Born To Be Wild

Old people are frightening.

Not recent retirees or the spring chickens in their 60's. It must be some sort of combination of being let out of the 'Lifestyle Villages', being tube-fed martinis and knowing that every day may be their last. I've never seen so many over 80's getting jiggy with it.

Seriously. Cruise ships on longish voyages outside of school holiday season ARE generally known to attract of white middle class elderly chooks spending their late husbands' (plural) superannuation. They remind me of packs of teenage school leavers, travelling together and enjoying absolutely everything that comes their way.

Including Brad the Tradie.

Yep, he's a superstar on this cruise ship. Tall, 'strapping', doesnt mind helping people up from the table or into a wheelchair and he's good at trivia. He's a keeper. As twice-widowed Rae from our dinner table said to me, "If you're finished with him love, I'll have a go!"

The activities on board are pretty wild too. Each night we get a Princess Patter, a little newsletter with the following day's activities listed. For the old chooks this document is their lifeblood. You see them pacing around with highlighters, meeting in packs for a lar-tay to decide what the pack schedule for the day entails. Tai Chi at seven. Breakfast (stewed prunes...gotta keep reg-oo-lah!) Photography talk. Choir practice. Morning tea. Trivia. Bag making ( "ooo look Beryl! we're putting an origami fish on the bag today!") Lunch. port lecture. Movie. Afternoon tea. trivia. Craft of the day ("Is it advanced quilling do you think June? I wouldn't want to waste my time going to a beginniners class...") wine tasting, blackjack, pilates, Snowball Jackpot Bingo, Line dancing.... It goes on and on.

Brad the Tradie is an old-person's holiday fantasy. He nails away his trivia team on the first day at sea. Always. He practically interviews candidates in order to get a winning composition of people who know useless stuff. He plays to win too. Lanyards, playing cards, hats. Trivia is a competitive sport on cruise ships. Which mountain range divides Tunisia and Morocco? How many hurdles are there in the 400m event? Who was the 1938 Time magazine man of the year? when I go along occasionally, I take my vodka. Our team contains a married couple in their late sixties who are Buddhist Vegans who make money renovating pubs. Yes, really. And they know stuff. Weird stuff.

And then there's the night time.

Comedians telling viagra and prostate jokes. Formal nights with as many nanna sequins as Lincraft could muster. Juiced up iverive-shot cocktails by nine, they are all up doing Karaoke. I've never quite seen Kentucky Rose done the way Joyce did it the other night. All she needed was a pole and her bar tab could've been taken care of by the smattering of old codger dudes. We, of course, do NOT karaoke and poor BtT looks a little pained whenever we pass through. These people stay up until all hours swaying and singing along to Barbra Streisand tunes.


But moi?

I'm a little tame for this wild crowd. I'm happily alternating between reading in the sun and swimming in the sun and making sure I don't miss the free champagne at the Art show at 2:30 each day. I need to pace myself. Unlike the octogenarian pack, I've got too much to live for.

Like making sure the Wild Things don't capture my husband and cover him in honey for endless evenings of Guess That Tune. Unless he's managed to get written into the will of course. Then all bets are off!
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Born To Be Wild, Steppenwolf, 1968.

Hungry Like The Wolf

Brad the Tradie gets hungry. Really hungry.

If you are ever on a survival-type TV show, you know, the ones where you live on clams and seaweed, it's best to vote BtT off the island rather quickly. Before he eats you. It has been in Blossy's best interests as a wife to learn to provide food quickly and in large quantities. BtT gets hungry after he works, when he wakes up, when he watches Telly, when traveling.... And yet Brad the Tradie is not fat. Not even close. He's a tall, athletic, hungry man, from a family of hungry people. It's not normal.

So when we go to book travel, there are a few things to consider. Only a few. He doesn't like to be 'earth sculpting' (posh new term for landscaping) whilst on breaks. There has to be food. Footy or cricket scores. Bourbon. If I can arrange that, then I am a goddess.

Duh, cruise ship.

