When Mum is a Goth...

Our letterbox is overflowing with catalogues advertising pink fluffy dressing gowns, lilac bra and undies, floral teapots and perfumes with names like “Pretty”. But what is a child to do when her Mum is a Goth?

Here’s my list of Mother’s Day presents I would love:

1. Sleep. This is the universal requirement of all mothers. There can never be too much.
2. Black fabric dye. Keep those blacks blacker.
3. Bvlgari Black perfume. Smokey and sexy. Not a hint of floral or musk.
4. Rimmel 60 second black nail polish – I go through a lot of it.
5. Goat’s milk soap – it’s smooth and silky and doesn’t dry your skin.
6. Baby shampoo – the world’s best eye make-up remover (heavily diluted).
7. Lindt dark chilli chocolate.
8. Black ugg boots – for indoor use ONLY! My purple ones are wearing out.
9. Domain Chandon Cuvee Riche – gorgeous and much better than Moet.
10. Belgian waffles with rich vanilla ice cream and strawberries.

11. And some of these...spider web cup cake covers....very, very cool.

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Penultimate

Apparently today is the second last day of this hellish heatwave. Let's hope the meteorologists are right. It’s almost midnight and it’s still 30˚C. A significant portion of Victoria is on fire: 100 homes have been lost and 14 people have been killed. Meanwhile North Queensland is flooded. Us whiteys should really have thought twice before settling here, we just don’t fit in. Don’t misunderstand me – I love Australia, it’s beautiful, and socially we are better off than most, but the weather!! It’s hell being a Goth when it’s 40˚C! There was a similar heatwave in the early 90’s and I was suffering so much I wore white for a few days (some op shop clothes I hadn’t got around to dying). I haven’t given in this time, although I have spent most evenings and most of today wearing just my underwear - only dressing to leave the house to attend the parent information session at the music school my girl will be attending. It was one of those awful, patronising affairs that made me want to slap somebody. We were asked to introduce ourselves to the person next to us and learn something about them. We then had to tell the class what we had learned. When the teacher was giving us these instructions I almost walked out, that kind of condescending bollocks makes me really angry. I did my best and even managed to smile when the woman I was talking to asked why I didn’t have my daughter with me and said, trying really hard not to sound too cynical, “because it’s a parent information session and we were asked not to bring our kids”. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “I didn’t know that”. “It was in the letter they sent out telling us about today” I managed to sweetly say through clenched teeth. Myself and one other woman were apparently the only ones who did read the letter as all the others had their kids sitting there. Damn I hate it when people can’t follow instructions! (refer to Stupid is as Stupid does, a late 2008 blog) Anyway, I couldn’t decide if it were me or my “partner” who gave the academy award winning performance as she introduced me as “a really nice lady”.
I’m a bit excited to be doing piano with the girl. A year ago I took her to the same music school and we sat in on a lesson. The parents always accompany the child and play along with them. This is apparently so we know what they are doing and can help them during the week. When we got home from observing the lesson I asked the girl if she thought that piano lessons were something she might enjoy. She replied “Oh, I don’t need piano lessons, I can already play!” and proceeded to sit down at the piano, open up the music book (very professional like) then started banging away on the keys. I couldn’t argue with her. But just before Christmas she requested piano lessons. I was really pleased and enrolled her a few weeks ago. I hope she enjoys it. I also hope I get to learn something too; I’d love to be able to play the piano.

So tonight I have watched The Lost Boys 2 (eh), Monster’s Ball (love Billy Bob) and Pretty in Pink (really don’t get Molly Ringwald). I’ve peeled the doona off the child, who was soaked in sweat and probably about to give herself hyperthermia, fed the cat and written a blog. I will now go and have a cold shower and attempt to sleep. Come on autumn, I know you’re out there. Read more!

Lucky I'm an atheist

http://www.godhatesgoths.com/
"The greatest threat to today's society is the rise of the gothic subculture. Goth is a sinister and violent subculture obsessed with Satanism, Wicca, Vampirism, BDSM, rape, child abuse, Hitler, bondage, sick sexual perversions, serial killers, death, drugs, self mutilation and other sick practices to vile to mention. Goth's are the Devil's Children. In my opinion, Goths are more dangerous to children than pedophiles" - Rev. R.G. Green

WOW! What an amazing site!
But I have a wonderful relationship with all of my children and my parents. I am a respected research scientist and I don't take illegal drugs. I've never raped anybody or worshipped Satan. Gosh, darn it, I've spent the last 25 years thinking I was a Goth but now I find I am seriously lacking in true Goth characteristics. Oh dear, I better go and buy a beige cardigan.... Read more!

What is Goth?

