Born This Way

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

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

And I quite like it actually.

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

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

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

But I will NOT go to Parent Modelling Group.

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

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

 

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

Kids’ activities are fabulous aren’t they?

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

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

·         Horseriding (she vomited a lot)

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

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

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

·         Piano (bloody expensive)

·         Drama (more vomiting)

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

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

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

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

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

 Hallelujia.

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Born This Way - Lady Gaga, 2011.

Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?

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

I miss the 80’s.

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

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

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

And then I come across…. Vajazzling.

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

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

But it becomes my business if …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Chapel of Love

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think Australia needs royalty.

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

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

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

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

Long live romance.

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The chapel of Love, The Dixie Cups, 1964

I fought the law (and the law won!)

Some of us are just law-abiding citizens.

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

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

I'm a good girl.

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

I do like Law & Order on the Telly though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that didn't happen.

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

We were hammered.

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

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

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

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

Yeah.

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

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

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

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

I’m so ashamed.

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

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

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

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

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

Then comes the phone call.

BtT: Darl! Wanna come for a drive?

Blossy: Uhhh, OK. Where to?

BtT: TV store.

Blossy: Why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What happened to The Good Room?

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

Does anyone besides my nanna have a good room anymore?

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

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

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

I'm not really a baby person.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One can only hope.

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

I am Woman

Happy International Women’s Day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh yes I am wise

But it's wisdom born of pain

Yes, I've paid the price

But look how much I gained

If I have to, I can do anything

I am strong (strong)

I am invincible (invincible)

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

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



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