I fought the law (and the law won!)

Some of us are just law-abiding citizens.

Brad the Tradie and I come from good working class families who pay their own way, eat lamb on Sundays and are good for their word.

So it's hardly surprising that neither of us have ever needed to engage the services of the court system, or a lawyer or actually .... anyone to do with the law. But the security blanket is still there. We all know that when you fight the law, the law wins right? Our parents teach us that when they instil our values system. EVERYONE knows that the bad guy loses in the end.

I'm a good girl.

VERY good. I'm not only a law-abiding citizen, I'm also not very naughty generally. I've actually never shoplifted. Or wagged school. Or assaulted anyone. Or ... anything really. I got a speeding ticket once... a long time ago... and was mortified that I was caught doing five kilometres over the limit. FIVE kilometres. Practically a criminal. Ohhhh, the shame, the shame....

I do like Law & Order on the Telly though.

BtT and I have a series link on Foxtel for SVU. He's a bit like Elliott the tough cop, all brawn and biceps. I kind of fancy myself as the tough, blonde ADA or whatever they're called. The one that trots into court, like Alex Cabot on SVU, and kicks bad guy arse. Imagine Blossy turning up to prosecute, in my best denim skirt (the Just Jeans one, not the Kmart one), a quite posh (clean...obviously) tank top (perhaps a little sequin action) and glam thongs (not the rubber ones, the silvery ones from Colorado darl!!!)

"You! Bad guy! You SUCK! I'm the law and the law wins, so you just go to jail. NOW! MOVE IT!"

SO, when a tradesman skipped town without finishing our pergola, it was ON.

Brad the Tradie was mightily pissed off. See, in his world, on Planet Brad, tradies are good for their word (and eat lamb on Sundays). If a Tradie says he'll weld and put up a pergola then that's what he bloody well does. And our pergola guy didn't. He didn't return calls. He took our deposit money and buggered off. So, after a conversation with an old mate from high school who now works in Perth somewhere in legal aid, we decided to kick some Tradie arse in the small claims tribunal.

Except that it isn't quite as easy as it should be.

Have you noticed that since everything is online now, that you don't actually TALK to anyone about anything any more? We filled in one of those online forms, trying hard not to make any unnecessary typos, paid seventy bucks using the credit card and ...ZAPPO! We'd officially dobbed on a Tradie.

It wasn't very satisfying at that point. I kinda wanted a sympathetic ear instead of a 'your form has been successfully submitted' pop up message. I wanted some old nanna to say, "ohhhh you POOR thing! Did that nasty man not come back and finish your lovely pergola? And now you can't buy an outdoor spa and a daybed because there's no roof over your new alfresco area??? Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh DARL!!!! How AWFUL!"

But that didn't happen.

What DID happen was that we got a letter in the mail telling us (not even inviting us, no please whatsoever!) to turn up to court on April 14th. That's it. No phone number to call, no additional info, no brochure, nothing. And was woefully not enough in retrospect. Because these little black ducks have no court or legal experience and .....

We were hammered.

Sitting in the waiting area, Brad the Tradie and I didn't even know how to 'announce our attendance' at court. Upon reflection, I'm really not sure what we were expecting, but it certainly wasn't a bulk billing-style medical centre approach waiting room filled with .... ummm.... criminals. The quality of the riff-raff was impressive, all in one place, sitting up (kind of) straight in manner of waiting to go into a Principal's office. I was keen to take photos with my iPhone, but Brad the Tradie wanted to be discreet. Lets just say that I haven't seen that many home-made tattoos, acid wash jeans and mullet hair cuts in quite some time (if ever quite frankly! Although, the Gunnedah NYE 1990 Bachelor & Spinsters ball may possibly be the exeption). I liked the addition of props, eg, faux neck braces, crocodile tears and limps. I didn't touch the toilet door though. I opened it with my elbow and used a LOT of hand sanitiser. Didn't require the complimentary sharps disposal unit either, and am still not sure if I want my tax dollars to support this magistrates court for Bogan offenders. I think it perhaps should be 'user-pays.' Or maybe they could all exchange whatever weed they have for a court hearing or something.

Here, small claims civil cases are chucked in between all the riff-raff cases. Yep, a breeched AVO, a drunk driver, then... wedged in... us and our unfinished alfresco area. We were all shuffled into court and onto the pews and called one by one. Fascinating as it was to watch the criminals squirm, we kinda wondered whether this was really how we needed to spend a Wednesday. So here was Brad the Tradie, in his best T-shirt with a Manila folder in hand, standing in the magistrates court trying to explain to Judge Grumpyarse (who looked a little like one of the old muppets up on his pedestal flinging big words around and judging people) that all we wanted was a finished pergola. Really, that's all we want. Or our money back. I really like outdoor areas and I've got my eye on a rather special outdoor furniture set with a daybed and a 'reading egg', but it's got cushions and what-not so I need it to be covered with a roof. You know?

