with two fellow kinder mums. Both are lovely, honest and genuine women. There is absolutely no bullshit about either of them, and believe me, that is not easy to find at a Jewish day school kindergarten. However, while I value my friendship with both of them, what has become abundantly clear is that compared to both of them I am completely and utterly inadequate in the home-making department.
Domestic Goddess is exactly that. Her two daughters' snacks are always home made and it is absolutely nothing for her to whip up a dozen perfectly pink-iced mini donuts for a play date. She cleans out her pantry and fridge once a week and I have never seen any dirt in her house - unless one of my children has dragged it in. Entertaining guests with an array of dietary restrictions and allergies seems to not phase her one tiny bit as she creates artful gluten-free wraps bursting with yummy fillings. This contrasts greatly with my handing over of a slightly bruised apple with an apologetic smile. I could handle all this if Domestic Goddess did not actually work as well. But she does. Granted, not full-time in the traditional sense, but she is a manager at a large company who handles corporate phone-calls on her mobile with ease while breakfasting with Sunshine Cleaning and myself without dropping a speck of her bagel and skinny hot chocolate on her perfectly pressed suit. Thanks to her flexible job she is able to work into the night, after she has tidied up the entire house, made tomorrow's lunches and put her daughters to bed. Her husband has a busy job of his own and as such all domestic tasks fall firmly to her, and she does them. Not only that, she seems to enjoy them.
Sunshine Cleaning's house is startlingly clean. Seriously. It's so clean it's blinding. And she has kids. Two boys. Twins. She also works. She also maintains a vibrant social life, always going out with friends to dinner, having throngs of guests over, kids over to play with her kids - all with this amazing smile on her face. When I first met her I assumed she must be medicated, but once again I have discovered, that she enjoys doing all these things. She enjoys getting down on the floor and playing pretend with a hoard of four year-olds, she enjoys cutting up fruit and presenting it in a way Donna Hay would be jealous of, she enjoys being a mother and wife and everything that goes with it. Apparently she also really enjoys vacuuming.
My pantry on the other hand looks like the 'before' shot - half open pasta packets, flour bags closed with random clothes pegs, and of course an assortment of highly processed snacks for hubby to throw into lunchboxes in the morning, because if he were to rely on me to do it, our children would end up going to school with half a bottle of flat diet coke. There is also always onion and garlic skins around. I don't know why and I don't know how. I have learnt to keep my pantry door firmly shut when Domestic Goddess and Sunshine Cleaning visit.
I would love to be like these two women, who live in homes where the beds being made is a rule, rather than the exception. And there are some days when I come close to being somewhat like them, when I manage to throw out that piece of mouldy cheddar that's been lurking at the back of the fridge. But I'm pretty sure I'm not smiling about it. And I'm very sure I'm not enjoying it.
Perhaps this is less about my inadequacies, my inabilities and more about what I choose to expend my energy on. I suppose I could stay up till midnight vacuuming and cleaning out all those bits of onion and garlic skin, but the reality is, I would far rather be watching a DVD with hubby in my less than meticulous bedroom. Sure, it feels great when I know the house is sparkling clean, but with three kids and two parents working full time and just trying to make things work, that particular pleasure is a rarity. So, I'll take advantage of the joys that happen more often - my three-year old daughter sneaking into bed with me at 6am for an early morning cuddle, my ten-year old son kicking my arse at 'Just Dance 2' and my seven-year old telling me I'm the best mum in the world because for a special treat I let him have a chocolate-chip cookie and that half a bottle of flat diet coke for breakfast.
Domestic Goddess is exactly that. Her two daughters' snacks are always home made and it is absolutely nothing for her to whip up a dozen perfectly pink-iced mini donuts for a play date. She cleans out her pantry and fridge once a week and I have never seen any dirt in her house - unless one of my children has dragged it in. Entertaining guests with an array of dietary restrictions and allergies seems to not phase her one tiny bit as she creates artful gluten-free wraps bursting with yummy fillings. This contrasts greatly with my handing over of a slightly bruised apple with an apologetic smile. I could handle all this if Domestic Goddess did not actually work as well. But she does. Granted, not full-time in the traditional sense, but she is a manager at a large company who handles corporate phone-calls on her mobile with ease while breakfasting with Sunshine Cleaning and myself without dropping a speck of her bagel and skinny hot chocolate on her perfectly pressed suit. Thanks to her flexible job she is able to work into the night, after she has tidied up the entire house, made tomorrow's lunches and put her daughters to bed. Her husband has a busy job of his own and as such all domestic tasks fall firmly to her, and she does them. Not only that, she seems to enjoy them.
