Breakfast at Sweethearts

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

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

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

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

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

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

We have ‘food rules’ when we travel.

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

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

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

Him: Yes Maam.

Her: Ummmm… an omelette thanks mate.

Him: Yes Maam.

Her: 2 eggs. None of that brown muck.

Him: Yes Maam???

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

Him: Yes Maam.

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

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

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

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

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

Breakfast at Sweethearts, Cold Chisel, 1979.

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

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

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

It’s such a dirty word isn’t it?

“And what do you do dear?”

“Oh, moi? I’m unemployed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

I blame the feminist movement a little.

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

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

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

“Hi honey… I’m home!”

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

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

“All for you, my hunk of paypacket!”

Which brings me to the ‘hair issue’.

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

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

“Fine.”

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

“No.”

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

“Target.”

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

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

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

“You want head rub tooooo?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taking life one bad hair day at a time.

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

Money Changes Everything

I love lists.

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

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

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

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

Yeah, righto. We get it.

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

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

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

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

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

Private’s a bit different to Public.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Money Changes Everything, Cyndi Lauper, 1983

Go West

Goodbye Bogan-villea, hello ‘The West’.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it happened.

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

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

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

a) find shelter (fail),

b) outrun the storm (fail)

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

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

“How was your day b2?”

“Pretty shit.”

“Yeah, fair enough”.

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

Then there’s my Bogan accent.

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

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

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

Horny nut anyone?

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Go West, The Village People, 1979.

C'mon Aussie, c'mon!

It’s just not cricket.

The Bingle Bungle that is. During this fortnight’s disastrous turn of events between Clarkey and Lara I’m left flummoxed and left with no other choice but to blog my embarrassment on behalf of Bogan Babes everywhere. And I apologise in advance to my international readers for the terribly Aussie content of today’s blog post. I’m sure this scandal hasn’t made international headlines. Jeez, I hope not.

Drama, drama, drama. Let me fill you in, North Americans and Brits (and any Aussies living under a rock). Let’s use point form to recap.

1. Lara loves Michael. ‘He’ being the all important Michael Clarke, the vice-captain of the Aussie cricket team. ‘She’ being Lara Bingle, the chick in the ‘where the bloody hell are you?’ series of Tourism Australia ads and stupid blonde who (prior to Clarkey) slept with ‘Fev’ (Brendan Fevola, brainless Aussie Rules footy player with a smashed in nose), supposedly not realising that he was married. “Nooo!! He’s loike, MARRIED??? Who knew?? Oopsssie!!!” She and He (Clarkey, not Fev) appear together in several glossy mags, society pages Aussie-style (ie, The Sunday Telegraph newspaper) and promote Bonds undies and some sort of energy drink. They shack up together in a cushy pad in Bondi. Michael buys Lara expensive engagement rock. “ohhhhh NOICE!! I love you Clarkey!! Where the bloody hell’s my perfect man?? Roight here ay!!!”

2. Lara gets expensive Aston Martin car, aka a ‘wankmobile’. Australia disapproves. Someone flogs it from Bondi.

3. Disaster strikes. A photo of Lara taken in the shower on Fev’s phone (pre-Clarkey we gather) surfaces in the media. OMG!!

4. Australian women everywhere are SHOCKED that Bogan Babes are being  photographed without their permission on louses' mobile phones. “I just… loike… feel… loike… so vi-o-lay-ted….”

5. Lara sells story to women’s mag. Fev sells story to women’s mag. Lara’s dodgy agent offers two-year exclusive deal to any TV network who’d like Lara’s services, for one million dollars.

6. Clarkey, meanwhile, is off in New Zealand playing cricket upholding the pride of our nation (being.. well, a cricket player and all). She’s deemed a liability to Aussie cricket when Clarkey ‘rushes to be by her side’. He WHAT? Flew back during a one-day series to …. WHAT??? Support his woman? He bloody WHAT???

7. Shit hits the fan. Lara flips the bird to waiting media throng outside cushy Bondi pad. Clarkey misses one-day match in NZ.

8. Whole of Australia hates Lara.

9. Engagement called off. Headline announcing the split is screened as breaking news across bottom of TV screen Friday night. OMG!

