Love Me Tender

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Love Me Tender - Elvis Presley, 1956

Celebration of a Nation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

Australians all let us rejoice

The weekend now is near

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

Our desks abound in paperwork

Our hands are stained with ink

In desperate stage, we'll fly the cage

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

Advance to Friday drinks!!

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

Surfin' W.A.

Don’t blame it on the sunshine

Don’t blame it on the UV

Don’t blame it on the good times

Blame it on the Boogie (board)

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

• We’d have no mortgage.

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

Within a blink the man had Googled our new life.

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

I grew up with no ocean.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Surfin' USA. The Beach Boys, 1963.

Six White Schooners

I’m a bit Grinchy at the mo.

I used to like Christmas once upon a time. Before it turned into ‘Chrissy’ and took all of December to celebrate.  Before cards turned up in the mail that look like they cost five hundred for a dollar at the Reject Shop and say “Have a wunnerful Chrissy from all of us” inside. Christmas has gone Bogan on us.

Think I’m cynical?

Go on. Round half a dozen suburban Aussie youngsters and ask them what Christmas means and see if you get answers like “to remember Santa’s birthday”, “to get a new Wii/Xbox/Nintendo” or “to eat heaps and watch Aunty Cheryl get wasted and jump in the pool in her knickers”. Apparently Chrissy doesn’t need to be on the 25th anymore. People now say, “We’re doing Chrissy this Sunday coz we’re off down the coast”. It’s like Yuletide Month.

Being a bit agnostic and apathetic myself, I asked our adolescent (the BHG) if she believes in Christmas:

BHG: Duh! Like… who doesn’t?

Me: Lots of people around the world actually.

BHG: Well they’re dopey. If you don’t believe you don’t get presents.

Me: That’s Santa, not Christmas itself.

BHG: Same same (eye roll).

Me: So if you believe, tell me…would you like to dress and Mary or Joseph for a mock front yard nativity scene?

BHG: Like… LOL. As IF!

Me: Like…Seriously. And which church service would you like to attend? Being a Christian and all suddenly?

BHG: ROFL. Like you have to go to church at Christmas.

Me: Well once upon a time people did. Christmas being a religious holiday and all.

BHG: Nah… I’m good just with the present side of things. Can I have mine early seeing as though Christmas goes for all of December? And do we have to go all greeny again this year and ‘reject’ (said with a tone) wrapping paper? And I don’t want one of those stupid charity goats to help some poor family in Africa. How many of the grandparents do you think are good for an Itunes voucher this year if I tell them how to buy one?

Hmm. I’ve obviously done some excellent child-rearing there. Deck the halls with boughs of gold parenting stars.

Remembering back to my childhood Chrissies, I can see her point. It WAS all about Santa, wrapping paper, presents, food… lights… Hmmmm. Maybe we have a cultural problem here.

In an attempt to redeem my parenting points, I decided to research some ultimate Bogan Chrissy stuff to see whether Aussies in general just do Chrissy differently to what we see on Telly (a la the Brady Bunch special that runs every year) or whether we've just buggered it up in our house.

I think Christmas for Bogans is actually about minimalism.

As in effort. It’s hot. We’ve all had a big year, blah blah. So we don’t want to go to a lot of trouble, us Bogans. We go look at other people’s Christmas lights because it’s easier than putting up our own. With any luck we don’t have to ‘host the family Christmas’, because quite frankly it’s easier just to take a Sara Lee cheesecake  along to someone else’s house. Whoever owns a pool, a barbie and a dishwasher usually qualifies.

My mum used to have some traditional Aussie Christmas things that she’d cook. Being a Dutch immigrant they were all found in the CWA cookbook, but never-the-less, impressive each year. Like the boiled pudding that took five million hours to make. I have the instructions. I did it once. Didn’t taste the same and was a pain in the arse to make. I found a new recipe this year that I’m calling Bogan Cake. What you do is soak a kilo of mixed fruit in a litre of chocolate milk overnight, add two cups of self-raising flour the next day and bake it. Voila! Chrissy cake Bogan style!! In fact, if you wrap them in Reject Shop cellophane and put that sparkly silver ribbon on, they double as a gift. Noice!

Brad the Tradie is always Grinchy.

