Style Alert

Recently I have noticed the emergence of a new trend. Actually, it’s not entirely new. To be honest, it is a fashion that has been around for quite a while, but it has recently made a big comeback. Huge. Unfortunately, it’s not a style that suits most. Ladies and gents, the latest craze that seems to have taken the world by storm is that gaudy, flashy, over-the-top, but nonetheless seemingly irresistible touch of narcissism.

Now while I believe that there are many out there who actually need an extra-helping of self-love, I have encountered a few of late who may want to consider taking a step back and pondering others. You know, just for a moment or two.

Narcissist No 1 – Manic Fairy is actually quite a lovely woman; unfortunately the person she is most lovely towards is herself. She has one child. She does not work. Her husband does not work. How these people manage to put food on the table and keep a roof above their heads is one of our universe’s greatest mysteries. Granted, Manic Fairy has been through some tough times lately and she is quick to acknowledge that she has survived in part thanks to her friends. Manic Fairy is vibrant and beautiful. She is one of those individuals who can make a friend in a room full of strangers. I think if they had got her to have a quick chat with Saddam she probably could have managed to convince him to reconsider the whole oppression of his people plan and be well, just a little bit nicer. And so, when Magic Fairy asks you for a favour it’s hard to say ‘no’. Well, at least it’s hard for me to say ‘no’. And so she asks, and I do, and she asks and I do, and she asks and I… you get the picture.

The last time she asked me to have her child for a day I really didn’t want to say ‘yes’ but it’s hard to say, “No, I can’t help you out because my life is really hectic at the moment, and besides my kid hates your kid.” And so, using the wonder that is a passive-aggressive response that generations of Jewish women have perfected, I replied, “Sure. I mean I have a mountain of work to do, but it shouldn’t be too much of a problem.” I’ll be honest, I was expecting a “don’t worry about it” or at the very least, “if you have my kid Saturday, I’ll take yours Sunday”. But alas, Manic Fairy simply thanked me for my offer and wished me the best of luck with my work.

On reflection though, the biggest issue with Manic Fairy might be me. Her highly evolved sense of me, me, me may just be here to teach me how to say “NO!” something I think many women feel quite frightened of – myself included. Her responses make me consider whether it is in fact a lack of self-love on my part that is the real problem.

But, not all narcissists are the same.

Narcissist No 2 - Now, I have acknowledged Manic Fairy is lovely and beautiful, friendly and engaging. Little Miss It’s-All-About-Me is not. In fact, when I first met Little Miss IAAM my gut told me to stay away from the bitch. I need to learn to listen to my gut.

Little Miss IAAM is one of the most self-absorbed human beings to walk the planet. She does nothing for anyone unless she is able to tell the world how amazing she is for doing it. This is a woman for whom publicity is key. She regularly tells people how many friends she has on Facebook – yes, I’m serious. You didn’t think people actually did that, did you? Her mission in life this year has been to capture the highly un-coveted role of Parent Association President. She has yet to realise it’s all hers – mainly because nobody else wants it. Her tactical plan of how best to secure such a lofty position is to regale all who will listen with tales of her greatness. “I’ve managed to get such amazing prizes for the raffle…”, “I’ve convinced someone to give us this and that..”, “I just don’t stop…” She’s right. She doesn’t stop. Poor girl, hasn’t anyone told her that all she needed to do to be elected Pres is put her hand up?

I am just disappointed that no network has realised what an amazing reality television show this woman’s life would make. Think about it, you could have the close-up footage of her public, grandiose promises and then a quick cut to the scene of the promise unfulfilled and her looking on, totally blank faced. What promise? Huh? Have I told you how popular I am lately? No, really, have I told you?

This woman actually had a fund-raising event postponed until she returned from holiday in the honest belief that only she could fill a hall. “You know, I am quite social…” Lost for words doesn’t even cover it.

This kind of woman angers me to the core. There are hundreds, thousands, possibly millions of women out there suffering from a lack of confidence. Women who continually perceive their best to be just not damn good enough. Perhaps it is women like Little Miss It’s-All-About-Me who have stolen the self-love. They are hording it, keeping it locked in a box somewhere while us ordinary women lie back at night and ponder every mistake, faux pas, and possible fuck up we have made that day.