I have had, over the years, various people ask me to define Goth and why I chose the path. I admit I love the superficial side of it all, the dress ups and make up and silly dancing. But there is much more. I got into an argument in a pub with a Christian (what was he doing in a pub??) once who insisted Goth was an obsession with death. Obviously I disagreed. Yes the main part of the trappings are skeletons and coffins and bats and spiders and all the vampire stuff and the cadaverous make up, but it’s a style that borrows these forms and is no more an obsession with death than wearing floral is an obsession with the reproductive organs of plants. It’s a matter of aesthetics. I happen to think red back spider are beautiful, their shape and intense colour is gorgeous and I also like the implications of them being venomous. Beautiful but deadly. It has a comedic poetry. And I think that is the essence of Goth. To be able to see the beauty in what is conventionally considered ugly, perhaps why the culture attracts outcasts – anyone can be beautiful in goth society: the fat, the skinny, big noses, small eyes – all those things the magazines tell us we shouldn’t have or be.
I grew up in a single parent family, my sister and my mother and me. We didn’t have much money and Mum shopped at op shops and even though she tried her best we always looked a bit odd (no I’m not paraphrasing a Dolly Parton song). This caused me much grief as a child but eventually I became aware that what the other kids had and thought was so cool was actually just crap. I developed an ability to discern quality from quantity. I took to making myself look odder, turned it around, threw it back at them – instead of wearing second hand clothes that looked a bit odd, I went for as odd as I could get. The Goth evolved.
Why do I like old horror films? Why do I like old cars? They have an elegance, a gracefulness that is lacking in their modern counterparts. The loss of form in function upsets and offends me. I insisted on getting a (second hand)claw foot bath, even though it is old and crappy and the enamel is chipping and a new fibreglass one would have cost less but would be just so BORING! A bath may just be a place to wash yourself but it is also a permanent part of your surroundings. I surround myself with as many beautiful things as I can, probably another reaction to growing up without, and now that I have the means I will buy what I like and am happy to pay more for a particular colour or shape. I want my home to be a place of beauty, a refuge I can retreat to and forget the ugliness and blandness of the world. I have never been able to understand or appreciate the aesthetics of modern furniture. Why would I want a craftwood and fake woodgrain table from Ikea when for less money I can get a solid timber one from a second hand shop? Is that a Goth thing? Not really, modern Goths may go for PVC and chrome - there are many styles within the genre.
Horror films, especially old school, have an elegance. There is an assumption that the audience has a few brain cells and can work out a plot, but also retrospectively a humour that is lacking in modern films. Frankenstein is not a story about a monster and a mad scientist, it’s about fear of the unknown and mortality and what makes a man. The tortured soul is such a common theme in the classic horror: the unwilling wolfman, the frustrated vampire. I think as Goths tend to be outcasts they can relate to the emotional turmoil and it is comforting in a strange way. The blockbuster films give most people little they can relate to - people with perfect teeth and flawless skin - but film noir makes us feel a bit less "weird". Therein lies the rub - we are weird, but perhaps don’t really want to be. We want to rebel but our rebellion is in fact quite orthodox - we simply conform to an alternative society.
I will never stop wearing black, dying my hair, driving a vintage car, listening to weird music, watching weird films, reading classic literature and being generally dramatic in style and lifestlye. What is the underlying, bottom line reason for it? I like it. Read more!

Blue, Blue Moon

I hate bus trips and I hate Sydney but I felt like a little kid on Christmas Eve as I boarded the Greyhound after work on Friday. We were going to the Under The Blue Moon festival in Newtown, it promised to be a day and a night of shopping, street theatre, music and lots of Goths. Wonderful.

Two hours into our bus trip my back was starting to hurt, I was so hungry I was considering eating the packet of Quick-eze I had in my bag and I was bored because the gothy magazine I was reading had black font on a dark background and the dim reading light was totally inadequate. I looked at the clock at the front of the bus, 8:35, oh it must have stopped, I'm sure it said that ages ago. So I sat, fidgeting, until my annoyed husband told me off. I looked at the clock again, it flicked to 8:36. I wanted to scream.

Eons later we arrived at Central station, hailed a taxi and made our way to the hotel. We were booked into Australian Sunrise Lodge on King St, just up the road from the Sandringham Hotel where the gig was on Saturday night. It was the perfect location for us to be able to wander Enmore road all day, have a home base easily accessible and be able to relax, refresh and reoutfit any time we liked.

As we were checking in the receptionist handed me a phone, saying the manager wanted to speak to me. He explained that although we had a room for that night, the hotel was overbooked the following night and he had relocated us to a "lovely boutique hotel in Darlinghurst". I don't know Sydney, names of suburbs mean nothing to me, and I didn't know if Darlinghurst was around the corner or across town. I asked if it was far away and he changed the subject. The husband grabbed the phone to find out what was going on, got angry, calmed down and finally reached the same level of defeat as I had.