Being self-employed he is quite happy to call off all holidays except Australia Day and ANZAC Day (his religion is Capitalism). So we’ve made a pact. We’re going to spend next Chrissy in the Northern Hemisphere, where they apparently still call it Christmas in some parts, have snow, roasted chestnuts on an open fire (in Oz an open fire will get you a fine from the Ranger at this time of year), silent nights (ohhhh for a silent night!) and families gathered round drinking egg nog and being pleasant to each other tugging gently at ribboned gift-boxed mittens. Then we'll be able to truly evaluate our data set.

Being newly retired, I’ve had the opportunity to absorb some Northern American culture via daytime TV.

And besides the Oprah hoo-ha I’ve noticed that Ellen’s been giving away heaps of stuff to audience members each day leading up to Christmas. Why do these people go mental over a kitchen tool or a plasma telly? Do they sell the freebies on Ebay and then go on a Caribbean cruise? I guess it’s the spirit of giving (or advertising), but it’s getting kind of annoying watching all these people get stuff they don’t really need. One year when the BHG was young and particularly ungrateful at Christmas (she COUNTED the presents and sighed 'there's only nineteen!'… grrr) we made her pick an unopened present to give to charity. Maybe Ellen should make the audience members give up one of their gifts to put under the Kmart wishing tree. I know that task certainly made the BHG more appreciative of gifts, however few and cruddy ("Oooo!!! Look! A bag of Twisties! Great! Please don't make me give them to a homeless person!!!").

I’ve been avoiding ‘the shops’ lately. It’s like there’s a secret tribe of Bogans and old people living somewhere that only come out to the mall in December in search of tinsel and nasty Christmas T-shirts (and baby Santa outfits strangely). On an outing the other day (for necessities only) I was zoomed into by a fat person in a motorised scooter! Isn’t the point of being obese to do more walking? And who invented those stupid kid-sized shopping trolleys that bang into your legs? Or decided that shopping centres are a good place for Santa to hang out? On Saturday in our quite poorly airconditioned Big W the Sad Santa looked like all he wanted for Christmas was Prozac. And why do people insist on using the self-serve registers when they DON’T KNOW HOW? And is the middle of the haircare products aisle really the right place for people to catch up and gossip? Would a backyard not be a better place to discuss their child’s year at school and recent acquisition of a second-hand campervan? And seriously, I hate it when pimply sixteen year olds wearing flashing reindeer antlers tell me to “have a luvly Chrissy won’t cha!” as they hand me the docket. Makes me want to go sit on Sad Santa’s knee and ask for an axe.

There is a saving grace in my Bogan Chrissy.

I’m through to the final round in being selected as a Summer Ambassador for a brand of beer called Hahn White. This non-paying gig essentially results in being gifted with free beer, glasses and T-shirts to share with others during the party season. Figure I could earn some popularity points in the suburb. Nothing spells ‘we’re new, gotta love us’ like an invite to a party with free beer! Six White schooners anyone? BYO prawns and pav. Isn't Christmas about indulgence? Bugger it. Let's get a pasta salad from Woolies as well.

So, from Blossy, anytime in December, whichever day you deem fit… I wish you a Bogan Chrissy and a wasted New Year. May the holiday force be with you. If not, just turn on the cricket (pretend you don’t care that we’re being crapped on by the Poms), hide under the doona in an air-conditioned room with a box of Lindt Balls and wait for mid-January. See you in rehab!

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Six White Boomers - traditional Australian Christmas song

If I Could Turn Back Time

If you could turn back time, if you could find a way, what would you change?

Even though I quite like my life the way it is, I sometimes fantasise about my ‘parallel lives’. You know, the lives you’d be living if you’d changed just ONE little thing. Like a ‘choose your own adventure’ book. If you took one path instead of another, or been born sometime else, somewhere else, what would’ve happened? Like… if I’d been born into royalty last century, would today’s Queen wear leopard print?

What if you could just change something from high school?

Would I really have paid attention in Maths classes? Would a success maybe be something else besides bartering deals with Science nerds in exchange for help with Shakespeare? If I could turn back time I wouldn’t have wasted valuable playground flirting time with a certain young man who I now know is GAY. I certainly wouldn’t have bothered feeling bad about getting a C (I don’t get C’s…) in P.E. in Year 8 (Do I LOOK LIKE I’m good at hurdles? Long jump? Anything athletic except Javelin?) I wouldn’t have bothered working in a supermarket on Saturdays for $4.30 an hour when I could’ve been swimming in the river. I may not have even spent quite so much time keeping an accurate economics journal with weekly snippets from the Financial Review. (But quite frankly, in those if you weren’t having nooky on the riverbank or playing football there wasn’t much else to do except study and sunbake covered in vegetable shortening). And I definitely wouldn’t have spent years believing I had fat thighs, bad hair and unacceptable feet.