Even though Brad the Tradie loves big cats and is happiest among cheetahs, tigers and lions, when hunting he is more like a wolf (less hairy though thankfully). For some, embarking a cruise ship is about frou-frou drinks, swimming pools, sequinny stage shows or the casino. But after boarding in Fremantle at lunchtime Saturday, BtT was HUNGRY. Like a wolf, he snarled ever so politely past photographers, little umbrellas and the reggae band, sliding effortlessly between floppy Australian pensioners slathering on the free hand sanitiser, dodging retirees' custom walking frames in a direct path to the buff-ay.

Brad the Tradie knows buffets. The positioning of dishes, Bain Marie etiquette, plate work, how to get the attendant to refill the hot chippies or prawn platter with fresh ones. He knows to avoid the bread and jelly cups. He's a stealthy buffet hunter. Not the Homer Simpson all you can carry type. an observer would only realize BtT's buffet savvy behavior if they spied me next to him, reading, playing on my phone, doing a crossword.... For a buffet, like a fresh kill for the hungry wolf, takes time to devour properly. It's not a stuff-n-run event. It's a marathon. Good thing he still has his own teeth. And a very efficient digestive system. All that food has to go somewhere.

The cool thing about cruise ships is not only the bulk of food they carry on board, but also the fact that they employ lots of little South east Asians and Ukrainians to do the hunting and gathering (and carve faces into watermelons and make artworks from packaged chopsticks). I like this about holidaying with BtT. We rarely self-cater. Which means that I read. And sit in hot tubs. and watch movies. And go to activities. And eat salad with a side of Diet Coke. I can enjoy the food vicariously after all. A fingerful of whatever BtT is devouring is usually enough for me to come home the size of a Kelvinator. Besides, theres bananas on board and at fifteen bucks a kilo back in Oz I haven't had a the little golden meal of monkeys in sooooooo long, so a constant stream of those and a seat at the papaya stand and I'm pretty happy. I go around the ship scabbing free champagne at Art shows, captains parties... Wherever really. I have a kids drinks card which means I can get unlimited fizzy, juice, smoothies and mocktails. I think I might look just a trifle strange carting around my flask of vodka kindly gifted by one of our American friends, topping up my newest virgin daiquiri or lime & soda.

The way the elderly approach the food is quite entertaining. At our evening 'proper dinner table' of ten, we're the youngest by forty years (not joking). Keith and Elsie holiday often from their base in a Lifestyle Village in Perth. They both have new teeth, so the lobster and veal wasnt as much of a challenge as for octogenarian George. Les and Dot from Bunbury grow lambs and eat it most nights, yet still wanted lamb chops for dinner. (oooo, mint jelly!!!! )Joy, sixth wife of George (and a good deal younger at sixty three) wasn't too sure about the cumin and coconut sauce on her fish the other night and wanted to know why BtT had been given mango ice-cream and George hadn't ("put your glasses on George, it's on the menu... See? No, UNDER the rice pudding, well just ask for some then George, it doesn't matter if they have to go back and get it, these Philippinos are very wiry, won't hurt at all... Oh fine then have it tomorrow night.") Rae, traveling with a friend from the lifestyle Village in Erskine, likes a wine with dinner, but adds ice to water it down and make it last longer. Pat, her mate has one VB beer a day, straight from the can during the Appetizer ("youngest of eleven and the rest were all boys, can't take to frissy wine"). It's kind of like eating dinner at your grandparents, except with more Philippino servants and less mashed potatoes. and two flavours of jelly cups instead of one.

What I don't have to do is check the time to make sure we haven't forgotten a meal, because there's always, ALWAYS food. A cheese plate the size of a coffee table is delivered to our cabin at five. We send the tray back that held the hamburger, chips, Moroccan hot pot, pita bread and milk, but still need to duck to the dining room for a three course meal of little hot things, salmon and ice-cream before popcorn at the Movies under the stars and second dessert during Sports Trivia at 9:30. We may swing by the pizza place because they have hunks of Italian cheeses that BtT likes and it's really hard to leave there without a pepperoni pizza and an antipasto plate. Or maybe just grab a platter of bbq prawns. It is quite a walk to the cabin after all and breakfast is HOURS away. Unless you get hungry in the night and need to go to the buffet. Or get a kebab, or meat pie (yes Americans, Cruises leaving from Australia have meat pies and vegemite on board!!)

