Football, Meat Pies, Kangaroos and Holden Cars

Who’d want to be a cop in Arizona huh?

I saw on TV how the police there now have to be able to figure out whether someone’s an actual citizen or not. Could you imagine if that happened in Australia?

Well, it wouldn’t … obviously. Because you can’t tell who’s an Aussie and who isn’t and no one much cares anyway. Even though some groups in India are having a little trouble with our country, labelling us as Racist (it goes back to the Harbhajan Singh cricket kerfuffle last summer I reckon…), if you ask the average Aussie about multiculturalism, they’ll tell you that it’s great. Improved take-away menus and supermarket spice racks around the country. Don’t have to wait for a taxi anymore in major cities and it means you can serve rice or noodles to your kids for dinner six days in a row without a visit from Child Services.

I was caught making an assumption at Phuket airport recently, whilst waiting in line to buy my Pepsi Max. And I wasn’t the only one. A man of 'Asian appearance' (is that how they say it on the news?) bought a cup of dry instant noodles. The cashier asked him a question in Thai. I didn’t understand the question (having spent two weeks on the beach rather than in intensive language lessons), and… neither did the guy with the noodles. He looked at me and I said, “dunno mate”. The other cashier, embarrassed, then asked, in broken English, “You want hot water in cup now?” (ahhh, so that’s how they do it, I thought…had wondered whether the people around me were all getting on the JetStar flight with cups of dry instant noodles.) The cashier asked him (whilst dispensing hot water), “Where you from?” to which Noodle Man replied, “Sydney.” Ahhh. Didn’t see that coming.

But it did get me to thinking. If I, Blossy Bogan, personally, was asked to invent the national on-the-spot test of citizenship, what would it look like?

You couldn’t just line suspects up and make them sing the National Anthem, because only school teachers and Olivia Newton-John know all the words (seriously, how many times has she sung it at sporting events?). You can’t judge someone by the existence of suntan lines anymore and there’s like half a dozen acceptable Australian flags one could identify from a poster depending on which Indigenous territory you’re in. So, after a couple of Coolabah wines and some deliberation, I reckon that the only fair way would be the ‘Football, Meat Pies, Kangaroos and Holden Cars test’. Remember the advertisement on the telly years ago? Actually, it probably wasn’t even written by an Australian anyway, but that’s half the charm of our country. Nothing’s made here anymore except Uranium and Beef. Any-hoo, I hereby propose that if we ever DID adopt an Arizonian method of determining Aussie-ness, a suspect should be subject to a brief quiz (in their preferred language). Somewhat like this:

Policeperson: "Excuse me mate, I kinda doubt that you’re a fair dinkum Aussie. I’m gonna need you to answer a few questions to prove your citizenship. Do you require a translator, Indigenous Elder or significant other to be present? No? Ok, well… Question 1: Do you watch or play football? Any code of footy, and yes, since the Socceroos got into the World Cup we even count that funny wog type that half of Melbourne plays. AFL or Union preferably, but something involving feet counts. And a ball. Obviously.

Question 2: Can you name your favourite brand or variety of meat pie? A local bakery version is fine. Yep, chicken and vegie’s good, don’t mind one me-self occasionally for a change. Yes, meat substitutes count these days, so a gluten-free halal tofu pie from Fitzroy passes.

Question 3: Could you identify a kangaroo from this line-up of Australian native animals? Yeah, it’s the one with a pouch and long tail. Excellent. Nah mate, you don’t have to own one as a pet. It’s fine just to have seen one. Even better if you’ve hit one in your ute whilst driving along a dirt road at a hundred k’s an hour listening to Cold Chisel hits, but hey, you saw one at Taronga Zoo last month, so that’s OK.

Question 4: Have you ever owned, seen, test drove, hired, lived next door to or stacked a Holden car? Yes, a Barina counts. It’s a bloody small Holden car and we would prefer you drive a fuel-guzzling four-wheel-drive, but at least it’s not a Korean import. Or a Peugeot. Immediate fail for a Peugeot mate. Just for future reference."

See? Fair, yet clear and definable exam.

My husband, Brad the Tradie (BtT), is about the Aussie-est bloke I know.

He has perma-tan arms, blokey shoulders and lots of pairs of stubbies work shorts. He kicks ass in his steel-capped boots. He’s had a Holden ute (which I was allowed to drive but I didn’t handle very well on roundabouts in the rain…long story). BtT played footy for years and broke nearly every finger. He now watches every code of footy (all bloody weekend actually…) and currently leads several tipping competitions (he treats them like a second income he’s so good). And yesterday, he ate a Stockman’s pie from our new local bakery. My bloke, he doesn’t just ride kangaroos, he bloody well eats them.

For those less Aussie of you, a Stockman’s pie is what I like to call a ‘roadkill pie’. BtT’s version yesterday had kangaroo, emu, camel and veg, all tossed in a thick gravy and encased in heart-stopping pastry. Lovely. And yet he screwed his nose up at a scorpion skewer in Beijing. Pfft. A bit hypocritical! Although...maybe it was the lack of pastry. Hmmm, scorpion PIE anyone?

Perhaps in Arizona they’d eat bald eagle and coyote pie. Maybe a pie IS the test of nationality. If you can make your local animals (or vegetarian substitute) into a pie and eat it, then you’re a citizen. Would that work as a streamlined exam? Nah, in my book I’d still have to watch Collingwood thrash Essendon on the plasma, then sit outside with a coldie and sigh as the ‘roos hop by avoiding being captured for dinner.

So here’s my message to the state of Arizona. By all means, check citizenship, but first let’s see your criteria. And make sure there’s a pie involved!

That’s fair in anyone’s language…mate.

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Football, Meat pies, Kangaroos and Holden Cars, TV ad, mid 1970’s.

You Don't Bring me Flowers...anymore.

Forgive me Mother Nature, for I have sinned.