A little bit of self-love is a great thing. It’s something most of us need more of. But I guess it’s kind of like wearing something bright and garish. A touch of something bold brings you to life, makes you stand out for all the right reasons. Like all other fashions though, too much ‘me’ and eventually you’ll be thrown into a garbage bag destined for the Salvo bin.

Zero Tolerance

You may have already noticed that I'm not your lollipops and sunshine kind of girl. Recently I have endured a spate of attempting – quite purposefully – to be more... well... 'happy' I guess is the right word. I decided to endeavour to constantly see the positive – in people, in situations, in my life as a whole. And this exercise was certainly useful. I discovered I have far more choices than I thought were available to me. I learnt that I am in the right profession – for the moment anyway – and if I want a change there are options. I took up weekly exercising with two friends to try the whole 'healthy body, healthy mind' shtick. My husband and I enrolled our eldest in a different school for the upcoming academic year rather than leaving him in a place that I know in my heart of hearts is no longer the right place for him. I have a workman coming over this afternoon to give us a quotation on converting our never-used garage into a kid-zone so hubby and I can have more peace. I am not caught or stuck. My life is, to a large extent, what I make of it.

However, at base, I am not a positive, silver lining in every cloud chick. I am sarcastic, cynical and it takes me a while to trust anyone. I do envy those women who have that magic charisma, the ones who everyone loves, most often born out of them being nice to everyone. I am not nice. I'm not mean (most of the time), but I don't think anyone would ever describe me as 'nice'. The one attribute I have always thought I possessed however, is tolerance. I consider myself to be quite a tolerant individual – in part thanks to my own children and in part thanks to the students I have taught over the years. I have taught sixteen year old convicted rapists, believing that everyone makes poor choices at some point in their life and we all deserve a second chance. I have friends who still drive around in a car with 'Kevin 07' stickers plastered across the back and those who are actually considering voting for Abbott. Having a younger son who is now officially 'on the spectrum' has made me amazingly tolerant of personal ticks. My husband is, at this very moment, donating sperm in an effort to impregnate his lesbian sister's partner, with my blessings. So on the whole, I consider myself a pretty tolerant human being.

That being said, there is one thing that I have zero tolerance for – stupidity. No matter how hard I try I simply can't abide it. Stupidity is not making a mistake – we all do that. Stupidity is continuing to make the same mistake over and over and over and over again.

Let me tell you the story about a principal of a very small school – a school desperate to build numbers. And let me tell you about her reaction to the current President of the Parents Association when she asked said principal if it was possible to give parents seven days notice for any upcoming events in which their children were performing so parents could endeavour to be there. This request came as the result of multiple occasions in which parents were notified the night before of a student performance the following morning. This was not a new problem. This was an issue that had been discussed many times over recent years. Said principal did not respond to an email requesting this. She did however respond in 37 minutes to an email from this same woman informing the school that her eldest son would not be returning to the school in 2011. When the woman approached her personally the principal blamed everyone else – it was this person, that person, the situation, the way it was handled by others, she had no choice, blah, blah blah. In the end the parent was forced to walk away saying, "Forget it. It doesn't really matter." This woman said this because she realised it didn't matter what she said and how many times she said it – the fact is this principal is an idiot. She is an idiot for not valuing her parent body as a whole, but playing favourites to an elite few. She is an idiot for making it abundantly clear why she is such a poor leader – good leaders don't blame their underlings, they inspire those working for them to do better next time. She is an idiot for crystallising for this woman why she is pulling her eldest son out of the school and making her wonder why she is keeping the other two in.

Do I wish I was able to be more tolerant of the many morons who litter our world? Certainly. But I told you, I'm just not that nice.

Let the Sunshine In

Recently friends and I have become increasingly intolerant of a fellow Grade 3 mother who a fellow blogger has aptly named 'Helicopter Mum'. Now, as a teacher I have certainly encountered my fair share of insane parentals. There was the couple who elected to throw an A-Grade tantrum complete with threats to my personal physical safety if their beloved little boy did not achieve a specific score in the subject I was lucky enough to teach their equally insane offspring. On the other side of the spectrum was the mother who decided that the best way to communicate her passion for her son to achieve a perfect score was to hold my hand through an entire Parent Teacher Interview - just a tad awkward. There was also the mother who looked deep into my eyes and declared, "My son tells me EVERYTHING..." – a little creepy considering she was referring to a seventeen year-old.

