Working Class Man

We’ve got a driveway now.

I know, seems like such a small deal… unless you DON’T have a driveway. Fortunately, I have four-wheel drive, so parking hasn’t been a huge issue at the new BeachVille abode. A building company puts in stuff up to ‘the crossover’ (which sounds a bit like one of those psychic conventions) and then you fix the rest. It took a lack of ‘approach speed’ on Brad the Tradie’s behalf (crunch… crunch…) to have us say “Bugger it. Ring a paver! Get a tradie!"

I know what you're thinking. Brad the Tradie IS a tradie. He’s a Landscaper even. But he doesn’t pave. Too much bending over and painkillers involved. So, when in a new area, how does one actually FIND a paver? All tradies are on a ‘word of mouth’ system in this great nation…. So BtT rang the fence dude who’s currently deciding whether he might put our pergola up sometime before we turn 60: “ahhhh, maaaate. Do ya know a paver?” “Ohhhh maaaaaate. Pretty tight, but I reckon I might be able to make a call for ya…” So, after much consternation and with us thinking a great favour had been done,  suddenly there was Mal. Why do these people always have one syllable names? And a team of other people with one syllable names?

Mal’s lost his license.

Not his paving one (not sure you need a license to pave someone’s driveway). No, his driver’s license. I’ve heard of a few people being banned from our roads recently, and one has to be pleasant to the tradies at one's house, so I thought, to make small talk (leading up to a friendly segue that would include a request for Mal to put a shirt on), that I’d ask what had happened:

Blossy: So, Mal, no license. That must be tricky.

Mal: Yeah, we have to get Gazza to drive the work ute. He’s the only one left of us that’s legal.

Blossy: Right. Sooo… lots of speed cameras these days. That’s it huh?

Mal: Nah. Mine was DUI.

Matt (offsider): Mine was a Reckless.

Mal: Yeah, then I got done for drivin’ without a license and bein’ on the p***. I’m off the grog now but. Been dry for four months.

Blossy: Well, that’s GREAT. (thank Christ he’s off our roads… mental note to send thankyou card-lette to local police)

Mal: Yeah, I’m usin’ natural medicine now. Herbal. Coz I’m so jumpy like. Yeah, except that givin’ up the p*** means I’m smokin’ twice as much weed.

Blossy: Right then. Well, ummm… good luck with the up coming birth of your child  I hear you're having (thank Christ I won’t have to teach the brain-injured sprog).

Mal: Yeah man, they’re expensive. That’s why I gotta work you know? Like, I’ve got a Rotty and another dog to feed as well. And you don’t get no rebate from the government to have dogs. At least they pay ya to have kids.

Blossy: Yes, thank GOODNESS for that. Shame the weed’s not subsidised hey Mal?

So I left them to it with a bottle of coke and three plastic cups. BtT paid the team cash at the end of the day, "much appreciated thanks maaaaaaate", no doubt to be put towards the sprog’s edumacashon. Or drugs. Driveway looks good though. For a driveway.

Which brings me to tradies in general.

 I know I’m married to one, but I still felt VERY judgemental towards Mal and his crew. My tradie doesn’t spend his cash on weed. He buys his wife overseas holidays. Mine doesn’t live in a Vizzie vest and he’s a competent speller (and expert Scrabble player might I add). Maybe I just lucked it. He DOES have a one-syllable name.

Our neighbours on each side are what we, here in Beachville, call FIFO’s.

They’re tradies that Fly In, then Fly Out of mines in Western Australia. For those NOT in the know, many mines in this vast state are not situated in lovely places where dolphins roam as free as the sunshine. They’re in hot, dusty, horrid places where one’s wife will not move to. So FIFO’s go away, dig up stuff and fly back again. There's even a support group for partners of FIFO's. Like the Public Library, there's possibly free Arnott's Family Assorted biscuits involved.

We had afternoon tea with Jake the FIFO from next door the other arve. I call arvo tea in tradie-land a 'Six-pack and a Bogan platter.' I don’t bake muffins for these events, not like I would a morning tea for teachers. I don't bake Gingerbread Julia's like I would for my public servant brother-in-law.  Everyone knows that you don’t have muffins with a six-pack of JB or Corona. DUH. You have cheese, bikkies, some salami or cabanossi and perhaps…. only if the occasion calls for it… a corn relish or French Onion dip or a bag of  plain Kettle chips. That’s it. As BtT says, “Don’t be puttin’ any of that weird sun-dried tomato crap on there.” Or Blue Cheese. Colby & Cheddar are OK. Brie at a pinch. Jatz crackers but not Lavosh. Water crackers are OK, but not preferred. The rules of a Bogan platter are clearly defined. As a Tradie Wife, I'm advised to stick to the rules.

Whilst BtT was taking a call (Tradie’s always have to take a call…) I chatted with Jake:

Blossy: So, Jake, what is it that you do at the mine in Kal? (Kalgoolie for those not in the know)

Jake: Well, I was drivin’ dump trucks, but I’ve like stepped up, so now I get to blow up sh**.