Trying to find something to eat at 10pm wasn't that easy either. We eventually found a cafe that agreed to keep the kitchen open if we ordered quickly. We asked for a mezze platter to share, figuring the chef wouldn't be too pissed off if all he/she had to do was scoop stuff out of jars. It was good. We sat at the table on the footpath with our food and wine and watched the rabble of Newtown going past. Several Goths, a few yuppies and the occasional dero. A gorgeous looking hippie chick carrying her yoga mat sat at the table next to us and proceeded to devour a huge piece of chocolate cake. I hated her.

Pleasantly sated we went back to our hotel. The room was nice, a small balcony covered with wysteria was the highlight, the warm night air wafted the perfume of the bunches of purple flowers into our room and I started to get depressed, the husband got angry again. We decided to argue with the manager the next morning and attempted to sleep. The first rays of light were beginning to creep in the window as I finally managed to drift off. My upset and disappointment at our hotel fiasco had kept my mind racing for hours so it was with only two hours sleep that I faced Saturday.

Dressed in my best lamb impersonation I went downstairs and rang the manager. I made my point, voiced our extreme disappointment, our dismay. Argued that I had made the booking with him personally several weeks prior, made him explain why others got to stay when we were sent away, made him explain how it was possible to overbook in the first place (did you forget how many rooms you have??). It was all futile, he wasn't going to back down, and we just had to accept defeat.

We stowed our luggage and headed out into the rain. The list of things to get upset about was growing. After collecting our festival show bags we walked further up King Street to find some breakfast finally stopping at Cafe C (no, that isn't an abbreviation to protect their identity that was their name). While we waited for our food I went through the show bags, not bad for $5 really. A couple of novels, a few CDs, some velvet gloves, a small, pink teddy bear, stickers and discount vouchers for our shopping spree. Coffee arrived, it wasn't the best but I didn't really care, it was hot and caffeinated and I figured I would need significant amounts of caffeine if I was to get through the day. My image of toasted Turkish bread, fluffy ricotta and lovely runny honey was destroyed when my plate of cold, stale Turkish bread, runny ricotta out of a tub and two little plastic packs of crystallised honey arrived. When my husband's fruit platter appeared - a roughly chopped orange, a hunk of watermelon, a hunk of cantaloupe and a badly sliced apple – all we could do was laugh.


We laughed about the weird hotel manager, only contactable via the telephone and his staff composed entirely of young Asian women. Was he morbidly obese and unable to leave his room? Or deformed in some way? An agoraphobic midget was our final guess. We laughed at the rain and how a bunch of Goths were going to cope with running make-up. We laughed at Cafe Crap and the blind, machete wielding chef who couldn't cut fruit. We laughed at our misfortune and agreed that the next thing would be for one of us to step in dog shit. We laughed at who or what we must have been in our past lives to have warranted the bad luck that seems to follow us both. So trying our best to be optimistic as Adolf and Eva, we went shopping.

Most of the footpaths were covered by verandas, so the rain wasn't too difficult to deal with as we stepped in and out of the several Goth shops along Enmore Road. Most of the shops were tacky and not worth the effort, the best being Reactor Rubberwear and Gallery Serpentine (where our wedding clothes had come from). These shops had put an enormous effort into their decor and the quality of their merchandise - it was a joy to behold. In Gallery Serpentine I purchased an umbrella, a gorgeous Morticia Adams type thing. As I signed the credit card slip the girl said to me "it's not waterproof, so if you want to use it in the rain you will need to scotch guard it first". Of course, it makes perfect sense. Only in Goth land can you buy an umbrella that can't get wet. At the end of our spree I had my umbrella, a pair of shoes and a patch saying "Are you dead yet?" (an appropriate item for my line of work). The husband had a long sleeve shirt with a cobweb design on the yoke, and "Schitzo" a baby living dead dolly.

The market stalls didn't impress us and the events on the "main stage" (an area with a tarp over it to the side of the town hall) weren't thrilling us either so we decided to check out our new accommodation. The hotel we were supposed to be staying in was going to pay our taxi fare to Darlinghurst and the girl at reception gave me $20 (toward what turned out to be a $22.95 taxi ride) and the details of our new hotel. L'Otel may call itself "boutique"; I called it "beyond redemption". It was awful. It turned out we were a block away from the Cross, so we went for a walk, worked out how to get back to Newtown on the train then found a nice pub and had a couple of much needed drinks.

