Pardon me, your political correctness is stepping on my toes..

I am a snob. This is a fact I have never been ashamed of. But my snobbery doesn’t include brand names or private schools; I simply appreciate quality and don’t understand people who don’t. My snobbery made an appearance this morning when I was dropping the girl off at school. They are celebrating book week and all the kids were asked to come dressed as a character from an Australian book. As I walked through the school yard I saw Spiderman, Indiana Jones, Cinderella, a multitude of fairies, a cowgirl, Peter Rabbit, Mickey Mouse and a possum. I overheard a few parents saying “we don’t own any Australian story books”. I was outraged. What’s wrong with these people? Are we so resigned to the Americanisation of our country that we don’t even try anymore? Disney is not the whole of children’s entertainment!!
In this ultra conservative city of middle class public servants it seems that my brand of political correctness is a dull flicker compared to the blinding glare of the mob mentality. I was reminded of my rant at Christmas last year when a card informed my daughter that “Jesus sends Angels to look after us”; this is apparently an acceptable card to distribute amongst a school that prides itself on being multicultural. Then again, I was equally annoyed when the day care centre my girl was at in Melbourne had an “end of year party” with a clown distributing presents. OK, so “Christmas” isn’t in the Jewish calendar, but which religion does Santa belong to? Christmas is such an integral part of the Australian culture and these days it’s so far removed from religion that I don’t understand why it is any more offensive than Melbourne Cup day.
The Chaser’s recently received so much abuse for their “Make a realistic wish foundation” sketch that their show was subsequently axed. Apparently making jokes about kids with cancer is over the line. Mind you, on the same show they did a sketch comparing the Fritzl family to the Brady Bunch and no-one said a word about it. My eldest step son was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma when he was 12 years old. He spent a year in and out of hospital and underwent a rigorous chemotherapy regime. During this time his father was a single parent and struggled with a non sympathetic work place, a dilapidated car and the 2 hour drive to Sydney to spend time with his sick son. My step son was granted a wish by the Starlight Foundation - he asked to go to Monkey Mia in Western Australia to swim with the dolphins. At the time he made the wish he was very ill. By the time the wish became a reality he was in remission and wasn’t comfortable with accepting it. His mother insisted and so an embarrassed boy went swimming with dolphins while other kids he had been in the oncology ward with died. The reality is – these foundations don’t have unlimited money or resources. For every child that receives a wish there are others who miss out. When watching the Chaser’s offer a child in a hospital bed a stick instead of a trip to Disneyland the husband and I were laughing so hard we could hardly breathe. The recovered cancer child was also laughing heartily. Then the PC brigade began their campaign to bring the Chaser’s down. My husband commented on the fact that during his time travelling to Sydney to support and care for his sick son there was not a single offer of help from the (private alternative education) school, the community or his workplace. No doubt the same people who were “offended” by the sketch were the same ones avoiding eye contact with him in the car park years earlier. If we can’t laugh at a situation as tragic as a child with a terminal disease then how do we deal with it? At least laughing at it is acknowledging its existence, not staring at the floor hoping it will go away.
We made a big deal of apologising to the indigenous Australians about their poor treatment in the past but their present remains unchanged, we buy Fair Trade Coffee but it’s served to us by 14 year olds who get paid $6 an hour, we will pay $100 a litre for boutique olive oil at a farmer’s market but won’t support local business and we would rather buy Disney merchandise than support local writers.
I continue to live in my own fantasy land, a land where people think for themselves and actually give a shit. Where political correctness is executed with some thought and reasoning, not just a knee jerk reaction to a fashionable cause.
I am very proud of my little Josephine the kangaroo who wanted to dance (Jackie French), and say “well done” to the parents of the little Korean girl who came dressed as the possum from Possum Magic (Mem Fox).

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Understanding Youth

When I was 16 I applied to Youth For Understanding, an organisation that shuffles students around the world, to go to Denmark for a year. . I was a miserable misfit of a teenager, living in a country town with a dysfunctional family and victim of an oppressive education system. I was bullied at school, had very few friends and yet was convinced that there must be something else out there.