Blossy: Ahhh. Well, that sounds satisfying. Is there a good career trajectory there?

Jake: Yeah. Hard rock. Gotta get the gold out. Always need good explosives experts.

Blossy: Yes, don’t we just. So you like it out at Kal?

Jake: Yeah mate. They pay for everythin’ except the p***.

Blossy: Ah well, can’t be havin’ you drunk whilst blowin’ s*** up now can we?

I learned a lot about our neighbour Jake the FIFO. Jake likes cheese. And he’s just bought a boat, so we’re all goin’ ocean fishin’ one weekend. Grrrrrrreat. BtT and I are thinking of installing a crustacean sink out the back in which to rinse the sealife before we eat it. Best not to do it in the house apparently. Jake knows these things. I believe him…. Truly. Crustacean sink is go. Possibly has even elevated in position of necessity above the 65 inch telly for the Home Theatre. Apparently Jake's wife Lara hates it when he washes the crabs in the kitchen sink, or the bath.

So the new rule in our house is that BtT gets to interact with the Beachville tradies.

They’re a bit more full-on than those I’m used to. And quite frankly, I think I scare them, not sure if it's the big words, the invasive nature of my questioning or if they can just smell that I quite like blue cheese.  One just shouldn’t ask, “What are you reading at the moment?” unless you’re prepared for an answer of “the telly guide”.

I am trying though.  I went to Target today and bought a new pair of leggings. They're black, so they go REALLY well with my grey ugg boots. I’m undercover, pretending to be a part of Tradie Land.

Pass the cabanossi luv. And get me a beer.

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Working Class Man - Jimmy Barnes, 1985.

The Librarian

When I was just a baby, before I could speak

I would line up all my letter blocks alphabetically

and now it’s my vocation and my passion to assign

every decimal-numbered shelf to every decimal-numbered spine

I’m a librarian, I’m a librarian

and I like it quiet so the pages can be heard

I’m a librarian, I’m a librarian

and I do it for the love of the word…

I’m sure I’ve mentioned it… but, to be sure we’re on the same page, I’d best tell you that I’m unemployed.

Without career. Time on my hands. As the household adolescent explains it, I’m putting the ‘stay at home’ into ‘stay at home parenting’. And for those who haven’t been keeping up, I should also break it to you that I quite like velour leggings, stretchy tops from K-Mart and ugg boots. I don’t have to dress up each day anymore. Sold most of my career shoes on Ebay actually. Should see my feet. They look quite… different to before. There’s skin where the industrial strength elastoplast used to be. There’s no callouses or scabs either. They look like… feet.

We’ve been living in the new house in BeachVille for six weeks now. Plenty of time to settle in and take over. We’ve undertaken many essential activities within the community, like telling the kids off up the back for trampolining too high and peering into our yard (like any good ex-teacher I conducted a minor intervention to ensure minimal repeat occurrences of their behaviour… yes, I’m THAT neighbour). We’ve done stuff like meeting the mailman (sorry, postal delivery officer), who appears to come along every few days or so when he feels like it. The dogs are well and truly at home, having escaped Alcatraz to explore the area twice now (the first time we were worried, the second time… we just got cross at the little turds). The adolescent has narrowed down the list of possible part-time work venues to half a dozen fast food ‘restaurants’, a beading store (good grief) and a shop that sells bedazzled puppy accessories. Oh, and she’s enrolled in public school (a secondary consideration to getting a job and going to the beach with non-skanky potential new friends all of whom must love Twilight, Facebook, Glee and incessant texting). Brad the Tradie’s thinking of running for mayor (or state parliament) and I’ve finally figured out the new oven (what’s with all the settings?). We’re a bit worried about the invitation from the next door neighbour to go fishing in his boat, but we’ll jump off that bridge when we come to it. As long as we're not making dolphin kebabs it should work out OK.

AND… significantly, we’ve joined the local library.

Seriously. This was a big deal for us. We really only went there in the beginning because we’d heard they had free wireless internet access (I mean really… I can only sit at Macca’s for so long before I feel greasy and nauseated). And being the ‘keen to settle in and be part of the community’ kind of people that we are (…yeah I know…play along…) we thought we’d better get a library card as well.

I haven’t been a member of a library in a LONG time. Not work-related ones, or libraries that are necessitated through school or studying, but a proper, PUBLIC library. One that you go to for pleasure. I just haven’t needed to. I haven’t had time to. And they’re full of smelly, used things and people in trenchcoats and crocheted cardigans.

Or so I thought. Times have changed in Library Land apparently since I was fifteen. Our local is called an ‘E-Library’. It has E-verything. Our local shire is quite wealthy and apparently we like to spend loads of money on community facilities (I could just go with a highly subsidised land rates scheme… but we’ve already established that BtT hasn’t run for mayor just yet).

Our E-Library is a monument to glass, community love and the Dewey Decimal system.