Dressed to impress we arrived back at the Sandringham hotel and asked the boy on the door for our tickets. He didn't have them, in fact he wasn't even aware that tickets had been sold online. Fortunately I had a printout of the confirmation email and we got our wrists stamped. Hunger overtook our desire for loud music and we decided to try a Macedonian place called The Europe Grill. It was good. It was very good. I ate until my corset was bursting at the seams. Perfectly cooked, flavoursome, no-nonsense, top quality food. We were in heaven.

Back at the Sando the bands were loud, the wine was cheap and the crowd was friendly. We were happy. I ran around taking photos of the people I thought were the stand outs of the evening. A girl with elaborate spider web make-up,
a stunningly beautiful amazon-goth woman,
Mr Curly,
a bride in black, a beautiful girl who when I told her she looked like Mina Harker replied "who?".
Oh dear, Goths aint what they used to be. But the commonality that holds us all together remains - we are unusual, swimming against the current. Only one boy refused to let me photograph him (which was a shame, his look was unique and powerful) everyone else was only too happy to pose for a photo. We're a vain bunch. Sadly there was not a great deal of elegance; the romantic Goths were greatly outnumbered by the cybers and the just plain scruffy.
We were easily the oldest people there, by ten years (and then some). Where do all the old Goths go? But as is usual in a Goth crowd everyone was very sweet and very friendly. I could have made some friends if I hadn't been a bit tipsy and didn't think to ask for names or contact details. Nobody seemed to notice I was older than their mother and I chatted endlessly about corsets, PVC, jewellery, hair, make-up, music and shoes. When all else fails, the camaraderie and the look remains.
The bands were good, even Lycanthia who I was sure I hated, were entertaining. We bought CDs and a t-shirt, socialised, drank some more then hailed a taxi.

Back at L'Otel and overcome by alcohol, tiredness, disappointment and the oppressive nature of our room we fought. Our stress won. Another disappointment.

In the morning, convinced that the clocks had gone back, we moved slowly. Had a fantastic breakfast (poached eggs with smoked salmon on toasted brioche and homemade hollandaise sauce which was perfect and coffee served in a bowl was utterly wonderful). At the train station our hung-over and addled brains finally worked out that clocks had actually gone forwards and we were running late for our bus. Fortunately we made it with 60 seconds to spare and even managed to sleep most of the way back to Blandberra.

So with all our Gothic finery in the washing machine, the first coat of scotch guard drying on my umbrella, our new CDs playing and wearing my Nevetherym t-shirt I am sat in front of the computer reflecting on what was the best of times and the worst of times. It was Sydney after all, and I fucken hate Sydney. Read more!

Burning ring of fire

What a weekend. Our first weekend without the little kid and our dance card was full. It was to be an Opeth and alcohol fuelled two days of music, theatre, shopping and eating.


First glitch was at the airport: I had decided that since most of the little kid's textas were stuffed I would buy her new ones at the newsagency at the airport. Except some kind staff member had plonked a very tall and wide stack of heavy boxes right in front of the shelf that housed the textas and the tiny little woman that was serving had no capacity to move them to access the pens. So the girl was trapped on a plane for an hour with no colouring in. She coped reasonably well, I was somewhat flustered however.

Once in the city, the girl having been whisked away by her grandmother, we located our hotel. We had booked accommodation using the points on our credit card and judging from the photos on the net I was expecting something fairly crappy. It wasn't. The room was clean, comfortable and in fairly good nick. The bedspread wasn't hideous and they had foxtel. My only gripe was the Lipton's tea and I thought "if that's the worst of my problems I am doing well". The three levels of rooms looked onto an interior courtyard, which had simple but elegant wrought iron railings and a few palm trees and picnic tables. It would have been lovely – if it wasn't undergoing renovation. We pondered if we had been in a hotel over the duration of our relationship that wasn't undergoing renovation – the only one we could think of was in Venice, but then the entire city was undergoing renovation. We decided it was fine and were happy with what we had.

We headed off into the city to meet with the oldest son and go to the husband's favourite music store. Surprisingly, we didn't buy a thing. Lunch was a pretty good Caesar salad, although the husband's burger was apparently awful. Then more shopping. The new Goth shop in the city had nothing for us so we hopped onto a tram to go to Brunswick Street. At the next Goth shop I bought a hairclip which I can't use because I had my hair cut short last week and a make-up compact which I can't use because my current pressed powder is rectangle and the new compact is round. The son told us that when he tells people his parents are Goths they look confused and ask "isn't that a phase you grow out of when you turn 20?"