Sunshine Cleaning's house is startlingly clean. Seriously. It's so clean it's blinding. And she has kids. Two boys. Twins. She also works. She also maintains a vibrant social life, always going out with friends to dinner, having throngs of guests over, kids over to play with her kids - all with this amazing smile on her face. When I first met her I assumed she must be medicated, but once again I have discovered, that she enjoys doing all these things. She enjoys getting down on the floor and playing pretend with a hoard of four year-olds, she enjoys cutting up fruit and presenting it in a way Donna Hay would be jealous of, she enjoys being a mother and wife and everything that goes with it. Apparently she also really enjoys vacuuming.
Both of these women have pantries that look like some sort of Tupperware Mecca.
 |
| Tupperware Mecca |
I would love to be like these two women, who live in homes where the beds being made is a rule, rather than the exception. And there are some days when I come close to being somewhat like them, when I manage to throw out that piece of mouldy cheddar that's been lurking at the back of the fridge. But I'm pretty sure I'm not smiling about it. And I'm very sure I'm not enjoying it.
Perhaps this is less about my inadequacies, my inabilities and more about what I choose to expend my energy on. I suppose I could stay up till midnight vacuuming and cleaning out all those bits of onion and garlic skin, but the reality is, I would far rather be watching a DVD with hubby in my less than meticulous bedroom. Sure, it feels great when I know the house is sparkling clean, but with three kids and two parents working full time and just trying to make things work, that particular pleasure is a rarity. So, I'll take advantage of the joys that happen more often - my three-year old daughter sneaking into bed with me at 6am for an early morning cuddle, my ten-year old son kicking my arse at 'Just Dance 2' and my seven-year old telling me I'm the best mum in the world because for a special treat I let him have a chocolate-chip cookie and that half a bottle of flat diet coke for breakfast.
Fantasy Report
The other night at dinner the Great Pretender mentioned how my recent blogs have been lacking the tales of students I started off with. Recently The Neighbour's Wife has been devoid of cutting remarks about the stupidity of select young people and their parentage. Did this mean that all my students this year had been perfect?
I must admit, I have been lucky this year. Most of my students, particularly my Year 12 bunch, have been absolutely wonderful, a truly beautiful group of young men who have reminded me why I do what I do. However, do not fear. Some of the young ladies I have had the pleasure of encountering this year, while not entirely atrocious, certainly do provide fodder for my devoted readers. And so, it currently being that most hideous of times - report writing time - I have decided to indulge myself and write the report I would really love to pen and send home to a parent... or two.
_____________________
"Blonde Bogan is a very well groomed young lady. She should be - she spends more time surveying her split ends then she does looking at her work. Her technological understanding is of a superior quality, as is demonstrated by her continual perusal of her own image in her Mac's PhotoBooth and her incessant checking of her Facebook account on the brand new iPhone you purchased for your princess. I am sure however that this gift was bestowed upon her after you were informed of her many achievements. Granted, these triumphs have absolutely nothing to do with this subject, as blowing members of the First XVIII at the back of the bus is not explicitly taught in this particular subject, but no doubt this talent will serve her well in future years.
Her writing talents stretch from the "Blonde Bogan loves cock" which she has artistically etched onto her own pencil case, to the "Mrs Math Teacher is a fucking cunt" lovingly carved into her desk. Her creative talents truly know no bounds. This is no doubt owed to the vast amounts of literature she possesses a detailed understanding of, including but not limited to, Jersey Shore, Gossip Girl and the classic Jackass trilogy.
Blonde Bogan is also an exceptional debater. Her most recent debate with a classmate on the topic of "'Oh my god, you are like, so hot!' 'No! You are!'" proved to be a bastion of philosophical thought; Socratic dialogue at its best. Her generalised comments about 'wogs' and 'asians' demonstrate a deep cultural awareness. In particular, her oral presentation on, 'Jesus was white, okay?' showcased her insightful understanding of historiography and the vagaries of religious belief.
What she lacks in subtlety, Blonde Bogan more than makes up for in eloquence. Her recent observation that "There is no such thing as a good looking fat chick" is only surpassed by her inquiry, "What's so bad about having an eating disorder? You get to be, like, super thin!" Her eye-rolling is expert and her inability to keep her legs together despite the brevity of her skirt is the stuff of porn stars.
It has been truly torturous having Blonde Bogan in my class this year and I wish her the very best of luck for a STI-free future."
I must admit, I have been lucky this year. Most of my students, particularly my Year 12 bunch, have been absolutely wonderful, a truly beautiful group of young men who have reminded me why I do what I do. However, do not fear. Some of the young ladies I have had the pleasure of encountering this year, while not entirely atrocious, certainly do provide fodder for my devoted readers. And so, it currently being that most hideous of times - report writing time - I have decided to indulge myself and write the report I would really love to pen and send home to a parent... or two.