There are ‘rooms’ where one can hold a gathering (BtT goes to one such ‘room’ for Greenie Group on a Monday). There’s a very-well equipped computer lab, generally packed with the elderly, all squinting at screens looking either quite nervous or quite excited (“Look! I’m on the Netterweb Gladys! Quick, help me find Ebay!!!”) There’s a TV room, with coffee machine, plush lounges that I wouldn’t mind for my house, magazines and all of those ‘how to be involved in your community pamphlets’. This is where the free newspapers get delivered, so the ‘great unwashed’ and pensioners hang out here. Especially during the World Cup soccer. VERY popular is the free telly, free newspaper, free coffee room. This is also where the free native seedlings were hanging out for a while. Two per household. Honesty system. Bless them. I think we ended up with thirteen.

Our library has DVD’s, CD’s, PC games, a book binding machine and several whiz bang colour copy thingies. You could nearly run a business out of the damn E-library. There’s shelves of subscription magazines (much to my relief, given that I’m banned from buying five mags a month now that I’m without career…) and ART everywhere. I know this because I’ve tripped over or bumped into most of it. You notice these things when ART is made of papier mache or stainless steel with sharp edges. The BHG is doing after-school  Art Class on Thursdays in a ‘room’  with a hippie called Carmel. Perhaps I should dress BHG in purple crushed velvet or something so she can ‘create from within’ properly. I get extra stay-at-home parenting points for not embarrassing her at the end of the lesson by exclaiming ‘Wow!!!! Only a hundred & fifty bucks a term for that crap!’

Naturally, there are books at our public library.

LOTS of books. Because it’s so rich, our library’s ‘new books’ section looks like Dymocks. I’ve generated quite a list that I’d like my public library to buy. For me. Bugger buying books myself anymore, especially seeing as though I give most of them away anyhow. I’ll get the library to do it! There’s a special button on the reservation computers where you suggest which books and magazines you’d like. There doesn’t seem to be a limit either. AND if you suggest the item, you get to borrow it first! SCORE!

But where there’s books, there’s a Librarian.

Gotta watch ‘em (the librarians, not the books). They’re SLY. Librarians are a special breed of quiet people. They sneak up behind you, pretending to shelf books, but really are checking to see if you’re going to steal something or spill your eco-travel mug of coffee on ‘the collection’ (it was only a DROP, I SWEAR!) And librarians have RULES. Like… only four DVD’s at a time. Geez. May as well have a rule where you can’t borrow a DVD unless you promise to read a book (a bit like the ‘have a glass of water for every alcoholic bevvie rule…) Rules like ‘no crunching of apples unless you’re in the room with the free newspapers and telly’. AND… our library team (yes… a TEAM of these middle-aged stealthy bookworms with permed hair) have a posh machine that prints out a receipt when you borrow, with each title listed and their return dates. Bloody return dates. Like it isn’t bad enough that you have to line up and scan your library card. THEN you have to bring all the bloody stuff back. On time. So that other people can have a turn. It’s so… COMMUNITY minded.

And don’t they just love the community all coming in to use the library. What happened to libraries being QUIET? You know, “inside voice”? “Shhh, this is a LIBRARY!” Even though I can’t eat an apple or spill coffee willy-nilly, we appear to have a policy of inviting pre-school sprogs of all descriptions in to make as much noise as possible. Teaches them to love books or something. Then the librarian brings out free Arnotts Family Assorted biscuit packets for the devil-spawn and their suffering parents. Although, quite frankly, how sitting around in a circle singing ‘Teddy Bear, teddy bear, run up the fecking stairs’ or whatever that annoying song is, can POSSIBLY be of benefit to ME is as yet unknown. I have, however, learned to avoid the library between ten and noon on days of the week starting with T.

So, I now read.

Because the books are free, and quite frankly, so am I. And by the looks of my book list, I’ve got a lot of reading to catch up on. BtT pointed out the Book Club brochure, which I might investigate. One of my VGF’s is in a book club and she thinks it’s pretty good sitting around with other chicks talking about books. When I suggested this hobby to BHG she told me that if I wanted to take up a group activity I should try Synchronized Swimming because that's about the only thing daggier than Book Club. The books on the list look really HARD though. I just want a Bogan Book Club where we sit around and discuss Sex and the City, not all those really long books with enormous words and no nookie scenes. Or better still, a telly watching group, where we can just veg out on the plush lounges, have free coffee (must suggest Chai Latte) and bikkies (must suggest a toasted sandwich machine), then go home. Still, I’ll try a few of the books and see if I can stay awake whilst reading them before I risk making friends with people who use big words. It could be high maintenance carrying around a dictionary if I get too many smart friends.

Maybe I should just become one of the librarians. Can’t be that hard, scanning books, passing out packets of biscuits and counting how many DVD’s Bill and Beryl are borrowing this week. Maybe there's a secret librarians-only toasted sandwich machine out the back.

I’ll just go check the wardrobe for a crocheted cardigan…

Oh bugger… just tipped over my bloody coffee again. Woops. Best stay unemployed for a little longer. The life of a librarian just isn’t for me. Maybe I WILL take up synchronised swimming… much less dangerous.