They do say that when you go on a cruise you arrive as a passenger and leave as cargo. Although lots of people get 'one of everything' just to try, especially with dessert. The leftover food is munched down and expelled from the ship to feed the sealife. We've got some porky little fishies following along. I could almost hear a collective 'mmmmmm creme brûlée leftovers....' last night.

No leftovers from our table, although it does take a while for the olds to chew, slurp and dribble through their meals.

and it takes a fair bit to fill Brad the Tradie up. On the sixth day at sea (yes it does take a while to drive a boat to Thailand), he has hit the wall. He gave a little nose wiggle at the buffet today, and couldnt even be swayed with a doner kebab from the Terrace Grill. nor a hunk of Italian cheese, or even a bowl of ice-cream. By dinner he was more peckish and I've never known him to turn away shellfish or steak. Even so, perhaps he has transformed from wolf into camel, saving up all this protein to sustain him through the less-than-ideal world that is Malaysian market shopping.

but enough about food and drink..... Excuse moi, it's time for another free champagne at the art show. Then maybe a mocktail with added vodka....

Hungry Like The Wolf, Duran Duran, 1982

You Should Have Killed Me When You Had the Chance

"Am I talented?"

Please. What would YOU say if your teenage girl asked you that? Yep. You say something like I did the other day in the car, driving the self-proclaimed prodigy to Music or Modelling or Underwater Macrame or something. "Everyone is talented in their own special way darl."

Vomit.

But she didn't stop there. She saw through the generic answer and wanted more.

"But like... Am I gifted? You know, am I THAT good at something that everyone would go ...  (long sigh) ..... Ahhhhhhh......."

Why can't kids just accept your first answer? And why can't they ask these questions during home-baked cookies or after a perfectly nutritionally balanced meal when you're in a gold-star parenting mood, rather than in the car running late for something? And why is it, when you pause for that moment too long, trying to manufacture an answer, that they sense it and go in for the kill.... and say ....

"OMG! You don't think I'm GIFTED do you? I'm not good at ANYTHING am I? Are you saying that I'm JUST a regular person or that I SUCK AT EVERYTHING?"

No, I thought, I wish you'd shut up.

Is it all these talent shows on Telly that's the problem?

Or is it true that we've raised Gen Z (or whatever they're called) to whine 'What about me?' at any opportunity.  When did it become a bad thing just to BE? Or, God forbid, go through like without being an amazing singer, dancer, fire-eater or be able to cook a fennel-crusted salmon dish (with caramelised onion) in under fifteen minutes by the age of twelve? Just to grow up and have major achievements listed as learning to ride a bike and getting a special woggle at Scouts? Isn't the whole idea of the word 'gifted' that most people aren't and some people are? Reality TV has proven that everyone can be a Fabulously Famous Nobody, except I'm not quite sure whether this is what I want Gen Z to be when they grow up.

Ironically, we had to go to the Prodigy's School Concert the other night.

I bribed Brad the Tradie into it by offering dinner at the tavern beforehand. After running about six thousand school concerts and talent shows myself, I'd pretty much rather roll in broken glass than go to another one and, as it turns out, most of the Year 9, 10 and 11 parents felt the same way because the audience was mighty light-on. And playing on their smart-phones. I should tut-tut at that type of parent behaviour, but that would make me hypocritical, as I too was checking Facebook during the School Band's never ending Les Miserable medley. OK, and the Year 11 'representational drama excerpt'  from Waiting for Godot. And the flute group's four-verse rendition of In The Jungle (you know.... wimma-way a-wimma-way....it goes on and on and on and on...)  and a couple of hip-hop acts. I paid attention during Act 15 on the program, which was the Prodigy's self-penned play 'Three Friends and Her' starring her (and three friends). I dutifully took pictures with my IPhone, waved and applauded, then went back to playing Bejewelled.