After heading back to the hotel for a rest and a shower and to glam-up we attempted to meet my friends for after work drinks but were completely befuddled by the trains and peak hour chaos so decided to give it a miss and go for dinner instead. We chose a Korean restaurant, which was ordinary. They were playing Air Supply and we couldn't decide exactly how bad it was that we not only knew the songs but some of the lyrics.

There was a huge queue outside the Metro, where Opeth were playing, and it seemed to be composed entirely of young, long haired boys having a shouting competition. I asked the bouncer if there was a second queue for old people as I couldn't possibly join those children over there it would just be humiliating. He said "no". I tried to reason with him but quickly realised I was wasting my time.

We went around the corner to a bar for a glass of wine to while away the 15 minutes before the Metro opened. The cheapest glass was $10.50 so we thought why not just get a bottle? Why not indeed. Because there was not a single bottle on the list for less than $100, most of them being several hundred, and even one bottle for $10,500. The waitress asked how we were going with the wine list and I replied "it's highly amusing", she looked down her nose at me and said "I'll get you some water". The $10.50 glass of merlot was very nice and while we were drinking and wondering who the hell pays $10,500 for a bottle of wine, why, and if it could ever possible be worth it. The man at the table next to us finished his drink and bolted. Usually I would be disgusted at such uncouth behaviour, but after the derision from the snooty waitress I just laughed, suggested we do the same then dealt with the disapproving looks from the husband (15 years in hospitality - he doesn't take kindly to disrespecting waiting staff).

So we eventually wandered into the Metro, to be confronted by a sign announcing that the support band was Virgin Black and I momentarily added my wails to the ongoing shouting competition. I can't stand Virgin Black. Their music is boring, unoriginal, self indulgent waffle. I was not happy.

We managed to get a good spot on the balcony and we waited. I heckled Virgin Black as loudly and as obnoxiously as I could. I had a small amount of support from people around me – apparently Virgin Black had supported Opeth at a previous gig and had been booed for the entire time they were on stage. Mercifully their set was short. But by the time Opeth started it was late; I was very tired and had perhaps indulged in a tad too much wine. I sat on the floor and rested my head against the railing. Eventually the husband woke me and we left. He was disappointed in the music, only one original band member remained - he said it was like watching a cover band.

The next morning we were woken by workmen hammering in the courtyard and then our hangovers hammering in our heads. Once out in the world the yellow hurty thing in the sky made us feel worse.

By evening we had recovered significantly and glammed-up again for our night out at The Burlesque Hour. What a hoot! We got splattered with milk and well and truly entertained. The only drawback being that neither the husband nor I can now get the song Total Eclipse of the Heart out of our heads.


Afterwards we found a Schezuan restaurant and gave our mouths and stomachs third degree chilli burns with some of the best food I have eaten for a long time. I pondered on how all the regular endorphin producing activities like skydiving, vigorous exercise, child birth etc only upset me but a good chilli meal – without fail – leaves me feeling elatedly happy. It was a lovely end to a hectic but thoroughly enjoyable weekend.


Back at the hotel we discovered that a mob of teenagers had moved in, were unsupervised and had decided to party all night. We would have gone out and yelled at them but the husband saw signs of ICE usage so we stayed in our room for fear of being stabbed. When we were leaving the next morning I took the "Do Not Disturb" sign off their door and threw it in a pot plant. It was a petty act, but the thought of them being woken by housekeeping amused me.

So now we return to the world of Blandberra, of work and of parenting. Are we too old to go to a death metal gig? Are we too old to stay up drinking all night? Are we too old to dress as we do? Absolutely. Will we ever stop? Absolutely not. Read more!