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The Librarian - Jonathan Rundman, 2004 (yes, I hadn’t heard of him either. Don’t you love Google?)

Hey Good Lookin'! What cha got Cookin'?

Did you read the paper? We’re midst a national crisis. Something has to be done about it. I was shocked personally. TOTAL disaster! How did this HAPPEN?

Yes, I know. It’s terrible. The one and only televised pre-election debate between Jules and Tone has been scheduled right up against the finale of Masterchef this Sunday evening. And THIS problem made the news.

The reaction in our house was simple. Bugger the election issues. It’s MASTERCHEF. It’s like scheduling your wedding on footy grand final day. Just shows an outright lack of planning. It’s not that I don’t care about the election or the future of things like Health, Education, Mining (bloody mining… welcome to Western Australia where they should change the flag to display a pick, shovel and fifty million dumptrucks), and those pesky little trouble makers fleeing war-torn countries for a better life. I fecking CARE, OK? But I’m going to watch Masterchef. I’ll flick across to hear the pollies during the ad breaks or something.

Masterchef unites a nation.

It gives us all something to talk about (besides mining), something to look forward to each night on telly (except Saturday… what’s with that? Can they not whip up a Masterchef Saturday baking special or something?) and I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling quite confident in my ability to make mayonnaise from scratch these days with all those Masterclasses.

I think, though, that if I could have a teensy weensy trickle of input into the show’s format… I’d Bogan it up a tad.

I appreciate that we’re all in need of knowing how to present poached pears properly, but really… PHEASANT? Who cooks pheasant? Where do you even get one from? It’s not like the meat section of Woolies goes ‘pork, beef, lamb, chicken, turkey, PHEASANT’? And if I’m supposed to wait until my man goes out a-huntin’ for a pheasant, then we’re all gonna starve.

The Masterchef contestant pile is not properly represented by Bogans either. There’s too many lawyers and IT consultants. These people couldn't possibly represent what cooking has to offer in Australia. Too many 'delicate flavours', mousses and foams. And that smooshed pea spread thing. Seriously. Don’t mess with peas. Did you see these non-Bogans doing the CWA (Country Women’s Association) challenge? Who can’t cook lamingtons and scones for goodness sake? I can do scones in fifteen flavours depending on seasonal ingredients (ie, whether BtT’s dad’s pumpkin crop has gone ballistic). It's just part of our Bogan bloodline.

What we need are Bogan-istas.

My Master-bogan-chef contestant list reads a little like this (some of you reading may sense some familiarity… either admit to it, or don’t, your call):
* Beryl, mother of four from Ballarat, whose signature dish is meatloaf covered with an outer coating of mayonnaise

* Sharon, a stay at home ugg-boot wearer, who has a trick where she puts wholegrain mustard in her potato salad (addictive secret ingredients are always sought after in these shows…)

* Doreen from Dubbo, with an artichoke and spinach dip that just suits every occasion from morno’s with the Governor General to a Melbourne Cup arvo tea.

* Paula, who does a fine Tuesday night pasta dish with a packet of tortellini and a can of tuna.

* Darryl from Deniliquen, who can feed five families on a meat pack he won at the club

* And… Blossy, who can churn out a hundred cupcakes for tomorrow’s fete in under an hour.

We’ve all got our signature dish. Sure, it may not look like the ones 'plated up' on Masterchef, but it does the job.

I love how this show’s contestants all have a ‘culinary dream’. Like the guy who wants to open a Parisian-style café, and the one that wants her own TV cooking show. Oh, good ‘em. If they’re happy to be embarrassed each night on telly, then let them have a food fantasy. MY personal culinary dream is for someone else to cook dinner every night. I don’t mind the concept of cooking. It’s just that when you cook food EVERY night that’s supposed to resemble something from the healthy eating pyramid, it gets a bit … less than culinary. Clever families learn to say, ‘mmm, yummy’ every night and not complain. I have a little beauty I call ‘Slop in a Jar’. VERY un-mastercheffy. I get a jar of slop, you know, from the Indian/Italian/Mexican/Asian aisle, and tip it over some meat and veg. Then slam it on a plate with rice and call it dinner. BtT and the adolescent know it by heart (“Ooooo, Slop in a Jar night! Mmmm…. Yummmmmmy!!!”)

And what about the Masterchef elimination challenges? We really need to work on those. I have a few suggestions to Bogan-ise and stress out the contestants. Rather than guessing the ingredients of Coq au Vin, how about they determine what’s in my mum’s Spag Bol? Even better… her Shepherd’s Pie, now THERE’S some tricky ingredients! ("Can anyone taste the beef stock powder?") We could also have a sausage sizzle cook-off to see if anyone can turn 500 snags on a flatbed barbie without burning any at the school election day fundraiser. That’ll sort the stayers from the wannabe’s.

So, back to the original dilemma of what to do this Sunday evening with the telly clash.

Admit it, are you REALLY going to choose to view the Prime Ministerial debate over the finale of Masterchef? Could they not have waited one more week to discuss the state of the nation?