I forgot to take my eco-bags into Woolies today. Uhuh. I hung my head in shame as I was asked the question, “Do you need plastic bags for these?”

I usually have eco-bags. I swear. I fold them all neatly and stack them into the cleanest, neatest bag and pack them into the pack of the Kia. I generally have between six and ten eco-bags in my stash, all colours of the rainbow. I know some people prefer all green ones, some prefer all calico. I, however, am earning extra ethical consumerism points by collecting eco-bags that support a cause. I have the Landcare one, the Daffodil Day bag, the Madeline and whatsit Foundation red one, the pink McGrath Foundation, several from schools and sporting groups, one supporting organic gay Canadians… and they all stack neatly into my Boomerang Jane sunny-yellow-patterned-with-dingle-dangles ultra-eco-bag.

And yes, I’m saying it out loud, TODAY I forgot them. Didn’t even just leave them in the car. I TOTALLY didn’t have any bags on me. I had a shopping list (on my iPhone so as to minimise paper wastage), a husband (to carry the groceries obviously) and a trolley whose wheels worked. Just no bags. Good thing I wasn't wearing my Earth Hour shirt.

You know that moment?

When you’re half way through the shop and realise that you’ve got no eco-bags? I hate that feeling. I feel like I’ve killed a baby harp seal with my potential wastefulness and lack of thoughtfulness. And I end up at the register telling Shennay or Jessibecca just to jam all the stuff into as few bags as they can, whilst I stand there apologising, silently praying that no dolphins are watching. I then sneak out of the centre as quick as I can hoping that no one notices my plastic bags.

Ahhh, what a change from ten years ago huh? My shopping friends and I used to revel in swinging our extra-thick hound’s-tooth David Jones plastic bags around, teasing onlookers with the thought that we might have purchased something special, worth more than $39.99. And yet, ten years before that, I remember my parents carting the groceries home in brown paper and string bags. Back before we sprayed hydro-whatsits all over our armpits and it took three layers of plastic to unwrap chicken pieces. When did it all change? And then change back? Is ethical consumerism just our generation reverting to the practices of our parents?

I’m researching steam mops at the moment.

You see, during The Move, the Better Homes and Gardens (BHG) addicted adolescent broke the mop (yes, she CLEANED!!!!) Which led us to thinking that we’d get a steam mop. And do you know what we used to justify the decision? Yep. Less chemicals. You can just use water you know. Really? No ‘stuff’? I thought long and hard about what my mother used to use to mop the lino and wooden floors of my childhood Bush Bogan abode. What ‘stuff’ did she put in that funny old metal bucket with the wringer on the side? Oh. That’s right. She used HOT WATER. Didn’t plug the mop into a powerpoint though. Ah well. Steam mop must be better. Less pushing or something. Technologically advanced. My friend Organica has one, so it mustn’t harm any small furry animals. And my ideal steam mop comes in this really nice bright yellow colour. EVERYONE knows that bright yellow is good for the environment.

I ordered a Bokashi online last week.

You know, that bucket thing for scraps that you put on the kitchen bench. I’ve been dying to try it out. In ‘the old house’ we had (scoff, pffft) a compost bin. But, you know, we’ve moved up in the world now (ok, across in the world I guess), so it’s TIME. It’s TIME for BOKASHI.

I’m going to LOVE my Bokashi. I’m going to sprinkle it with the special micro-organism powder and watch as it gobbles up my family’s organic waste. Am I supposed to chop everything into little pieces for the little tiny organisms to eat? Apparently, we can even put used tissues into the Bokashi, a fact that had BtT all grossed out. But at least, this way, we don’t have to revert to using hankies. Eww. It eats chicken bones too. I'm imagining some sort of vicious Venus Fly Trap inside a bucket. Hope it doesn't eat fingers.

I kind of have this GOAL.

I read it in David Suzuki’s book years ago. He reckoned that HIS family only disposed of ONE bag of rubbish a week. Ever since then I’ve wanted to emulate that. I desperately look at the bottom of packaging to see if it can be recycled. I’ve all but given up bought bikkies due to the non-recyclable packets (except the odd packet of tim-tams… in an emergency). I tried using one of those deodorant crystals, but BtT said I smelled funny (and truth be told, I used to secretly lick the crystal before I used it; it kinda tasted nice). I’m about to launch into using soapnuts to replace laundry powder, and I’m really not that into polyester or nylon anymore (once you use bamboo undies you just can’t go back).

But it’s a daily battle.

Recycle. Pre-cycle. Reduce. Re-use. Do I tick the carbon off-set box when booking a flight? Does it matter or is the world doomed because of fossil fuels anyway? Does my use of sulphate and paraben-free body products cancel out my Pepsi Max addiction? Should I discourage BtT from buying me flowers based on the packaging, hot house nasties and that little bag of 'stuff' that extends their vase life? If I walk to the shops 10% of the time, can I bank that and save up for a Mother Nature gold star? Or do I have to wear hand-me-downs and plant 75 baby trees as well? It's enough to make me bang my pan-flute against a sprout-eating llama.

Maybe it WAS easier before the Industrial Revolution. All dirt floors and hand-leavened bread. Beam me back Scotty.

And yes, I’ll carbon-offset the trip and bring my own bag. Forget the flowers. I'll pick my own when I get there.

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You Don't Bring me Flowers, Neil Diamond, 1978.

Thai Me Kangaroo Down Sport!

Being a good Boganette, I’ve travelled to several of the usual Aussie Bogan destinations.

Naturally, we’ve exhausted the diamante scene on the Gold Coast. BtT and I have had coconut jello squares at a luau in Honolulu (blech). We’ve done cheapy slots (and the chocolate wheel) in Vegas. The BHG is collecting Disneylands (three to go). Our thongs and carry-on tube of Vegemite have made friends on the Love Boat in the Caribbean and Mexico.

