I just finished writing the first sex scene in my book – that’s right, cold showers for everyone. Actually, there was no sex, just the messy beginnings. And it got me thinking, are the yoof of today having better sex than we did in the dark ages before Sex and the City?
Let me explain further. I’ve been watching a crappy new TV show, The Secret Circle, which is based on the books by LJ Smith, who also penned The Vampire Diaries. In one of the early episodes, two pairs of high school kids–probably around 17–were having sex, and the girls were
wearing lingerie.
LINGERIE!
And no,
I’m not talking about a pair of Cottontails or even pettipants, I’m talking satin and lace, matching tops and bottoms. Don’t get me wrong, I like a nice pair of knickers, but is this really what today’s kids are wearing under their skinny jeans?
Secret Circle - Is this what teens are wearing under their skinny jeans?
Or maybe these pettipants?
And if that wasn’t bad enough, these young couples were having perfectly polite sex in their own beds! With lovely white sheets and fluffy pillows.
Seriously, is that how the kids do it these days? Whatever happened to the back of a car, a football oval, the cheapest motel in the area or some random room at a party with no lock on the door and a constant stream of interruptions?*
Or maybe it’s just TV that’s painting these pictures?
Kids, seriously, the future of film, TV, books and teen pregnancy depend on you having awkward, messy sex in a broken down car on the side of a freeway while wearing light blue Cottontails.**
But whatever, I promise you this, the sex scenes in my books ain’t pretty. They’ree unlikely to happen in a bed, and let’s just say that nobody’s going to give a shit about what kind of knickers they’re wearing.
* & ** Disclaimer – These are just silly, silly things that have never ever happened to me or anyone close to me. Ever.
I’m currently at the country house writing and hanging out with the dogs while Jeff works 3 jobs in the city to keep us in grass-fed beef and fancy nuts. Love you and appreciate you!
I’m also working on our pet business (Lucky Pet) and was writing advertising copy over lunch at the local cafe when I heard one of my favourite sounds, the laugh of a Kookaburra, and it got me thinking of my favourite things, especially sounds. I’ve decided on my top sounds:
You know how everyone has a tale of hours spent on the phone to Telecom/Optus/Blah Blah Big Corporation. And then, after you’ve finished explaining yourself to the third person, you’re told that you need to speak to a manager and you get handed over without a syllable of explanation and you have to start all over again.
Well, TECHNOLOGY sure has changed that! You know the 24-hour live chat (which is like IM without the sex)? Well, I’ve spent 1 1/2 hours in a bath (which has become cold TWICE), with lemon juice dripping into my eyes (ow) and mouth (yum) with our website’s e-commerce folks. Don’t get me wrong, they’re delightful, but “chattin” to them (and to IT people, designers, most people) felt something like this.
Please note, if you’re short on time or have any form of ADHD you might want to go straight to the video. The rest of you, roll up your sleeves, get a snack and cider and dig in–it’s long, but worth it (start at around 40 seconds in).
Abbott: Well, Costello, I’m going to New York with you. Bucky Harris the Yankee’s manager gave me a job as coach for as long as you’re on the team.
Costello: Look Abbott, if you’re the coach, you must know all the players.
Abbott: I certainly do.
Costello: Well you know I’ve never met the guys. So you’ll have to tell me their names, and then I’ll know who’s playing on the team.
Abbott: Oh, I’ll tell you their names, but you know it seems to me they give these ball players now-a-days very peculiar names.
Costello: You mean funny names?
Abbott: Strange names, pet names…like Dizzy Dean…
Costello: His brother Daffy
Abbott: Daffy Dean…
Costello: And their French cousin.
Abbott: French?
Costello: Goofe’
Abbott: Goofe’ Dean. Well, let’s see, we have on the bags, Who’s on first, What’s on second, I Don’t Know is on third…
Costello: That’s what I want to find out.
Abbott: I say Who’s on first, What’s on second, I Don’t Know’s on third.
Costello: Are you the manager?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: You gonna be the coach too?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: And you don’t know the fellows’ names.
Abbott: Well I should.
Costello: Well then who’s on first?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: I mean the fellow’s name.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The guy on first.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The first baseman.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The guy playing…
Abbott: Who is on first!
Costello: I’m asking you who’s on first.
Abbott: That’s the man’s name.
Costello: That’s who’s name?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: Well go ahead and tell me.
Abbott: That’s it.
Costello: That’s who?
Abbott: Yes. PAUSE
Costello: Look, you gotta first baseman?
Abbott: Certainly.
Costello: Who’s playing first?
Abbott: That’s right.
Costello: When you pay off the first baseman every month, who gets the money?
Abbott: Every dollar of it.
Costello: All I’m trying to find out is the fellow’s name on first base.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The guy that gets…
Abbott: That’s it.
Costello: Who gets the money…
Abbott: He does, every dollar of it. Sometimes his wife comes down and collects it.
Costello: Who’s wife?
Abbott: Yes. PAUSE
Abbott: What’s wrong with that?
Costello: I wanna know is when you sign up the first baseman, how does he sign his name?
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The guy.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: How does he sign…
Abbott: That’s how he signs it.
Costello: Who?
Abbott: Yes. PAUSE
Costello: All I’m trying to find out is what’s the guys name on first base.