Belonging

Today, as I walked through the Uni campus carrying my dog's head in a chiller bag, I started to understand somewhat why some people think I'm a bit weird.
I loved my dog and I'm sad to part with her. It seems natural to me to want to keep a part of her. Skulls are beautiful things, the shape and the structure is stunningly beautiful. To turn her skull into an ornament to keep as a memento seems perfectly rational. The process of getting the clean, white, polished skull however is quite gruesome and a tad disturbing. I haven't reveled in the process. I cried my eyes out as I held her frozen body while my husband (bless him) hacked her head off with a meat cleaver. I was quite rattled as I left the home this morning carrying a small chiller bag with a dog's head in it.
One of the joys of my new job has been returning to a world of science in which my pragmatic nature is accepted without hesitation. When I asked my colleagues how one would go about stripping the flesh from a skull they instantly offered several suggestions, none of them being that I seek psychiatric help. In fact, the mortuary manager offered to do a large part of the process for me. Hence the chiller bag and the walk across campus to the medical school.
When I asked the mortuary manager's advice on my project he instantly told me exactly what I had to do and then offered to do it for me. He is going to remove the skin and flesh then boil the skull in hydroxide to break down the connective tissue. I will be left with some cleaning to do, then the bleaching. He said once I had the skull as I wanted, to bring it back and he will coat it with a preservative varnish. He did not once ask me why I wanted to do this.
Acceptance and a sense of belonging is an inherent need in humans. When you belong to a subculture, like Goth, you make a conscious decision to live outside the norm. But belonging to a subculture means that even your rebellion is orthodox. We still want to belong.
I don't associate with many other Goths; my husband is my main source of comfort. At a dinner party some time ago I asked if anyone thought Tim Burton had modeled Sweeny Todd's look on David Vanian. I was met with blank stares. It was an uncomfortable reminder that my friends aren't Goths, that I don't quite belong there. My life the past year has been very much a reminder that I am different. The women I met at the gym, the other mothers at school that I got to know – many of them I like very much – but I don't think I could ask their opinion on the new Bauhaus album. My isolation has been on many levels. So to go to work and confront a bunch of people I hardly know with the question of how to strip a skull and be met with nothing but suggestions and offers of help is a multiple joy. Firstly that they can help me in my quest, but also that they don't judge me and possibly even understand why I want to do this. I belong in that environment.
My little dog belongs with me; I don't want to leave her in the ground of a random rental home in Blandberra. I will keep her skull with me and I will treasure it forever.

Read more!

Earth Hour

At 7:30pm on Saturday night we decided to participate in Earth Hour, at 8pm. After 25 minutes of peeling about 20 cubic metres of plastic off all our new candles, stabbing myself in the process, we had everything ready.
I used my kitchen blow torch to melt out old candles and melt the new (finally, a use for the damned thing!) into our multitude of holders and a few pewter goblets. We placed candles in each room and then commenced turning off the lights.
The first protest was from the 5 year old, who is scared of the dark, so she was allowed to keep her night light on.
The second protest was from the husband who insisted that the stereo was an essential appliance so the music remained.
The third protest was from the teenager who wanted to microwave his dinner - well I guess food is essential. So then finally I said "stuff it, I’m putting on a DVD!", microwaved my dinner then sat down to watch "Dexter".
An hour later we put a couple of lights on, then the electric heater and I sat and pondered on what we had achieved: we had generated a shopping bag full of (non-recycleable) rubbish from the candle wrappers, I was injured (small wound on my thumb), the teenager had used light from the fridge while cooking his dinner so the fridge would have been working overtime with the door wide open and we burned maybe $15 worth of candles.
I think we get a point for attempting to participate, but overall no points for accomplishment or dedication. Yeah well, we’re Goths - not hippies.
p.s. We recycle, compost, grow some of our own vegies and recycle grey water so we ain’t all bad. Read more!