But no matter how far or how wide we roam, there are some places we just haven’t been. And as my dad says, “Blossy, spend it coz ya can’t take it with ya when ya cark it.” So when we needed an emergency travel package deal after selling our house for more than it’s worth (invest the cash? Pffft!), we reckoned it was time to do Phuket. In fact, with JetStar you actually literally can’t go past Phuket. The plane stops there. And Vodka’s twenty bucks a litre duty free.

It’s suitably perfect, and you get a lot of bang for your buck in developing countries. You get like, a million baht to a dollar. As long as you can master the slip-n-slide with the hawkers on the beach, or as we like to call it, “bugger off mate!” you can practically BUY Phuket with the pocket money of a home-schooled adolescent.  Lying like starfish in the very salty Andaman Sea, trying to figure out whether it’s legal in Thailand to get a teenager to go buy you a drink, BtT summed it up perfectly… “God this is nice. It's... paralytic!”

The Thai people are just so damned nice.

Every time we’d turn around someone was bowing or praying or asking us if we were happy enough. Have a welcome drink. Have a scented towel. Can I get you a complimentary shuttle? Let me carry everything in your hands and walk silently behind you for as long as you wish. Tricky names some of them have though. One of our breakfast waitresses was called Porn (we were busting to ask if her last name was Star...) and our room cleaner was named Jif. She would take her shoes off to come into our room, even if it was to deliver fresh ice fifteen times a day. Even the Sheraton resort’s resident elephants were constantly polite. Not like those raucous African ones with all their trumpeting and stampeding.

I was accosted by 'Sandra' (we think she may have English-ed her name a bit, God knows what it was before...) from Guest Services at breakfast one morning, wanting to know if there was anything that could make our stay more perfect. I must’ve looked a bit doubtful about the ‘perfectness’ of my stay, because the next day a complimentary birthday cake arrived at our room and we got extra bottled water and hand lotion. And they put extra ‘weird fruit’ out at breakfast after I mentioned that the Dragonfruit was a bit light on (and some lamb chops for BHG… yes I know, no one eats lamb chops for breakfast… she does…) and brought BtT some larger custard donuts (tricky having to keep opening his mouth for all those tiny little ones). Yay. NOW we’re happy!

Think we might’ve overdone the ‘luxury’ travel thing with the adolescent though. Our clue? One morning at the breakfast buffet, she looked deep in thought (first warning sign of an epiphany…). When asked if anything was on her mind, she commented, “I’ve heard that there’s places to stay in the world that don’t come with an included breakfast. Is that TRUE?” Being the always-on-guard-for-a-teaching-moment parent I replied, “Actually, yes. In fact, there’s places called Youth Hostels that lots of young people stay at when they travel. Apparently it’s quite fun. You could do that with a friend when you’re eighteen (hint, hint)” Shocked, the BHG exclaimed, “Well, not if there’s no BREAKFAST! What would I eat?” Looks like we need to book somewhere next time where she sleeps on the floor and scavenges local bakeries with loose change.

I love to watch.

Watching Aussies out of their natural environment is always fun (“darl, where’s the sunblock?” “What am I… your bloody personal lacky?” “Can ya get me a beer when you look for the sunblock? And stop bloody complaining otherwise I’m getting one of those Happy Ending massages from that tent over there!”), but watching people from around the world is just a hoot really. It’s one of the best things about going O.S. Having a gander at people from other countries and cultures just makes me bloody pleased that I’m Australian (ie, ‘normal’). OK, so we’ve got a little holiday 'Paunch ‘n’ Peeling’ happening and I did alternate between my 75% off Ezi-buy mail order bikini and circa 2005 adidas swimmers designed more for laps than exotic beaches (BHG calls it my ‘full body suit’ a la Thorpie I guess), but generally we’re not an embarrassment to our nationality.

Not like some others who should never be allowed out of their home country.

In the surf was an entire Indian family delegation Bollywooding in swim-sari’s. I didn’t even know you could GET Hindi-approved togs (made my adidas racer-back look quite skimpy!), but here they were, in all their glory, sequins and full make-up. Even great-gran was having a go. Yeah, good on ‘em we thought… the first few times. Funny how Bollywood in the surf kinda wears thin after a bit, threatening the serentity of our paralytic paradise. Until they got dumped by a wave. Then it was funny again.

Then there was a Russian family, all KGB-like with dark sunnies and black beachbags. The father and son were having an argument in Russian whilst Glamour-mommy basted on the spit, when suddenly the seven year old-ish son burst into English, saying “I don’t know who you are and I do NOT SPEAK RUSSIAN!” We were in stitches and then the father grabbed the son by the leg and yelled (in English), “How many times do I have to tell you not to break the hotel toilet!” The son answered, “I thought you were joking!” Father responded, “Why would I joke about hotel toilets???!!!!!!!" And went purple in the face. Geez. Have another vodka mate. And give the kid some Ritalin-ski. Or make him dance with the Indians.

Of course there’s the requisite lobster-coloured Poms whinging about the price of beer, the gay Italians holding pinkies and marching proudly in their patterned budgie smugglers and the Japanese carting their fluoro and Hello Kitty floatation devices around (do they not teach swimming in Japan?) There were the token Yanks, doing every motorised sport imaginable, their nasal voices piercing: “HEYYYYY, Chrisssstinnnnnne! Rev the motorrrrrrrrr. Fassssterrrrrrrrr!!!!!”

But you can always pick the Aussies.