So, while I have witnessed bouts of over-protectiveness from a range of parents in my professional life, I am now coming face-to-face with them in my personal life as well. And let me just say these sort of people drive me nuts. I firmly believe they have much to answer for – raising a generation of insipid, mollycoddled, scared of their own shadow, where's my mummy, tantrum throwing, overgrown babies being the first charge. I am a big believer that in 99% of cases kids will bounce back from whatever is thrown at them as long as they have a strong and stable foundation. Most of the time our children are a hell of a lot more resilient than we are and certainly a lot more resilient than many give them credit for being. This particular Grade 3 mother would disagree vehemently. She sees protecting her children from this big, scary world as her most holy of missions and in the process of fulfilling her destiny, she has been driving me (and many others) progressively insane.

Now, perhaps this is my own fault to a certain extent. I was warned. Many attempted to tell me that this well-meaning, non-aggressive and incredibly vague woman was in fact completely and utterly intolerable. Let me be clear – Helicopter Mum is not a bad person. I do believe that she really does want the best for her children and for those around her. She is very vague – so vague that for years I assumed she was constantly stoned. I now realise she is just really slow. But while I find this frustrating, I cannot condemn her for this flaw alone. I can however condemn her for being the most depressing human being on the planet. For a hippie, she lets in very little sunshine. Helicopter Mum focuses constantly on the negatives – the school we send our children to is "very ordinary", the art teacher isn't creative enough, the classroom teacher in Grade 2 was too lenient and the Grade 3 teacher is too harsh, blah, blah, blah. Her daughter is interested in going to summer camp and she's trying to work out a way to stay at the campsite over the course of the week because Precious "won't cope on her own". Precious will cope fine. Precious is actually an awesome kid, surprisingly well-adjusted despite the insane smothering. Helicopter Mum is the one who wouldn't cope.

However what I am beginning to realise is the helicopter phenomenon begins long before the child enters the school gate. Recently friends have had their first child. Well, they say they have. I cannot confirm this fact because neither I, my husband, nor most of our friends have as yet laid eyes on the baby in question. A lovely mutual friend was recently blessed with "a window of between five and ten minutes" with which to come and visit the newborn. Translation: Drop by and hand over the pressie. Now leave. I would like to officially christen this particular new mother Vapid Princess. Apparently, she has found the stress of moving into her new McMansion so overwhelming that she finds basic hospitality simply beyond her. Is it the fear someone will breathe on Vapid Princess II? Break her? Or might a visitor mistakenly drop crumbs on her custom made shabby chic white linen couch? Has, Vapid Princess in fact had her little bundle of joy without reading the fine print of the parenting manual – you know the bit that says having children is a messy business, filled with vomit and shit and lots of crumbs on your all white-interior. If, at the age of less than one month VPII is being shielded from the horrors of the real world what hope does she have?

But I really do wonder, who are these helicopter parents protecting with all their hovering? Is it really their children? Or is it themselves? By claiming to be 'protecting' their young ones are they really just attempting to legitimise wanting to keep their own heads in the clouds? Is it in fact these parents who are terrified of the real world?

Being a parent is scary. There are so many variables out there that one cannot control, things that can potentially hurt and harm those little people we love so much. But hovering doesn't cause those potential dangers to evaporate. The world can be scary. But it can also be an amazing, exciting place full of infinite possibilities. Helicopter parents need to think about what their hovering is really shielding their child from. Often, all that hovering simply prevents young people from seeing that bright blue sky above their own heads.

Chanel Bikini

Today I met a woman who taught me what I probably already knew – that I'm a judgemental bitch who more often than not doesn't appreciate what she has.

The fam and I went to a nearby beach for the day. It hadn't been an easy morning. Hubby and I had been fighting over something incredibly stupid – I'd tell you what it was if it had been significant enough to remember. It was more one of those fights that are the result of the stress of just being an adult who is not a gazillionaire. The stress of going back to work and coming to face to face with the very real fact that you are "just a teacher". Recognising that the mortgage is eating up so much of your combined income that the much coveted en suite is looking more out of reach than ever. Understanding in some vague way that you are really only a couple of steps away from what used to be called "poverty" (now referred to as "living on credit") but nonetheless spending money you don't have in a pathetic attempt to make you feel better – even for a moment. The stress of knowing that your eldest son is probably not attending the best school for him, but the decision to actually remove him is just too hard. The stress of mother-in-laws and sisters and their endless capacity for pissing people off.