Abbott: No. What is on second base.
Costello: I’m not asking you who’s on second.
Abbott: Who’s on first.
Costello: One base at a time!
Abbott: Well, don’t change the players around.
Costello: I’m not changing nobody!
Abbott: Take it easy, buddy.
Costello: I’m only asking you, who’s the guy on first base?
Abbott: That’s right.
Costello: OK.
Abbott: Alright. PAUSE
Costello: What’s the guy’s name on first base?
Abbott: No. What is on second.
Costello: I’m not asking you who’s on second.
Abbott: Who’s on first.
Costello: I don’t know.
Abbott: He’s on third, we’re not talking about him.
Costello: Now how did I get on third base?
Abbott: Why you mentioned his name.
Costello: If I mentioned the third baseman’s name, who did I say is playing third?
Abbott: No. Who’s playing first.
Costello: What’s on base?
Abbott: What’s on second.
Costello: I don’t know.
Abbott: He’s on third.
Costello: There I go, back on third again! PAUSE
Costello: Would you just stay on third base and don’t go off it.
Abbott: Alright, what do you want to know?
Costello: Now who’s playing third base?
Abbott: Why do you insist on putting Who on third base?
Costello: What am I putting on third.
Abbott: No. What is on second.
Costello: You don’t want who on second?
Abbott: Who is on first.
Costello: I don’t know. Together: Third base! PAUSE
Costello: Look, you gotta outfield?
Abbott: Sure.
Costello: The left fielder’s name?
Abbott: Why.
Costello: I just thought I’d ask you.
Abbott: Well, I just thought I’d tell ya.
Costello: Then tell me who’s playing left field.
Abbott: Who’s playing first.
Costello: I’m not…stay out of the infield!!! I want to know what’s the guy’s name in left field?
Abbott: No, What is on second.
Costello: I’m not asking you who’s on second.
Abbott: Who’s on first!
Costello: I don’t know. Together: Third base! PAUSE
Costello: The left fielder’s name?
Abbott: Why.
Costello: Because!
Abbott: Oh, he’s center field. PAUSE
Costello: Look, You gotta pitcher on this team?
Abbott: Sure.
Costello: The pitcher’s name?
Abbott: Tomorrow.
Costello: You don’t want to tell me today?
Abbott: I’m telling you now.
Costello: Then go ahead.
Abbott: Tomorrow!
Costello: What time?
Abbott: What time what?
Costello: What time tomorrow are you gonna tell me who’s pitching?
Abbott: Now listen. Who is not pitching.
Costello: I’ll break your arm if you say who’s on first!!! I want to know what’s the pitcher’s name?
Abbott: What’s on second.
Costello: I don’t know. Together: Third base! PAUSE
Costello: Gotta a catcher?
Abbott: Certainly.
Costello: The catcher’s name?
Abbott: Today.
Costello: Today, and tomorrow’s pitching.
Abbott: Now you’ve got it.
Costello: All we got is a couple of days on the team. PAUSE
Costello: You know I’m a catcher too.
Abbott: So they tell me.
Costello: I get behind the plate to do some fancy catching, Tomorrow’s pitching on my team and a heavy hitter gets up. Now the heavy hitter bunts the ball. When he bunts the ball, me, being a good catcher, I’m gonna throw the guy out at first. So I pick up the ball and throw it to who?
Abbott: Now that’s the first thing you’ve said right.
Costello: I don’t even know what I’m talking about! PAUSE
Abbott: That’s all you have to do.
Costello: Is to throw the ball to first base.
Abbott: Yes!
Costello: Now who’s got it?
Abbott: Naturally. PAUSE
Costello: Look, if I throw the ball to first base, somebody’s gotta get it. Now who has it?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: Who?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: Naturally?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: So I pick up the ball and I throw it to Naturally.
Abbott: No you don’t you throw the ball to Who.
Costello: Naturally.
Abbott: That’s different.
Costello: That’s what I said.
Abbott: you’re not saying it…
Costello: I throw the ball to Naturally.
Abbott: You throw it to Who.
Costello: Naturally.
Abbott: That’s it.
Costello: That’s what I said!
Abbott: You ask me.
Costello: I throw the ball to who?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: Now you ask me.
Abbott: You throw the ball to Who?
Costello: Naturally.
Abbott: That’s it.
Costello: Same as you! Same as YOU!!! I throw the ball to who. Whoever it is drops the ball and the guy runs to second. Who picks up the ball and throws it to What. What throws it to I Don’t Know. I Don’t Know throws it back to Tomorrow, Triple play. Another guy gets up and hits a long fly ball to Because. Why? I don’t know! He’s on third and I don’t give a darn!
As Oprah used to say: “Here’s what I know for sure…”
1. I wish I had straight hair. But every time I get my hair straightened, I want my broccoli back. Gwyneth Paltrow was right when she said that straight hair is better than curls, because you just pat it down or tie it back and you always look polished (I may have paraphrased, but thank you, Ms Perfect, for that thought.)
Curly Hair = Crazy. No potential at all. Jail for you, sonny.
Straight Hair = Perfect. Potential for anything. Ready to face the world.