But the highlight was a Year 11 Death Metal Band belting out a song called 'You Should Have Killed Me When You Had the Chance.' Six minutes of screaming, head banging and shaking greasy long hair about. Brad the Tradie starting laughing. I filmed them (damn I love my iPhone) to play back to the Prodigy in the car on the way home to remind her just HOW MANY parenting points I earned by sitting through another freaking awful school concert. And without wine too.

Ironically, the concert was held on the same night as the weekly showing of Australia's Got Talent on the telly. The thing about gifted and talented people is that they're basically freaks. My favorite on the show so far has been the gay pole-dancing Aboriginal male nurse from Walgett. If he'd been at the school concert the other night I might not have wanted to be killed at intermission.

But when the average teenager sees fourteen year old freaks on the Telly singing Opera then they want that attention too. So they keep practicing.... And practicing.... Dancing in front of mirrors dressed in polyester/lycra blend outfits from Supre and belting out Karaoke in suburban houses all over the nation. I suppose it all comes in handy at Greek Weddings and Friday night at the Blacktown RSL.

As for moi? Well, my acting gets better all the time: "Suck? You? Oh noooooo darl, you're the most talented kid I've ever had the pleasure of parenting. Really. Now let's go get some hot chips."    

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You Should Have Killed Me When You Had the Chance, A Day to Remember, 2010

My Corona

A wedding invitation arrived in the mail a couple of weeks ago.

That's the thing about moving to the other side of Australia to be near Brad the Tradie's peeps. Suddenly there's a lot to be involved in. Mostly so far it's been poker tournaments, birthdays, the odd family barbecue and school reunion.

But this weekend heralded our first west coast wedding.

 As the 'plus-one', these kind of shindigs are right up my alley. Having met the groom thrice now (and the bride not at all) my responsibilities at the wedding are quite clearly outlined in our culture.... eat, drink and be merry. And who was I to argue.

The wedding we attended on Sunday was held in a Catholic Church. If I wasn't so agnostic I'm sure I would've heard God grumbling with distaste at the way people interpreted the term 'smart-casual'. I was assured by my VGF Organica that pants and sensible shoes were suitable given that the reception was of the backyard variety. However, I think that some guests took a few too many 'smart-casual' liberties. I counted six pairs of leggings, a Goth ensemble (complete with corset) and several too many polyester/Lycra dresses that entered this world as shirts or swimwear. When one of the best dressed is the Page-Dog, you know they should've avoided the word Casual at all on the invitation.

Being brought up by Heathens and wolves, our teenager (who tastefully avoided animal print and black lace when dressing) was dreadfully excited at seeing the inside of a Catholic Church. I felt sooooo proud when she commented, "I haven't done this much...should I spit my gum out here into the garden or do you think there's bins inside?" Dear God, forgive us agnostic Bogans, for we have binned... I mean... sinned.

I used to be a wedding singer.

Once upon a time, long, long ago people paid me (in green hundred dollar bills) to turn up at their ceremony and belt out a pretty tune. I used to loathe the Catholic ones. The nuptial mass comes with a booklet in Latin and headache pills. I did a few Italian Roman Catholic weddings where I really couldn't understand a thing and had to rely on the pianist staying awake and being cued by the priest. One couple begged me to learn the love theme from The Godfather and wanted it sung in haunting tones whilst they signed the register. Freaky much. And I charged extra in case I was struck down by lightening on my way out of Saint Christopher's.

Meanwhile, back at the no-ties weddin', we were delighted to discover that having a reception in a backyard means that the couple can buy whatever drinks they feel like. And quite frankly, I agree whole-heartedly with whoever chose the Margaret River Cab Merlot as table wine. Was thinking of having a beer until I realized I don't have a bottle opener on my keyring, but nevertheless there were a few partygoers singing My Corona for the evening (mental note re keyring... shall be better prepared next time) and when there's eskies full of free Corona, you can be guaranteed people are gonna show. With no bar rules (help yourself!)  no frills and enough plastic portaloos, we Bogans from far and wide just tucked in.