The yukky Tradie that ripped us off didn't show of course. And Judge Grumpyarse had the hide to ask BtT whether he could prove that this piece of shit even existed! And then told us not to bother wasting everyone's time. Needless to say, our day in court lasted on the minimal side of five minutes. Down went the gavel (or not... I may be being dramatic) and we hung our heads and left (trying ever so carefully no to touch any door handles). Our Judge Judy moment had passed.

So the question remains.. . Do good girls really finish last? After paying squillions of tax dollars do I feel just a little ripped off that someone who belts his defacto gets more time with the Mag than us?

Yeah.

But we still believe that what comes around goes around and that if we lead a clean Bogan lifestyle we will eventually be rewarded. What form this reward takes is unknown. It certainly isn't in the form of a pergola. But I must say, that today at the Greasy Spoon my five bucks worth of seasoned hot chips did seem a little more generously portioned than usual. Like the universe knew I needed a sign that good prospers in te end.

The law might've won this week, but karma kicks arse.

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I Fought the Law and the Law Won (The Clash, 1977)

3D, or not 3D. That is the Question!

I’m so ashamed.

We’re SO Bogan. We had THE most Bogan day yesterday. But it was inevitable, given our pattern of reoffending.

Yep. Brad the Tradie just bought a new TV. Another one.

Not to replace a broken one. Nope. ‘New Telly’ (it doesn’t have a name yet but we're thinking of calling it Sammy), was bought yesterday because BtT had to have a bigger television. To watch sport on. Which brings our Telly Tally (thanks to Smurfette for asking… I hadn’t previously indulged myself in a head-count) to… four. For three people. And what’s even WORSE, is that we looked at each other on the way home from the Telly store (ginormous telly box secured into the back of the ute) and realised that this is the fourth consecutive year that we’ve bought a new telly. And we got rid of three when we left the East Coast (no HD or 3D, or LED… HUGE iss-you). See? SO ashamed.

It all started yesterday morning when I asked BtT to pick up a towel rail from Bunnings.

Seemed an easy enough request given that he has a couple of rest days and we’re preparing the house for an invasion of yanks (VGF’s from Oregon, so not truly the annoying ‘from Texas’-type yanks, but American all the same). We’ve travelled to America several times and know that they like towel rails. And the bathroom in our new house is a little short in towel-hanging devices (I don’t know why, it just IS). So, BtT + Going to Bunnings = Towel Rail. Or, in simple mathematical terms, BtT+GtB=TR. Not a lot can go wrong with that. Perhaps the odd ‘we don’t need those screws but he bought them anyway’ hardware item.

Then comes the phone call.

BtT: Darl! Wanna come for a drive?

Blossy: Uhhh, OK. Where to?

BtT: TV store.

Blossy: Why?

BtT: I’ve just been and I’ve narrowed it down and you need to come and help me decide which telly.

Blossy: A telly? Did you get the towel rail?

He did, as it turns out, get the towel rail, and checked on fold-up beds, and dismissed the bar stools at Fantastic (the package deal kings!) as not of the right colour, AND he’s been working REALLY hard for actual real money (as to opposed to me, who… hasn’t…), so what could I say? Except, “Great! New telly!” And grab the car keys and prepare myself for the sight of BtT in a recliner watching the cricket wearing 3D glasses.

What is it with this Bogan obsession with huge tellies? It's the new Bogan drug of choice.

For something that's only 60 years old or whatever, it's certainly made an impact on the human race. Well, not as much as penicillin or anything really important, but you know, things are different with a telly. And i also wonder whether I could be one of those parents that gets out board games after dinner. You know, do the unthinkable... live without telly.

Not that I’m letting mine (all four of them) go anytime soon. I was raised by a telly.

My Baby Boomer parents put one in my bedroom when I was six. A little black and white one. I thought they were FAN-tastic parents, but I’m fairly sure I got a telly for Christmas to stop my whining about wanting to change the channel (yes, we had TWO channels) to the ABC every five minutes to check whether Kimba the White Lion had started. Anyway, that telly began my ‘cave’, my own space where I could put MY STUFF. Near MY TV. I realised that Christmas that I suddenly had power. I could choose whether to join my family, or I could be in my cave. Yes, excellent Bogan parenting. Get annoying kids a whole lot of their own stuff, set up a room and leave them to it. I remember when the SBS channel (or ‘the wog channel’ as my dad called it) came and I stayed up late one night in my cave so I could watch naked foreign people rolling around on grassy knolls. Now THAT’S sex education at its Bogan finest. My cave was SO popular for sleep-overs I had a waitlist. And that's the power of a tiny black and white box in 1978.

So no wonder as a society we're happy to spend our family tax assistance payments on a new plasma (or LED in our case).

 In the Bogan world, Foxtel is a more common monthly expense than private health insurance. When choosing our house floor plan, nearly every single building company had renamed the Lounge Room a 'Home Theatre'. In Brad the Tradie's home theatre the lounge suite has recliners, inbuilt stubby holders and a snack bucket console. We don't entertain in the theatre like you would in a lounge room, unless the guest has come over to watch the footy and have bourbon and a bag of chips.

What happened to The Good Room?