_____________________
"Blonde Bogan is a very well groomed young lady. She should be - she spends more time surveying her split ends then she does looking at her work. Her technological understanding is of a superior quality, as is demonstrated by her continual perusal of her own image in her Mac's PhotoBooth and her incessant checking of her Facebook account on the brand new iPhone you purchased for your princess. I am sure however that this gift was bestowed upon her after you were informed of her many achievements. Granted, these triumphs have absolutely nothing to do with this subject, as blowing members of the First XVIII at the back of the bus is not explicitly taught in this particular subject, but no doubt this talent will serve her well in future years.
Her writing talents stretch from the "Blonde Bogan loves cock" which she has artistically etched onto her own pencil case, to the "Mrs Math Teacher is a fucking cunt" lovingly carved into her desk. Her creative talents truly know no bounds. This is no doubt owed to the vast amounts of literature she possesses a detailed understanding of, including but not limited to, Jersey Shore, Gossip Girl and the classic Jackass trilogy.
Blonde Bogan is also an exceptional debater. Her most recent debate with a classmate on the topic of "'Oh my god, you are like, so hot!' 'No! You are!'" proved to be a bastion of philosophical thought; Socratic dialogue at its best. Her generalised comments about 'wogs' and 'asians' demonstrate a deep cultural awareness. In particular, her oral presentation on, 'Jesus was white, okay?' showcased her insightful understanding of historiography and the vagaries of religious belief.
What she lacks in subtlety, Blonde Bogan more than makes up for in eloquence. Her recent observation that "There is no such thing as a good looking fat chick" is only surpassed by her inquiry, "What's so bad about having an eating disorder? You get to be, like, super thin!" Her eye-rolling is expert and her inability to keep her legs together despite the brevity of her skirt is the stuff of porn stars.
It has been truly torturous having Blonde Bogan in my class this year and I wish her the very best of luck for a STI-free future."
Saturday, November 5, 2011
A-Ha Moment
Yesterday I had what Oprah would call an "a-ha moment". Well, to be completely honest, it was more of an, "Oh my god, I am so pathetic" moment. I sat in front of Tiffany's (normally a space of serenity) and cried. My credit card had been declined by a smarmy, leggy salesgirl. I had overdrawn the family savings account by $99. I was metaphorically smacked in the face by the very sad fact that my shopping is no longer the occasional dose of retail therapy. It is a full blown addiction.
I am Victor Gruen's dream. I enter a shopping centre and the rest of the world melts away. Faced with the sparkling lights and the shiny, stylish window displays, I can no longer recall the details of what I was meant to be doing that day. Clearly I can also no longer remember the fact that I have no money. Time itself stands still. The thrill of a new purchase is an orgasm. Better than an orgasm. It gives you a high, a thrill nothing else can. And then there is the follow-up, the unpacking of the item once you get home. I used to think that I was the only one who relished this particular moment, but thanks to the wonders of You Tube, I have discovered that the joy of 'unboxing' is not something I alone revel in. The sound of that tissue paper, the decision of where in your wardrobe you will hang your new treasure, the first time time you wear it... There truly is nothing in the world quite like it.
As my friend and fellow shopping enthusiast Design Queen has commented, "You have champagne taste". She's right. Unfortunately I have a cask wine budget. I am an avid reader of 'Vogue' and 'Harper's Bazaar'. I routinely fantasise about buying a $6000 Prada coat, so paying $350 for one at Veronika Maine one seems frugal, insignificant even. I mean, seriously, how is $350 going to buy us a bigger house, or a family holiday? So why not purchase myself a little fleeting joy?
But I do not want to be that woman. I do not want to be the woman who ends up putting her family in so much debt, that they lose the house and are compelled to live in their car - especially since my husband's automobile of choice is a 1998 Mitsubishi Magna.
After my cry-fest in front of the world's most famous jewellery store, I came home and handed over my visa and store cards to a quietly frustrated husband. This morning I added up all that I have spent since April 2011 on my addiction. The final tally ladies and gents (minus cosmetics, skin care, undies, stockings, bras, the occasional accessory and other 'necessities') is.... wait for it... $5,357.27. And while I internally excuse myself, knowing full well that my final count is less than the cost of that incredibly cute Prada coat, I also acknowledge that the real cost of my spending is far too great.
While I can pardon myself, blaming an obese mother who could not understand how elastic-waisted jeans never did anything for an adolescent girl's social status, the stark reality is I need to stop. It's going to be a challenge to be a fashion-obsessed non-shopper and honestly, I am not convinced I can do it, but I am convinced that I need to try.