10. Plumbers called in to search for expensive ring lost somewhere in pipes of cushy Bondi pad. Lara’s family offers to sell their story about ‘how Clarkey isn’t really that nice a guy either’ to a … shock, horror, women’s mag.

11. Somewhere Fev is having a quiet giggle to himself.

That pretty much gets you up to date.

So, you all are wondering, what does this say about our culture?

WHY is this story important to Blossy? I turn to the interactions that BtT and I have been sporadically having on this topic. Mainly during the evening news, where the latest in Lara-gate is spruiked (as a leading story at times... is there NOTHING else happening in the world?)

You see, in my opinion, Lara epitomises the rise and fall of a Bogan chick.

She really was just another model (albeit a pretty dumb one) in a bikini until she hooked up with the Aussie cricket vice-captain. Then she kind of went all flashy, ditching Target for Tsubi and Valley Girl for Gucci. WRONG! Once a Bogan, always a Bogan luv. There’ll be no dressin’ it up in friggin’ Chanel at the Allan Border medal night. YOU are a BO-GAN. However, all power to her that she snagged Michael Clarke. Kind of makes it possible for anyone to do it you know?

In BtT’s opinion, Lara is a rung lower than a Bogan (ie, a ‘scrag’), that never truly earned her place in the MCG Member’s Stand.

Hang on a tick. ‘Earned’?

BtT explained to me that all wives attached to the nation’s cricket team need to be just a little bit dull and non-controversial. They can, and should, be attractive, preferably blonde, possessing an athletic pre-disposition that results in breeding future generations of cricketers. Can’t waste a good gene pool. This is bloody well cricket. It's not a joke you know.

These are the rules, I am told. An Aussie cricket wife can, apparently, set up charities (aka Jane McGrath and whatsit Bevan’s missus) but not wear a see-through dress to an awards night (aka Nathan Bracken’s wife). Preferably they don’t even have names (aka Ricky Ponting’s wife… what IS her name?). They can suffer gracefully amongst their husband’s indiscretions (ie, Warney's wife) as long as they maintain their hair and nail regime. They CERTAINLY do not have dirty Louis Vuitton luggage like naked pictures and affairs with married men. THAT’s the kind of Bogan chick behaviour that is reserved for those associated with Rugby League and AFL. The kind of Bogan chicks that wear Bulldogs jerseys and have their own doof-doof Monaro. And really… to present closing evidence... did Don Bradman’s wife drive a V8?

Is it just me being judgemental, or has anyone else noticed that we don’t seem to have any gay cricketers? Or cricketers with immigrant last names? No, the new fast bowler’s name is not Georgio Wogolopolous. Yep, I reckon the Australian cricket team is more of a cult than Scientology is. Investigate THAT on Today Tonight! 

So, as my rant draws to a close, I reckon if we’ve learned anything useful this week, it’s that the tradition of cricket has been safely protected from a full-blown Bogan attack.

Ohhhh, and Clarkey’ll be back in New Zealand ready for the first test.

Phew!

Crisis averted.

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C'Mon, Aussie, C'mon - Aka The Australian Cricket Athem, Allen Morris, sometime in the late 1970's.

Electric Dreams

"If there was no electricity, we'd have to watch the telly by candlelight".

Yes, it took me a couple of moments to figure out the BHG's 'updated facebook status of the day' as well. We'd been discussing what we'd do for Earth Hour in a couple of Saturday's time. By then we'll be staying with rello's so I thought I'd liaise with SIL 2 (sister-in-law 2, married to BtT's second oldest brother) and arrange a party. There was collective excitement for a moment there, as we planned a bamboo-undie wearing, candlelit family fondue dinner, with entertainment provided by any guest who could entertain without the need for electricity (ie, gong playing, stand-up comedy...) and me wearing my new Earth Hour shirt (that was NOT bloody well made in a sweatshop or a waste of money thanks BtT!!!) Oh, what electricity-free fun we'd have!!!

Then, as the 'consultation process' (as is oft done amongst families when organising a gathering) kicked in. Crisis. It was discovered that the West Coast Eagles (AFL) are playing during Earth Hour. Right then. We rapidly re-organised the function into 'no electricity except the telly'. BHG profered that she and her cousins might need to use the computer 'if there's an emergency', so we downgraded to 'Reduced Consumption Hour'. Or, as the BHG so aptly put it, "why don't we just turn the lights off?" Fine then. Turn the bloody lights off and go watch telly or play on the computer. I'll just go and save the friggin' planet myself shall I?