In spite of a poorly disguised Mohawk, bad behaviour at school and my shy, sullen attitude one of the members of the selection committee took a shine to me and a few months later I was on a plane with about 50 other over excited teenagers. It was 1985 and Frankfurt Airport had recently been bombed, we walked past the rubble to our connecting flight to Copenhagen and I realised I was out in the real world and I was alone. I have rarely felt so alive.

I settled in with my host family and went about the business of being a 16 year old in a foreign country. One evening my host father said to me “why haven’t you been to the pub yet?” Realising that this was acceptable behaviour I grabbed the American girl who lived up the road and we nervously wandered into the local tavern The Horseshoe. We were overwhelmed that we could buy beer legally and sat there thinking we must truly have landed in heaven.

I was wearing a tartan skirt, an oversized white shirt and a long tartan vest, cinched at the waist with a wide belt.* Hey, it was the 80’s. A very cute boy sat down at our table and asked me if I was Scottish. Many beers and many hours later he walked me home.
It was one of those clear Scandinavian nights, the moon shone over the trees and reflected on the bay the small town was centred around. We stood on the steps of my house and he kissed me. His soft moustache ticked and I was drunk and giggly and giddy with the romance and possibilities.

I don’t remember the progression to coupledom, but it happened rather quickly. We were head over heels with the wild passion and abandon that only teenagers are capable of. I was a (somewhat) naive girl from the country, raised in a culture of taboo subjects, stiff upper lips and denial of any positive emotion. He was from a culture of self expression, freedom of speech and permissiveness. We would regularly go to the local nightclub, Silvers I think it was called. The dance fashion, back then in Denmark, was for couples to hold hands while dancing – sort of a disco/swing dance mix. He was a good dancer and I learned quickly. It was so much fun, twirling around the dance floor until we were exhausted and needed to refuel with more beer. We would dance until dawn then stop at the bakery on the way home to buy pastries for breakfast.

I’d known sex, but was completely unaware of sensuality. He slowed me down, taught me to enjoy the journey. The journey from sleazy bogun chick to sexually confident young woman. I can still remember the feel of his skin and the soft, fine, pale gold of his hair and the way our bodies fit together so easily. His love enveloped and empowered me. I was blissfully happy.

Then one day he told me he wanted to end it. I was gutted, confused, bewildered and terrified. He had spent months beating his head against the brick wall of my emotional repression and had finally had enough. He walked away and I thought I would die. I pursued him for days, begging for a second chance. He steadfastly refused, finally saying “I need you to change and people can’t change”, I looked at him through my tears and insisted that I could and would if given the chance. He gave in and for first time in my life I told another human being that I loved them.

Together we broke through the barriers I had hidden behind for so long. I opened my heart and finally learned the most important lesson: how to love.
We had many adventures (see Faith, Sept 2007) I remember being on a train and him jumping from seat to seat with a curled paper megaphone shouting “I love Larissa”, another time dancing, pants down, on a table in a restaurant to “prove his love”. I also remember him kneeling before me, in a laneway outside the nightclub, and asking me to marry him and offering a tap washer as a ring. Of course I agreed, but being only 17 was unable to.

We made plans, I organised a job for him in Australia and investigated visas. He had finished high school and was going to work and save the money for his ticket. But then he got called for 12 months National Service, he was unable to leave the country until his obligation had been fulfilled. The day of my departure arrived and I was collected by a bus and driven to the airport. He was supposed to meet me there for our goodbye, but as I wandered the terminal looking for him I was called to the phone. He was still at home, unable to bring himself to face the goodbye, he apologised, and with his voice breaking told me he loved me, said goodbye and hung up. I collapsed in a flood of tears and near hysteria. I had to be half carried onto the plane I was so distraught. I cried all the way to Frankfurt, drank all the way to Dubai and by the time the plane landed in Melbourne I was hung over, jet lagged and completely numb. I managed a smile for my excited family and pretended to sleep in the car so I didn’t have to talk to them.
We reached my Grandparents house and I crawled into bed and slept several hours. When I woke there was a cow looking in the window at me. I looked around the room and everything was familiar – I even recognised the cow. It occurred to me briefly that it had all been an elaborate dream, but then there was my suitcase over flowing with Danish souvenirs. I felt so strange, a stranger in a familiar land. How could I have changed so much yet all here was still EXACTLY the same? It didn’t make sense and I carried the sense of disorientation with me for several years.