Actually, the BHG made it her mission. She just swam around in the ocean randomly talking to see who spoke English. Preferably anyone under thirty, given the lack of children at resorts out of school holiday season (“Yess…. I’m HOME SCHOOLED ok?”). She did actually hit on a nice family from Ballarat. Shane and Suze had brought their kid (Amber? Amblyn?) and both sets of elderly parents (yes, I KNOW, as IF!!!! ) and hired a gi-normous private-pool villa. SCORE! For BtT and I too actually, since Suze seemed to like offering to have our whiney-always-hungry-where’s-the-sunscreen-can-i-buy-a-drink adolescent over to ‘the villa’. Then we’d meet up on the beach for a 99 Baht ($3.30) cocktail (or two). We did encourage Shane & Suze from Ballarat to adopt… but alas…apparently they just wanted someone to play with their whingey-annoying only child too.

So, with a new knock-off Dior handbag, Prada sunnies, an XL Hard Rock Cafe shirt (BtT collects them, tragic Bogan behaviour) and a Thai-dyed dress, bandanna, etc, we’ve packed up our pauchy, peely bodies and headed home. There’s only so much relaxing you can do you know? We slipped so easily into a routine of doing bugger-all that we might need a holiday to get over it. One of those detox don’t-feed-me spas. Or a bootcamp where they boss us around instead of offering us cool scented towels.

Best just make sure that there’s duty free alcohol. And a buffet. And a beach. Maybe just a pool or two as well. Yes… definitely. Bugger doing Budget. We’re going to raise the bar (or at least sit under it with our wobble-board!)

Yes. That's our new goal. To represent our nation at holiday resorts around the world. Building Better Bogans!

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Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport, Rolf Harris, 1957.

Breakfast at Sweethearts

So, three grand, three people, ten days, and yep. We’re at the Sheraton in Phuket mate. Includes breakfast.

Us Aussies, we LOVE an included breakfast. When there isn’t one, you kind of feel like the hotel has something to hide, or is ripping you off. My mother, being European, always says things like, “Oh, you can just pick up a roll later…” But we Bogans know that a proper package deal bloody well includes brekkie. Buffet preferably.

The Thai people must love Aussies. And yanks. And Poms. And Japanese. And Italians. Good grief… the budgie smugglers! Each day squillions of Bogans from around the world roll off the plane expecting all-you-can eat, knock-off handbags and PLENTY of alcohol. And the Thai… well, they love us LONG TIME. Slap those Baht down and you can get whatever you want here.

Being so small, I doubt Thai people eat or drink anything actually. They exist on humidity alone. So I think they’ve done a bloody good job figuring out what to serve for breakfast. Yep, they serve everything they can find.

Not content with actual breakfast foods, here at our Bogan package deal brekkie, it looks like a food hall. Sure, there’s the obligatory egg man, pancake flopper, the fruit, the salad (although, I mean.. really… I’m on holidays, am I going to make myself a salad first thing in the morning?) There’s the seventeen types of bacon and toast. Yeah, ok, there’s the sushi and Japanese weird shit station. And I’ve even come to tolerate the European cheese, danish and cold meats station. But really… naan bread and curry? Teriyaki Pork? For breakfast? And here’s the kicker that I haven’t seen at a Bogan holiday breakfast buffet before… self-serve gin and vodka. Uhuh. BtT went running to find orange juice whilst I figured out if I could soak my French toast in it somehow. Yes, because after those 99 baht cocktails each night, what you want for breakfast is a good slurp of white spirits. Thinking we may be setting a poor drug education example for BHG, I elbow BtT, who splutters, “Oh, you… ummm… only drink at breakfast when umm… it’s free, and only when you’re on holidays. And obviously not driving. And it’s VERY weak. Hardly touches the sides.” To which the adolescent answers, “Yeah, it’s called a Screwdriver. I saw Charlie make it on Two and a Half Men”. Naturally. Scull up buttercup.

And you know you’re on a good thing when there’s a basket of Vegemite sachets yeah? Saves packing a travel tube. Although, the Aussie way of course, is that whenever Vegemite’s available, you just… well, don’t really feel like any. It’s only in far-off destinations that I really crave vegemite on toast. Like in Alaska at 4pm. Like I’m going to have it here when I can dip my rambutan in laksa and stir fry everything except elephant.

We have ‘food rules’ when we travel.

A bit anal, but I reckon there’s probably a support group for it somewhere. We can’t be the only ones.

Rule 1. Buffet breakfast = flog stuff for later. I’m the one who announces loudly, “Well don’t think you’re havin’ lunch while we’re here!” BtT and BHG have become experts at stuffing the ‘green bag’ full of ‘stuff for later’. Yep, they can get three plates of custard donuts, seven baby yoghurts… Just in case the seven thousand calories we ate for brekkie wears off by noon.

Rule 2. Try the weird shit. Weird shit is defined as anything we wouldn’t ordinarily eat at home. So yeah, we’ve even all manner of crap around the world, with the ultimate conclusion that not every country is as lucky as Oz with their harvest. I’m not into scorpion on a stick, and there’s a reason why we don’t import them and sell scorpions at Woolies. But, yeah, I had Indian for brekkie today, and a bit of Thai soup slop. BtT had some prawn stirfry. The BHG is really adventurous. She had one of those posh ‘crewsonts’. How dreadfully European dahhhling. I loved an interaction this morning between an Aussie Boganette (not I, for I don’t wear lime green sundresses to breakfast no matter where I am in the world) and the Thai omelette man.

Him: Yes Maam.

Her: Ummmm… an omelette thanks mate.

Him: Yes Maam.

Her: 2 eggs. None of that brown muck.

Him: Yes Maam???

Her (leans over the bench and pokes her finger in the bowl of brown muck): That stuff. None of that in me omelette thanks.

Him: Yes Maam.

Oh, and it goes without saying that I’m not eating guts or brains. Those sweet breads could be coasted in gold leaf. I’m not going near them. Ever. Kind of like needing to use a public squat pan. Just isn’t going to happen.

Rule 3. If there’s free grog, then it has to be drunk. Regardless of the time of day. I mean really, that’s just a given. One must also gatecrash any function where there is free grog. Or finger food. Both preferably.