2. I don’t care for instruction booklets, to wit, I recently purchased a hair relaxing kit for $15 at the local African “we sell everything from bags to blankets, from goats to hair relaxing kits” in the local mall that is mostly empty, except for African ladies with incredibly straight hair (might be wigs, not sure). The kit included a little, concertina’d, full-colour booklet. I started reading it but got bored after “Put on latex gloves…”
Thirteen minutes in (of 15) and my head is burning. I want a coffee but think it best if I go have a shower and get this stuff washed out or there might be a repeat of the “Amsterdam incident” when Jeff went banana blond. He went to bed with the shakes and woke up with his head stuck to the pillow. Ew. But he looked positively cool.
3. My mother was right when she said “cu beddavopariri, u duluri a sintiri” (it’s the only time she’s been right about anything).
And (Oprah never said this) here’s one thing (among many) that I don’t know for sure:
* Just as “vulnerable” is the most beautiful word, is “potential“, the most horrible?
Potential is for dreamers, always wondering what might be, and making lists of things they might not do.
Potential makes parents think that their kids are not so normal after all. Viz -“Sure he’s great at making vegemite toast now, but he has the potential to be a Masterchef!”
Potential makes us dream of a brighter future. Viz – “I know if I stick with it, I have the potentialto become a great writer.”
Potentialmakes me wonder if the world would be easier to navigate if I had straight hair, as in, “sometimes the world sucks, but if I had straight hair, it could very well be great. Potentially.”
I wonder, do old people think in terms of potential?
P.S. I think the relaxer worked! I’m freaking out a little. What does one do with permanently straightened hair? I asked Jeff this very question earlier, to which he responded, cleverly, “wear it like a woman with straight hair wishing she had curly hair.” Smartypants.
Well, well… Today marks 2 months that I have officially been a stay-at-home whatever.
People ask if I’m:
Bored - Nope
Lonely – Nope
Getting fatter – Nope
Getting out of Sunshine – Does going to West Footscray count?
Happy as a dog rolling in bird shit – YEP
Jeff agreed to a few conditions – things I wouldn’t do just because I’m home:
1. Iron – tick
2. Empty the dishwasher – well… I have a few times
3. Can’t remember the 3rd one
Here’s what I have been trying out:
Weight and Health I’ve been learning about the Paleo way of eating and living – this is a goodie. Of course, just like religion, I’m doing it my way. And, just like religion, it’s working out. I was really worried about putting on weight because of boredom, loneliness, and “I feel like chocolate-o’clock”, but Paleo is really helping. I don’t feel hungry, and because I’m eliminating as much sugar and carbs as I can, I’ve just decided what I’m not prepared to eat and I just don’t.
Some can be a little fanatic, like insisting on no fruit. What? A girl needs to poo.
Cheap skin care There are just some things a girl can’t do. Like buy crappy shoes or scrimp on skincare. The thing is, I have sun damage on my face and I’ve tried everything. That Cate freaking Blanchett nearly convinced me to try SKII. But, seriously, with two mortgages and one salary, I had to let my fingers do the walking and I discovered on a number of website last night that fresh lemon juice dabbed on the face and left to dry for 30 minutes is the key to “bleaching” dark spots. FREE skincare! I’m European, so of course I have a lemon tree… Stay tuned.
No TV until after Jeff gets home Easy. My first week, I decided to watch Dr Phil during lunch and it was depressing! People yelling and not listening. Instead I have Triple J on all day, which means I keep up with music and say things like, “I’m so down with the kids, y’all”, which makes me sound just like Phil on Modern Family.
No shopping Man this is a hard one. I get these delightful daily reminders from MyHabit, Spreets, Brandexclusive, Dorothy Perkins, Urban Outfitters, Gala Darling etc etc. I mean, I don’t want to turn into one of those stay at homes who lets themselves go. Instead, I’m going through my wardrobe and wearing it…
Dress nicely and wear make up every day Tick, tick. This one was really important to me. If I look nice, I feel nice.
Walk every day Remarkably easier than expected. I used to find excuses, now I think of the puppies and it’s easy. I haven’t taken the car into Sunshine once…
Learning to like Facebook Yep, I’m a little behind the 8-ball, but it’s served me well. That said, I like having a virtual community of people. PLUS, how awesome is it to wake up to a tonne of people “liking” you!
Start Rollerderby Oh no she di’nt. OH YES I DID! I learned about the Westside Derby Dollz recently and I’m now training with them. I say “training” rather loosely. I’m learning to fall without killing myself or anyone else. It’s the best fun and serious bi’nness!
Hanging out with fellow homebodies Epic Fail! Who’da thought I’d be so freakin busy? Between the pet biz and writing, it all amounts to fullness. No complaints here, though. But I know I’ll make more time over summer.
Oh yeah, and the big reason I wanted to stop working for the man in the first place (other than my brain conniptions)…
Write a book Yes indeed. I have been planning my third book since around May. I know it’s a long gestation, but that’s just how I roll. This week I’ve had some serious misgivings about the plot. So I did as Jeff suggested and printed out all my notes and started reading all 100+ pages to see whether there’s a plot in there somewhere. And, you know, there is. Just not the plot I had originally planned. I’m planning on starting the main writing before Christmas. YE-HAW…
My friend and neighbour, J’Red, who’s also a cop, calls out over the fence:
J’Red: Hey Betty!