Which got me to thinking about how tragic we must be if it's a problem living electricity-free for a WHOLE HOUR.

BHG seriously wanted to know if we should charge all the electronic things in preparation for 60 minutes of electricity-free living:

What if the mobile phone goes flat?

What if I want to use the DSi?

Dad won't be able to shave at 9pm like he normally does!

WHAT ON EARTH WILL WE EAT????

The funny thing about this issue is that we're so hung up on saving bloody whales and using green bags at the supermarket that some practices have managed to permeate our society faster than the swine flu. Gosh, the glares at Woolies if you forget your own bags! Good grief yes, we will ONLY buy a duck or goose-cruelty free doona! We flush our washing machine water onto the lawn, use organic bath products and free-range eggs, but we can't turn off the electricity. Houston, we have a problem.

I kind of remember a few blackouts in Bush Bogantown when I was little. We'd have a set of candles on standby. We'd sit around playing Scrabble as a family and then go to bed. Never seemed to be a big drama. But then, we didn't have that many electronic devices either. We only just got a phone, the type that you had to actually dial, when I was about 13. It didn't matter if you 'couldn't cook dinner' because you'd just have cereal or a sandwich or something. I personally, as a kid, had the grand sum of ZERO chargers.

These days, kids have more chargers than brains. There's massive powerboards all over the house. We actually have to put little labels on the chargers at our house otherwise we forget which one's which! At BHG's recent 14th birthday party I was greeted with eye rolls when I suggested they all watch the movie 'Grease' or play 'Truth or Dare'. Ah, no. The girls were busy texting each other from across the room. At one point we went to the rumpus room, worried, because it was so damn quiet. No drama though. They were all just on their laptops of course, 'facebooking'. The powerboard had all twelve holes filled with various leads. Should I start charging adolescent guests an electricity levy?

BtT and I travelled to Africa a couple of years back.

You know... groovy animals, great outdoors, blah, blah. Being wanna-be-greenies we booked the 'Safari Section' of the holiday at an 'eco' establishment. Looked good on the web. Out amongst the wilderness, eco ethics and whatever. Practically offsets all that nasty carbon-y plane flight muck. Oooo, how noice!!! We'd all sit around the fire at dinner, discussing our safari-ing with world travellers like ourselves. Lock it in Eddie!

When we arrived at camp Save-the-Planet we asked what 'eco' measures were in place. A short list really: No electricity.

Oh, how quaint! we thought. Little lanterns and billy tea.

And...

No charging the mobile phone (went dead that night).

No charging the digital camera. Ooops. Ration the wild animal photography.

Five minutes of hot water a day from something called a 'donkey' (don't ask)

No air-conditioning. It's AFRICA in summer. You'd start to smell too.

Oh, and close all the windows otherwise monkeys come in and steal your stuff, so no breeze.

Yeah, the pool photo on the net is only for display every now and then. A pump would require electricity. You can have a dip next Tuesday when we clean it out.

To be fair, it was very 'wilderness-y'. There were giraffes, lions, elephants, zebras and the like. All over the bloody place actually. So much so that you weren't allowed out of the Livingstone-like hut after dark. And there's not much to do when you run out of kero in your little lamp at 7:15pm, the windows are shut and there's no telly. Every now and then BtT would open the front door of the hut and stand guard whilst I waved a towel-full of fresh air into the hut. Then we'd wet the towel with manky African sink water and lie on the bed with it, rationing out the sleeping pills and feeling relieved that we weren't born in a Third World Country.

In the end we booked into a 'lush luxury resort' down the road. Less wild animals, but heck, it had AIRCONDITIONING. And we could charge the phone, the electric razor, the iPod, the portable DVD player... and have a BATH.

So, what to do about Earth Hour then? Is my goal of showing Gen Y how to live simply just an Electric Dream? We shall see. But to be on the safe side, I might hide all the powerboards.

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Electric Dreams, Philip Oakey and Giorgio Moroder, 1984

Eat it

As a considerate parent, it seemed like the right thing to do.