I love informality.  

With no speeches, no waltz, no cake, no 'chicken or fish', and a good 80's soundtrack from the bride's ipod, we were all fairly sloshed by eight o'clock. I managed to impress with my ability to construct a dinosaur sculpture from wine corks, skewers and used canape sticks. I met a new friend called Sue, whose flannelette jacket I was quite taken with, and it turned out that she's married to Brian who stayed at our house in Canberra years ago during Summernats. The Goth joined our group and commented that she hasn't met me in a couple of hundred years (uhuh...) and I learned all about corsetry and how to dye a bright red stripe into my hair.

Margie River Red does soak up a bit of harm food-wise.

After a few rounds of canapés, pizza and profiteroles I was a little dyspeptic, however, the wine was terribly good, so I pocketed a bottle into my handbag (carry-all type, not posh-hold-a-lippie type). I did ask BtT to check if the guest-gift was a whole case...

Not since the sixties have backyard weddings been so popular. Is it the GFC? A new 'bugger it, we can do it ourselves' attitude? I'm not sure how much a traditional wedding costs anymore, but I believe it's a LOT. And, unlike the First Home Buyers Scheme, the government doesn't give any form of rebate for weddin's. So, I'm up there with the DIY wedding. BtT and I are both agnostic and also not terribly into pomp n tromp, so we eloped to a Queensland beach, and consequently I'm not a terribly good example of how to hold a traditional wedding.

So here's my thing.

I reckon Jool-ya could move this whole ummm.... Movement.... Forward by having a backyard weddin' herself. Dontcha think it'd be noice? We could hold it in the backyard at the Lodge or just in the grounds of the Rooty Hill RSL perhaps. A few sausage rolls, some little boys with sauce (she likes eating children) and a noice croquenbouche like the ones they make on Masterchef. Everyone could come, especially the Greens. Yes, I think a Wine Weddin' could distract nicely from nasty matters like Carbon Tax thingies. A few boat children could even sing 'I Still Call Oz-tray-lyahhhh Home' before being packed off to Malaysia. The First Bloke needn't wear a tie and Jools could just don an ugly pantsuit from her fortnightly rotational wardrobe. Yes, I think I'll suggest it to her.

I know where she can get a nice red. And I'll make sure guests are told to bring their own bottle-opener for the Corona.

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My Sharona, The Knack, 1979.

Born This Way

I'm having a mid-life lie-down.

There's no crisis or anything. It's a half-time break, without the oranges. I figure if I'm going to make it to eighty (and that's just the average now, I could well go on for longer!) then a half-time lie down is entirely warranted.

And I quite like it actually.

I figure that I'll have to rejoin reality eventually, but for now Brad the Tradie and The BHG (adolescent who loves Better Homes & Gardens on telly) know me as Stay-at-Home. I am enjoying a variety of pleasurable daily activities, such as zesting limes, sleeping in and having conversations with my dogs, one of whom we've discovered is actually a Maltese Shitz-oodle (part poodle... who knew???) because I have actually had the time and inclination to take him to a vet for only the second time in his life.

When one takes a step off the hamster wheel, lots of interesting things happen.

Like... Parenting.  I do these fabulous gold-star parent things now, like researching plug-in heated throw rugs for the teenager's upcoming trip to the nation's capital. I bake muffins for afternoon tea and give them to the random adolescents that enter our house, along with glasses of milk (and lectures on calcium serves).  I now give a shit about Pythagoras homework and Science class and buying polyester stuffing for tomorrow's Textiles project. I drive the offspring to modelling class, piano class, surfing lessons, work, friends' houses and sometimes I don't even complain.

But I will NOT go to Parent Modelling Group.

I know it sounds harsh, but I just can't do it. BHG, aka 'The Model' was quite straight-faced when handing BtT and I the nasty blue information sheet last week. Brad the Tradie had us in fits as he pranced up the hallway 'doing catwalk' (better than me I must say, and I do think he would make a passably gorgeous trannie if he ever felt the pull). Obviously aimed at Stay-at-Homes like myself, these Parents-who-Care classes promise to be 'fun and sociable in a relaxed surrounding' whilst learning the life-altering skills of fashion show choreography, sequin sewing and nail art.