And so, I will attempt to get to December 31st, 2011 without buying any clothing or shoes for myself. As any addict knows, the only way to kick the habit is to tackle it one day at a time. Eight weeks seems achievable. Besides, Boxing Day sales were never really my scene.
I am Victor Gruen's dream. I enter a shopping centre and the rest of the world melts away. Faced with the sparkling lights and the shiny, stylish window displays, I can no longer recall the details of what I was meant to be doing that day. Clearly I can also no longer remember the fact that I have no money. Time itself stands still. The thrill of a new purchase is an orgasm. Better than an orgasm. It gives you a high, a thrill nothing else can. And then there is the follow-up, the unpacking of the item once you get home. I used to think that I was the only one who relished this particular moment, but thanks to the wonders of You Tube, I have discovered that the joy of 'unboxing' is not something I alone revel in. The sound of that tissue paper, the decision of where in your wardrobe you will hang your new treasure, the first time time you wear it... There truly is nothing in the world quite like it.
As my friend and fellow shopping enthusiast Design Queen has commented, "You have champagne taste". She's right. Unfortunately I have a cask wine budget. I am an avid reader of 'Vogue' and 'Harper's Bazaar'. I routinely fantasise about buying a $6000 Prada coat, so paying $350 for one at Veronika Maine one seems frugal, insignificant even. I mean, seriously, how is $350 going to buy us a bigger house, or a family holiday? So why not purchase myself a little fleeting joy?
 |
| Prada Cotton Blend Coat |
After my cry-fest in front of the world's most famous jewellery store, I came home and handed over my visa and store cards to a quietly frustrated husband. This morning I added up all that I have spent since April 2011 on my addiction. The final tally ladies and gents (minus cosmetics, skin care, undies, stockings, bras, the occasional accessory and other 'necessities') is.... wait for it... $5,357.27. And while I internally excuse myself, knowing full well that my final count is less than the cost of that incredibly cute Prada coat, I also acknowledge that the real cost of my spending is far too great.
While I can pardon myself, blaming an obese mother who could not understand how elastic-waisted jeans never did anything for an adolescent girl's social status, the stark reality is I need to stop. It's going to be a challenge to be a fashion-obsessed non-shopper and honestly, I am not convinced I can do it, but I am convinced that I need to try.
And so, I will attempt to get to December 31st, 2011 without buying any clothing or shoes for myself. As any addict knows, the only way to kick the habit is to tackle it one day at a time. Eight weeks seems achievable. Besides, Boxing Day sales were never really my scene.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Love at first sight...
Ladies and gents, I am heads over heels in love. And to make it worse, it's that new flush of love period where all you can think about is the object of your affection. An image pops into my head and my heart skips a beat, my loins surge, I melt into a puddle of cliches.
The subject of such devotion?
I have already imagined myself, filing me papers in this beauty, slinging it over my shoulder, allowing its subtle sequins to catch the light. Hmmmm... no man has ever aroused such desire...
The subject of such devotion?
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| The new Chelsea Boucle Satchel from Coach |
Thursday, November 3, 2011
THAT Line
Today I said farewell to a group of young men who I will miss a great deal. While there were of course, as with all groups, some individuals less amazing than others, on the whole they were one of the finest cohorts I have ever had the pleasure of teaching.
I fell in love with each of these young men a little bit. I fell in love with their youth, their humour, their energy. I fell in love with the way I felt when I was in their company. And I feel wary about admitting that, knowing full well that suspicions do arise when teachers and their older students become 'too close'. And while I know there was absolutely nothing untoward about my relationship with any of these wonderful young men, I am also aware that for some teachers and their students, THAT line does get crossed.
Let me be the first to state that for an intimate relationship to develop between a student and a teacher is an abuse of power. It is wrong. It should never happen. There is absolutely no excuse and the teacher, as the adult, as the one who holds the balance of power, is totally, completely and utterly responsible for any breach of their professional duty. I would love to say that all teacher-student relationships are pure and innocent and that the suspicions which befall teachers are unjust and a product of media sensationalism. However, I can't say that. I can't say that because THAT line does get crossed. I have seen it happen. And it will continue to happen. And this is why.