Me (Quite concerned. I don’t like his tone. Something’s afoot): What is it J’Red?
J’Red: Listen, I just got a call from Fitzy that people have been door knocking–
Me (interrupting): Freaking politicians – it’s that damned election next week.
J’Red: No, not that sort of door knocking. Two people are knocking on peoples’ doors to see if anyone’s home.
Me (furrowed brow): Are they dressed as nuns?
J’Red (he and his misses, T’Red, are quite used to me and JJ now): What? They’re junkies or something. Fitzy’s called the cops. I just thought with JJ away–
Me: You’ve been talking to my mum, haven’t you?
J’Red: Seriously. What are you talking about? Just lock your doors.
Holy crap, after weeks and months of prepping the front garden – first by removing all of the “lawn” – if you can call it that, with the drought we’re having – then putting down the weed mat, getting in new yummy soil and making our little hills, we finally got mulch in on the weekend from our favourite local garden centre that reeks of cigarette smoke and I just want to get out of there as quickly as possible. We spent Saturday afternoon landscaping and I’m still in pain.
I’ve been collecting succulents for years so it’s great to see them being used in the garden for once. They can spread out and really rustle their feathers now and GROW. And yes, when I say “collecting”, this may have included some illegal activity. Here, let me practice my favourite line of defence (that I haven’t had to use. Yet)
“But officer, I have NO IDEA how that plant got into my shoe/sock/underwear…”
Wherever I go, I just simply have to collect a piece. Anyway, let’s not dwell.
I finally did some seed sowing as well. I bit the bullet after reading a tonne and even going to the Digger’s Club seed sowing class a week ago, which was excellent and gave me the opportunity to check out the Heronswood Garden in Dromana, which everyone should check out some time (I promise I didn’t collect anything at Heronswood that I didn’t pay for). Learned some useful sowing tips and got a fab watering tool. Check it.
They didn’t try to do the hard sell but the few products I did buy are excellent, like the seed watering nozzle above. You can use it on any plastic bottle and it doesn’t disturb the seeds. Clever little invention!
We got a few more seeds, including seed potatoes, and a membership.
Did I say that I AM Martha Stewart? Looking at my sowing station might answer that question. I TRY!
I know it’s been a little gloomy here on the Box, but, well, that’s just how I roll. I mean, as much as I might try, I’m no Martha Stewart and the world’s simply not made of cupcakes.
I’ve been having a mid-life crisis for a few years, especially since JJ and I stopped trying to have a baby. And I’m here, sitting inside a cosy country house, the TV’s on DIG and I think they’re playing Ben Folds right now, so I’m pensive, wistful even. JJ’s out at a party – they have them here, in the country, and people here still take mushrooms. I’m staying in tonight but last night I went to see some local ladies in a saucy Burlesque show (photos below). My gorgeous galpal, Momo, is back in town. I’m ghostwriting an inspiring memoir for a holocaust survivor and I have a few story ideas in my back pocket, not to mention a little tale that was recently published in Litterbox Magazine. Work is busy and gives me a decent salary and security. The meds seem to be doing their job. We’re not lacking anything, really. Things seem pretty good, right.
So why am I so uneasy? Why am I still looking for more? I’ve said it before, one of my biggest fears is realising that this is it. That there’s nothing else. When I was an unruly kid at university, I remember saying that I had no regrets in life – no matter how stupid things got, whose car I threw up in, whose boyfriend I fucked, I knew that there was nothing to regret. Make a choice and believe in it, even if you’re wasted, make a choice and completely buy into it.
I’m starting to wonder if the problem with getting older is that we start to have regrets and that’s why people tend to become jaded and cynical. You see, the longer you’re around, you experience more highs and lows, tonnes of lows, so jumping into the next thing frightens the crap out of you.
It’s funny how I had no regrets in the past, and yet I did so many regrettable things. And now, I’m starting to have regrets and I’m not actually doing anything. But hang on, you say, look back on paragraph 2, you’re doing heaps. And therein lies the freaking conundrum. It’s a busy life, but where’s the substance? Why don’t I take big leaps anymore? I was talking to an old friend, Voodoo, last night about this very thing. He lives up here in the bush and JJ and I desperately want to leave the city and head down here permanently. But it freaks me out. What happens if we fail? What if we don’t like it? What if it’s just like being in the city, except here?
I never used to worry about these things.
“Hey JJ, let’s quit our jobs and go travelling.”
“Hey JJ, I’m going to run a magazine.”
“Hey Betty, I’m going to open a record shop.”
“Hey JJ, let’s get a dog.”
“Hey JJ, let’s try IVF.”
“Hey JJ, let’s get another dog.”
“Hey Betty, I’m going to become a marriage celebrant.”
“Let’s buy a place in the bush.”
“Hey JJ, I’m going to be a life coach.”(yes, don’t laugh)
And this is what I think the midlife crisis is all about. We become afraid to make big choices. When we do, we buy sports cars – that’s how we expand ourselves when we’re too scared to make any real life choices. An expensive car is a safe way to show how much we’re moving forward.
I enjoy life’s slow pace these days, but I can’t help wondering if, should I live to 103 as I plan, will anything change along the way? Or is this it? Will I take chances again? Or is this the end?