Rule 4. You don’t put on weight when on holidays. It’s like that rule where all the calories fall out of Easter Eggs when you crack them. You just don’t put on weight when on hols. Because you don’t weigh yourself obviously.

So, the unthinkable has happened at our Breakfast at Sweetbreads. We’re, well… a bit over it. I’ve eaten all the dragonfruit I can. I’ve tried all the weird shit. BtT’s eaten eight custard donuts each morning after his perfectly cooked bacon and eggs. Now what?

It’s obvious really. Vegemite on toast tomorrow. And maybe a Vodka.

Breakfast at Sweethearts, Cold Chisel, 1979.

Everybody wants to Work (nah, nah, not me!)

OK, so I haven’t been unemployed for that long. But so far, I absolutely love it.

Actually, as BtT points out, I’m technically ‘on leave’, having Long Service paid out until August when my resignation becomes official, but let’s face facts here. I left work and I’m not going back. I don’t work now. I’m without job. I’m UN-EM-PLOYED.

It’s such a dirty word isn’t it?

“And what do you do dear?”

“Oh, moi? I’m unemployed.”

It’s like saying you’ve got Small Pox. Except worse, because you can’t catch unemployment. You choose it. Or it chooses you. I personally like being unemployed, possibly because I’ve never tried it before. I’ve worked non-stop since the age of fifteen (actually, fourteen and nine months I believe). Since that first application form to work at Woolies after school and on Saturdays, it’s been one job after another. Worked through school. Worked school holidays. Worked through uni. Worked after graduating uni in what they call ‘a career’. In my twenties I even worked another job each day after coming home from my career. Then in my early thirties I worked whilst studying even more uni, in order to progress my career (and therefore work even harder). When I look back, I can say… Yes, I bloody well worked. And now I don’t want to.

What I’m finding interesting is the cultural stigma and roles that come with unemployment.

I was discussing this with an actual unemployed person, one who would like to have a day job (unlike myself). He had gone for a job interview the day we spoke and was discussing the efficacy of unemployment benefits after the age of fifty (apparently you don’t need to check off as many job interviews or applications or something... ) Also, we questioned whether we unemployed folk can be classified as students if we only enrol in an evening course on llama farming.

OOO!!! I suddenly thought. I wonder if there’s a country somewhere, like… umm… Brunei possibly, that rewards people like me who work their guts out for many years, say, with a little ‘benefits’ package that I can call upon if I suddenly feel like ‘not working’ for a bit. I don’t particularly want to trudge around to job interviews, or fill in forms, or justify to the government the reasons for my temporary lack of interest in the workforce. I just want to swipe my fingerprint and COLLECT. I’ll take my benefits in Target giftcards and Qantas vouchers thanks.

I, of course, am ‘on leave’ so no Dole for this little ex-checkout chickie just yet. But what if I want to get some later on? From what I gather the way it works is that for twenty-three years, part of my tax has been going to support a welfare system for those who don’t work. Other people. Ok, granted, some of these recipients are old, some are raising sprogs, some are disabled… but there really are some people who just don’t bloody well work. So I’ve decided that I don’t want my taxes (what’s left of them) to pay for their lifestyle anymore. I want to cash in MY twenty-three years for a benefits package for ME. To fund a lifestyle by the beach that involves lots of … doing whatever I want, for as long as I want.

Since ‘The Move’ BtT and I don’t have a mortgage now so I just simply don’t have to work (because BtT, bless him, actually wants to), so any choice I make to re-enter the workforce will be by choice. Will there be pressure? Guilt? Will I get bored? Who knows?

I blame the feminist movement a little.

Yeah OK, so we, as a gender, made progress in whether or not to do some of life’s very important things. I can vote, wear uncomfortable underwear and have less than nine children if I wish. But I think women got it slightly wrong when wanting to equalise the workforce, because then, as a gender, we simply had to do MORE. Because then there came that nasty but entirely necessary ‘male housework training’ program that is STILL having to be taught as a mandatory pre-cohabitation subject, and c’mon… how many long-term ‘Mr Home Duties’ do you REALLY know? Hmm?? I could count on one hand the amount of guys in this country who know how to use a steam-mop.

I know that in the early 80’s my mum went ‘back to work’ in order to bring more money into the family home. To afford life’s little extras, like Timtams, a 120Y Datsun and the luxury of being able to afford to stay in a two-star motel rather than a tent during the annual Port Macquarie family holiday. I totally agree that more income is an excellent idea. But TWO people working? Nope. MY plan is simply just to get BtT to earn MORE to compensate for MY dwindling contribution. Perfect.

In return, I just whip up an edible dinner, put the dishwasher on, crack open a can o’ Jim after he showers off the tradie dust each day and VOILA! Oh Ok, it does sound a little 50’s housewife, but I really don’t intent to do it Stepford-style in a scanty apron blinking ‘Yes Master!’ like on 'I Dream of Jeannie'. I was thinking more… leggings and ugg boots:

“Hi honey… I’m home!”

“Yeah, here’s ya grog. Did ya make some dough today? Good. Get in the shower. I’ll slap dinner in the microwave before Survivor starts.”

“Thank you, love of my life. And might I say, you look beeeyyyoutifool today.”

“All for you, my hunk of paypacket!”

Which brings me to the ‘hair issue’.

Unemployment is full of little paradoxes. Although I now have more time in which to schedule hair maintenance and general grooming, I really have very little reason to do so. A wash and a brush and we’re done. I really don’t want to talk to a hairdresser unless I absolutely HAVE to and no one's removing stubble without a darn good reason. I hate it when service industry people want to interact with you.

“Sooo…. How’re things with Youuuuuuuuu?”

“Fine.”

“I love movies. Have you seen any latelyyyyyy?”

“No.”

“Really??? OMG. I just LOVE your top. Very noice. Where’s it frommmmmm?”

“Target.”