The physical differences between an eighteen year old boy and a younger man is negligible in most cases. And when disparities are apparent in their physique it is normally the older man that is on the wrong side of those differences. We are bombarded by the media with images of lust-worthy, washboard stomached men, with chiseled cheekbones covered in designer stubble. And in all honesty, the latest Calvin Klein model bears a far more striking resemblance to the captain of a high school football team than to the man who lies next to me every night farting in his sleep. The same goes for the opposite sex. Eighteen year old girls are, on average, far more physically attractive than a thirty-five year old woman, stomach riddled with stretch-marks, thighs dotted with cellulite and boobs sagging from breast-feeding three children. We are programmed to find that youthful confidence and strength attractive. And let's be honest, no matter how much we love our partners, no matter how devoted and faithful we are, there will always be moments when we just want to fuck someone new, someone different. Not because we no longer love our better-halves, but because we want to fall in lust again. We want that first kiss, that urgency, that desperate, aching need to feel those hands. Just for a moment we want more than the once-a-week, I-suppose-we-should-do-it-because-you'll-have-your-period-next-week sex.
High schools are hot-beds. Hundreds of teenagers, hormones raging. They are places of action, of intensity. High school students are for the most part, creatures of the immediate, living today for today. Many are hedonistic, acutely aware of what the years can do thanks to the images of their parents, and determined to devour as much pleasure as they can. Most of the time the teachers are not part of that. But then comes those blurry lines.
A colleague told me the other day that every high school boy has, at one stage or another, had a fantasy about their female (or in some cases, male) teacher. So there we are, the object of lust. Most who become teachers are not accustomed to occupying the role of the desired. At heart we are nerds, geeks, who often have painful memories of being the sullen semi-goth at the back of the classroom, ignored by the opposite sex, unless it was for the purposes of torture or torment. And in some cases we are vulnerable, vulnerable to our own weaknesses, our own desires, vulnerable to the charms of a good looking young man paying us greater attention than we've had in years from our partners.
But that is the line. Crossing over that very fine but very precise line is where a good teacher can go bad. It is one thing to be flattered, to blush, to even at the very extreme have a fleeting thought of 'what if', but stepping over that line is a whole other story.
I fell in love with each of these young men a little bit. I fell in love with their youth, their humour, their energy. I fell in love with the way I felt when I was in their company. And I feel wary about admitting that, knowing full well that suspicions do arise when teachers and their older students become 'too close'. And while I know there was absolutely nothing untoward about my relationship with any of these wonderful young men, I am also aware that for some teachers and their students, THAT line does get crossed.
Let me be the first to state that for an intimate relationship to develop between a student and a teacher is an abuse of power. It is wrong. It should never happen. There is absolutely no excuse and the teacher, as the adult, as the one who holds the balance of power, is totally, completely and utterly responsible for any breach of their professional duty. I would love to say that all teacher-student relationships are pure and innocent and that the suspicions which befall teachers are unjust and a product of media sensationalism. However, I can't say that. I can't say that because THAT line does get crossed. I have seen it happen. And it will continue to happen. And this is why.
The physical differences between an eighteen year old boy and a younger man is negligible in most cases. And when disparities are apparent in their physique it is normally the older man that is on the wrong side of those differences. We are bombarded by the media with images of lust-worthy, washboard stomached men, with chiseled cheekbones covered in designer stubble. And in all honesty, the latest Calvin Klein model bears a far more striking resemblance to the captain of a high school football team than to the man who lies next to me every night farting in his sleep. The same goes for the opposite sex. Eighteen year old girls are, on average, far more physically attractive than a thirty-five year old woman, stomach riddled with stretch-marks, thighs dotted with cellulite and boobs sagging from breast-feeding three children. We are programmed to find that youthful confidence and strength attractive. And let's be honest, no matter how much we love our partners, no matter how devoted and faithful we are, there will always be moments when we just want to fuck someone new, someone different. Not because we no longer love our better-halves, but because we want to fall in lust again. We want that first kiss, that urgency, that desperate, aching need to feel those hands. Just for a moment we want more than the once-a-week, I-suppose-we-should-do-it-because-you'll-have-your-period-next-week sex.
High schools are hot-beds. Hundreds of teenagers, hormones raging. They are places of action, of intensity. High school students are for the most part, creatures of the immediate, living today for today. Many are hedonistic, acutely aware of what the years can do thanks to the images of their parents, and determined to devour as much pleasure as they can. Most of the time the teachers are not part of that. But then comes those blurry lines.
A colleague told me the other day that every high school boy has, at one stage or another, had a fantasy about their female (or in some cases, male) teacher. So there we are, the object of lust. Most who become teachers are not accustomed to occupying the role of the desired. At heart we are nerds, geeks, who often have painful memories of being the sullen semi-goth at the back of the classroom, ignored by the opposite sex, unless it was for the purposes of torture or torment. And in some cases we are vulnerable, vulnerable to our own weaknesses, our own desires, vulnerable to the charms of a good looking young man paying us greater attention than we've had in years from our partners.