You know, the room in the house where the lounge suite was floral, where cups of tea were had, there was a spare corner for the Christmas tree and posh families had a piano against a wall. (My parents had an ugly glass cabinet full of unused Noritake china and port glasses... In case the Queen came to dinner). Good rooms do NOT have a 58 inch 3D HD LED wifi-ready television thats worth more than the lounge suite.

Does anyone besides my nanna have a good room anymore?

And does it really matter? If my favourite bogan Brad the Tradie is more comfortable at the end of his work day in his cave watching sport wearing 3D glasses then all power to him. Bugger it. He doesn't drink tea anyway.

Television - The Drug of the Nation, The Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy , 1992.

It's My Party and I'll Scream if I Want To!

I'm not really a baby person.

They're a little poopy. And they lack independence. And cry a lot. But they seem to like me. As do children (which I've pretty much had enough as well).  So, what's the chance, after resigning from a career in children raising, oops, I mean 'teaching' for a quiet life near the beach, that we'd land in a street full of children next to a baby family. You know the ones, the parents are barely out of childhood themselves and they've got a baby. And this baby family don't have any parents or siblings in the suburb.

Sigh. The writing was on the wall after the baby limped in one day with a runny nose and a perma-grizzle, stayed for a few hours and left in better shape than it started. After that, BtT (an experienced baby person) and I seemed to 'just happen' to end up with the baby quite a lot and have hence taught it to talk, walk, eat solids, wear shoes, survive the Western Australian emergency health care system, and stop screaming for short periods of time (the last one was mandatory training and required a few phone calls to my psych friend Organica for expert baby tips). Where the tissues live on our buffet there is now a large box of latex gloves as well, although we still do put the dirty nappies in her parents' bin. Might teach it not to poop next (as a matter of priority).

We've taken to calling our little patch of Bogan paradise 'Hysteria Lane'.

There's bloody scooters and minibikes and raffle ticket selling all over the place, with the joyful sound of children screaming and putting bandaids on between the hours of 3:30 and 7pm on weekdays (and more on weekends!!!). Apparently it does take a village to raise a child. And that village is in our front yard. They all have lovely Bogan names like Summer, Taylah and my all-time fave Josh-you-arhhhhhhhh. We dont live in a ghetto, but the problem here in Western Australia is that the mines have made everyone rich enough to buy a nice house. They're called CUBS, 'Cashed Up Bogans'.

So it came as no surprise that I scored a leading role in planning baby Summer's first birthday party.

Fortunately I managed to pull off making a hundred cupcakes and convince the parents to hold the party at the local park instead of in our street. With all those V8 Bogan cars the road surface would've looked like a BP oil spill.

Whilst daddy is Italian (and a miner of course), the baby's mother is from pure Bogan stock. The Bunbury Bogans. For those not in the know, Bunbury is a country Bogan Mecca about a hundred k's south of Beachvillea. Where K-mart ugg boots count as dressing up. Where the teenage girl 'guffin' phenomenon is rife (that’s a front muffin…the fast-food inspired jellybelly bit that hangs over the front of the Boganette leggings or Supre size-too-small skirt), dentists are few and far between (but there are scores of tattoo artists) and adolescents are more fertile than frogs.

So what do YOU think happens when fifty Bunbury Bogans and fifty Italian-Ozzie wogs (mayyyyte!!!) turn up at a baby's party at the same time?

Brad the Tradie, the BHG and I decided to undertake formal observations at the party this past Saturday (given that there wasn't a lot else for us to do. Whatever happened to party games?). There are definite similarities between the groups. Both sides brought gifts, the Bogans' dropped by Big Dub on the way and wrote on the bag instead of a card. The wogs put cash in an envelope. Both sides like a sausage sambo and a cupcake. Both enjoyed eating food from 'the other side' .... "Oi! Luv! There's a cheese plate...what's that one you like? Cammybert?"

Then there's the things that just don't translate, like fart jokes. Like the Bogans bringing cases of Toohey's New on their shoulder (to a first birthday party in a local park at 10am on a Saturday? really?) and wearing board shorts and denim skirts. Or the wogs lamenting the lack of fresh espresso and dressing their children in Pleather for the party (that's fake leather, and yes, it comes in black, red, pink and a lovely shade of puke).

In the end everyone got along great guns by just sticking to their own group, no police or security was required (although there were a few tears after the Toohey's New ran out and they had to crack open the home brew bourbon) and the party kicked on at the park...and yes, then back in Hysteria Lane. Right throughout the night. Baby Summer chucked it in after screaming her guts out being passed from Bogan to Wog all day, and went to bed leaving her mum to open all the plastic bags of gifts and count the cash whilst daddy topped up the bourbons out the back. Our poor dog Tasha the Wonderguts is feeling the pinch a little too with all the leftovers (she lay on her side for much of Sunday).

God forbid this couple have a wedding if this is what a first birthday party is like. Maybe we could just cordon off Hysteria Lane for the celebrations, much like the WillyKate hoohah. Although Summer's parents have mentioned that the latest Cashed Up Bogan wedding dream is to get married on a beach in Bahhhh-li or Poo-ket.