And now for something a little less gloomy. Beautiful, in fact. The local ladies have formed a Burlesque troupe – Ripe – and they performed at The Convent Gallery on Friday night.
(sorry about the image quality – taken with my crappy phone)
That’s correct. October 15, 2010. We’re down at the country estate, 1 hour west of Melbourne.
Did I mention that it’s the middle of SPRING? SPRING.
There was one inch of snow in Daylesford and a little less in Hepburn Springs. JJ and I were asleep in the loft when Papa bear woke us up in his dulcet tone:
“Oi, you two. Get up. It’s freaking snowing.” (ok, he may have actually said, “eh, yooi tooi, cumma onna, issa snowa”.)
“What’s he talking about?” I say to JJ.
“He says it’s snowing,” JJ croaks back.
We tumble down the new staircase and, lo and behold, it’s freaking snowing. It’s actually snowing, in October, an hour from Melbourne.
Well last week, I was meant to be in Christchurch for a work conference. Thankfully (for me and my workmates, not for Christchurch), the earthquake happened before we arrived. Around a week before we arrived, actually. And like the ace project managers that we are, my colleague and I put aside everything and re-organised what had taken me more than a month in just a few days. Yes, HIRE ME, I’M ACE. AND I had a nauseating virus that kept me bedridden for the entire week before our departure. Nauseating. Virus.
So off we went. To Auckland. Yes, still New Zealand, but there’s much airspace and some water that separates the two locations. Lookit:
To be honest, the best part of the new arrangements was that we ended up flying Emirate instead of Jetstar and I was able to down a bottle of Moet. Yeeha!
Besides all of the conferency knowledge that filled my brain (like, how to sleep with my eyes wide open, how to make 2 hours feel like 7, sweet is better than savoury at morning tea, etc), I did some walking around the fair city of Auckland and found the Texan Arts School - yes, you heard me - the Texan Arts School. In New Zealand. Specialising in New Zealand artists. Like Lester Hall. Here’s something he prepared earlier.
"Miss Kiwiana Stamp" by Lester Hall
They also had this in Texas, which is now sitting pretty above my pop-art kitchen doorway.
Ironically, JJ and I don’t wear watches and I have a rather aggressive dislike of THE TIME. But it’s not a clock really, is it? It’s a cultural icon (which means nothing to JJ, given that he was born into 24-hour cable TV, hence his less-than-underwhelming reaction – “Oh. Huh. Right.”).
Certainly brings back memories of bedtime, doesn’t it.
I think I’ve broken a few of my toes. My wrist, which I had x-rayed the other day (because of that rollerskating injury, nuff said), was crashed into and my ears are ringing a merry tune. But it’s ok. Sent me back to the pub days, Party to Belfast, garage rock, a whirling dervish on the dancefloor, except not as much space. My advice is, as always, don’t resist the direction of the mosh pit; you’ll just end up with an injury.
I’m babbling. And that’s how I felt at the Children Collide gig at the Corner Hotel.
I don’t know about you, but sometimes I’ll be watching a film and I’ll be, like, “Man, I wish I had written that screenplay.”
Like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Or I’ll be listening to a song and think: “Man, I wish I’d come up with that lyric.”
Like:
“…Meat-eating orchids forgive no one just yet
Cut myself on Angel Hair and babys breath
Broken hymen of your highness I’m left black
Throw down your umbilical noose so I can climb right back” (Nirvana – Heart Shaped Box)
Or I’ll be watching a TV show or film and think: “Man, I wish I’d written thay line.”
Like this classic from Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead:
and: “God! What is your childhood trauma?!” (Cordelia to Buffy in Buffy the Vampire Slayer)
Or I’ll be reading a book and think, “Man, I wish I’d written that book.”
Seriously, Hollywood Ending is like nothing I’ve read of late. It’s set in one of my favourite places in the world, LA, and even though I’m only halfway in, it captures the voices of local and bored kids who have that nuanced way of looking at the world and avoiding themselves thanks to all of the shit they surround themselves with. I love a tale told with sad irony. I love the jaded descriptions of faded Hollywood. Of old folks with long memories and young folks with nothing to do. Of D-listers hanging out in West Hollywood in the hope of being discovered by the paparazzi. It’s spunky writing by Kathy Charles. I wish I’d written it.
But anyway, here’s something I DO wish I’d written, and, um, I actually did.
The topic on Insight this week was Attraction. Lovely subject, attraction. I remember listening to Doctor Karl on Triple J years ago talking about pheromones and how The Pill messes with our sense of smell. This led me to theorise that the reason why most marriages end in divorce is because women are smelling the wrong partner because of The Pill.
Quick, get that Nobel Prize ready.
Anyway, while I don’t like the idea of an arranged marriage, I kinda get it. And this is something that Insight was talking about. Do we become attracted to people over time or are we instantly attracted to them? I think both. I liken mine and JJ’s marriage to an arranged marriage. We were 24, I was at Uni in the States, livin’ large, and so was he (livin’ large, that is). We’d known each other for 3 weeks, had been dating for 2 days, broke up and then got back together. And then the next day:
JJ: “Lookit Betty, this love is pretty awesome.”
Me: “Totally, JJ.”
JJ: “Well what are we going to do?”