So, by the time we actually got to the beach I was already emotionally worn out. And there they were. The three of them. The thin, leggy blonde with skin that revealed a life of endless beachside holidays (or a really good solarium) in her black Chanel bikini (do people actually buy those?), her dark, muscled, handsome hubby who clearly has the time and the inclination to wake up early to meet his personal trainer, and their four-year-old little princess with her golden curls. I just knew there was a Range Rover with tinted windows parked in the car park. In short the perfect, gorgeous, magazine proof family. Total pukeville.

Princess Golden Curls quickly befriends my little princess, despite my little girl's very unprincess-like peanut butter smeared face, a head full of sand and a pair of little swimmers we all know are filled with more than just the clear blue water of the ocean. And so I am forced to come face to face with Mrs Chanel Bikini. The diamond ring on her wedding finger is bigger than my right butt cheek and worth more than my house. She is sporting the newest Gucci sunglasses and the gusts of wind which were blowing my hair into a freakish "do" seemed to be passing directly over her, not touching even a single blonde strand.

I admit, I assumed Mrs Chanel Bikini would be obnoxious. I assumed she would look down on me in my tatty cheesecloth skirt and old singlet. But the truth is, she was none of that. She was, despite the perfect packaging, a friendly and genuine person. She was incredibly open and forthcoming, so forthcoming that she revealed that she and Mr Muscle had been trying to conceive a second child for the past two years and were now becoming quite desperate. She wistfully told me of her desire to give Princess Golden Curls a little brother or sister as my younger son ran screaming into the waves. She looked on as my eldest son held his younger sister's hand and helped her navigate the shells and seaweed that littered the sand. For the first time I looked at a woman dressed in Chanel and felt nothing but shame for all I had.

I hope Mrs Chanel Bikini is able to give Princess Golden Curls an equally beautiful sibling. I really do hope that she and Mr Muscle are able to expand their perfect family and that they raise those gorgeous children to be as honest and genuine as their mother. And I hope that one day I wear a diamond as big as my right butt cheek.

Auld Lang Syne

I love New Year's Eve. There are very few worldwide events that I enjoy. As a Jew, Easter and Christmas have never really done much for me (other than the whole decorating aspect - I could so get into that aspect of Christ's little bday party!). After marrying a nice Christian boy, I discovered Christmas actually means painful get-togethers with people I would rather drown than drink with, which made it even worse. It's not only religious based events that repel me. Hubby always works on Cup Day and thus 'the race that stops the nation' just means babysitting duty for me. I loathe the Olympics and resent the bad television we miss in order to watch some eleven year old girl jumping around with a ribbon. How is that sport? I have thus far avoided planting trees on a specific day allocated by some committee, and refuse to help clean-up Australia. After all, where is everyone when it's time to clean-up my house? As a self-confessed shopaholic the one day of the year I abstain from this holiest of ventures is Boxing Day. As the flocks are bussed in to rifle through crap from fourteen years ago that has been ceremoniously dumped on the most convenient trestle table, I maintain my distance from Melbourne's shopping meccas and give my Visa a well-deserved rest.

But New Year's Eve is different. It is the one time you feel like the whole world has permission to PARTY. I like to think that even the most uptight, buttoned down, repressed individuals on the planet are gettin' down and filling their cars with cartons of their favourite beer. Good cheer? Christmas dinners with Great Aunt Fay complaining about "kids these days" and then falling asleep on the couch as cousin Tiffany accuses everyone at the table of conspiring to make her fat, simply can't compare with the chance New Year's Eve provides for us all, at least in some small way, to start again. This year, to celebrate what I believe is the world's greatest annual event, Hubby and I have decided to host a kid-friendly bash - complete with mirror balls (I can't resist party kitsch!), kids treasure hunt, ice-cream sundae bar and a resolution tree.