One can only hope.

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It's My Party and I'll Cry if I want To, Lesley Gore, 1963.

I am Woman

Happy International Women’s Day.

I just checked Facebook and everyone’s wishing each other a happy I.W. Day. The front page of the paper is devoted to celebrating successful women. All blokes have gone into hiding. But I really don’t think we (the females) have gone far enough in our demands for today. Did Julia legislate a day off? Why the hell not? And furthermore… who’s cooking dinner?

I note with interest an article on the telly about women's body shapes being renamed from pieces of fruit to artists.

Can’t see it taking off though myself. How many people are going to say "Corrrrr, she's an alright piece of Rembrandt" or "It’s TUNA. I'm trying to lose the Reubens. I am WOMAN. Hear me DIET!)" or “Embrace your Donatello shape my child…ohmmmmm….” And why these old, Romantic Teenage-Mutant-Ninja artists? I want to be a Dali, you know, kinda dripping towards the ground and slightly burnished. I can’t even remember half the artists the body shapes are named after. It’s just easier to be a pear, banana or apple really.

But it raises a point for me. Where the hell are the men's shapes?

We don't get articles on what to name men's bodies after. I’ve taken a vote amongst my Reuben-esque bits and we think perhaps we’ll call men after vegetables. Like, ‘cucumber’ for tall, thin men, ‘tomato’ for squat red men (you know the ones…they look like Santa all year round) and ‘broccoli’ for the blokes with a big green head. And where's International Men's Day??? On second thought, let's not. Could you imagine? A men’s day would go for a week, involve a motor sport of some kind and I'd just have to heat up the sausage rolls and pick up afterwards anyway.

I celebrated today by…. ummm, going about my business, which is kind of the women's way don't you think?

 Let’s have a day to celebrate women and then make them overachieve all day like usual. We can do whatever men can do and vice versa, although I felt kind of queasy at the Post Office working out the ratio of male managers (1) to female servers (7) and wondered how far we'd actually come when the twenty-something next door offered me a Vodka & Cranberry for lunch to celebrate the auspiciousness of today... "because we CAN."

I was raised to believe that I could do anything. Except underachieve.

In the era of being bombarded by 'women can be mechanics or fighter pilots if they want' the message resounded loud and clear. Go hard or go home. On the other hand, boys of my era gave up a bit in the face of so many pro-girl messages. My brother (from the same gene pool and intelligence) was told he was ‘good with his hands’ whilst I was pushed into as many maths and sciences as humanly possible in an attempt to show girls they were equal to or better than those inferior boys over there. We were all about girl power and by golly did we achieve. By the time I finished high school in the late 80’s, my group of overachieving friends and I practically thought boys were only good for putting the bins out and that women would one day rule the world.

Not that any of our group ended up being the first female Prime Minister.

On international women's day the news was ablaze with Jool-ya in a classroom in the USA letting them all know how we're mooooov-ing forrrrrr-ward (cue hand movements) making us Aussie chicks proud by batting her eyelashes at Barry O and giggling about vegemite. Way to go for the women's movement there Jools. And for goodness sake luv, being a smart, progressive, modern woman doesn’t mean you have to dress like a K-Mart catalogue.

So now, due to the hard work in the mid to late twentieth century, the next gen of gals can benefit from being raised by women who lived through the ultra-capable superwoman era, the Hell Yes generation and Generation X-tra work. I see girls now who know they can do anything... so much so that some of them choose to do nothing. Girls who are so confident in their body that they just let it all hang out. Anywhere, anytime. I call them 'Generation Y-should-I' or 'Generation Y-the-hell-can't-I'?

And they've got a good point. The gals of today live in a world that changes constantly. They'll have a handful of careers, some of which haven't been invented yet and keep being told that the world will end anyway. Why shouldn't they just wanna have fun?

There’s a Gen Y-the-hell-can't-I on the teaching team at the tax course I'm doing on Tuesdays.

Kelly, the trainee assistant, rocks in kind of on time with her phone buzzing away, holding two takeaway coffees ("one for now, one for in a minute") and her job is to mark our homework according to the manual. Today, on International Women’s Day, Ms Kelly wore a skintight black skirt and a sheer (see-through actually) top with ruffles kind of covering a fluorescent pink bra. Her dreadlocks flowing, she called to us to "give in ya homework" which she looked fairly unthrilled about marking, then checked her email, facebook, texts and goodness knows what else, whilst the actual teacher smiled apologetically and told us how exciting Superannuation income streams could be. Since when can you wear sheer tops to work that fully show off a fluorescent pink bra? I'm not just talking the bra straps here. THE WHOLE THING. Apparently Gen Y-the-hell-not rules the roost in that office partnership.

Kelly left me thinking today about what each generation of women leaves the one to follow.

If my mother's generation's message to me was being able to have any career we wanted, is my generation teaching Kelly's that individuality means they can wear whatever the hell they want? Or is the shock of this new office wear just me being 'old'? Maybe I'm all for individuality in theory, but then cherish conformity in certain places. "Yes, be an individual dear... wear flourescent undies... just not to work... or to the shops...or a funeral...or anywhere really where people can see them...." Yes, the Boomers and Gen X are the rule enforcers and Gen Y aim to break them.