This past Saturday, as we drove to ‘the Hills’ to Brad the Tradie’s high school reunion, I asked him the question. What would he change if he could go back? Not much apparently. In fact, after hearing about his high school years, I kinda want to go back and be him as well. How can two people have such different versions of high school? BtT had… FUN. Loads of it. He didn’t study, didn’t care, was hugely popular, left school early and still turned out OK. WHAT??!!!

Suspicious, I asked BtT to recall some fond moments of high school. Apparently breaking someone’s nose was memorable along with wandering around sand dunes and getting a car to speed up the Lesmurdie Hill in. So, this is what I had to work with last Saturday night accompanying BtT to his school reunion as the ‘plus one’ partner. And desperately praying that the recipient of the broken nose wasn’t attending.

As a ‘plus one’ at a school reunion there’s really not much you can hope for.

Except finger food, chairs and… unlimited wine. Tick, tick and tick. Great organization, weedy ‘not very sexy’ barman excepted (seriously, doesn’t everyone ask for ice in their red wine?) A ‘plus one’ doesn’t have an identity. I gave up trying to tell people I was a neurosurgeon and was satisfied with being known as ‘Brad’s wife’. I entertained myself by playing with people’s heads when approached with “Hi! Did I go to school with you?” I morphed through different roles with strangers, from being a chick called Tania’s vegetarian lesbian lover (thanks for the lovely hand gestures across the room by the way darl!), to ‘that Danish exchange student’, to taking photos using other people’s posh cameras, to just being the hot Bogan chick at the bar (OK, so ‘hot’ might’ve been a temperature thing rather than an indication of my ability to ‘pull’). And I perfected the universal reunion greeting: “Ohhhh. My. GAWD! HIIII!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Have you had a school reunion? I did.

The bogans of Bushbogan public high school were called together a few years ago (via a big bushpig whistle that carries in the wind…) to a gathering at the local basketball hall. We feasted on Bbq chooks and Woolies salads and compared stories. My school wasn’t nearly as classy as Brad the Tradie’s. We couldn’t rustle up newspaper success articles about SAS officers saving the children of Rwanda. But, damn, in our best stonewashed denim and stretch boobtubes, we rocked the makeshift dancefloor to Abba and Jimmy Barnes and ran out of Tooheys.

High school is only a short time in the scheme of things, yet shapes us in many ways.

And as such, we’re usually keen to go back and find out ‘what happened’ to our schoolmates. In the era of Facebook and email there’s not really many reunion surprises anymore. Fortunately, mine was held a while ago now, so there were still shocks to be had. Like the girl no one recognised who turned out to be the dumpy chick who’d lost 60kg and dyed her hair. Like the meathead footy captain getting a law degree. And a certain boy (not the gay one… a different one) marrying an Actuary called Saffron. And the depressing news that one of my Science nerds had committed suicide before he even made it to twenty.

You can’t see it coming. Life, that is.

Try as you might to sit with the Yearbook and predict the paths of your schoolmates, it just can’t be done. Some of it we make ourselves and some of it just… happens. It might be fun to pretend to go back and turn back time. But you can’t. And we shouldn't want to, because everything we experience makes us who we are, bogan warts and all.

I know this, because if I could, public high schools everywhere would let girls wear leopard print heels and serve wine at the canteen. Duh!

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If I Could Turn Back Time, Cher, 1989 (the year I finished high school)

Blossy in Tradieland

Being a landscaper’s assistant is a little like being a student teacher. Kind of.

A bit of ‘jack of all trades, master of none’ kind of thing. And as it turns out, just like everything is a classroom can be fixed with blutak or a bandaid, everything in Tradieland can be cured with concrete or a screw.

Blossy has entered Tradieland. Yep. Walked through the magic mirror past the rabbits or whatever and here I am. A proper Landscaper’s Assistant. Or as we say in the trade… an L.A.(great abbreviation given that L.A. has incredible shopping…tangent thought… ignore it…)

With Brad the Tradie relocating his business across the nation to here in Beachvillea, I’ve taken it upon myself to act in a variety of roles. Given that I’ve got all these ‘skills’ from twenty years in the Education game (not a total waste of time that career…)and currently have not much else to do I’m quite a useful L.A. Especially when there’s colouring-in of plans to be done. GREAT at colouring in.

First and foremost lately, I’m Promotions Officer. To… you know… promote.