I know what we’ll do. Rather than all the yap-yap we’ll get Jules and Tone to have a cook-off at half time. Jules can do Chinese Takeaway and Tone can slap up a steak sandwich. That’ll prove who’s fit to lead the country.

Problem solved. Bogan Burgers all round mate!

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Hey Good Lookin', Hank Williams, 1951.

Cheap Wine and a Three Day Growth

I drink cask Lambrusco. There… I said it.

Actually, I’m a bit partial to Fruity Lexia as well. We’re a long line of cheap wine drinkers, the Bogans. My parents kept a cask of Tropicana in the fridge for guests and special occasions. I graduated to West Coast Coolers. The rest is history.

I don’t mind a bit of wine tasting. Mainly because it’s free. I love the concept of going into a shop and trying free stuff. If you choose your time at Woolies you can almost get morning tea on a Saturday. OK, so it’s all crackers and cheap cold cuts, but it’s still worth it.

Same with wine tasting. Any free grog’s a bonus in this life. You just don’t know what you’re going to get though. Unless you’re with an expert. I’m very rarely with an expert wine drinker (given that Brad the Tradie can really just tell the difference between Jim Beam and Jack Daniels…)

Given how close I now live to one of Australia’s premier wine regions, it seemed only fair to take my VGF Smurfette of the Outlets to drink some free grog. And she’s married to a true expert. The manager of a chain grog store. This woman knows her alcohol.

After playing Paper, Rock, Scissors for three hours to decide who’d be the designated driver, we felt it only fair to call off the negotiations and book a wine tour that picked up and dropped off at the Bed and Breakfast.

You know,the kind of too-ahh where the purple party bus turns up just after breakkie and takes you on all day piss-up. Like a pub crawl, with less flannelette and more camembert. A whole heap of people who begin as strangers and end as … well… strangers singing YMCA and That’s Amore on a mini- bus with a fully sober and suffering driver called Silvano.

So here was Blossy… with a three day growth (ie, hadn’t shaved my legs since Monday) on a fully loaded party bus with Smurfette of the Palette. She who can identify top notes… and stuff. She can swirl. Sniff. And man… can she DRINK. Our rule for the wine too-ahh? We agreed we could not say no to any alcohol offered throughout the day. Which totalled (yes, we carefully kept count)… thirty seven tastings and one full glass (with lunch). About one and half litres. Which, you know, is fine if it’s only wine, but we also did shots at a liquers factory. And we weren't the worst off on the bus, let me tell you.

The difference between Smurfette of the Palette and myself is that I have a very simple system of rating wine. I call it ‘Yummy or Yukky’.

It goes like this:

Wine tasting Chick dressed in llama fleece: This is a very expensive bottle of award winning Cabernet Merlot with full bodied blah blah blah and a pretty sticker.

Blossy: Ohhhhh NOICE. Filler her up luv.

Smurfette: Ooooo, I like that one. Can you feel the raspberries?

Blossy: Nup. Yukky. (yet swallow anyway).

We’ve determined a system for my palette. I like cheap wine. I stopped reading the ‘tasting notes’ and just labelled each wine as ‘yummy’ or ‘yukky’. And yes, without fail, the yummy ones were the cheap ones. Well, if you count between ten and thirty bucks as cheap.

So after driving around in the rain in a mini-bus Silvano decided that we’d had enough (well, it was getting dark) and dropped us all off. And Smurfette and I WENT OFF. We are part-ay animals. We….then.. umm… went back to the B and B to drink some more. In our pyjamas. Watching Masterchef and eating leftover cheese and posh pesto. The way I figure it, you’re already in bed. May as well just finish the bottle, then have a shower and a pandeine.

Today when we self-toured the region (yeah, I decided to drive given that my palette sux the big one) at one posh winery they let Smurfie taste an $85 award winning something-or-other red. She can tell the difference between that and cask wine. In fact, when Smurfette bought a bottle close to $30 at Leeuwin to have with dinner when we got back to Beachville, my main concern was ‘holy crap! What will we eat with it? Snags or chicken burgers?’ (don’t panic, we called into Coles and grabbed a lamb roast to do the Cab Sav justice). Posh wine makes me hungry. Good thing there were M and M's in the cupboard.

So… shall Blossy be spoiled and have to convert to cellar door only bottled wine? Nah. I reckon once Smurfie goes back to Boganville I’ll get the Lambrusco out of hiding.

Long live cheap wine! Unless someone else is paying.

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‘Cheap Wine and Three Day Growth’ – Cold Chisel, 1980.

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

Hello?? Is this thing on?? Great, you can hear me!

It’s Smurfette here, reporting from Beachville, and Blossy has invited me to act as ‘guest blogger’ for this week, to share some of the hilarity of our Tour de Wine Bottle – nearly as gruelling as the Tour De France, but not quite as long (also featuring significantly less lycra or indeed exercise!)

I packed my gear and left my husband Carlton at home for the week, ostensibly so I could go do some learnin’ at a national conference, but ac-shul-lee so Blossy and Smurfette could investigate some wineries and engage in a little light retail therapy!