“Oh, loike the other day, I was in Target and it was loike… SO good! I LOVE it. ”

“Uhuh.” (Just cut the damn hair and LET ME GO!)

I slapped a home dye in the ‘mop’ to cover the grey, in preparation for my new driver’s license photo this week, but that’s pretty much it for this month. Maybe I’ll do something about when we go to Phuket. Surely they won’t want to talk to me there. Or I can ignore them, claiming ‘language barrier’ as an excuse. Maybe I can just pay extra for the stylist to shut up.

“You want head rub tooooo?”

“No, just make me look amazing and keep your talking to yourself. Ta. Oh, and can I have a wine?”

One thing I LOVE about unemployment is that I can go shopping on Monday mornings.

I’d never actually thought about it, but I was, for many years, a ‘peak hour’ shopper. But Monday mornings… oooooo….ahhhhh…. you know there’s NO ONE else there (except shift workers, sprogs in strollers and their legging and sneaker-clad mothers, old people and my unemployed ‘colleagues’)? You can GET A PARK! I KNOW!!! Amazing! Also, you can go to the Post Office and NOT LINE UP! I went into a jewellery store to get something for BHG a few weeks back and the sales assistant practically bought me a cappuccino she was so keen to meet my needs. Normally I would’ve gone with any old pussycat charm I could find, but NOW… well, I felt quite within my rights to ask her to get them ALL out. Every. Single. One. The only real ‘push n shove’ on that Monday morning was at the K-Mart clearance racks (the grey army… gotta watch ‘em). After that I went to the coffee shop and got an extra-hot-skim-chai-latte without lining up. I was able to really emphasise the ‘extra-hot’ and mention (without hesitation) that she’d be making it again if it were not perfectly hot. I discussed my eco-cup and there were no eye rolls. I didn’t even have to give my name for her to call out six times when my bevvie was ready because my e-h-skim chai latte was her only order for a good couple of minutes. I then sat, read the complimentary paper (we unemployed folk don’t BUY papers), sipped, sipped some more, ignored the odd gurgle and mother’s group banter, then left.

The thing I’ve noticed is that you really just have TIME when you’re unemployed.

I have time to read the checkout chick’s nametag and compliment her on the new nose piercing (briefly of course, I don’t want to actually get to know her…). I have time to scrapbook the weekly junk mail specials and write a detailed nightly menu for the fridge (excellent idea BTW, saves all manner of “what’s for dinner” conversations!) I even had time this week to interrogate One-eyed Wayne the Cement Guy who’s putting a new footpath in out the front. All this and I’m still tucked up on the lounge ready for The View by one o’clock. I’ve pre-ordered my mum’s Mother’s Day present online (early!!) and participated in several surveys and studies. I was paid to road-test the new Chokito Bar before its release in order to rate the crunchy choc-ball to caramel ratio (which is damn near perfect by the way). I have had time to determine whether I need to stock my home with Enjo or Danoz Direct products (I don’t think I do actually, but it’s good to work these things out). I’ve earned a Coles voucher for giving my opinions on mattresses in an online forum and I’m off to the pub this Thursday evening to give $60 worth of my thoughts about the local electricity company (hope there’s free drinks...) Sometimes, in the afternoons, I chop fruit into little, even-sized pieces. I’ve developed a myriad of things to do with pumpkin (father-in-law had excellent crop this year) as well as persimmons and lillypillies. I've even read a couple of books for no apparent reason! Is there NO END to the things one can do when one doesn’t have to waste ten or twelve hours working??

However, even though I personally don’t want to work, I am pleased that others are still out there slaving away. I do need the nation to churn along to fix the Gross Domestic Product or whatever it is. I need someone out there to be ‘checking’. I used to constantly check the finance report, check whether interest rates are rising, check the Aussie dollar, check the weather to see what to wear to work tomorrow… so please, in the best interests of the nation, I urge some of you to keep checking everything in my absence. Oh, and those of you edumacating Australia’s youth, please continue to do so. They sure as hell need it.

However, if you need me, I’ll be in the hammock out the back with a glass of Fruit Lexia ($4 a litre…bargain!), letting out a loooonnnnng sigh of unemployed relief.

Taking life one bad hair day at a time.

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Everybody Wants to Work (nah, nah, not me!), The Uncanny X-Men, 1984.

Money Changes Everything

I love lists.

Brad the Tradie and I are both list-makers. We LOVE lists. Making lists that is. Things to do. Things to buy. Things to find. Things to throw out. People to call. Now that we both have the ultimate Bogan tech-tool (ie, the iPhone) we can make all sorts of lists. We can even send them to each other across the room if we want to. I can’t imagine ever being list-less. There’s always SOMETHING I can put on a list.

However, actually doing the things on the lists has been a different story at times.

But of late, BtT and I have had a little time up our sleeves to ‘get things done’. Those THINGS that need doing. ‘The Move’ has certainly forced us to pick up the pace in terms of seriously doing the stuff that we write on lists. We set reminders on our iPhones now. That's a pretty serious commitment. I even had a reminder ding up on my phone on the day we humanely euthanised the cat. Hmmm… Things to do today: pick up cheese for dinner, have coffee with Smurfette, have cat put down. Tick, tick and tick (oh, actually, on the iPhone it’s more like ‘blop’ ‘blop’ and …. ‘blop’).

We’re ploughing through our lists at a rate of knots, delighting in such jobs as transferring driver’s licenses and figuring out Internet Banking. So we were graciously appreciative when BtT recently was offered the opportunity to be bumped up the list to have his problematic wisdom teeth removed. These damn teeth have been playing up off and on for years and it got to the stage recently that the Boganvillea dentist growled a little and said harsh words like, “continued pain”, “nerves around the jaw” and “possible sinus cavity damage”.

Yeah, righto. We get it.