Apparently, a good tradie in Beachvillea is one who turns up. So, being clever at marketing, that's what we're promoting. Turning up. Seems effective too. People are genuinely surprised at times when BtT finishes their garden. A client gave him a quite expensive bottle of bourbon last week, just for finishing. Gotta love entering a low-expectation community.

Being a good eco-capitalist, I started with the old faithful method, letterbox dropping. Kind of ironic really. An eco-landscaper and an eco-store providor bombarding letterboxes with promotional material. Those who are most eco-conscious of course, have a No Junk Mail sign on their mailbox, meaning we couldn’t give them a flyer. Sometimes, when walking the beat, I’d ‘accidentally’ put one under their windscreen or poke it through the fence… really. These silly signs should say, “no junkmail unless it’s really important.” Sheesh. So extremist these people are.

So then we went all techno. Got the business on the Twitbook. Used web-footed net pigeons to create pages full of interesting eco-stuff and environmentally-responsible doovahs. Got the Google click thing going and we're practically viral.  I'm I.T. Manager you see.

I’m also ‘Business Manager’ (which means that I manage the business… clever title huh??!!!) I do all manner of exciting and unusual things. Adding up the money on the Netterweb banking is my favourite task. I also quite like phoning non-payers and threatening to sick a bikie gang member on them. I’m not sure that people in these parts are used to a chick being an L.A. though. Take this morning’s phone convo’s for example. Two tasks: order a water tank and do a quote for a limestone wall. Sounded simple when BtT said it, so Blossy waved him off to do something landscapery.

Phone call A. Mission: Order a water tank.

Me: Ohhhhh helllloooooo. This is Blossy from Planet Fabulous… yes… how are you? Yes, noice day, quite warm this week… anyhooo, would like to… ahhh yes, he’s fine, quite busy, out moving dirt. Yah huh, yes he is quite fab isn’t he? Yah huh, yep, shall tell him that… oh good, I’m glad the visit went well with your mum… mmm hmmmm…. anyyyHOOOOOO, would like to order a tank… ummmm…. Tsixteen hundred. Yaaaa, ripple thingies… torress blue… hmmmm…good, good, glad we can make one of those, client will be pleased… can I have a price for that? Yah huh doing invoice… mmmm, can be tricky… yes, he is lucky that I do it (I AM the effing business manager lady!!!!) good, good, FAB-ulous, yes, address for T1600 is 14 dolphin fin way… yes… lovely dolphins here… mmmm…yes, shame about the whaling situation in Japan, totally agree… yes I had heard they're sending asylum seekers to live near you... ANYHOOOOOOOOOOO, must go, send the bill. BYE!!!! (click)

Mental note: order tanks via email. Or courier pigeon or something.

Phone call B. Mission: Get prices for quote on limestone wall.

Him (thick Scottish accent): Lo! Lo! This is (indeterminable name… shall call him Grillpot), whatcha be wantin’?

Me: Ahhh, yes, hello Grillpot, this is Blossy Bogan from Planet Fabulous. I’m needing a quote on a whole heap of limestone blocks so that my dreadfully talented landscaper husband can build a dirty great wall on someone’s new property.

Him: Ahhghhh! A dirty great wall you say? Well lassie, best you tell me how many of the blocks ya want and we’ll go and add it up for ya then.

Me: FAB-u-lous.

Him: Warm this week.

Me: Yes.
Him: Like the warm do ya then?

Me: Oh… ummm… yes.

Him: Off to the beach are ya then?

Me: Possibly. Did you want to know how many blocks?

Him: Ohhhh yes lassie. You’re wantin’ blocks.

Me: Well. I’m terribly orge-an-ised, so I’d like two hundred of code 135356 in a plain, and two hundred of the 135352 in the bevelled. And I want them delivered to Cookerfannyyupkippanup which is out the back of over there somewhere, so best give me a delivered price. I’ll need a lead time as well, with accuracy plus or minus a day. I’m assuming that you’ll quote me trade price. I’m ringing around right now and I’d like to nail this away (like that? Nail this away? Tradie chick talk… I’ve come SUCH a long way!!!). How are we situated in getting this sorted today Grillpot?

Him: Well then, I’ll be wantin’ to write this down lassie.

Me (Oh for CHRIST'S SAKE!): Yes. You will. Sorry, I should’ve told you to get a pen or something. Live 'n' learn.

Him: Wanna tell me all that again then love? Hang on… pen… somewhere….