We spoke on the phone a few times, for hours on end. Eventually our phone got disconnected because my Mum couldn’t pay the $700 phone bill. I wrote to him but he had disappeared into the army and contact faded. It was a year before I could bring myself to go on any dates. Then 18 months later I got a letter from him, his service had ended and his letter told stories of his time as a soldier and declared his undying love. I excitedly wrote to him several times, but I never heard from him again. It was another two years after that before I was able to open up again and let someone else into my heart and I surprised myself by discovering I was able to love another with almost as much intensity.

Years passed, life took hold and I grew up, got a mortgage, a career and eventually a husband and child. My Danish boy became a part of my past that I thought I would never revisit. Then at work the other day, bored and aimlessly surfing the net I plugged his name into Facebook and suddenly there he was on my computer screen. Older, a bit less hair but still the same cheeky smile and sparkling eyes. I stared at his picture for several minutes trying to think of something to say to him – I had nothing! What could I possibly say that didn’t make me sound like a bunny boiling stalker? Eventually I just wrote “You shaved your moustache” and clicked send. I spent a nervous night wondering just how psycho he would think I was but the next morning got a message full of surprise, mirth and joy at the contact. We have exchanged email addresses and promises to tell our life stories. 24 years is a long time. We were children; in fact, our children are the same age now we were then. I know we have nothing in common apart from our shared ancient history and once stories have been told there will be nowhere else to go but back to the pages of history. Am I making a mistake? Will the fantasy of my youth be revealed as a romanticised teenage half truth? I hope not.


When my friends and I were leaving high school to go to university several of us were given big cheques by our families to cover our rent. I very sensibly deposited mine in the bank and used it only for its intended purpose. One of my friends cashed his, bought a combi van and drove to Cairns. His family forgave him eventually and he had adventures worth much more than a year at Uni. I’ve never been capable of that sort of recklessness. When friends were hitchhiking to Confest, on acid, I was working in Hungry Jacks so I could pay my bills. I’ve often wondered what would have happened if I’d taken that cheque, my passport and a taxi to the airport.

*How come I can remember what I wore to the pub one day in 1985, but I can’t remember where I put my car keys?
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Every lab should have some