Brad the Tradie (BtT) and I asked the adolescent if there were one last thing she’d like to do 'as a family' in Boganvillea. We were totally committed to following through, thinking that perhaps the BHG would ask to pop into the Art Gallery, maybe undertake a bit of Outlet shopping or a movie at the Hippodome (just not bloody Avatar again… my bladder just can’t take it!!!) But...No such luck. The Better Homes and Gardens addict wanted to go, for one last time, to ‘the upstairs jelly square restaurant’.

I nearly vomited on the spot. But there was no ‘taking it back’ or convincing her to be happy with a trip to a different local Bogan landmark. It had to be the 'upstairs jelly square restaurant', in the very Boganist part of town. Apparently it reminds the darling thing of ‘her childhood’. Oh. Gosh we’re super parents if her childhood is defined by memories of a crappy all you can eat establishment. I bet her favourite stuffed toy is filled with toxic polyester as well.

The thing about buffet culture is that the menu is literally, all you can eat. Little stations filled with various salads and slops. So I suppose it’s $18.50 well spent, if you can actually eat a lot of jelly squares (weird how firm it has to be to cut into squares don't you think?) and deep fried spring rolls. You accompany the ‘meal’ with an all you can consume fizzy drink. The kind that’s made in that syrup machine thing and you push your glass against the dispenser. God don’t Bogan kids love those! Basic economics and psychology tells us that our primal need is to maximise value for a price paid. Therefore, we see the Bogan Buffet as a challenge. “Hah! They’re not gonna make any money off us tonight luv!!!” I calculated that it would only take about 57 glasses of Pepsi Max to break even on my refillable drink. If I could only live through the phenylalanine overdose.

As if on cue, there was a Bogan Birthday party on during our family outing last night. The fat little sprogs could barely be contained as they saw the buffet. Woah! ALL YOU CAN EAT!!! What to do? Open the presents from Hot Dollar or gorge on curried chicken and icecream (in the same bowl apparently)? “My, commented BHG, "some of those children shouldn’t really be going to an 'all you can eat'. Not to be mean or anything… just sayin’.”

After a few plates of variously coloured Chinese-style slop where the MSG separates from the oil upon contact with crockery, the BHG got creative and created ‘a bowl of chavy'. This Bogan treat is (exact instructions) two ladles of runny gravy in a soup bowl, topped with a neat layer of hot chips, then a half a ladle more of gravy. Noice. High on my fifth glass of Pepsi Max, I suggested she make a creative drink to go with the Chavy. After convincing her that it wasn’t illegal to mix the flavours, she went to the fizzy dispenser and returned (giggling like she’d done something totally naughty) with a brownish orangey concoction. Woohoo! Score! We then put icecream in it to make a Spider. “Should I dip a spring roll in and see what happens?” she asked. “Oh, cut sick kid! You’re not in Advanced Science for nothin’!” I replied, before attempting to ‘carve my own roast’ into shards with a battery operated electric knife.

 

Meanwhile BtT just sat there with a morbid expression on his face, an active and experienced participant in many a Vegas buffet, deemed "better than this shit". He peeled plates full of prawns, rating the various coloured leggings and muffin tops around the room:

“Geez, do those those suck-em-in body suits only go up to a size sixteen luv?”

“Hey mate, it’s all you can eat, not all you can bloody carry!”

"Why doesn’t that chick just take her chair over to the Sweet n Sour Pork. Save her time walking back and forward from the table…”

“Christ, that’s a helluva lotta back fat. You could feed an African country on that sheila!”

“So…”, I asked the BHG as we left, suffering a combination of Buffet Bloat and cultural embarrassment, “was your last family outing in Boganvillea everything you expected?”

She didn't answer. She’d already made a beeline for the stairs, hoping for fresh air, but ran into a cloud of ciggie smoke and coughed her way out the door.  Apparently her ‘childhood memory’ wasn’t nostalgia central after all. But she’s obviously been brought up with a fully Bogan cast-iron stomach, because as BtT squealed the tyres of the Kia home as fast as he could, I could’ve sworn the BHG muttered “You know, a McFlurry would go down well.”

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'Eat It', Weird Al Yancovic, 1984