Me: “Hmm. Well, you know I have to go back home at the end of the school year. I can’t overstay my visa.”
JJ: “Good God, no. You might end up at Guantanamo.”
Me: “Word.”
We eat another Sandinos soft taco.
Me: “Well you could come back to Oz and we could get married.”
JJ: “Can we have kangaroos at our wedding?”
Me: “Of course. They’ll probably just show up. You know they’re everywhere.”
JJ: “Ok then. And I already have a ring. I found it in the toilets at work. It’s real.”
Me: “Cool, I’m a simple girl.”
And the rest is, well, nearly 17 years is what it is. There have been fabulous ups and terrifying downs but what I think what’s always driven us is this idea that we’ll figure it out together as we go on. There are no rules. There was never any of this “don’t call before Wednesday” bullshit. No games. As my arranged-marriage pal at work said the other day: “You can’t take anything for granted. You’re learning every day.”
Because we’ve lived a great deal of our lives together, JJ and I have this agreement that if we repeat a story more than 10 years after its first telling, we will act surprised, as though it’s the first time we’ve heard it. I mean, we’re going to repeat tonnes of stories. The thing is, even now, when we repeat a story, there’s always something new to discover about it regardless of the amount of time since it’s first telling. There’s always something new to laugh about.
I’m an old-fashioned girl in some ways, so when this couple on Insight told of their 58-year marriage, it occurred to me that there was one thing they did that a lot of today’s couples don’t seem to do.
JENNY BROCKIE (host): And Ross, what about you for Audrey, what was that initial part spark of attraction? ROSS POWER: …I looked at her and I thought well, she’s good looking, she had that radiant smile, nice figure, well dressed and I just had that feeling this is going to be good. And we’d go to work in the tram and after a while you felt comfortable and then we went on that first hike and you can see that we clicked straight away, we felt that we were like two peas in a pod and even today we still feel like we’re two peas in a pod. AUDREY POWER: We’re joined at the hip.
… ROSS POWER: And we like to do everything together, doesn’t matter what it is or where we go or what sport we play it must be together. AUDREY POWER: We’re never apart.
I think that seems like the key – doing everything together. Not taking them for granted. Not over-thinking the relationship. Not analysing it. Just being with it.
An old friend of mine once berated me for not wanting to take a holiday alone, without JJ, because it makes me such a dependent wifey. Well whatever. I like to share things with JJ, ‘kay. And the result? I’ve been married nearly 16 years. And her? Um, twice divorced. Not that I’m counting.
I think we could all take a leaf out of Ross and Audrey’s love book.
Now, I wouldn’t say that JJ and I are the spontaneous sorts. I mean, definitely impulsive, but not too spontaneous.
So un-spontaneous are we that a few years ago we went through this lovely (tedious for JJ) exercise of writing down things we would like to do and put them in a box for use on a boring day. Have we used any of them? That would be admitting defeat, right.
Impulsive, for sure. For example, two weeks ago JJ and I were coming home from the Little Chalet when we stopped in at the Salvos. We went our separate ways to make the most of our visit:
JJ: ”Hey Betty, there’s a piano over there.
Me: ”Yeah, I know, I looked at it before. Wonder how much it is.”
JJ: “It’s eight fitty.”
Me (shock and awe): “Eight fitty for a piano at the Salvos?! Surely you can buy a new one for a grand or something. That’s a rort.”
JJ: “Yeah.”
JJ walks away and I keep looking through dodgy 80s fair isle jumpers that I want to felt.
A few moments, and 1 jumper, later.
JJ: “Betty! Betty!”
Me (I’m excited because JJ’s excited. We’re like emotional mirrors): “What it is JJ? What is it?”
JJ: “That piano. It’s not eight fitty. It’s three fitty.”
Me: “Three fitty?”
JJ: “Yeah, but one of the pedals is loose or something.”
Me: “Pedals? Who the fuck uses pedals? It’s not an organ. BUY IT.”
So we did.
A few minutes later.
JJ: “It’s done. But they can’t deliver it today. The driver’s nearly ready to leave.”
Me: “Hm. I want it today, JJ.”
JJ: “Well maybe if you talk to him. Offer him more money.”
Et voila! There were a few scratches and bruises but I got all DIY and found some wood stain in the garage and gave the wood an all-over wipe and it looks as good as new.
This past weekend, JJ and I went up to the Country – hitherto known as the Little Chalet (which is neither little nor a chalet but there are lots of gnomes in the garden and it doesn’t look like a cottage so it makes perfect sense…)
We went for a walk with the puppies.
JJ: Hey Betty, let’s turn left here.
Me: Sure
After a little while.
Me: Oh, I don’t think we’ve come this far before. How fun.
JJ: Let’s go this way.
Me (seeing a sign to the Blowhole): The Blowhole. We’ve never been there. How fun.
After a little while.
Me: So, do you think it’s much further?
JJ: I shouldn’t think so. Oh look, a sign.
So we walked on. And so did the girls, whose wee legs are only a couple of inches long and even taking into account that their have four of them, it’s still a lot of work. And have I mentioned the mountains?
Me: JJ, you didn’t say there would be mountains to climb.
JJ: It’s not Mount Sinai.
