The only goths in the villiage

We just got back from Sydney, we bussed there yesterday to go to the Cyndi Lauper concert. I put the girl on a plane to Melbourne in the morning, which meant getting up at 6 to get her to the airport by 8 for a 9:15 flight. Unacommpanied minors need to check in 1 hour before departure, I don't know why, perhaps to give the parents time to reconsider. She was aprehensive - she doesn't love going by herself - but she was a very brave little girl and didn't cry. She looked so tiny as she walked off, holding the hosties hand, teddy clutched in the other.

I then came home, ate the scrambled eggs my husband had cooked me, drove him to work, came home again, packed, printed out bus/hotel details, locked up the house, fed the animals, got the bus into the "city", got my nails done, collected the husband and got on the bus to Sydney at 3pm. I dozed most of the way there, being startled awake by some idiots phone going off several times (why do people have to have such loud and annoying ring tones? That said, the husband constantly complains that he can't get hold of me because I never hear my phone ringing.)

At the hotel we got changed into our full goth regalia then headed off down George street to find some dinner. We ended up at a Korean BBQ place, which was really good. The pan fried dumpling were particularly good, mind you, after constant dieting ANYTHING with fat and carbs in it would have brought me ecstatic pleasure.
We then waddled up to the State Theatre. I had never been there before and it is gorgeous, utterly stunningly beautiful. In desperate (literally) need of more female toilets, but one of the more elegant theatres I have ever been in.
As we are now grown up and I had bought tickets not long after they went on sale we had really good seats - the last row of the stalls, so about 6 rows from the stage. I was stoked. This was the third time I had been to see Cyndi, the first was in 1989, I was at uni so couldn't afford a decent seat, she played at the Tennis Centre in Melbourne and I was so far up the back I needed binoculars to see her. I didn't mind, she was brilliant. The second time I saw her was a couple of years ago, I was up in the balcony so had a good view but was still a bit far away. That concert was also brilliant. It was not long after the release of her At Last CD and she did a great mix of old, new and in-between. She performed for two hours and was vey entertaining. In spite of being there by myself I had a ball.

Last night, being night before madi gras and being Sydney, her show was very gay-centric. She did mostly old classics with two songs from her upcoming album but nothing from At Last and hardly anything from any albums newer than True Colours. I was a little dissapointed she didn't do Shine, which I adore, and she played for less than 1 1/2 hours. Don't get me wrong, she was as good as ever, full of energy and her weird, spastic Elvisesque dancing, but I didn't think it was as good as her Melbourne show a few years ago. The husband, who had accompanied me out of loyalty to me and who had no real desire to se Cyndi, stood there with sunglasses on, arms folded and looked more like security than an audience member. I bounced around and danced and got mildly annoyed by the girl next to me who kept clapping out of time and very annoyed by the man behind us who kept bellowing like a cow. Why do people do that? Why do people pay all that money to go to a concert then just drown out the performer with their own stupid noises? Why do people clap and cheer OVER the music, why do they applaude BEFORE the song has finished? Why do people scream out "I love you" at totally inappropriate times - like when the poor woman was mid sentence and had to stop so we could all listen to some random imbecile declaring his stupidity for all the theatre to hear? I paid and travelled to listen to HER not YOU, shut-the-fuck-up you rude arsehole. OK, I don't expect people to sit in silent rapture and I am totally fine with declarations of love and admiration, but at the appropriate time. Cranky old-fartness - here I come!!
I love Cyndi, I have loved her from the minute she hit our screens in the eighties. I had shaved bits of my head and wore elaborate clothes and when I first saw her I immediately felt she was a kindred spirit. Then I read an interview in which she said she was bullied at school because she was weird and I KNEW we were soul mates. She has the most incredible voice, and it's unique, she doesn't conform and she can belt it out big time. But I only want to listen to her music, respectfully quiet while she is performing then cheering my tits off between songs. I don't want to hang around out the back of the theatre waiting for her to come out so I can grab at her and I don't want to loiter around her hotel. People who do that are creepy and a bit sad.
On the way home we did the math: $130 for the bus, $140 for the hotel, $120 each for tickets - that's over $500 for and hour and a half's entertainment.
I'm sorry Cyndi, you're an ace performer and I adore your work, but in hindsight - you weren't worth 500 bucks. And just for the record - Sydney SUCKS!!

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I'm not dead

Long time no blog.....many things have happened - here is the condensed version:
The vauxhall is registered and going reasonably well. We have had the distributor recoed and it is booked next week to get the electrics sorted out, stereo and alarm installed. Then it's just seat belts and we're done. We've pretty much decided not to get it resprayed (save ourselves several thousand dollars) as we gave it a cut and polish and colour restoring wax and it looks ok.
My car, however, is at a garage, has been there all week and will most likely be there into next week. It is getting the front end rebuilt and several bits replaced. Hopefully after this it will be easier to drive. The front end was damaged just over a year ago when the car was stolen - but that's another story.
The husband and I spent 10 days in Tassie, attempting to escape the Blandberra heat. Unfortunately Tasmania was at the time experiencing a heat wave, it was yuk. We basically ate and drank our way around the isle and I put on 4 kilos.
My girl has started school, much to her dismay. I put the tandem on the back of my bike and we pedal there each morning. Tag-along tandem thingies are commen in Melbourne, I appear to have the only one in Blandberra - we attract quite a bit of attention and the girl loves it.
I've been looking for a job, without any luck. I am restricted to school hours so the jobs themselves are hard to find and the ones I have found I haven't been successful with. I get very angry when I spend ages on an application, email it in and then get an almost immediate reply "the position has been filled", well then take your fucking add down you time wasting morons! But even though the credit card is maxed and we have expenses and bills coming out every oriface, I'm not worried. We aren't starving and something will come up. We are happy and healthy and cask wine isn't so bad these days so why panic?
I've been reasonably good on my diet and at the gym and have lost my holiday 4 kilos. My new goal is to get into my size 14 jeans by my birthday. It is achievable although I would quite happily commit murder for a toasted cheese sandwich right about now.
I am still officially the world's worst housewife, my husband is on the verge of a nervous breakdown because there was a hairbrush on the bathroom floor the other day. My mind boggles....
Oh, and I've started listening to Pink. I think I need to get out more. Read more!