Me: (bang, bang, bang): Oh sorry, Grillpot, that was my head banging on the desk. You don’t have email do you?

Him: E-what? So, you want a lot of blocks then lassie or something else? Have to ring the quarry and call ya back then.

Me: Good-o Grillpot. Talk soon. (bang, bang.... bang).

Surprisingly, Grillpot and I, after some more exchanges seem to have an understanding. He confided on our second phone call (it takes three calls to find a price for 68 metres of limestone blocks as it turns out) found it unusual to be dealing with a female. So I put on my deep voice, which he liked very much (unsurprisingly) and I ‘nailed away’ a magnificent price. No idea on what really, except that I gather they are … limestone blocks of some description, and that we ‘mud’ them together to build a wall.

Which brings me to L.A. role four: Labourer.

It’s a great role this one. From what I gather, it requires one to not have any form of brain. All the blood flow goes to the muscles. And boy, when you labour for Brad the Tradie, do you discover PLENTY of muscles. My mono-ab (currently in training for swimwear season) thanked him for all the lawn-mix shovelling yesterday. When labouring, one must also be compliant. Phrases of use are, “Yes boss”, “No worries mate” and “Yep, on it”. Not once does a labourer complain, or… in Blossy’s case, get a headache, bleed from any form of wound, ask to go home, or… cry. Labourers do NOT need to go to the toilet, eat, sit down, nor do they give their own opinion (“ahhhh, reckon that’s straight? Sorry... going back to shovelling...”)

Blossy is better at roles one, two and three. Role four… not great just yet. BtT’s very generous in his feedback though, particularly when I cry. I don’t have to pull the ‘But I’m a GIRL!” card very often.

Yes, I know. It’s WRONG. But every now and then you just HAVE to pull the I’m a Girl card. When it suits.

When I was about thirteen I asked our milkman for a job. He laughed me off with a snorting type of “Hell No!” I thought it was because of my gender, so I threatened him with the Discrimination tribunal (yes, I was a very strange adolescent… I also wrote regularly to Derryn Hinch and Peter Garrett with my political concerns… stories for another day perhaps). Turned out you could actually have a vagina AND be on the milk run. Bless, I was rejected because I looked unfit and the milkman doubted my ability to run with crates for two hours a night. When he put it like that, I kinda doubted my ability too.

I do, in theory, believe that anything a bloke can do, so can a chick. But in practice it gets a little blurry. So, Brad the Tradie and I are adopting a ‘strengths-based’ system. Mainly, he’s the strength. I help out here and there and try not to whine. And I DO enjoy counting the Netterweb banking money.

How long will Blossy last in Tradieland?

Dunno. It might not be a career path, but when all the elements combine and it's a nice sunny day, not too hot, not too cold and we've just finished turning the colouring-in into a real garden, it's quite nice being a quasi-tradie. I'm learning heaps too. Like, the real meaning of 'slurry' and how to mix one properly in a wheelbarrow. But don't worry,  I haven’t invested in steel-capped boots or anything drastic. Gosh. That WOULD be serious!

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Alice (Underground), Avril Lavinge, 2010

Everybody Wants to Rule the World

We’re gripped by it.

We’ve practically come to a standstill.

Yep, it’s the Commonwealth Games. The Comm Games. The C Games. Or, as our house is now referring to it… the Commies.

Every four years the countries of The Empire (that’s the British Empire for you insular Americans) come together to play games. In the spirit of participation, sharing, pursuing one’s goals… oh, no it’s not. Sorry. Brad the Tradie just reminded me that the Commies are about winning and dominance. Which makes a lot of sense really. Only countries once dominated by British rule (when they mistakenly thought they could rule the world) are allowed to compete at the Commonwealth Games. All these nations come together to see who NOW rules the Commonwealth. Oh. Look at that. It’s the Aussies. By a landslide.

And we bloody well love it. Bugger the citizenship exam. You can tell a true Aussie because they downright want to win. Especially against the Poms. “Ha! Take that for British rule! Can’t beat us in the swimming or netball can ya… huh? Shove that in ya monarchy and smoke it!”

I think we like to… want to… NEED TO dominate the Commies because it reassures us that as a nation we don’t suck that badly after all. Australia doesn’t lead the way in many things, let’s face it. It’s not a popularity problem. Everyone likes us. How could you not? There’s just such as lack of achievement in Australia that we end up having to pride ourselves on having a dreadfully safe national airline and a good reef. The world is actually ruled by China and the U.S.A. They make everything and tell everyone what to do. We won’t ever invite them to the Commonwealth Games. EVER. So there. The Commies belong to us Aussies.