See, I’ve climbed Mount Sinai so that exempts me from every climbing anything again – hills, stairs, a ladder.
We arrived at the Blowhole and it was lovely. A big hole, in amongst some old mine shafts, that gushes water when there’s been rain. And there’s been a lot of rain.
When it was time to head back, I said: “JJ, we can’t possibly go back the way we came. You know how I hate that.”
JJ ( a little weary): Yes, Betty. I know how you hate that.
Me: And there must be a short cut. I mean, we turned left, then left, which is virtually heading back home, right?
Cut to a dramatic reenactment on A Current Affair:
The trekkers didn’t tell anyone that they were heading out to the state forest, nor did they bring any water or food. They could have died from dehydration but we lucky enough to be caught in a minor hail storm and they were able to collect some water. They did, however, refrain from eating any of the local fungi, which is known for its hallucinogenic and deadly properties.
Stone fences marking the site of old gold mines
The Blowhole – not very active
On the Tipperary Springs track
Oh yummy! Dinner
Dinner?
Definitely not dinner.
We found a civilised place for JJ to check if his GPS was working
Kangaroos at the Hepburn Springs gold course
What’s up skippy?
Nearly three hours later, drenched and cold, we stumbled back home.
JJ and I are fairly far removed from being le familyJones. We try not to keep up. But there is the Dyson vacuum incident, which I won’t go into.
But when I’m alone, the Jonesing gets a tad loud.
Like the other day, I was rather blue, so I went to that great bastion of fashion in the West, Highpoint Shopping centre. Having skipped breakfast, I hopped into Gloria Jean’s for a coffee and a spinach and ricotta pastry surrounded by the most delightful ladies and their children. As I have mentioned before, I LOVE children. BUT, on this day, what with me being blue and all that, the last thing I needed was a youngster kicking a soccer ball around the cafe.
Sure, World Cup fever is abound and who the hell am I to deter a future David Beckham or Harry Kewell.
David Beckham - Can kick a soccerball around a cafe any time. Can also take off his shirt whenever he likes, thanks.
Harry Kewell - See "David Beckham"
But the kid was neither and, really, it’s a freaking cafe!
The mother did try her best to deter him.
Boy: (sound effect) kick kick kick
Mummy: Darling, I don’t think you should be kicking that around in here.
But anyway, it was the day after the Australian Coup (as I will henceforth refer to the day that Julia Gillard toppled Kevin Rudd). See, I’m supposed to be happy that a childless sister is now our PM. But I LOVED Kev, so it’s bittersweet and it will take some time for me to recover.
So there I was, reading The Age when over at a window seat, I copped an eyeful of a man, a little unwashed and rather creative looking, tapping away silently on a teensy weensy little laptop.
OH! I verily squealed. I wants me one of them – Precious.
Now, I belong to the Faith school of want/get/have. Remember Faith, the dark murdering slayer that came into being after Buffy died.
Faith - the bad slayer who got what she wanted.
Faith taught Buffy that slayers could have whatever they want, whenever they want. Slayers and me!
So off I went to JB, pointed at the prettiest little thing, directed JJ to the payment machine with the plastic payment thing and voila. Want. Get. Have.
My new little Asus EEE
I can slip it into my bag and it weighs less than my wallet
So here’s the thing, right: I don’t (really) want to use this blog as a platform to complain about people and things – despite the fact that I’ve called it Betty on a Box – on a soapbox geddit. BORING. And despite being gainfully employed, I will never change my opinion about people having the right to be on the dole if that’s what they want. I mean, my taxes contribute to far worse things – like private hospitals and the mining industry. And really, given that I spent many a day being paid for to be creative all those years ago, I am the last person to make a statement against those who choose unemployment over a job at Maccas. But I wish that the dole was easier to get because it would give the guy who sits at the bottom of Platform 1 at Sunshine station some money to get lessons. The dude is clearly taking the piss.
I mean, I love a busker. I really do.
Except for the Sonic Manipulator – he’s too loud and he freaks me out.
Melbourne busker - the Sonic Manipulator
And the living statues. Do I need to explain?
Living statue busker in Melbourne
And the freaking bagpipe player on the Swanston Street Bridge. I just want to toss him into the Yarra. Freak.
And I really don’t like the kid on Swanston Street with Down’s Syndrome. Not because he has Down’s Syndrome, clearly. So before I get attacked with the cruelty stick, let me just say that the kid simply CANNOT SING. He’s totally shit. I really want to know what asshole at the council decided it would be a good idea to give him a busker’s licence. I think THAT person is truly taking the piss. Hopefully the kid becomes a great singer – like the blind accordian player outside Myer Lonsdale Street who used to be shit but is now renowned thanks to a few lessons.
But back to my guy at Sunshine. He’s there most days, which is a bummer because we recently had a duo that was all Simon and Garfunkel meets the Black Keys.
simon and garfunkel - not at Sunshine Station
the black keys - also not at Sunshine Station
I give them money quite happily. But the other dude is mostly always there. I see money on top of his guitar case. I see people dropping money onto his guitar case. I mean, he’s affable enough, wishes everyone a “good morning, brother” or “morning, sister”. But I’ve never actually heard him play or sing. At first I figured I’d just caught him while he was tuning up. He’d strum a few strings. Not a few chords. Oh no. A few very out of tune strings is all. And I realised, the guy doesn’t actually know how to play. It was a total Oprah moment (of the lightbulb variety).