Part-guffawing, part-vomiting, I texted my VGF Organica with the dilemma. She wanted me to go just for social research purposes, but I just can't bring myself to enrol. You see, I generally collect The Model from class on Thursday arvos with a parcel of hot chips under my arm, dressed in leggings and a flannelette shirt. Last Thursday the teacher-model took five minutes to explain to me how compulsory the fifteen dollar 'neck scarf' is that I hadn't ordered and why I have to run out and buy a comb with a metal stick at the end (looks like a weapon to me) to make side-part braiding neater. Modelling is NOT my thing. I do NOT sew sequins over morning tea whilst debating whether 'the girls' should do a 'turn, turn, sashay' or just a 'turn, walk, pose, turn'. I suppose I should be pleased that we don't have to learn to administer Botox.

 

This whole modelling thing has been, wait for the pun, totally FASH-in-ating. A recent activity, the BHG has finally given in to public pressure to give modelling a go, given that she's a genetic freak. It might just stop people asking if she's good at basketball, just because she's tall and long-limbed. She can say, "No, I'm not a basketballer, I'm a MODEL. I was BORN THIS WAY."

Kids’ activities are fabulous aren’t they?

Growing up in the country my extra-curricular dossier consisted of sport and music. Netball, basketball, softball, cricket. Stuff that didn’t require a lot of equipment. Just a parent-coach and a rowdy bunch of kids hyped up on Cottee’s cordial and sherbet. It didn’t really matter if you weren’t any good, because there were always positions for those who sucked (seriously, ‘right outfield’? You may as well take a book…)

We’ve been doing ‘activities’ with the BHG forever. Well, it seems like it. There’s been:

·         Horseriding (she vomited a lot)

·         Little Athletics (not my favourite due to level of parent involvement required at 8am on a Saturday morning but watching the kids throw heavy objects was always a hoot)

·         Gymnastics (“Can I have a purple leotard?”)

·         Ice skating (my favourite – parents allowed to go shopping for two hours to avoid freezing to death)

·         Piano (bloody expensive)

·         Drama (more vomiting)

·         Years of swimming lessons (another favourite – parent coffee & cake area)

 But we have managed to avoid the Olympic selection and major injury that some parents (and their kids…but it’s not really about them is it?) endure. And all BHG has had to put up with is our moaning. Seriously, since when has weekends been about children and ‘their needs’? Saturday morning activities, Saturday afternoon birthday party, Sunday morning playdate, Sunday afternoon emergency homework projects… all meticulously photographically recorded so that we can bring up the topic of what wonderful parents we have been whenever need be.

Modelling school happens once a week where she learns exciting eye-rolling skills such as      how to look at the camera in a fashionably uninterested manner and how to protect her hair from heated styling devices. She finds the diva teens that attend a little intimidating and overwhelming. One such creature stayed with us last Thursday night and took ninety minutes to get ready for school the next day (compared to BHG's twenty minutes including dishwasher unstacking and breakfast) and told me that pasta makes you fat (but apparently ice-cream does not...)

We did a five hour day last Sunday to attend a catwalk competition where the sprog had a whole 45 seconds of walking glory. It was a little like an under-16's netball carnival, with the same teenage girl attitudes, but more spray tans, and less actual excitement. There's only so long you can stay interested when watching fifty girls trot one at a time to doof-doof music. (Actually, the girl that did the pole-dance routine at the end of the runway in thigh-high red boots caused a stir, but for the most part it was just reminiscent of a Target catalogue).

Fortunately one thing that modelling has taught our fearless teen is how very little she'd like to actually be one. "The other models are scary. Some of them don't even eat you know. Maybe I'll be a Zoologist.... I love animals. I was just born that way. "

 Hallelujia.

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Born This Way - Lady Gaga, 2011.

Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?

Once upon a time it was enough to take the whippersnipper to the Venus Butterfly before each swim season. THAT was considered grooming in the 80’s you know.

I miss the 80’s.

I had Brooke Shields eyebrows, which were considered quite glam. I used clear mascara to make them stay put whilst out dancing. Shaving one’s legs up to the knees was more than enough. Nothing in the manual about plucking facial hair. In fact, no one noticed facial hair under all those spiral perms. And a quick nick over with dad’s razor each November was all the ol’ Conch Shell desired. Swimmers weren’t as … high then. In fact, my mum wore one of those little swimskirt things. Now I realise why.

It just wasnt a big deal for women, or men. And I can’t remember when things in the grooming department got so damned serious! And technical! When did it all change? Was I awake at the time?

In exchange for a couple of hand-me-down school tops recently, a new Bogan friend of mine offered me a free wax. Seriously. Like… “Darl! Thanks for the clothes! Anytime you need a trim of the love rug or a full Brazilian, just come on over. I’ve got all the stuff!” Hmm. Including a general anaesthetic? A home Brazilian? Ahhhh, no thanks.

And then I come across…. Vajazzling.

Not only are we now ripping the lady fur off the bearded clam, we’re …. sparkling it. Taking to the silk igloo with the equivalent of a bedazzler. And not just in the ‘shake some glitter over the love glove’ kind of way. Actually ripping off the hair and sticking sparkly little crystals on the waxed whisker whacker. Patterns and what-not. The thought of associated daily practicalities make me cringe a little actually. God forbid how those with well-endowed pubes of middle eastern and Mediterranean descent are supposed to cope with the maintenance.

When did pubic regions start requiring art? Are they that starved for public attention? I’m all for freedom of grooming and all that. I think it’s great that we live in an age where women (and men) can glue crystals on their hoo-hah.

But it becomes my business if …

A) I feel societal pressure to chintz the cha-cha. Or...

B) My taxes are being paid to treat minor cuts and grazes in the ER caused by bedazzling injuries to otherwise healthy vajay-jays.

So far, I’m fine with Part A. Seems to still be OK not to vajazzle (thank goodness). But if anyone gives me a home-vajazzling kit when an aromatherapy candle would’ve sufficed, then look out. Or if I get invited to a vajazzling party. There’s just nothing wrong with a good old Tupperware do, with bikkies and a sweet chilli-philly. I'm not being pressured into buying love-heart Swarovski stencils for the honey pot, no matter how good the nibbles and party games are.

I haven’t heard much about vajazzling injuries draining our emergency services sector, but believe me, I’ll be keeping tabs on that. Whenever I (rarely) go to an ER, I like it to be fairly empty. I certainly don’t appreciate having to wait whilst bogans with unnecessary and stupidity-related injuries syphon my tax dollars and use up all the panadeine forte.

Oh. And …. C) Vajazzling becomes my business when it is featured in the mass media, particularly television. I watch quite a bit of telly, being newly unemployed and all (ooopps, I mean ‘a stay at home parent’….) and I’m partial to a predictable evening schedule Monday to Thursday. That new show, Winners and Losers (yes, the Bogan Aussie drama) has caught my attention with classy ice-sculptures and that tall chick who looks like a lesbian but really isn’t and is secretly in love with her business partner and everyone knows it except him (even her gay secretary knows…) and APPARENTLY there’s some mention of vajazzling on my new fifth-possibly-sixth-or-seventh favourite show this Tuesday. Really. So I AM affected by way of mass media cultural influence or … whatever. I am FORCED to learn about how to decorate the stench trench.

But I tell you what. It's not going to happen.

It'll take more than a short-run Aussie drama on channel 7 to get me to change my grooming habits. Nope, there'll be no sparkly Collingwood Magpie on my muff. No twinkling down in tuna town.

Do ya think I'm sexy? If I have to vajazzle in order to get a yes to that question, then frankly, I don't give a damn what you think!

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Do You Think I'm Sexy? Rod Stewart, 1979

The Chapel of Love

Not since Charlene and Scott married on Neighbours has Brad the Tradie been less interested in a wedding.