Perhaps the fact that Kelly is able to break the rules and make me question her officewear today is cause for celebration of today in the first place. Happy International Women’s Day. I’m off to make dinner. And get the washing in…

Oh yes I am wise

But it's wisdom born of pain

Yes, I've paid the price

But look how much I gained

If I have to, I can do anything

I am strong (strong)

I am invincible (invincible)

I am woman (and I can wear a pink bra to work if i want to....)

I am Woman, Helen Reddy, 1971. (wearing a turtleneck and brown flares with no showing of underwear whatsoever)



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Love Me Tender

I detest Valentine's Day. All that fluff and nonsense and...red crap.

Case in point. I was walking yesterday through the Geri-Dome (our local Beachvillea mall, so called because of the disproportionate amount of elderly with walkers and 'mobility scooters' ). Usual reason for visit to Geridome. Flying trip to Big Dub for supplies and a whole heap of stuff we probably don't need, etc. On the way back to my car I was required to walk past Bras 'n' Things and the Cheesecake Shop, both of which were glaringly adorned with Valentine rubbish.

I have never and will never ever desire to wear a maid's outfit on Valentine's Day, or a nurse or in fact anything in sheer red or black polyester. Nope, can't even be swayed with the addition of faux fur to the ahh..tiny little area of the garment designed to hold one's bosom. It concerns me that in a clearly old-person dominated shopping centre there even ARE displays of this kind of lingerie. Crikey, if you need a mobility scooter to get around and your favourite store is the Chemist, then i'm not sure you need to be browsing at anything with nylon, whips and corsetry. I also do not wish to feed my beloved a chocolate swirl cheesecake, especially one the size of a small fridge, however 'good value' it may be. Perhaps the large sized cheesecakes and love-outfits are designed for the Nursing Home (sorry... LIFESTYLE Village) 'swingers and grinners' Elvis night.

Oh, it's all too much. I simply will extend my agnosticism regarding Religious holidays to Valentine's Day as well.

If I'm not dressing up, then apparently I'm dictated by catalogues and marketing to buy my beloved a gift on Valentine's day. Like, wasn't it just Christmas? Do i really need to watch ads on telly for his and hers tingly lubricant? And chocolate body paint? Soon the whipped cream will be kept in the personal care aisle instead of being classified as dairy! V. Day becomes known as 'V.D. and foreign object removal night' in the Emergency Room! You know, in the old days we used to just know how to 'do it' without tingly glow in the dark tubes of goo and sugary stuff. Now you're a fail whale if you can't pop a pingpong ball! And who's going to wash the sheets after putting that muck everywhere? Hmmmm????

This weekend's newspaper insert tried to help out with a V.Day Shopping spesh. Apparently I'm to pop out and acquire a chocolate fondue set, red lips telephone and salt & pepper shakers called 'bump n grind'. How romantic. "Hey darl, here's some tableware. Ya want salt n pepper on that cheesecake?" I think not.

I've already been asked whether BtT and I are booked into a restaurant for V.Day. The asker, who doesn't know us well just yet obviously, seemed shocked when I said that we'd rather stay home and watch telly, and go out some night when it's not so busy.

"But don't you want to have a romantic dinner on Valentine's Day?" I was asked.

"Oh darl," said I. "BtT's idea of a good dinner is a rack of tender ribs, a steak and calamari. And I'm happy with a carafe of house wine. Hog's Breath isn't exactly fine dining. We can go anytime."

And it's true. Brad the Tradie and I like to go out occasionally. We're close. We're tight. We're just not mooshies. We love chocolate but we just don't buy imported wrapped ones with little teddies wrapped to them. Seriously, the junk mail just about has me convinced tha Valentine's day is a day of homage for synthetics Made in China. BtT and I are all for public displays of affection. We've even ... Ahhh... publicly displayed quite a lot of affection in various ... places before (I won't list them, but the High Court grounds in Canberra come to mind). We just don't necessarily do it on Feb 14th each year with Katy Perry playing 'Firework' in the background. I mean... The pressure of having a date locked in. And the lack of predictability. "Hey darl, ya wanna do it on the 14th? I'll wear a polyester outfit, you bring the nasty chocolate spray mousse... We'll spend heaps of dough on some crap food then go pash next to the streetlight..." And for goodness sake, telly's pretty bloody good on a Monday night! BtT and I will do something truly romantic and Bogan... ie, curl up with bed with a bag of chips to watch Good News Week and piss ourselves laughing. Someone who doesn't mind that I snort when I laugh... Now that's true love.

Not quite as impressive as our fave Bogan cricketer Warnie at the mo.

He's batting way above his average hooking model/actress/walking Barbie doll Elizabeth Hurley, so, in preparation for her visit down under he went and bought a new mattress and has been tweeting his followers asking for restaurant suggestions other than Macca's. The paps are all staked out for Lizzie-watch, and who knows what other delights Warnie has in store. Black satin sheets? A little manscaping so he can throw a little shrimp on the ummm... Barbie?