But that is the line. Crossing over that very fine but very precise line is where a good teacher can go bad. It is one thing to be flattered, to blush, to even at the very extreme have a fleeting thought of 'what if', but stepping over that line is a whole other story.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Ruby Slippers
I am in the midst of some serious work, preparing thirty young men for what many consider to be the most important examination of their young lives. And yet, I cannot concentrate. Sure, it could have something to do with the fact that at 1:30pm I have already downed three bottles of Hoegaarden, but I actually believe it has more to do with the fashion fever that descends on Melbourne this time every year.
I have a confession to make. This teacher and mother is a complete and utter shop-a-holic. I have the capacity to spend a mortgage repayment on a handbag and not only not think twice about it, but also rationally and logically (in my world) justify it. And so, in my drunken haze, and to avoid marking one more Language Analysis, I present you with the most recent (and possibly entirely unnecessary purchases) of the Neighbour's Wife.
And so, while the truly fashionable and fabulous get to sip Moet and watch the pretty horses (and I don't mean SJP) run by, I sit, still in my pyjamas, listening to the musical wonder that is the Dora the Explorer theme song and trying to explain via email why with less that 48 hours to go to the exam, it's really worth starting to pay attention, and dream about all the chic places I can wear my new purchases.
Somehow, I don't the the English exam will cut it.
I have a confession to make. This teacher and mother is a complete and utter shop-a-holic. I have the capacity to spend a mortgage repayment on a handbag and not only not think twice about it, but also rationally and logically (in my world) justify it. And so, in my drunken haze, and to avoid marking one more Language Analysis, I present you with the most recent (and possibly entirely unnecessary purchases) of the Neighbour's Wife.
 |
| An uber-cute Spencer & Rutherford number. Great size and awesome summer colours. |
 |
| I Love Billy Great price ($79.95) and too cute. Not to mention ultra-comfy. |
 |
| Nine West I love orange! Thick elastic bands also means summer comfort when your feet start to swell. |
 |
| Wittner. I admit it, I did not need these. But the colour! It's like having your feet wrapped in a Tiffany's box. |
Somehow, I don't the the English exam will cut it.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
A good wine
This afternoon I had to put a wine glass in the dishwasher. Granted, this is not the most taxing job I have ever had to do. I’m aware that there are women across Africa compelled to walk great distances carrying water on their heads in order to ensure their families do not perish of dehydration and in light of this fact, my complaint may seem comparatively bourgeois. However, there is a reason why placing this wine glass in the top rack of my dishwasher has me so peeved. There is a reason why I seethe at the injustice of that relatively small act.
The reason is this. That glass was my husband’s wine glass. That glass was the one he drank his Merlot out of at last night’s dinner. That was the glass I reminded him to put away last night before I went to bed – after doing most of the other dinner dishes. That was the glass I commented on this morning, before I went to work, wondering why he could get it to the kitchen counter, but found the extra foot to the dishwasher such a vast, insurmountable distance to cross. I was quickly told he would “get to it”. I should have known then. “I’ll get to it” is the kiss of death as far as Hubby is concerned. It is a blatant assurance that he will never, ever do the job in question.
At the beginning of relationships we ignore our mate’s small flaws, their idiosyncrasies. These attributes may even be part of their charm. However, over time these minor aspects of their personality can begin to mildly irritate. They can in fact lead to long-held grudges and at times quite vocal arguments. Eventually we may find ourselves frothing at the mouth over a Riedel crusted with red wine sediment.
I’ve often contemplated what it is that ultimately tears a marriage asunder. I wonder how often it is the little things that takes a loving couple and turns them into bitter and spiteful archenemies, willing to break any and all moral codes in order to gain their revenge. How often is it the dirty socks and undies abandoned on the bedroom floor, the wet towel dumped on the floor, the snooty tissues left on the bedside table, the breakfast dishes forsaken in the dining room? How often is it the incidentals that finally cause a partnership to dissolve into a vindictive slinging match? How often does one too many dirty wine glasses being left on the kitchen countertop lead to lawyers being called in and a breakout of the age-old battle of “this is mine, that is yours”?
So I advocate not letting those little things build up. Don’t stifle the resentment. Express it. Tell him he has the housekeeping skills of a blind Viking slumlord. Don’t pick up those dirty socks and undies silently. Call him a pig and throw the offending y-fronts at his head. Get all Medea on his arse for failing to pick up his own wet towel. You’re not being a bad wife – you’re saving your marriage from potential disaster.