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Detox me

I decided to do a detox diet. I've always been devoutly anti-detox but my "lifestyle choices" (read: drinks like a fish) and the new found knowledge that bowel cancer is in my family tree got me thinking about making some changes. I decided to make a fresh start, give my body a clean out and ditch some bad habits. I investigated what detox diets were out there and discovered that as I had always suspected, most of them are a crock. There's the lemon detox - you pay a fortune for a syrup mix of maple syrup and palm sugar that you make into a drink with lemon juice and live on that for a few days. Sounds ridiculous, and dangerous. Then there's the herbal concoctions that apparently remove the "plaque" from your bowel - people on this detox poo out black stringy stuff then photograph it. I searched the medical journals for this plaque and could find absolutely no reference to it anywhere. It doesn't exist. The black stringy stuff is probably just a product of the herbal mix. Then I remembered that a friend of mine swears by the Blackmores detox. So I researched it and it actually made sense. It's a regime of digestive bitters, milk thistle and acidophilus capsules and skin exfoliation while eating a wheat, dairy, red meat and processed food free diet. Milk thistle has been shown to have beneficial effects on the liver and acidophilus is good for your gut, exfoliating makes sense too as you excrete a lot of stuff through your skin. So last Saturday I went and bought the kit, studied the menus, wrote out a shopping list and went to the market. The next day I began:
Day 1. 15 minutes before breakfast take 5mls of digestive bitters. OH MY GODS! That is the foulest tasting stuff I have ever experienced! And the taste lingered, but wait, while I was screwing up my face and going "ug!" my stomach started to feel really good. It felt settled and calm and comfortable. OK then, maybe that stuff is worth the horrible taste. So on to breakfast..two poached eggs on rye bread. Nice, add some smoked salmon and hollondaise and it's even better. I rationalise that the smoked salmon was in the fridge and was going to go bad and the husband won't eat it and it would be such a shame to waste it.
By 12 the caffeine headache kicks in and of course I can't take anything. I try to appease the pain with dandelion tea, add soy milk and it's still yuk, so I add forbidden honey.
Lunch is a chicken and salad sandwich with rye bread. Nice.
15 minuted before dinner take the horrid Bitters again, my hopes that I would get used to the taste fade. Dinner is chicken and veg stir fry on brown rice. Again, very nice but needed chilli and soy sauce (forbidden as it contains wheat)to make it interesting. So, day 1 went OK, some deviation but not tragic. I can't find the exfoliation glove that came with the kit. Before bed take a spoonful of Colon Cleanse, which is awful, but not as bad as the Bitters.
Day 2. Muesli for breakfast, chicken and salad sandwich for lunch, mango chicken and brown rice and steamed vegies for dinner. All good. I'm struggling without my morning coffee and mid afternoon can of diet coke but I'm determined to do this properly. Still very headachy.
Day 3. Berry smoothie, rye toast with cashew nut spread for breakfast, pumpkin soup for lunch, veg and tofu stir fry for dinner. About mid afternoon I get wind pain that has me doubled over at my desk, but otherwise I'm going good. The headache's gone!
Day 4.Scrambled eggs on rye bread for brekkie, salad and goats cheese for lunch, chicken and veg stir fry for dinner. I have now purchased some tamari so I can season the stir fry legally. Generally I'm feeling pretty good, getting up earlier each day and not being so sluggish in the mornings. Still can't find the exfoliation glove.
Day 5.Buckwheat pancakes with strawberries and yoghurt for brekkie - I could get used to this. At lunch a girl I've been helping in the lab insists on buying my lunch as a thank you. We go to the Asian place and buy some take away, I try to be good - brown rice, steamed vegies, stir fry tofu and then at the last minutes 2 dumplings because they are so yummy. I take the food back to my office and the girl who bought it for me gets called away. I now have a choice - I can put the purchased food in the bin and eat my salad, the girl who bought it would never know and she feels she's done the right thing by buying my lunch and I can stick to my diet. I rip the lid off the food and eat it.
Salmon patties with tabouleh for dinner. It occurs to me later that this is contrary to the no wheat rule, I make a mental note to ring the help line and ask them what the deal is with that one. I find the exfoliation glove in the back yard, ripped to bits. Apparently Bela wanted to help me.
Day 6. Muesli for brekkie again, the salad I should have had yesterday for lunch and I'm feeling really good. I feel virtuous and in control. I have energy, I've lost some weight and I start thinking I could eat like this all the time.
That afternoon I get a message from my Mum, I ring her and she tells me the oncologist has upgraded her cancer to grade d and says it's aggressive. They want to begin chemo as soon as possible and he suggests that my sister and I get colonoscopies too. What was a probable good outcome has suddenly become a very serious situation that might all go horribly wrong. I'm shocked, I'm scared and I don't know how to deal with it.
I go home and have spicy wedges with sour cream for dinner, drink two bottles of red wine, eat half a packet of raspberry shortcake biscuits and a freddo frog. I watch silly chick flicks, immobile on the couch until the husband makes me go to bed and I pass out.
Day 7. I am hungover and my head is killing me. The husband lets me sleep all day and takes care of the home and the children. I spend $200 that I don't have on a psychobilly swing dress with petticoat and a handbag on ebay. I have a burger and wedges for dinner followed by a chilli hot chocolate and resolve to start detoxing again tomorrow. Or maybe on Monday. Read more!

It doesn't rain...

The next time I complain about being bored I want someone to slap me.