Now, Hubby and I differ enormously on the whole resolution thing. I see it as a potentially sacred event. He sees it as an opportunity to make incredibly humorous remarks like, "I promise to drink more beer in 2007". I truly believe the contemplation needed to decide on one's New Year's resolution promotes the kind of self-analysis everyone needs occasionally. New Year's Eve allows individuals to face their weaknesses and attempt to overcome them. It is an opportunity for self-reflection and momentary honesty about the person we are and the person we wish to become.

I have many weaknesses - many, many, many weaknesses. And to say I will address them all in this New Year would be unrealistic. There is however one aspect of my nature that I would like to, ahem, 'work on'. I'm not a great friend. I try to be, but the bottom line is, I'm not. I get easily sidetracked by other aspects of my life, as I think many of us do. Family, work, the house and let's not forget me, me and me. Now, up until recently this has never been a huge problem because until recently I was blessed (or cursed - not sure which) with rather average friends who pretty much operated the same way I do. I'll call you when I need you, which may or may not coincide with when you need me. They were, and too a large extent, still are, individuals who place themselves and their interests on a plane high above anybody else's and thus you feel comfortable and quite frankly, completely entitled to do likewise.

But over the last few years I have come to know a number of women who deserve far better than what I have been giving. They are honest and generous and I truly know I could call them at any time for any reason. I have shed many of my old friends, making room for those who accept me even without make-up. I can be honest with them when things aren't perfect, when the bank-balance isn't as healthy as I would like it to be. I can tell them when I feel down, or tired or when I'm just not coping with everything that life throws at us. I can go to them when I doubt myself for some much needed bolstering. Around them I don't always have to be confident and on top of it all. They see the fraying edges and love me despite them. They are who I now refer to as "Friends I Don't Have To Clean For".

So in 2010 I say to hell with Auld Lang Syne. In 2010 I resolve to be a better friend to those who I know and love now. I resolve to text less and call more, to resist the urge to lie and say all is great. I resolve to gossip less and be truthful more, to recognise that friends are of far greater value than what the boss thinks of you. I resolve to stop worrying about those who have proven time and time again that they are not good friends and instead focus on being a better friend myself.

Happy New Year.

The Look?

So here I am, minding my own business, enjoying a mid-morning cup of coffee and flicking through today's Sunday Life magazine. Since its revamp the Sunday Life has been a bit touch-and-go. It's having a little bit of trouble deciding on its new identity. Is it, as it proclaims to be The Sunday Age Magazine? Or is it perhaps The Sunday Age Magazine for Women Between the Ages of 25-40 Who Have an Enormous Disposable Income and Enjoy Being Patronised? Alternatively, it has crossed my mind that it is simply a 45 page advertising feature. Nonetheless, solid mindless fodder when your two-year-old has scribbled all over the Good Weekend's Samurai Sudoku.

According to one Ms Thelma McQuillan on page 35 of this week's Sunday Life, "one of summer's hottest trend is the new playsuit". Let me state this once and let me be VERY clear - unless you happen to be over six feet tall and a size 2-4 there is NOTHING remotely "hot" about a playsuit. As its very name suggest, a playsuit is appropriate for one thing and one thing only - playing. When you're three years old. If you ask me, the very idea of suggesting that grown-up women don clothing appropriate for toddlers playing in the sandpit is a little creepy.

I don't care of Ms McQuillan claims that this one-piece wonder is "super-versatile". For all of you out there contemplating the $395 Ginger & Smart disaster pictured, ask yourself is this is honestly what your life needs right now. McQuillan suggests adding "heels and jewels" to turn the "super-versatile" playsuit into instant evening wear. Is she serious? No item heralded as the fashion of tomorrow should require a woman to totally undress in order to sit on the toilet.

"The Look"? I think not.

Lights and Peanut Butter Crusts

I need to know.
I simply must know what makes men so incredibly and unbelievably stupid. Before my male readers take an oath never to read this blog again, you should be aware that this is a genuine attempt to help my very female self understand why it is that what seems so very basic to those of us born sans penis, our male counterparts struggle to comprehend.