Boobs and High Heels

I am a feminist. I say this with full sincerity. As far as I'm concerned, a woman who is not a feminist is a masochist – end of story. I have never allowed the lack of a penis to stop me from doing anything except weeing standing up. I can change the spark plugs in my car, hammer a nail, use power tools, channel surf and burp as loudly as any bloke. I can also cook almost anything, knit, crochet, make my own clothes and go to the toilet without half of it ending up on the floor. On the weekend I installed new locking door handles on two of the bedroom doors while my husband pruned the roses. Life is as it should be in this home; we both do what we are good at, not what traditional gender roles dictate. I am glad my daughter is being raised in such a balanced household. I also like Barbie. I like her glamour, her shoe collection and her independence – I mean really, Ken was an afterthought, right?
When I was twenty I was struggling somewhat with the whole feminism thing. I had read The Female Eunuch several years before and thought I had the whole deal sussed out. Then I moved into a share house with a woman who challenged me to become a "real feminist". She wanted me to disregard my male friends, stop wearing bras (easy for her, she was flat chested) and stop wearing make-up. But I am a Goth, and cleavage, long high heeled boots and elaborate make-up was what I did. Yes I understood the implication that stiletto heels cripple you so you can't run away, that revealing clothes distracted from your intellect and that hiding your face under make-up was like wearing a mask and hiding your true self. I was torn.
Then I met a woman, twice my age, a fabulously strong, determined, intelligent, deeply feminist woman who lived her life on her own terms. She had done the whole hippy thing in the sixties and drank and smoked and took drugs, laughed loudly, told dirty jokes and had sex with whoever she wanted. I was totally enamoured with her, I wanted to be like her, I wanted her to be my mother. She also had a husband, a degree in mathematics, a house in the suburbs and a huge Barbie collection. What a revelation!
Feminism is not about following a particular doctrine, about burning bras and hating men. It's about living your life on your own terms, it's not allowing the lack of a penis to stop you from having a go at changing the washer in the bathroom tap. It's about doing things because you want to do them, not because some overbearing male tells you to. If you want to dress like a slut then go for it, but do it because you feel good about yourself when dressed that way and you better make sure you have the guts and the grit to defend yourself if you have to.
Nothing makes me angrier than excuses for removing self responsibility. When I hear that a woman who was raped "deserved it" because of the way she was dressed or where she was I get so outraged my head almost explodes. I don't care if the woman was stark naked in a bar at 3am, no-one EVER deserves to be raped or bashed or murdered (except maybe my ex) and the simple truth is that men are responsible for their actions. I don't care if you're drunk or if your father molested you when you were a child, we make choices. It is a conscious decision to hurt another person and I demand the right to say and wear whatever the fuck I want without repercussion. I know that's not a reality, but that's why I'm a feminist – it damn well should be. The fight isn't over, until a woman can walk alone down the street in the middle of the night without fear we need to keep up the battle.
And as for Barbie, well, there are a few very sick women who have tried to emulate her physically with ridiculous breasts and bleached hair, but generally – what harm has she done? She has many careers, she has been a single parent, she has her own house and car and campervan. She is an accomplished equestrian and she has a killer wardrobe. I'm fine with her and I don't mind that my daughter has dozens of Barbies and a huge box of clothes for them. What I do mind, and what I am very fearful of are the Bratz dolls and their associated merchandise. With my above argument in mind – they dress like strippers, even the babies. There is no glamour, not a single outfit influenced by Hepburn or Taylor or Armani, it's all street trash garb. My husband innocently brought two Bratz movies home from Video Ezy the other day, thinking the girl would like them. I'm sure she would, in fact I have had an all out screaming match followed by a full on-the-floor-limb thrashing tantrum in said store with her previously because I wouldn't allow her to hire a Bratz movie.
I refuse to buy into the sexualisation of children. I will not buy the girl a bra until she has breasts to put in it – even though bras are available for toddlers! She will not wear fishnet or high heels or get pierced until she is old enough to understand the implications and able to deal with them.
Apparently the average age teenagers start having sex these days is 14. That's outrageous. Not only is it detrimental physically, but what sort of psychological damage is it doing? Why can't kids be kids anymore?
I watched a few minutes of one of the Bratz movies, just so I could have an informed opinion, I barely made it through 5 minutes. A bunch of stripperesque girls sitting around saying "what-everrr" and flipping their hand in the air, tossing their hair and bitching about other girls. No. No, no, no, no and no. It's wrong, it's bad, it's obscene, it's far too American and my (almost) 5 year old girl doesn't have the sophistication to see it for what it is. A few weeks ago the girl discovered Cartoon Network and switched from ABC kids. The change in her behaviour was apparent almost immediately. We went for a bike ride and she shouted "looser!" at one bunch of cyclists and then "do you want a piece of me!" at another. After I stopped laughing I was horrified. Suddenly I had "ruined her life" because I wouldn't give her another chocolate biscuit, and she now says "awesome" and "aw maaan!!". I don't like it. Cartoon Network is being discouraged. I don't want to have to deal with a teenager until she is chronologically a teenager. At 5 she can stick with kiddy stuff.
Bratz are banned in this house. Read more!