I’m not sure however that Hubby would agree with my advice. There is at least one thing Hubby and I can agree on. Every now and again we all deserve a good wine… Or whine…
The reason is this. That glass was my husband’s wine glass. That glass was the one he drank his Merlot out of at last night’s dinner. That was the glass I reminded him to put away last night before I went to bed – after doing most of the other dinner dishes. That was the glass I commented on this morning, before I went to work, wondering why he could get it to the kitchen counter, but found the extra foot to the dishwasher such a vast, insurmountable distance to cross. I was quickly told he would “get to it”. I should have known then. “I’ll get to it” is the kiss of death as far as Hubby is concerned. It is a blatant assurance that he will never, ever do the job in question.
At the beginning of relationships we ignore our mate’s small flaws, their idiosyncrasies. These attributes may even be part of their charm. However, over time these minor aspects of their personality can begin to mildly irritate. They can in fact lead to long-held grudges and at times quite vocal arguments. Eventually we may find ourselves frothing at the mouth over a Riedel crusted with red wine sediment.
I’ve often contemplated what it is that ultimately tears a marriage asunder. I wonder how often it is the little things that takes a loving couple and turns them into bitter and spiteful archenemies, willing to break any and all moral codes in order to gain their revenge. How often is it the dirty socks and undies abandoned on the bedroom floor, the wet towel dumped on the floor, the snooty tissues left on the bedside table, the breakfast dishes forsaken in the dining room? How often is it the incidentals that finally cause a partnership to dissolve into a vindictive slinging match? How often does one too many dirty wine glasses being left on the kitchen countertop lead to lawyers being called in and a breakout of the age-old battle of “this is mine, that is yours”?
So I advocate not letting those little things build up. Don’t stifle the resentment. Express it. Tell him he has the housekeeping skills of a blind Viking slumlord. Don’t pick up those dirty socks and undies silently. Call him a pig and throw the offending y-fronts at his head. Get all Medea on his arse for failing to pick up his own wet towel. You’re not being a bad wife – you’re saving your marriage from potential disaster.
I’m not sure however that Hubby would agree with my advice. There is at least one thing Hubby and I can agree on. Every now and again we all deserve a good wine… Or whine…
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
I'm Sick
I’m sick of picking up after other people.
I’m sick of being the only one in a house of five able to scrub toilets and showers and wash out bathtubs.
I’m sick of the juggle – of working out who need to pick up and drop off which kid where and when. Less planning goes into a NASA launch than into your average Monday at my house.
I’m sick of our bank account running out of money on the day I need a haircut.
I’m sick of obnoxious, overly-coiffed sixteen year old girls who think that the world begins and ends with them and that they have the right to treat those they deem less attractive, less popular, less anything as sub-humans. A Year 11 girl justified her indifference to the suffering in the world with, “If it doesn’t affect me, why should I care?” I wanted to punch her in the face.
I’m sick of working for people who are no more intelligent or capable than myself, but who are far better at politicking. I’m sick of bad people managers being put in charge of large groups of staff and then wondering why there are staffing issues. I’m sick of there being so few female role models in the workplace – women who successfully juggle motherhood and positions of responsibility without being a complete bitch – mostly to other women.
I’m sick of idiots running countries.
I’m sick of people claiming that global warming is a myth. They claim many of the events we have seen over the recent past are bound to happen every hundred years or so. Funny how these once-in-a-hundred-years events have all been happening at once.
I’m sick of stay-at-home mums with all their kids in school or day-care complaining about how busy they are.
I’m sick of explaining to my husband how only having sex once a month will result in him only lasting 90 seconds.
I’m sick of advertisements and shop signs with incorrect punctuation. I’m sick of representatives of educational institutions and their various volunteer groups sending out emails without even bothering to do a simple spell-check.
I’m sick of everything in my wardrobe being stained, ripped or missing a button. I’m sick of kids with Nutella all over themselves rubbing their face in my white quilt cover.
I’m sick of ‘Home Beautiful’ telling me that these $4 million dollar homes they feature are full of “vintage finds”. I’m also sick of replica Eames rockers, tulip tables and all other manner of design frauds. I’m sick of white kitchens and faux-Hamptons in the middle of Melbourne. I’m sick of French provincial and anything whitewashed. And people stupid enough to paint their hardwood floors white should be shot.
I’m sick of working hard and getting nowhere. I’m sick of the fact that because my husband is so good at his job he will never be promoted because they can’t find anyone to do what he currently does.
I’m sick of running out of money three weeks into every month. I’m sick of the growing credit-card debt I can’t control. I’m sick of the fact that what is on my VISA is school fees and kinder fees, health insurance and OT payments.
I’m sick of marking papers till midnight and then being told how lucky I am to have all those holidays. I’m sick of the world not realising what teachers do and how hard it can be. I’m sick of lazy, shit teachers giving the rest of us a bad name.
I’m sick of not having a room of my own. Virginia Woolf claimed eighty-two years ago that women need space. She was right. Fuck open plan living.