Being one to have an open mind (and plenty of time on my hands), I read an article by clinical psychologist recently about the steps to reaching 'relationship harmony'.

Perhaps I should share this with Shane. Recently, i have had a few friends in a place of, lets say, relationship non-harmony and thought reading the article might help me sympathise and offer something if asked for advice. I then related these 'Abodes' whatsits back to BtT and my harmonious Bogan marriage, to help interpret the, well, very big words.

So here it is. Blossy's interpretative guide to a zen marriage (or de facto arrangement or whatever):

1. Consider loving kindness. So apparently this is about "truly wishing your partner is free of suffering". Easy. Note to husband: I can be truly free of suffering if you'd finish our yard, unpack the groceries and not make me interact with a car servicing centre of petrol station ever again. In return I will cook bacon and egg rolls once a week, freeing you from suffering the injustice of a no-cholesterol Sunday morning. Done. Oh, and if you have a sore back or whatever, I'll personally administer the pills & Jim Beam to alleviate us all from suffering.

2. Display compassion. Here, we are being considerate of our partner's mistakes. I don't make any obviously, but I'll try to be considerate when BtT stuffs up. Could be tricky. Perhaps see Jim Beam point above for that as well. Good thing he's bought a Still.

3. Find sympathetic joy for your partner. We're supposed to show interest in what is joyous to our partner. Celebrate their happiness. Well DUH. I DO let him watch Fox sports when he gets home from work AND I know who the captain of Collingwood is. I even made sure the new house had a whole room where he can store sporting crap erm...memorabilia. I'm happy for him. When he builds a great retaining wall at work, we share the pride. "Noice wall darl." "Thanks babe. Gettus a drink?" "Yeah hon. Happy for your wall. Celebrating your success." See? I'm a natural.

4. Respond to your partner with equanimity. Had to look this one up as thought it might've been a new bedroom trick. No. Apparently I'm to live with patience, and limit extreme and reactive emotions. Accept that the relationship will experience Winters, but that Spring will follow. You see, I don't mind Winter actually, because footwear is at its best then, and I'm quite happy to shop for boots. In fact, I'd say our relationship had a 'winter' once when I wore nothing to bed EXCEPT my new faux fur knee high boots. But, this equanimity stuff is obviously more for men than women. Given that I am not prone to getting the craps with BtT. I am VERY patient with BtT. Who is reading this rofl-ing no doubt.

So, in short, in order for a relationship to work, we need to actually work at it, not just wear a French maid outfit every Feb 14th in lieu of shows on telly.

If you're a V.D. sucker and have an annual routine, then by all means, cut sick. Bogan it up if you must with whipped cream and polyester, but in my opinion, it's just as good, if not better, to show the occasional interest in the beloved's footy team, go out for ribs every now and then and let him admire your beauty and admit that you're perfect. Go on. Try it. Be spontaneous on the 15th. Or 16th. With all the equanimity you can shove on top of that damn cheesecake!

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Love Me Tender - Elvis Presley, 1956

Celebration of a Nation

Excuse my cynicism if it rears. It's just that I've just discovered that I'm a great, big Aussie hypocrite.

Yesterday, along with the rest of Oz, I went to the stupid-market to get supplies for Australia Day. And came away feeling a little crapped off because I'm apparently one of the few things in there that came from a Land Down Under. When the deli didn't have any West Aussie Exmouth prawns on display, I was offered some from Vietnam. Shocked, I abruptly demanded the adolescent server go out the back and find prawns from Exmouth because I am NOT buying Vietnamese prawns. Did Hoges throw an Asian shrimp on the barbie? I think not. Whilst waiting for my true blue crustacea my mind wandered ... to the fact that half the furniture in our house and part of my shoe collection are Vietnamese. Hmmm, but not my bloody prawns. They're Aussie. It's different.

I then found some Aussie lamb (because we apparently need to eat dead local animals on Australia Day) and bbq-ed tofu burgers don't quite cut it. Thought a coconut might be nice on the beach, but they were from Samoa, which was a bit of a dodgy decision considering half of the National Rugby League players and most of our Pub bouncers are Samoan, so it's 'kind of' Ok.  The pomegranates were Californian, so that was obviously no good (nothing yank on Australia Day... only Oprah!) and I decided against a five dollar Mango as well, just because it was too expensive. Nothing wrong with a bag of Aussie chips on the beach, I reflected, whilst passing through a carpark full of imported cars wearing Aussie flags made in China.

I was listening to the ABC radio broadcast of the cricket in the car this morning and today was described as 'Australia's national public holiday'.

What exactly are we celebrating on Australia Day besides white European settlement/invasion of this continent? The fact that we've got a day off? Am I meant to be wearing a polyester flag bikini, a funny headband with green & gold pompoms and singing Kylie Minogue songs whilst BBQ-ig my lamb? What are the rules anyway?