Pinkness

Well, after the excitement of Alice Cooper my bland little life hasn't seemed worth writing about. Not much has happened. The girl and I survived the school holidays without too many dramas, only came close to murder/suicide half a dozen times. At the moment I can't think of a single thing I achieved during the two weeks she was with me 24/7. I guess it doesn't matter, we have food to eat, clean clothes to wear, everything else is a bonus.
Yesterday we went to the salvos and bought a little 60's cupboard to go in the girl's room, $25. We then went to Bunnings and spent $140 on paint and a spray gun. Enough paint, hopefully, to eventually paint her room as well as the cupboard.
The cupboard just fit in the boot of the EK and after getting it home I managed to get it out of the boot and into the back yard (perhaps slogging at the gym is achieving something after all) to sand and paint it. The girl wanted pale pink with a rainbow. So I sanded all the old varnish off and was busting to use my new spray gun but the girl was even more desperate to help so we used brushes. She didn't do too bad a job after I explained to her about 75 times how to load up the brush with paint, and we got the first coat done eventually. I prayed it wouldn't rain and left it to dry. We cleaned up, came inside and got out the pencils to work out a design. I favoured the pink background with a very dominant rainbow diagonally across the front and top. The girl has decided on a rainbow just on the front, with love hearts, butterflies and stars and a moon on the top and sides. I honestly don't think I could do that without vomiting. I'll need to wear some sort of Goth talisman while I do it to protect me from the forces of all things pink and fluffy. At least she didn't want dolphins.
So today I sanded it back again and fired up the spray gun. I've always wanted one and it was only $40 so I thought I'd indulge (haven't bought a gadget for weeks). I read the instructions, carefully thinned the paint, sacrificed a pair of pantyhose to strain it, then blasted the cupboard. It looked great, for a few seconds, then every insect in the ACT landed on it and the paint started to run. Bum. So it was back to the brush to remove the flies and midges and fix up the dribbles. Lesson learned – use a finer spray and less paint. So now I pray it doesn't rain and will hopefully finish the pink tomorrow. I wish I could talk the girl into a more subtle design on it, just silver stenciled stars would look great, or a few mirror mosaic tiles scattered across it.
Regardless of how it looks it will ultimately mean the girl has more storage space in her room, which is the most important thing. Actually, with the macabre décor in the rest of the house, I'm not actually surprised she wants to go over the top naff for her room: a sanctuary of pink cuteness for a little girl lost in a sea of spiders, brutally murdered dolls, bats and blackness. I may, however, draw the line at the Ariel curtains she wants, I mean, can't she have pink spiders? Purple bats? I really wish I could steer her towards classic fairies and dragons and castles and away from the Disney pap but all my attempts have been woefully unsuccessful. I will persist.
So she dominates my life for now, that's OK, in a few years I'll be complaining that she never rings me or visits. She'll only be four once and I'll be a grown up for the rest of my life.

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bbbbbbb

Tomorrow the pre-school is having a B-day party. The kids are dressing up as something that begins with B and we have to take a plate of food. I assumed the girl would go as a butterfly or ballerina or even, I cringe as I type this, a bride. But no, I was totally wrong. My beautiful little pink princess is going to B day as…..Batman!! And the biscuits we are taking are not butterflies but bones and bats! Praise be for the B. Dare I begin to hope that the pinkness is fading? These small victories give me strength...



p.s. there were 7 batmen, 2 bumble bees, buzz lightening, bob the builder, a brumby's fan, half a dozen butterflies and a couple of ballarinas.

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Husbands

This is fiction, any seemingly autobiographical content is co-incidence.

The soft tone of his voice became a drone in my ear, the words losing literal meaning but finding their way into my psyche. His arm around my shoulder draws me nearer, the familiar smell of his expensive cologne comforts and the fabric of his shirt feels soft and sensuous against my cheek. He begins to feed. There is no pain, but I feel the drain, the life trickling out of me. He is hungry tonight and I have to stop him before he goes too far - takes the last of my reserves and leaves me empty. He responds angrily, shouts at my selfishness then retreats to the garden with a bottle of wine and his moodiness.
I sleep briefly, recharge myself somewhat. I make a few phone calls, dress in my latest creation, paint my face, call a taxi. My friends are waiting for me at our regular bar. I rely on these people to keep me sane. We begin our ritual debriefing. One has a husband who is manic depressive, she tells he has quit his job again and hasn't been out of bed for days. Another tells of how, during their most recent argument about money, her husband pushed her to the ground and spat on her. We share our stories, complain bitterly, express our dismay and bewilderment at our spouses behaviour, try to fathom why we aren't treated with the love and adoration we deserve.
Because I am so drained a few drinks has me vomiting in the toilet like a pathetic school girl, but I am resilient.
Eventually I leave me friends and head to my favourite goth club. Once inside I can relax in my anonymity, blend into the crowd – something I have difficulty doing in my regular life. I convince the barman to give me a jug of water, even though it's against policy, and take up my usual spot at one of the corner tables where I can watch and admire inconspicuously. The young fledgling Goths dressed in their off-the-rack anti-fashion statements are so pretty. I am jealous of their innocent, niave smiles. On the dance floor they wave their arms, twirl and spin to songs about death, murder, misery and hate.
After the water has revived me I join the dancers for a twirl. One of the glorious things about goth clubs is that you can dance on your own and no-body thinks you are weird. Everybody here is weird, that's the point. Solidarity in isolation.
At home on the kitchen table is a rose and a heartfelt poem of apology.
I crawl into our elaborate and heavily curtained four poster bed. My husband is already there, the smell of wine is strong around him and he stirs when I cuddle close for warmth. His arms circle me and he gently kisses my face and throat. He nuzzles into my breasts and falls back to sleep. I rest my face on the top of his head, his thick black hair is soft and fine and I love the feel of it on my cheek.
The night out has revived and refueled me. After a few hours sleep I will be recovered in time for his next feed. This marriage leaves me feeling exhausted and world weary but also loved and valued. It's far from the perfect scenario my friends and I hypothesise about, but it suits me. Read more!