I’m sick of my two sons wrestling each other at every opportunity. I’m told this is normal behaviour for two males. And we still let men run the world.
I’m sick of sports-people being declared role models. Has Shane Warne and Brendon Fevola taught us nothing?
I’m sick of lazy people who believe the world owes them a living. I’m sick of people who are totally capable of getting off their arses and going to work, sitting home watching daytime television and collecting government benefits. I’m sick of people making excuses for themselves and others. Suck it up and get a fucking job.
Mostly, I’m sick of feeling undervalued and unappreciated. I’m sick of allowing this lack of appreciation to impact on my own self-confidence. I’m sick of the overwhelming self-loathing and the constant fear of being exposed as a fraud, a fear based solely upon how I perceive others view me. I’m sick of feeling compelled to constantly question my own abilities, and I’m sick of my need for external positive reinforcement. I want to be the strong, independent woman I was always promised I would be.
I guess mostly, on some level, I’m sick of me…
I’m sick of being the only one in a house of five able to scrub toilets and showers and wash out bathtubs.
I’m sick of the juggle – of working out who need to pick up and drop off which kid where and when. Less planning goes into a NASA launch than into your average Monday at my house.
I’m sick of our bank account running out of money on the day I need a haircut.
I’m sick of obnoxious, overly-coiffed sixteen year old girls who think that the world begins and ends with them and that they have the right to treat those they deem less attractive, less popular, less anything as sub-humans. A Year 11 girl justified her indifference to the suffering in the world with, “If it doesn’t affect me, why should I care?” I wanted to punch her in the face.
I’m sick of working for people who are no more intelligent or capable than myself, but who are far better at politicking. I’m sick of bad people managers being put in charge of large groups of staff and then wondering why there are staffing issues. I’m sick of there being so few female role models in the workplace – women who successfully juggle motherhood and positions of responsibility without being a complete bitch – mostly to other women.
I’m sick of idiots running countries.
I’m sick of people claiming that global warming is a myth. They claim many of the events we have seen over the recent past are bound to happen every hundred years or so. Funny how these once-in-a-hundred-years events have all been happening at once.
I’m sick of stay-at-home mums with all their kids in school or day-care complaining about how busy they are.
I’m sick of explaining to my husband how only having sex once a month will result in him only lasting 90 seconds.
I’m sick of advertisements and shop signs with incorrect punctuation. I’m sick of representatives of educational institutions and their various volunteer groups sending out emails without even bothering to do a simple spell-check.
I’m sick of everything in my wardrobe being stained, ripped or missing a button. I’m sick of kids with Nutella all over themselves rubbing their face in my white quilt cover.
I’m sick of ‘Home Beautiful’ telling me that these $4 million dollar homes they feature are full of “vintage finds”. I’m also sick of replica Eames rockers, tulip tables and all other manner of design frauds. I’m sick of white kitchens and faux-Hamptons in the middle of Melbourne. I’m sick of French provincial and anything whitewashed. And people stupid enough to paint their hardwood floors white should be shot.
I’m sick of working hard and getting nowhere. I’m sick of the fact that because my husband is so good at his job he will never be promoted because they can’t find anyone to do what he currently does.
I’m sick of running out of money three weeks into every month. I’m sick of the growing credit-card debt I can’t control. I’m sick of the fact that what is on my VISA is school fees and kinder fees, health insurance and OT payments.
I’m sick of marking papers till midnight and then being told how lucky I am to have all those holidays. I’m sick of the world not realising what teachers do and how hard it can be. I’m sick of lazy, shit teachers giving the rest of us a bad name.
I’m sick of not having a room of my own. Virginia Woolf claimed eighty-two years ago that women need space. She was right. Fuck open plan living.
I’m sick of my two sons wrestling each other at every opportunity. I’m told this is normal behaviour for two males. And we still let men run the world.
I’m sick of sports-people being declared role models. Has Shane Warne and Brendon Fevola taught us nothing?
I’m sick of lazy people who believe the world owes them a living. I’m sick of people who are totally capable of getting off their arses and going to work, sitting home watching daytime television and collecting government benefits. I’m sick of people making excuses for themselves and others. Suck it up and get a fucking job.
Mostly, I’m sick of feeling undervalued and unappreciated. I’m sick of allowing this lack of appreciation to impact on my own self-confidence. I’m sick of the overwhelming self-loathing and the constant fear of being exposed as a fraud, a fear based solely upon how I perceive others view me. I’m sick of feeling compelled to constantly question my own abilities, and I’m sick of my need for external positive reinforcement. I want to be the strong, independent woman I was always promised I would be.
I guess mostly, on some level, I’m sick of me…
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