Three weeks ago my Dad was walking my brother's dogs (don't get me started on that one) and the pit bull (again..) crashed into him and knocked him over. Pit bulls, as anyone that has ever met one knows, have a specific gravity of 27.9 (lead being 11.35) and the crash resulted in a fractured fibula. Six titanium screws were required to put the bone back together.
Two days later my Mum was diagnosed with bowel cancer and scheduled for surgery. Being a dutiful and loving daughter I donned my saintly robes and an hour on a plane, two hours on a bus and 20 minutes in a taxi later the girl and I arrived at my parent's house.
The first few days were spent cleaning, cooking, shopping and visiting my Mum. It became apparent that asking my brother to chop wood was a futile past time, so I began a morning routine of walking the dogs, feeding the horses and then chopping wood for the slow combustion stove. After a couple of mornings of this I started to feel more confident with the wood chopping and decided to try using the splitter. It was very cold so I was wearing gloves – the splitter got stuck in the wood so I was using the axe, upside down, to hammer the splitter. The axe bounced, my grip on the axe slipped and the axe head landed on my left index finger which was on the splitter handle. At first I thought “it’s OK, I’ve only knocked it, it’ll stop hurting soon”, but when the pain only got worse I thought I had better take my glove off to have a look. My fingernail had been completely ripped off and the nail bed and part of my finger was mashed. I put the nail back and holding my finger with blood dripping I went into the house to call an ambulance. I called the husband while I waited and he was horrified that I was going out in public wearing grotty old trackies and insisted that I get changed immediately into corset, boots and full make-up. He then flew into a rage about why was I chopping wood and he threatened to get on the next plane and smack my lazy brother in the mouth. I didn't argue.
Four hours later I walked out of the emergency department, still in my grotty trackies, and crossed the road to visit my Mum. She was finally recovered enough to laugh at my bad jokes and it was really good to see her smile for the first time since I’d arrived. Not quite worth maiming myself for, but good.

That night my brother-in-law came over and chopped a heap of wood, enough for the rest of my stay. That was a huge relief. I began to understand why I was such a moody, disagreeable teenager: I was cold! My parent’s house is uninsulated with poor window coverings and the only source of heat is the slow combustion fireplace in the lounge room.
I had suffered the cold for two nights and then told the girl to move over and got into bed with her. We topped and tailed in the single bed for the rest of the two weeks, she would snuggle up to my feet in her sleep and I was glad of the warmth.
On Saturday I took my Mum’s car, a white Mercedes may the Gods of Goth forgive me, and drove to Melbourne. We went to my house, which is now occupied by the older step son and his friends. We checked out the new lounge suite that I had bought on ebay and the girl got to see her old bedroom.

She doesn’t remember much about the house and was excited to see the colours and sparkles on the walls of her room. I reminded her that we used to put fairy lights around the ceiling and her face lit up when she discovered that she did remember her little room. Her Dad arrived to collect her for the night and I headed over to Northcote for an evening of catching up with dear friends, good food and lots of wine. My friend and I sat up drinking and talking until 6am and it was just what I needed.
On Sunday, after too little sleep and feeling more than a little seedy, I went to a cafe in Brunswick to meet up with more friends – this time the ones with babies. There has been something of a baby boom amongst the gang in recent years and it’s so nice to see the next generation emerging. And I must say - we've all made some good looking kids! The food was excellent and reasonably priced. I wanted to steal a menu to take back to Blandberra to show people and say “look! This is what proper cafes serve!” Our previous attempt to go out for breakfast in Blandberra resulted in us being turned away from a cafe at 11:30am because “breakfast is over!” Seriously, everybody else on the planet has been doing all day breakfasts since the 90’s, I guess it’ll be the 20’s before Blanberra catches up.
Driving back to Ballarat I was pulled over into a breathalyser stop. I was scared shitless – I was sure I’d still be over the limit. But apparently I didn’t even register and was thankfully free to continue.
The next morning I was in at the hospital at 8:30am to talk to the surgeon and the oncologist and then Mum was able to come home. She has had over half her large intestine removed, which contained a large tumour, and also 27 lymph glands 9 of which were malignant. She will need chemo every two weeks for the next six months once she has recovered from surgery but her prognosis is good. We are optimistic.