It was put on the bloody ‘list’. After The Move, before Phuket. On the list. Take out rancid wisdom teeth. We filled in some paperwork for the recommended surgeon etc, etc, in the West and left it at that. Worry about it later.

Being bumped up the list soon gets your arse into gear though doesn’t it? ‘T’ day came around quickly and amid sighs of sympathy and recommendations for Arnica pistules we typed the address of the hospital into the GPS.

And now, let’s pause for a moment to remember a recent Blossy Post regarding experiences with the public health system.

You remember, right? Me being scantily clad and left in a CT scan machine to ‘show myself out’. BtT left wailing for fried chicken in a Emergency Room hallway? Well. That’s NOT how ‘T’ day went. Ohhhh no. Because wisdom teeth are ‘private’. Money changes EVERYTHING.

Neither BtT or I have private health insurance so we don't know much about private hospitals. Yes, yes, I know. We probably should have it. We did indulge at one point, but were suddenly poor and decided to ditch the MBF in favour of keeping Foxtel. And private health insurance is bloody expensive! BtT gets free back care for life anyway (being an injured veteran and all) and I, frankly, (without bragging), just don’t really use it. Yeah, I could get a free pair of goggles and flippers and probably claim for a broken fingernail, but mostly when I get sick it’s just a big case of being a sook and I’m pretty sure that private health insurance doesn’t cover Lindt chocolate and wine. I’ve actually calculated that I can just about purchase my own hospital and doctor for the money we’ve saved in the last ten years. So every now and then we knew we’d be expected to fork out for elective medical procedures. We’ve done pretty well for this to be our first one I reckon.

Private’s a bit different to Public.

I kinda knew this already after visiting friends in ‘birthing suites’ versus ‘shoved in the corner’ maternity wards. But really, it was still a bit of a shock when we were greeted at the hospital desk by the bursar. Honestly. We were shuffled into a room, our account checked to see if we’d finished pre-paying (yes, we had… fortunately the house sold or we’d be shuffling right back out again…), then ‘Jacqui’ kindly took some credit card details for any ‘other’ expenses. Other expenses? Like BLOODY WHAT?

Seriously. You’d think for three grand they’d throw in a few extras. We were taken through a list of stuff that the dudes doing the operation might feel ‘are necessary for optimal oral care’. Like $18 worth of bone wax (ew), and an icepack to take home (bloody hell, should've packed our own...) So we pretty much had to authorise Jacqui to deduct any amount of extra ‘stuff’ deemed necessary to optimise BtT’s experience. Sure, why not Jacqui? Take the bloody lot! Sorry, were those BMW’s I saw in the driveway? That’s a fecking lot of BONE WAX!

BtT behaved himself very well during his ‘oral care experience’. We had a private ‘day room’ with gadgets and doovahs and a bed that whizzes up and down. Reading BtT’s chart, I learned that taking a leak (in his private loo) before the operation is called ‘voiding’. Sensing that I may break a fancy gadget or doovah one of the well-manicured nursies showed me the complimentary coffee suite. Ooo! Noice! More like a day spa than a hospital. There was lots of reading material and snackies (unlike ‘public’) including a brochure for Botox that promised to ‘answer all my questions’. Not that I had any, but it was free, so I took it. The leaflet might come in handy. Maybe BHG can use it for home schooling or something. She might have Botox questions. You just never know.

Even in Private you don’t actually get a peronalised visit from Master Oral Surgeon himself (Dr Moneybags), but the anaesthetist swung by for a well-rehearsed, potentially comforting chat. He promised BtT that he’d try not to mangle his hand with the cannula (unlike the non-English-Speaking learner at Boganvillea Public the day of the fried chicken debacle...blood spurts everywhere… eww!!!) He glanced at his clipboard and (seriously) said, “It appears you’ve settled my bill. Excellent. You’ll get a receipt in the mail from my secretary.” And left. I think at that point we just felt like stamping ‘PAID’ on BtT’s forehead.

My job, besides looking like a Bogan in a china store (ok, I didn’t think the wardrobe choices through properly OK? I didn’t think one had to ‘dress’ to have one’s husband’s teeth out), was to be the designated driver so that post-anaesthetic BtT wouldn’t be a danger to society. I thought I’d do the right wifey thing and be there when we was brought back, to ummm, mop up drool or something. But that still left me a while to mingle with the locals at the shops, ‘private hospital style’.

Honestly, it’s a guess as to what to wear in this new Western city. One day I feel overdressed in thongs and shorts at the Road Authority office and the next I’m waaaaay underdone for lunch at the shops. Eventually I did find somewhere to eat that cost under twenty bucks, although the dopey chick still couldn’t get my extra-hot-skim-chai-latte right. She gave me a LOOK when I asked her to nuke it. Cow. I browsed the shops for a new handbag, but couldn’t find anything under $500, so called off the search and went back to wait for BtT. Got to know the neighbours in Private. Poor old chook next door buggered her foot slipping on her marble spa bath. Gosh life's tough when you have money.

As expected, BtT was fine. Being a typical tradie you could nearly chop his arm off and he’d barely say ‘ouch’. He spat out some goop, clicked on the tele to check the sports results and ripped the gauze pouch thing off his head. The nursie shoved a banana milkshake into him to check if he'd spew and sent us on our way. Barely enough time for me to read the Women’s Weekly I’d bought! Hang on, I just need to grab some more free bikkies...Ooo, yes i think we might take that box of tissues with us actually...

I think the icing on the Private cake was the follow-up phone call from Jacqui today, not to check on BtT’s progress, but to mention that we’d incurred extra costs for a haemostat or something or other.

Ohh good, I exclaimed. A haemostat! Just what we wanted! I can’t imagine that it comes with a complimentary handbag though. Bugger.

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Money Changes Everything, Cyndi Lauper, 1983

Go West

Goodbye Bogan-villea, hello ‘The West’.