We’ll never tire of the anthem being played as chlorine-drenched swimmers get gold medal after gold medal.

We wince a little at silver, but clap and say, “Good try mate!", put in a protest and kick the winner in the shins. Although, have you noticed this time around that we excel at some rather unusual, not-usually-Australian sports? That immigration program is working wonders isn’t it? We’ve got a barely English speaking Greco-Roman wrestling champ that can do backflips on command (we like that… did you see him being interviewed? “Hey mate! Do a backflip! Pwwoahhh! Look at that!”), Chinese diving coaches and some darn good rhythmic gymnasts (who wear an awful lot of glittery hair gel and are dressed by trannies). I reckon I know the secret actually. All those illegal boat people sneaking into our waters? Well, they’re chucked off the boats within sight of Darwin to see how fast they can swim. “Ahhh mate! You’ve practically got bloody flippers! Welcome to Australia!” As long as they win gold medals, they’re welcome here anytime.

Of course it doesn’t hurt that most of the other Commonwealth countries are the size of Brisbane. How did I get to be 38 years of age and not know about a country called Nuie? Although with darts being their national pastime I can kinda understand my ignorance. The nation of Samoa I get. They grow ‘em BIG and fuzzy in SAM-O-A. We don’t begrudge them a couple of weightlifting medals. They can’t really swim, the poor things.

It’s been exhilarating watching poor old host country India win some medals in exciting sports such as discus and shooting. I’m hardly surprised they’re good at self-defence sports, given their living conditions. Who invited India to host the Comm Games anyway? Did no one else apply? I love how the village and stadiums were all falling down and the Indians weren’t that worried. “Ya dudes! We did our best! Less things are broken than we thought huh?” India’s one of ‘those countries’ that BtT and I will maybe one day visit, providing we go there on a cruise ship and look at the Indian culture on a day tour with lots of hand sanitiser. India has resonated strongly with us Aussies hasn’t it? I mean, Curtis Stone even cooked up some Indian slop for his ‘feed your family for under ten bucks’ segment at Coles. By the looks of Indians, you could probably feed half a street of them for ten dollars, but anyway, good on you Curtis for enlightening us on the joys of Madras Chicken.

Brad the Tradie’s been glued to the Commies.

The sport side, not the cultural side. There’s really only so many sari’s you can look at. It’s like these Games were scheduled the week after the footy grand finals (but before the cricket season) just in case he got the shakes from a lack of sport on the telly. With Foxtel showing half a dozen different Commie events in our home theatre 24/7 I feel I’ve been thoroughly exposed to the kulcha of the Games. BtT doesn’t mind which sport’s on. We’ve cheered for lawn bowls (“robbed they were! Robbed!”) and by golly, how exciting’s that cycling road race. Phew! About as interesting as watching paint dry actually. Which we were, given that our new house was being painted and so we didn’t have a great deal else to do except watch Kenyans run around a track fifty-seven gazillion times.

I have wondered this week how Commie sports are chosen and how I go about adding new ones. 

 I could Google it if I really cared, but instead I thought I’d come up with some extra sports for the next Games in Scotland in 2014. Here’s my list:

• Highland Fling – very Scottish and fashionable. I may defect to compete in the Scottish national team in this one just to wear the kilt. Argghhh! Blossom McBogan I am!

• Cricket – I mean REALLY. How is cricket not in the Commies? It’s the only sport Indians will watch for goodness sake and it still wasn’t in the Comm Games. Surely even Lesotho could field a side. So that we could win of course.

• Drinking games – another of our national strengths obviously. It would give the athletically-challenged a chance at Commonwealth Glory and I think ‘scull scull’ would make compelling TV viewing. Give the Welsh and Irish a chance to win a silver medal too.

• Pom Thumping – not just beating the English, but ACTUALLY thumping them. Give that medal to Samoa as well. Do we get immigrants from Samoa? Anyone?

• Of course, in the spirit of including people with a disability in the Comm Games (how amputees swim that fast is beyond me), we could have the conjoined discus and S10 rolypoly down the hill. The more the merrier!

As long as us Aussies still win. We might love our sport in Oz, but we sure as heck don’t like losers. Because, you see, although everybody wants to rule the world… for twelve days, we actually do. That'll teach the Poms for dumping all their convicts here.  Oi! Oi! Oi!

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Everybody Wants to Rule the World, Tears for Fears, 1985