Our trip stared with a tootle along the ‘coast road’ departing from Beachville leaving BtT to feed the dogs and tape the important shows like Masterchef and Glee (in case we overindulged and couldn’t concentrate on the tele!) – we anticipated a scenic trip with views of the coast, apparently we were a wee bit misguided as we saw a lot of scrubby bush along the sides of the road with the occasional glimpse of water or suburbia.

I’m no fashionista, but...

I had a stint, only a couple of summers ago, where I wore killer heels and swanky skirts to my job at Bogan-ville Primary, very posh indeed. After slowly eroding the skin on my feet I determined that my feet were really designed for sandals with soles like tractor tires, and teaching maths to Kindy kids was more suited to the wearing of three-quarter length jeans. So the posh skirts and silly shoes were relegated to a lofty shelf in the wardrobe, only to see the light of day for weddings and parties involving free drinks, and I went back to Tar-jay t-shirts and shoes from Colorado.

All of which made our stop at the Somewhere-or-other-up servo to fill Kimmy-the-Kia’s tummy all the more amusing... Cue vision of three trendy poppets dressed in high fashion of short black skirts, tights and topped off with a choice flannies. Apparently our choices of Tar-jay travel-wear (i.e. jeans and t-shirts) just don’t cut it in a Supre world...sigh... The folk inhabiting Wine-ville had also obviously missed the latest issues of Marie Claire, based solely on our tally of muffin tops, tracky and ugg-boot combos and cheesecloth muu-muus. I guess you’ve gotta be comfortable...

And we were further outclassed fashionwise later in the day at the Cow-land Bowlo Club, where we braved the $10 ‘Beer and Burger’ meal deal for dinner. After being met with the stunned stares of the locals at the bar (it was a bit like this: “Oh gee, there’s two sheila’s comin’ in the door – guess they’re not from round here, eh Bazza”), we rounded up a burger and a glass of included wine (apparently not-local-sheila’s could substitute wine if they weren’t up for a beer) – glad it was a local SSB rather than a Chateau Cardboard, given we were in the heart of Wine-ville – and retired to the corner to observe local behaviour. There was the cluster of tradies propping up one end of the bar, balanced by some other locals on the other side – and let’s just say both Blossy and Smurfie were thrilled that we hadn’t bothered to dress-up! Workboots, hi-vis shirts and a reflective strip on your duds seemed to the highest layer of dress-standards at the bowlo, which got us to thinking about what might be written on the dress standards board at such an establishment... How about “Singlet, thongs and shorts welcome, no bling, no cashmere and no fat chicks”

And then there was the full-contact sport of shopping in Wine-ville...

My VGF, Blossy, is currently researching a range of ecologically friendly, ethically responsible and economically viable items for her burgeoning e-business, and Wine-ville seemed like an appropriate place to continue the mission to locate items appropriate for this kind of venture... With a range of stores selling items like handwoven hemp hats and scarves made from intertwined Tibetan toenail clippings, sorting the wheat from the chaff was... strenuous.

We like to shop. Both of us.

When Blossy lived back East we could stretch an adventure at DFO into a full arvo's entertainment. We were underprepared for eco-research in Wine-ville. For example the highly obvious BO in the local bead emporium, the significant proportion of stores selling slop in a jar made from local produce and we were completely under-aware of the need for a ‘Beginner’s Guide to Bong Etiquette’ – yes, really! And don’t get me started on Eco-Cow and her agro about bamboo socks – apparently she didn’t quite understand the concept of retail research and regarded it more as industrial espionage – maybe she should have a bath, ditch the dreadlocks and get a life.

All in all a fun time in Wine-ville – and the wine tasting hasn’t even started yet – roll on the free grog!!

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'Girls Just Wanna have Fun' - Cyndi Lauper, 1985

Red, Red Whine

It was a great day for smart ‘ranga chicks.

Julia showed everyone didn’t she? That you could be a Deputy for a bit and then stab your boss in the back and … well… become Prime Minister. Just like that.

There’s plenty of conjecture of course. Should she? Shouldn’t she? Can she? Will she? Who the hell IS she? The whole nation started whining. Fair suck of the sav! What’s happened to democracy? Facebook was filled with nothing else but Julia. I myself promised to bake pointy-nosed gingerbread women dressed in pinstripes. It’s the least I could do.

Up until now all we’ve known is that she likes to win. Fair enough. Don’t we all? And really, she did it the easy way. No election for our girly. Bugger that for a joke. And why not? It’s kind of like skipping the queue at Myer on Boxing Day to get to the on-sale Sheridan sheets. Or being given a gift membership to a box at the Melbourne Cricket Ground. When given half a chance, I’d take the easy road too.

I’m not that fussed that she’s a ‘rangarette. Or a woman. Or smart. There’s plenty of those around and quite frankly, with the state of men in this country I’m surprised we didn’t elect one to the top job before now. I mean really. With names like Kevin and Wayne, how are our blokes taken seriously on a world stage? (“ohhh hi mate.. I mean Barry. Name’s Wayne, you can call me… Swannie.”)