At home I got frustrated with my Dad for being so helpless and demanding (e.g. "..for breakfast tomorrow I’ll have a poached egg on toast, cheese on the other piece, a glass of milk and a coffee and half an orange cut into thirds..") and my Mum for insisting on doing too much. I threatened to break her leg too if she didn’t rest more.
My list of things to do became significantly smaller with my injured finger hampering my efforts to clean. At one stage I dragged out the vacuum cleaner, discovered it had the little upholstery attachment on it. Apparently they had been using the 8cm piece for two years! I exclaimed “what do you mop the floor with? A toothbrush?”. “No”, my Dad replied indignantly “we have a mop”. I had to remind myself it was their house and their lifestyle and if I didn’t agree then I should get myself a big dose of Shut-The-Fuck-Up.
My sister had been dropping her kids off at 8:15am. The story was that she started work at 8:30am and the school bus didn’t arrive until 8:40am so Mum had been driving them to the bus stop. I had inherited the job - without being asked or thanked I should add. When I discovered that the reason she did this was not because her boss was an unreasonable arse but because that way she could have a full hour for lunch my head exploded. The next time she arrived I ripped into her and told her exactly how full of shit she was. Having previously screamed at my brother about his dogs and his parasitic girlfriend I AGAIN reminded myself to calm down. I informed my mother that she should stop letting her children boss her around, me included. I figured it was time to book some tickets home. Meals on Wheels and Home Help had been organised and I had the freezer well stocked with frozen meals, soups and casseroles. I had cleaned and organised as much as I could, stocked the fridge and shown Mum how to grocery shop online and set up an account for her. Another friend that I had managed to catch up with was travelling from Ballarat to Melbourne that Friday with her two girls and offered to give me and my girl a lift. I was very grateful as we both had big suitcases and the thought of struggling on trains and trams sent my anxiety levels soaring.
The X, who was in full sympathy and what-can-I-do-to-help mode was picking us up from my friend's house (friend 1) and dropping me at another friend's house (friend 2)on his way home with the girl. It was all sorted and went mostly to plan.
As we were leaving friend 1's house friend 2 sent a text asking where I was. We were running a bit late as X had wanted to chat with friend 1 and the girls were playing. I replied to the text that we were on our way and as I pushed send the two little girls collided in the hallway and much crying ensued. Once we had calmed the girl we loaded her into the car and set off. The X dropped me at friend 2's house and drove away. It became apparent that she wasn't home. I pulled out my phone to ring her and discovered a second text informing me they were leaving in 5 minutes. Of course I hadn't heard Worf announce that I had a message as I had a wailing child in my arms at the time. Still, I had said I was on my way so I thought to leave without me was just plain rude. I had travelled 150km with a small child, relying on two other people for transport, through Melbourne peak hour Friday night traffic - and they couldn't wait 15 minutes? I was angry and hurt and rang the husband to say I was getting a taxi to go to an expensive hotel and order room service and that my friends could all go fuck themselves. He said if that was what I really wanted to do then OK, but then reminded me that I was already over $600 out of pocket with groceries and plane tickets and maybe I should take a deep breath and think for a minute.
So I handed myself yet another dose of STFU and made my way to the bar. After a few drinks I was calm and forgiving and even enjoyed myself.

Finally back in my own home, with my gorgeous husband who had cooked me a curry and filled the fridge with my favourite things including cherries (in the middle of winter, what a luxury - and I don't care if they are imported from the USA) and sparkling shiraz. What a joy, to finally be the one being cared for and cared about!

So I have learned that most of my family are useless and selfish, most of my friends are wonderful but have selfish tendencies, my X can be a decent person in spite of his past selfishness and that my husband, above else and all, loves me.
On Monday morning I took the girl to school, came home and crawled back into my big, warm, comfy bed and finally, thankfully slept.

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