Hubby is what I would consider to be an intelligent man. He can explain the minutia of Cold War relations and actually understands – as much as anyone can - Obama's plan for health care reform. However, despite having the intellect to be able to tell a good Brezhnev joke and know why it's funny, he cannot understand why leaving fourteen lights on when you leave the house is a bad thing. Nor can he get his head around the fact that, for the most part, if you want your two year-old daughter to put her peanut-butter sandwich crusts into the bin, you will have to TELL her to do so. Hubby also struggles to grasp the concept that Little Princess will often neglect to inform you that she has mashed those lovely sandwich crusts into the dining room carpet. He believes the highly complex excuse "I didn't see it" is sufficient to acquit him of all charges. Further, he truly believes it is I who am being unreasonable. Expecting him to look either up or down is clearly a mark of my always too high demands.

But Hubby truly excels himself every time his mother is in town. For some reason men who are for the most part, able to function on a normal (albeit male) level are thrown into a spin the moment a ditzy (dyed) blonde who happened to have given birth to them comes into the picture. Now it wouldn't be nice to refer to his mother as Useless-WASP-Who-Has-Never-Contributed-Anything-To-Society-Other-Than-Keeping-Her-Home-Dust-Free, so instead she shall be named Mommy Dearest. Mommy Dearest has never worked. In fact, she believes working is "demeaning" – her words. Mommy Dearest had two children 5 years apart because she couldn't possibly have coped with having more than one at home at a time. Hubby's memories of his childhood include washing his hands and watching Mommy Dearest vacuum – a lot. When our eldest son was born Hubby was astounded to discover that it was okay for children and their mothers to be seen in public and they in fact did not have to always be at home in the throws of domestic bliss. Mommy Dearest washes all the towels and linen in her home every day. In my honest opinion Mommy Dearest has some serious issues.

Mommy Dearest can also be a bit of a bitch. After two days in a car listening to endless rounds of Wiggles music, punctuated by the always loved "Are we there yet?", to visit MD and her new husband, who shall henceforth be known as Sleazoid Nazi (a whole other story), Mommy Dearest enquired what our plans were for dinner. Hubby was off to a Bucks Night to catch up with old school buddies and so it was just me and the kids (in a hotel room, because we couldn't possibly stay in her three bedroom, two bathroom, three living areas home – "Simply not enough room" she claimed, with a straight-face). When I said I had no plans as yet, MD helpfully informed me that there was a supermarket just down the road from where we were staying. Thanks. You're awesome.

But the part that really pisses me off is that MD has zero interest in seeing her grandchildren. She does of course, for precisely 90 minutes every time she comes to Melbourne. At some stage she must have been told that 90 minutes is the minimum amount of time you can visit family and then leave without seeming rude. But I know even these visits are not so much to see the kids, but more so she can report back to her parochial, gossiping friends that yes, she too has seen her grandchildren. All her friends are doing it, and the only thing worse that having to spend time with noisy, sticky children, would be not doing what all your friends are doing. Although she still can't for the life of her understand why my five year old human hurricane doesn't want to sit and have a cup of tea and a nice chat with his nanna. Go figure.

And yet, despite acknowledging that he doesn't like his mother, doesn't respect her, hates spending time with her and has to drink a double scotch just to get through a ten minute phone conversation with her, Hubby will still attempt to move heaven and earth to make sure Mommy Dearest gets what Mommy Dearest wants when she wants it. I, who have stood by him when we had nothing, ate two-minute noodles for months on end because that's all we could afford, carried and birthed him three beautiful children am declared unreasonable for suggesting that MD can simply go fuck herself.

So, I ask, what makes men think so differently to women? Why do they so fear telling the truth? They can start world wars from the safety of an office desk, but they seem unable to say, "Mum, why are you so selfish and self-absorbed? Would it be so hard to boil up some pasta for your daughter-in-law and grandkids?"

I know males aren't born that way – my eldest boy is, at the tender age of 8, far wiser than I am on a number of levels. So, what happens? Is it hormones? Is it societal roles that we just adapt to without even knowing it? Or is it the mothers themselves? Do mothers raise boys somehow differently, expecting more on some levels and infinitely less in regards to others? Or is it about the way some mothers represent themselves? Has Mommy Dearest knowingly raised a boy who has turned into a man who will never tell her the truth because she has marketed herself as fragile and unable to cope?

Whatever the reason I encourage male readers to make two solemn promises today. Promise the woman who continues to share your bed despite your flaws that you will always look up to see if the lights are on and look down to check for peanut-butter crusts.