What I am fascinated about is that our Julia… Jool-ya, JOOLS… is… a Bogan.

She likes Chinese takeaway, jeans, leather minis and footy. She don’t shop for those black shoes anywhere posh. My guess? They’re from Target and anyway, she'd probably prefer to wear thongs. But apparently Parliament has a bloody dress-code.  And Jools’ next short-term goal? To find time to go see Sex & the City 2. In between cracking a deal with the mining industry bosses and that carbon emissions thing. Oh and those tricky asylum seekers. What to do? Put them to work cutting out pantsuit patterns? Get them to shell prawns at the Local?

I kinda thought that I’d be the first Bogan chick to lead our great nay-shon.

Blossy for PM! I’m not that keen on the hard work aspect of course, and quite frankly, on the few occasions I’ve watched Question Time in Parliament it’s bored me to distraction. But instead it’s Jools. I’ve read a few articles lately and it appears that Jools has a few Bogan skeletons in her Toyota Corolla. Her partner/lover is a hairdresser (who can knock back a cheap home dye job? I’ve been known myself to pass BtT the Garnier box and tell him to cut sick with it!) Tim cracked onto Jools by ringing the local electoral office and asking her out. Jools’ BFF sees her role as ‘supporting my friend and doing normal stuff with her’. Noice. Maybe they can go see SATC2 together. Get on the red wine in Manuka, dance to Cold Chisel flashbacks and then crash at Julia’s crappy flat. What would it be like to be mates with Tim ‘n’ Jools? Do you reckon they’re the ones that swing past Uncle Dan’s to pick up a bottle of ten dollar Merlot to bring to the Barbie?

I have friends who met Ms Gillard as Education Minister and think that she hasn’t had kids because, well, she doesn’t particularly like them. Reports as to whether Jools puts children in the juicer whole or spreads them with vegemite are still unconfirmed. Maybe Jools won’t have to deal with many kids now that she’s PM. I saw her on the news awkwardly kissing a baby in a local shopping centre and the kids didn’t seem to shrivel upon contact, but then… babies are a bit cuter than a class full of feral public school nine year olds wielding ugly gifts and who still can’t read despite living in the luckiest country in the world. I can kind of understand her  hesistation.

 

Official word is that Jools doesn’t want to move into The Lodge until she’s ‘like…totally elected’.

I reckon the real story is that the nation’s top residence is a bit posh for our Jools. Like moi, the new PM buys her rugs from Bunnings and her wine glasses from Kmart. Having high tea with the Governor General isn’t really Jools’ style so the posh Canberra official homes and all their breakables might be a challenge. And the GG probably wouldn’t serve Tim Tams so what’s the point? (Note to self: check whether the Governor General can get her staff to make a decent extra-hot-skim-chai-latte just in case am ever invited there for arvo tea… I know it’s a long shot, but it's good to be prepared…)

So what to do about the nay-shon’s whining?

If it’s anything like Jools’ first press conference as PM, she’ll just tell us all to shut our cake-holes and ask questions in an orderly fashion. More importantly, what will the Labor Party put on the election shirts this time around? Jules Rules 2010? My dad reckons he doesn't care much for the election ("I'm a bit ambidextrous on that Bloss, don't like either of 'em!")

So let’s see what happens now that Kevin ’07 has been sent to the sin bin. Go hard Jools, you bogan ‘ranga. I don’t think I can handle the alternative, Tony Abbott flaunting around the beach in his budgie smugglers.

My personal bogan message to the new PM? Jools, I dare ya to wear your bulldogs footy scarf in Parliament darl!

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'Red, Red Wine' - Neil Diamond 1968, but more famously UB40 in 1983.

It's Not Easy Being Green

I am a woman of conscience.

Uhuh. I have values. Yep. I know what I stand for. Always have. When I was twelve I wrote to several politicians asking them to … stop… something or other. It was possibly crucial at the time. Anyway, the important thing is that I stood for something and took action. Or, I’m just anally retentive and bossy. We all have our character flaws.

Bossy Blossy. That’s me. Because, quite frankly, I’m right. Generally. Actually, I'm being modest there. I’m actually never wrong and everyone has the right to my opinion. Life is full of grey areas where the only thing we know for sure anymore is that we have a right to our own opinion.

One thing I know for sure is that oil and water don’t mix.

Kind of. Well, they can mix a little, but then they separate again, a bit like thirteen year olds at a blue light disco. Interesting things happen when a person’s beliefs operate like oil and water.

I have two such beliefs.

Let’s call Belief One 'Environmental Protection'. I’ve always been a bit of a greenie. Tree-hugging, recycling, bamboo-undie wearing greenie. Faithfully tossing my scraps into a Bokashi bucket to ferment with micro-organisms ready to be sent back to Mother Earth. Don’t even talk me into using parabens and sulphates in my body butter… it ain’t gonna happen sista!