We've made it. We've ARRIVED. After months of packing, two bulged discs, humanely euthanising the mangey cat and successfully throwing most of what we own into the tip, BtT, the adolescent and I boarded a cheap one-way flight to The West (well we boarded eventually… these things have to be expected with cheap one-way flights) and I must say, we arrived with quite a bang.

The rello’s, being humorous and midst a three-month drought, asked us to ‘bring the rain with us’. Didn’t seem like a bad request, so… we did. Picky bastards apparently didn’t want flash flooding or hailstorms though. People bloody well want everything don’t they?

Our cars, being unable to drive themselves across, were still coming by train, or truck or ship or something (after organising so many things we’re unable to remember details… there’s a receipt somewhere… hope for the best…) and of course the new house by the beach isn’t ready yet (bloody tradespeople) and so we’re staying with rello’s. I like to call them B2 (second brother of four… BtT being B4) and SIL 2 (sister in law 2). They’ve generously offered use of their cars here and there. B2 has a brand new Mercedes so we avoid that one for fear it may have Bond-like powers behind all the fancy buttons and leather. We chose SIL 2’s Honda. Brand new. Zippy. Good cup holders. The Company pays for the fuel. Done!

'The Company' you ask? What type? We’ll get to that later…

So here we were, zipping around in the Honda, checking out the beach, our progressing new home (with roof, good sign…) thinking ‘ahhhhh, this is nice. LOVE the weather here. Shall we get a convertible some time? Maybe after the jetski.’ BtT had lined up a few quotes for work (“ahhh yeah, I can rip that out for ya mate…”), one of which was in a posh suburb where people pay ridiculous amounts of money for tradies to make things look swank.

No worries, SIL 2 insisted, take the Honda. In retrospect, not a good call.

I like to go to quotes with BtT. I get to operate the GPS if I behave. I get to sit in the car. I listen to the radio, play my iPhone games and do random things like calculate the proportion of passers-by wearing rubber thongs. BtT goes in, salesman-like, writing things down, humming, hahhhhhing, saying posh plant names aloud, measuring bits, charming homeowners and then we leave. Usually fairly uneventful. Except today… for today we are doing the first quote ‘in the West’.

“Ahhhh, and over here I’m thinking paving… (or whatever it is that BtT suggests)”

“LOVING it!!! You are an East Coast Landscapery God!”

And then it happened.

A piece of hail the size of a cricket ball landed between BtT and ‘the client’.

“Right”, yelled BtT, “I’m outta here. Give ya call with the quote!”

And with that off we drove, in the Honda, to

a) find shelter (fail),

b) outrun the storm (fail)

c) be hailed upon stuck in traffic like half of Perth (success!!)

Brockie did end up outrunning most of the storm once we’d passed ‘the tunnel’ (local speak for a tunnel…) and we only managed to slightly wreck SIL2’s car. Nothin’ on B2’s day though. He partially owns an insurance company. Ooopsie. Dinner conversation:

“How was your day b2?”

“Pretty shit.”

“Yeah, fair enough”.

There’s been other settling in events that warrant mention, mainly involving the BHG’s grasp of the English language. There are very large gumnut things here, like HUGE. They’re called Honky Nuts and up in ‘the Hills’ where we’re staying temporarily there’s even a large honky nut water feature on a roundabout (yes, really) celebrating the honky nut. So, here we were walking along to the shops, wearing sneakers instead of thongs in order to avoid slipping on the damn gumnuts on ‘roids and BHG says, “good grief there’s a lot of those horny nuts around here!” BtT commended BHG on her Bogan creativity, but we suggested that we remember to call them honky nuts in front of Gran. Grandad might susggest a home bottling day of these prolific aphrodisiacs.

Then there’s my Bogan accent.

Blossy kinda never knew she had an accent until she went to university in the big smoke. There, a prac teaching supervisor tried to elocute me by suggesting I don’t ‘drop me g’s and y’s, hence stop sayin’ stuff like “Oi kids, we’re gunna go runnin’ and jumpin’, wanna cum out and do playin’ on the grass ay?” I thought I was rather clever once I started speakin’ in sentences instead of cluttered phrases…. definite progress at eighteen years of age for Bush Bogan Blossy. Well now, in The West, I’m being picked as …. yes… the unthinkable… a Noo Zealunder. Which, of course, I AM NOT. As the friggin’ sign I’m about to hang around me neck clearly says.

Looks like we’ll have to make a sign for BHG as well, regarding the ‘home schooling’. Seeing as though we’re an hour’s drive from the new house (and school) for eight weeks, I’m home schooling her (that bloody teaching degree did come in handy after all...) which is apparently not an issue for anyone except the lady at the Fruit & Veg store. Twice now she’s asked the BHG “why aren’t you at school today?”. The first time BHG answered “I’m being home schooled”. To which we were were given that 'oh.my.god.Weirdos have moved into our unfestered suburb look'. Ok, so I WAS wearing tie-dye and brushing my hair now seems slightly unnecessary now that I'm unemployed. The second time BHG was asked, this afternoon, she just stared blankly at this truant-officer-come-fruiterer. I answered for her today. Something along the lines of “She’s being home-schooled.” Fruity Freida replied, “Oh yes, you told me that last time didn’t you?” Yes,  we did. Shall we get a sign? Is it illegal to have a 14 year old at the shops at 2pm on a weekday? Shall I get BHG to spell some random words aloud to prove she’s not kept locked in an attic? We’re not a weird religion you know. We just eat a lot of fruit, enjoy Foxtel and we’re temporarily HOME-SCHOOLING. Thanks for your interest!

And so the evening falls (discerningly early... due to the lack of daylight saving here...) upon another ‘day of adjustment’ to life in what is not a foreign country, merely the other side of Australia. No immunisations or passport required, yet a different culture nonetheless.

Horny nut anyone?

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Go West, The Village People, 1979.