Brad the Tradie has it sorted. He reckons Australia Day is about cricket, relaxing and drinking some of the bottle of home made bourbon he procured from Davo (father of Lara next door) made in a good old Aussie backyard with a still. Jake with the boat is off to catch crays with his brother Luke and some mates for dinner. He can't remember if his boat flags are made in China, but if they are he reckons they've done well, "coz mate I've had em for a bloody long time". The adolescent, BHG, is off to the city to see the fireworks. She's celebrating all that is good about Australia, like free public events with reduced-priced public transport, fireworks and music concerts full of acts from Australian Idol.

The radio and telly ads are telling me to celebrate 'what's great' today. And it's been quite a week for Ozzzz-tray-le-ah, so there's lots of 'what's great' still fresh in our minds. Oprah seemed to find a lot of it. I was so taken by the Australia Oprah presented that even I wanted to go there. Especially with the treatment she got. I want that Australia in my package. When piles of tourists come as a result of this campaign, dear God, let's rope off Blacktown, Redfern and Coburg.

But still, even for us ordinary Bogans without a yellow brick road, there's lots of 'what's great' about Oz.

Here's my What's Great list for 2011 in case you're stuck writing yours:

* I reckon you've gotta love the way Aussies help clean up. Doesn't matter if it's a flood, fire, backyard party or Christmas lunch. We're all in.

* I love that I can say I'm a true blue Aussie even though my heritage is a combination of Dutch and Irish. In fact, my mother's side are what we might now call 'boat people' (before we developed some sort of national intolerance towards them), fleeing post-war Europe. As Con the Fruiterer says, "Duzzzent matter mayyyte!" We're Aussie.

* Cheering on Aussie Kim Clijsters at the Aussie Open tennis today. She from Belgium, but she's forever Aussie because she was once engaged to Lleyton Hewitt (before he did the truly Aussie thing of snagging a Home & Away actress). And we can say her name. Kimmy. Kim versus Hittheballbackerorova. We like Kim because she's funny and she's a brute of a chick. With boobs. We like that.

* We're a nation of people who take everything for granted. Including public holidays. We try to be grateful occasionally, but it's hard, because we've got it so bloody good! Because we work to live, not live to work, we make sure our public holidays are packed with relaxing. And fun. We're Aussie. We invented the word "whatever".

* We're girt by sea. In the middle of nowhere. And as such we have lots of weird and cool stuff. Like animals with pouches to cart their young in. What a cool idea huh? "Come on kids, jump in, we're off down the billabong." Like the animal kingdom's version of a ute. Wonder if I'll see any Roos with pouch flags hopping about today. Won't be long and they'll be on the bandwagon. I reckon it was the kangaroos that started the 'Eat Lamb' campaign to stop being eaten themselves. Smart little buggers.

* Chicks are in charge in Oz. From the nation's top 'ranga to your mum's kitchen, we've trained Aussie blokes to be strong, tanned, pussy-whipped creatures who know their place. In front of the Telly or out next to the BBQ.

 

* In a similar vein, today we celebrate that Bogan cricketer Shane Warne can snag a hot chick like Elizabeth Hurley. Maybe she likes mobile phone sexting. I want to see Madame Boganette roll the arm over at the G with Warnie then down some VB. THEN I'll believe that she's smitten with our top Aussie Bogan. But you go Warnie! Cop a feel mate!

* Bunnings is open on Australia Day. Handy, in case you need screws or paint or something. Which Brad the Tradie did, so we went to Bunnings earlier (before the home made bourbon obviously). I was particularly impressed with the spirit of those working on our 'national public holiday', especially the sheila operating the 'throw a thong through the plastic dunny seat' competition. She was much perkier than the facepainter artfully drawing Aussie flags on squirmy small children. The snag cookers in the sun seemed to be even less thrilled to be working today. Ah well, all for the greater good of having a fully-operational hardware store. Hardware's important to us Aussies.

* As they say (and sing), you can always widely roam and call Australia home. Live overseas, fly to the moon, whatever. You're allowed back in mate, as long as you're an Aussie and you can pass Quaratine. Especially Hugh Jackman. He's always allowed in. Preferably topless.

So, on this Australia Day, I share with you a Facebook post from my bogan mate Tan (as in "Tannn-yahhhh!!!") who's got her Aussie flag polyester bikini on in front of the computer today. Sing along Poms and Yanks. I know your bloody anthems from the Olympics and the cricket, so you can stand for our ode to 'work to live' (if you can by this time of day...otherwise stagger) and help celebrate our nation:

Australians all let us rejoice

The weekend now is near

We've worked all bloody week for this
Dear God let's get a beer.

Our desks abound in paperwork

Our hands are stained with ink

In desperate stage, we'll fly the cage

Advance to Friday drinks!!
With joyful strains, destroy our brains

Advance to Friday drinks!!

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Celebration of a Nation, Official Australian Bicnetennial Song, Les Gock, 1988.

Surfin' W.A.

Don’t blame it on the sunshine

Don’t blame it on the UV

Don’t blame it on the good times

Blame it on the Boogie (board)

 

OK, So I live in some sort of fantasy-land.