Now then, let’s call Belief Two 'Capitalism'. It can be ‘oil’ where Belief One was clear, fresh running water. I’m a Capitalist, through and through. Brad the Tradie and I wrote it as our religion on the last census (yeah, we also wrote Jedi on the census before that, it’s because we’re actually agnostic and we’re waiting to see if some higher power is watching us fake the census…) I lurrrrve money. I love making it, spending it, smelling it, reading about it, all of it. I like to temper my addiction with ‘socially ethical capitalism’ but we all know that quite frankly, my life would be complete if only I was rich. Money doesn’t buy happiness, but that doesn’t matter in my opinion because I’ve had PLENTY of happy in my life and you can buy medications that fake it anyway. Sprinkle chemical ‘happy’ all over my gold-plated wheaties whilst I call my stockbroker.

So then, novice chemists and the couple of Science nerds amongst you. Tell me this. If oil and water don’t mix, then do Environmental Protection and Capitalism? BtT and I are giving it a whirl. An environmentally responsible landscaper who likes to make STACKS of cash. Bring it.

Which brings me to today’s conundrum. Greenie Group.

It all started when BtT and I, being new to Beachville, dutifully visited the local Sustainable Display Home. Network with the greenies. Suss the local eco scene. Join Coastcare or something. Discuss the harvesting of rain and the sculpting of earth. Say, give them heaps of soy-ink recycled business cards and the like in case other greenies want to syphon some money to our business by employing BtT's talents. Here was I, noting with interest that the green throw rug in the master display bedroom wasn’t bamboo or even organic cotton, whilst BtT smoozed the tour guides. Turns out their subsurface irrigation wasn’t really up to par (Ruh Roh!), their rain tank wasn’t NEARLY big enough and really… the whole landscaping of the display home was a bit below par quite frankly. Ohhhh, and yes, Brad the Tradie, the newest East Coast Expert, would LOVE to talk at the Week 4 workshop of the local sustainability course. What a coup!

So then of course we had to bloody well enrol in the stupid course. Every Monday for eight weeks, two fecking hours. Didn’t seem that big a deal until we WENT.

I did the right thing and took a bag of locally grown orchard apples, free from all sorts of … apple nasty things. We got our nametags (I'm surprised they were allowed to have paper there quite frankly) and then the merriment started. TWO hours of a powerpoint presentation about reducing water use in your home. TWO HOURS! With quite average graphics. I mean… please. You turn the bloody tap off and have shorter showers.

Ahhh, and (naturally) you get a waterwise landscaper in… and off and running goes BtT. The greenie chick operating the show was pleasant a few times when he interjected. The first few times. Then other participants started asking HIM questions. Then a few noted his level of expertise and charm. THEN greenie chick became greenie bitch. Green Shrek smoke coming out of her ears.

Anyhoo, back to me. I won the lucky door prize.

I got an extra ticket for bringing organic apples to share. I am now the proud owner of a plastic wrapped collapsible bucket for my shower. You could feel the tension in the room as I collected my bucket from the front. Greenie chick really wanted the man who learned to recycle this week to win (“Oh congrats to Bill for learning to separate plastic this week!!"). Or Gladys who stays to wash up (“Yay Gladys for only half filling the sink!”). Not me, the capitalist attached to the knowledgeable, threatening, charismatic eco-landscaper. None the less, I took my bucket (for re-gifting obviously) and … left. Oh, well I got my two free native seedlings as well. Then left. OH OK, I might taken a free cuppa for the drive home…

So. The dilemma. I don’t like Greenie Group. It annoyed me.

Furthermore, I suspect that I may offend people with my mimicry and sarcasm.  Will we be relegated to the naughty step to wear a recycled muzzle? We can’t help it if we’re not you’re averagely humble, hessian wearing greenies parking their bike outside the venue. Eco comes in all shapes and sizes and green can be a grey area sometimes.

Brad the Tradie is going to persevere, for the sake of Capitalism. 

He went without me yesterday, eco bag full of organic pears to swap with Coryn, the lady with a heavily cropping lemon tree. News of the day was that Greg from Table Two just installed solar panels and he can now SELL electricity back to the grid. Ooo!! A fellow eco-capitalist! Apparently a newly emigrated couple came today and might want BtT to install a water tank. Score! There might be money to be made from the greenies after all.

Let's just hope that BtT can continue giving back (in forms other than all the right answers) so he doesnt get kicked out. Being amongst other greenies is a bit like going to AA:

“I’m sooooo sorry I brought the organic fruit to share in a plastic bag… it’s just… I dunno… I didn’t think…”

 “Yes, I AM wearing polyester… dammit….”

 “Who was it that was heard flushing the loo hmmm??? You know the rule: if it’s yellow let it mellow, when it’s brown, flush it down!”

You’d feel less guilty going to Catholic Confession (I suppose… I’m actually an agnostic eco-capitalist, but I’ve seen Confession on telly and it looks scary…)

At the end of the day, you’ve got to give it to Brad the Tradie and his persistence. It’s not easy being green. Especially when you’re a capitalist smart-ass as well.

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'It's Not Easy Being Green' - Kermit the Frog, 1970.