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.

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.

Both of these women have pantries that look like some sort of Tupperware Mecca. 

Tupperware Mecca

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.

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."   

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?



Prada Cotton Blend Coat

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.  

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?

The new Chelsea Boucle Satchel from Coach

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...

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.

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.



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.

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.