Google. This is truly how it happened. I swear. Don’t hate me. It was luck. When Brad the Tradie and I decided to up sticks from Boganvillea, there were a couple of criteria. Not many, but...

• There had to be one of those Paradise Lost beaches near my lovely new house,

• Close proximity to International Airport and Cruise dock (one doesn’t like to travel in order to travel if you get my drift),

• There had to be family no more or less than an hour away (close enough to get to, but far enough for them to have to make an appointment),

• I got to quit work to do whatever I felt like each day, and

• We’d have no mortgage.

Not many criteria, but… you know, I am a bit demanding. How was Super-husband supposed to fulfil the brief? Using the bloody Netterweb of course.

Within a blink the man had Googled our new life.

Beachvillea. South West Western Australia. He showed me Google Earth this and thats of a block of land and house floor plans and … blah blah… I saw the ocean and said, “Yeah, go for it.” Given that I was getting permission to chuck in my job and live like a beach bum, the only thing left to worry about was lady fur removal from the nether regions really. And building up a decent collection of thongs.

I grew up with no ocean.

Which, if you consider all the advertising for Australia and the ‘typical Aussie’ whatsits, made me feel a bit ripped off. Nope, I wasn’t even a farmgirl. A bogan towngirl in the middle of nowhere with a public high school and a river (yes, one of those rivers that would break its banks and flood the town every now and then), dreaming of beachside living with a man called… Brock, or Brent, or Brick… or… some other Br name. And a snorkel.

And so here we are, our first summer in Beachvillea and as it turns out it’s bloody nice here.

Like… reallllly nice. I have a snorkel. I splashed out, and after much research, braved it at Rebel Sport, where all the ... ummm... sporty people hang out, spoke to an adolescent in board shorts and bought a snorkel.  I go to see my fish each day at our beach, which has a reef just out a bit. We play a game, the fish and I. I look for them. They swim a little. I follow. They swim faster. I swim faster. They win by hiding or swimming away. Simple, yet fun and excellent exercise. Good for that ‘back of the knees’ tan that I’ve been aiming for. When I get sick of that, I lie on the beach and read the free books the over-funded public library likes to buy me. Whilst I haven’t fallen asleep yet… I may be slipping into a lifestyle coma.

Which is why it’s good that the adolescent (BHG) invited the BFF from Boganvillea to come stay for a bit this summer holidays.

Two fifteenish girls built like praying mantises (praying mantii???) who don’t so much eat, but ‘harvest’ and keep me young whilst making me feel old. They giggle. And like mini hair-straighteners. And buy each other gobstoppers and have sleepovers in each other’s rooms and all those other cute things.

We call BFF ‘Bounce’. She’s the Energiser Bunny who just keeps on keeping on. An impossibly nice and cute little gymnast, who, in her size nothing pink wetsuit, managed to learn to surf in three days. The next time she gets in the water Bounce will possibly be doing a three and a half rotations twist with perfect ten landing whilst riding a pipeline wave. Whilst photographing Bounce and BHG (who can stand on the board which is much better than expected… I was hoping for anything above a trip to Emergency) I pretty much felt like Greenpeace might come along and roll my nearly forty year old self back in the water. Except that all the other parents with cameras were much fatter than me and some were jiggly with VERY low hanging boobs, which, I must say, gave me a moment of indulgent vanity. I had a nicer pair of togs on too. And I got to point at my two gorgeous twiggies and say, “Yes, they’re with me. Which one’s your child? The ugly fat one who can’t stand up on the board? Or the one that’s drowning over there….”

It hadn’t computed with me, or the twiggies, just how much we’d rely on the water for entertainment in summer.

Bounce met me at the Qantas counter with luggage resembling a mini-fridge for a ten-day beach break. Whereas what we wear ‘round these parts is pretty much togs and thongs. Took me ages to get used to that too. I have a walk-in-wardrobe full of high heeled boots and leather jackets, yet arrived here with one pair of rubber thongs. Actually, we even skip the thongs unless the sand’s hot. Accessories consist of a beach bag and a water bottle. Maintenance is a shower afterwards. And yet, funnily enough, you end up with clear skin, fab hair and a healthy glow. And a few tanlines. And a thing for vacuuming sand off everything. I have my own ‘man with a Br name’ now too. He doesn’t like to use my snorkel because it’s purple. Real men have a black snorkel apparently. Like Darth Vader.

So with Bounce now gone and BHG the locust off learning to sew with her Gran (yes, Western Australia is SO quaint isn’t it?) I’ve been left to go spend time with the fishies, pretending to chase them and watching them laugh when I try to dive under and choke on sea water in my snorkel.

Surfin’ W.A. is quite noice though. There’s nothing quite like watching the sunset over the Indian Ocean with a bevvie in one hand and ‘Bucket of Skin’ in the other. It’s worth exfoliating, waxing, shaving, moisturising, vacuuming and ummm… doing that all over for. Any day. Every day. You can hate me now.

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Surfin' USA. The Beach Boys, 1963.