Thank God The Royal Wedding (TRW or simply The Weddin') wasn't held on a day when Collingwood was playing Carlton or similar. I'm quite certain that the reason these things are held on a weekday is so that world sporting events don't suffer, but still, we did manage, through the magic of the International Dateline, to have Friday evening Weddin' coverage in Oz.

Yep, across the nation Bogans wore plastic tiaras, made cheese n cabanossi plates and cracked open a fresh box of Cardonnay. I was a bit slow on the uptake re TRW celebrations, but thank goodness for Facebook... I managed to get into the slipstream just in time (ie, before Woolies and the grog shop closed).

So, before Blossy tells you what she thinks.... Tell me... What did YOU think????

Yes, I thought as much. Everyone's got an opinion don't they? Funny how we all seem to develop opinions on stuff that doesn't matter, like royal weddings. Nothing like a frock and a handsome prince to get us all fired up. I have never had an actual conversation with the chick at the petrol station until Saturday morning when we gabbed at the photo on the front page of the newspaper and suddenly became the world experts on doiley dresses and flower girls (seriously... Would a coloured ribbon have killed them?) Is it that we like to see a commoner do good? Or that we know that really, any televised wedding will get us going all gooey. There wasn't much diff between the nuptials of Scott and Charlene and the Will-Kate was there?

Personally, I think Katie looked like a praying mantis covered in a lace doiley. A regal playing mantis of course. One that had been groomed within an inch of its skinny little life. And she's mute. The perfect royal. One that has glossy hair, likes horses and doesn't want a career of her own, but just to serve the people (a funny term, considering she's the one that gets served, and that by serving her people she ends up with loads of flowers and a wardrobe allowance.)

I think Australia needs royalty.

Prince Darren could meet Sharryn (from Garren) at the Liquid Lounge one Friday night... Or TAFE perhaps (much classier). yes. They meet across a crowded lecture theatre (who am I kidding... The lecture theatre isn't crowded as most of the students have chucked a sickie and will copy Sharryn's notes later). Darren just can't take his eyes off Sharryn's glorious mane of freshly permed and streaked hair (he need not know they're extensions bought with her Aunty Shirl's 21st gift voucher). Sharryn knows immediately that Darren is her prince. He winks at her and says, "How bout it?" and off they ride in his shiny, white Torana.... Naturally they get married (at the local park), he wears his best jeans and thinks he's the luckiest royal Bogan in the whole land. After a lovely Chinese buffet reception at the local golf club, Sharryn can't wait to quit her part-time job at the Woolies Deli, go on their honeymoon in Coffs Harbour and start having sprogs called Taylah, Kaylah and Josh-you-ah (let's hope Sharryn isn't barren!!) and alternate Christmas lunch between her parents, the in-laws and a cheap rental in Surfers Paradise.

On a different note, why is everyone saying the Queen looked like a canary? The poor old chook is 85 years old. What's she supposed to wear? Geez she's probably part blind and let's face it, she had to keep checking whether Prince Phil was asleep or dead (no one wants a Weekend at Bernies moment at a royal wedding...) And there's a limited range of colours that lend themselves to matching handbags and hats.

But enough about what I think....what did you think of the royal weddin'??? Which celebs did you like? Did you think Princess what's-it who used to be fat but isn't now's hat looked like she made it at pre-school and stapled it to her head? Reckon Phillipa looked pretty hot and snuck off for nookie with Harry behind the chocolate fountain??? Reckon the balcony pash was a bit lame, even for a couple of Poms? And do you reckon the yanks held off on killing Osama until a fashionable three days after the royal wedding so as mot to hog the headlines?

I asked Brad the Tradie which part he liked best. Predictable answer: "The bloody end!" Dressed up that red suit singing hymns and having the world look at his bald spot from seventy-five camera angles whilst his grandad is either asleep or dead in the front row, I reckon Prince William might agree.

Long live romance.

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The chapel of Love, The Dixie Cups, 1964