He’s a scammer. Oh I was incensed. I mean, people give him money to PLAY. Right?
Well not me. Nup. I want my jobless to sing for their supper. Like the time JJ and I were in on a train in the New York Subway. It’s like being at the American Idol auditions. And you don’t mind handing over your hard-earned traveller’s cheques. (Also, I’ve seen episodes of NCIS and despite old Mayor Giuliani’s three strikes policy, them Yankees still carry guns.)
I like to be entertained. And like I said, I’m all for the creatives BUT NOT THIS SCAMMER. NO SIR-E, BOB.
When I had the lightbulb moment, I texted JJ, and he said:
“Well why don’t you trick him and ask him to play his favourite tune.”
Yeah, I thought. That’s the ticket.
So yesterday, the moment he offered his “good morning, sister”, I said:
“You should actually play something sometime.” There, that’ll show him.
And I hottailed it up the platform because, ladies and gents, this May not be new York, but it’s still Sunshine and I ain’t taking chances.
So I’m (not) going to be turning 15 tomorrow. Not that you’d know it given my penchant for the fictional undead (seriously, a total obsession for vampires) and the absolute anxiety I feel whenever I have to buy concert tickets.
I’ll let it be known right from the start that, yes, I did manage to buy tickets to see Muse IN DECEMBER. I mean, how the hell do I know KNOW what I’m planning to be doing on December 14? I could be in Las Vegas (in fact, there is such a plan).
So I planned to log in for the fan pre-sale and that’s where the anxiety started. JJ and I were heading up the country estate on Thursday night. Yes, we have this Virgin wireless dongle for the Internet but who knows what can happen? Can the technology be guaranteed? Will the wireless cables freeze over? (I mean, it’s really cold up there in the bush).
I have reason to be anxious, especially after the Jimmy Barnes Ticket Fiasco of 1984. My cousin Nancy and I had saved desperately. I busted open the money box and we got to Myer at Highpoint and queued outside the doors a few hours before opening. Now, I haven’t queued up for tickets for a long time thanks to the Internet so Idon’t know what the deal is these days but there used to be a roller door and you’d be all friendly-like with the others waiting for tickets but as soon as the roller door had lifted just enough, all bets were off and the nails would come out. We’d slide under that door and run up the escalator to be the first at the real ticket queue and I’d almost piss myself waiting for the slow people in front who picked tickets for some freaking Opera or something. They were ANNOYING SLOW PEOLE and in the meantime I was imagining that all of the smart people had just picked up their phones – a spare one in the shape of a hamburger that sat beside their bed – and would call and buy ALL of the tickets and they would just sell out right in front of my face.
But that’s not how it transpired that fateful year.
Nancy and I got to the counter and we counted out our coins – seriously we had busted open the money box and we had just enough money for the tickets. But not the booking fee.
NOT THE BOOKING FEE.
But I’m nothing if not determined and we trammed our asses all the way home to beg my mum for a couple of measly bucks (which is another story).
These days you just have to hit refreshand hope you don’t get kicked off the site. And you’ve always got enough money. Thank you Mr Mastercard.
But the anxiety is still there. It is. I get the sweats, that nauseous feeling that I’m going to miss out. That every single ticket is going to sell out right in front of my face.
“Don’t be fooled by the rocks that I got
I’m still, I’m still [Betty on a box]
Used to have a little, now I have a lot
No matter where I go, I know where I came from (from the Bronx!)”
Well, Sunshine via West Footscray, via a tree-free village in Sicily.
Those who know me, know that I’m a simple girl.
I don’t go for the big brands. I don’t wear Chanel cosmetics, I go for Napoleon.
And I’m vitually free ofgourmet bling – there’s some Kenneth Cole bling*, Victoria Mason bling* and that (now broken) necklace I got from the world’s biggest jewellery store when JJ and I got lost near Chiang Mai that time – bling* yes, but alas, no-name bling*.
Geez, I do like a pretty piece of jewellery though.
AND it’s a bouquet of flowers with a teeny lady bug and butterfly (Dior Milly la Floret amethyst ring)
And bunnies (Dior bunny ring)
And Memento Mori (Dior Memento Mori ring)
At around £8000 apiece, they are unlikely additions to the jewellery tree so… here’s something a little loser to home, and priced lower than the kitchen renovation, with thanks to the delightfully gorgeous taxidermist/jeweller, Julia DeVille (yep, that’s a real animal bone).
Last year I joined the Glamourpuss Studios tap dancing academy. For shits and giggles.
This year, I decided that travelling ACROSS THE RIVER just wasn’t on. Now, normally, it’s the folk from the other side of town who don’t like to cross the river but I’m well-and-truly guilty of reverse classism.
But the thing is, I found a tap dance school right up the road. I mean, how could I pass THAT up?
Well let me tell you how. There was a girl in my first (and only) class who was making some cute moves and the teacher said – I shit you not – “Who do you think you are? A showgirl?” Like it was a bad thing?
I mean… YES!
So that, along with this (below) is why I’m heading back to the other side. Technically I travel AROUND the river to St Kilda, not across it.
ʃəl