Vindicated

The guy from Lube Mobile just left...and as I predicted the car is purring like a kitten. HOWEVER, the timing was OK - I hadn't stuffed it. The rotor button was shorting and two of the spark plugs were shot. If I had continued to fiddle with it I would have worked out the plugs, but I would never have guessed the rotor. Fortunately the guy they sent was over 40yo and had seen a distributor with points before and knew how to fix the rotor - with nailpolish. As luck would have it we have stumbled onto one of the few mechanics in Canberra who has worked on pre 1980 cars, in fact, he used to restore Morris Minors and Austins when he was younger; needless to say he is my new best friend.Now all I have to do is source a new rotor button, get some new plugs and adjust the tappets and we should be going good. It was nice to have a bit of validation and reassurance that I was doing the right thing, I just needed a bit more information.And he wasn't a high school drop-out. He went to tech. Read more!

Automobiles

It's been quite a while since my last rant, life has been hectic. An update on recent events:..
My husband's car died. It has shuffled off this mortal coil and is resigned to the car afterlife status of "good for parts". We have a 1962 Vauxhall cresta that we bought with the intention of doing up slowly over the next few years. It has now become a matter of urgency.
Having (mostly) always owned an old car I am somewhat accustomed to the trials and tribulations that go with old car ownership. The Vauxhall is 45 years old and has sat unregistered in somebody's backyard for several years, we bought it sight unseen. As far as I'm concerned we are lucky that it isn't a rust bucket with shot rings and burnt out valves. My husband isn't so optimistic, he's more of a glass-is-half-empty type. So far we have replaced ALL of the brakes, which cost $1200. The exhaust needed replacing (common for cars that have sat for some time) that was only $200; various bushes and seals associated with the steering and suspension have also needed replacement. Not totally unpredictable. Overall we will probably get away with around $2000 for the car to get roadworthy. Then we have the leaky transmission and getting seat belts fitted. On top of all that are the cosmetics of a re-spray, a stereo and an alarm. I'm betting we will eventually have forked out at least 12 grand for the whole deal, including purchase price. OK, we could have gone and bought a brand new little chaff cutter for not much more, had a problem free and economical car – but it would have been a characterless, boring little box made of plastic which blends into the background.
Instead we will have a gloriously sexy, winged and sleek car that's made of actual metal and that is unique. It will suit us. In the mean time the husband had almost lost the plot, the loss of his motoring independence and the fact that I have been the one dealing with various mechanics and beurocrats has been frustrating for him. He feels powerless and is convinced everybody is ripping us off. Meanwhile I have been in close contact with all the mechanics, the spares guy from the Vauxhall club and the RTA and I know what's going on. Unfortunately when we took the car back for what should have been its final inspection the mechanic actually found a new fault. The husband is ready to pick up a semi-automatic and climb a tower, I'm still of the opinion that we have managed to buy a good car and all will be well. I predict the car will be on the road (legally) by the end of January.
When I owned a Morris minor I did much of my own mechanical work – I had no choice, I was a student and it was either pick up a spanner and work it out or walk, and you can't be a proper Goth in Birkenstocks. So I learnt how to do the timing, the points and plugs, change the oil and do a lube job (which is a lot less fun than it sounds). I arrogantly assumed that since I could handle a Morris I could also handle a Vauxhall – same vintage, both English. Important distinction: the Morris was a tiny 4 cylinder, the Vauxhall is a massive 6 cylinder with extras.
So far I have managed to take off and replace the manifold without too much drama, but attempting to adjust the timing has brought me undone. I've gone from having a car that was running roughly to a car that is only running on 3 cylinders and has no power. I have raised the white flag. Lube Mobile are coming on Thursday to sort things out (hopefully).
This sort of situation annoys me no-end. I am an intelligent, educated, competent person. I am capable of mechanical work – I have proved this. Yet for some reason I am unable to get the timing right on the Vauxhall. And the thing that really annoys me is that some bogun bloke who dropped out of high school is going to come along and get it right first go. He is going to adjust the points and the timing and the fuel mix and have the car purring like a kitten without so much as raising a sweat.
In my efforts to tune the car I have skun most of my knuckles, caused myself much back pain, aggravated my husband and discovered a whole new world of profanities but actually achieved very little.
Why is that? Why can't I manipulate a machine to run as it should? In my previous job I manipulated proteins at the molecular level and was (usually) able to make them do what I wanted – could a mechanic do that? I doubt it. I guess it is my ego that trips me up – I should be able to do what a mechanic does, given the correct set of instructions and the right tools, but I apparently I can't. I don't understand why.
I will continue to try to learn how to fix my own car and I am sure that one day I will be able to wield a spanner with the best of them, but for now I admit – I'm not that good. 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!

In sickness and in health

I am sick. Although most who know me would instantly associate me with an Alice Cooper type sickness, at the moment I am physically unwell. Not severely, I have something of a cold, starting as most do in my throat and now settled into my lungs. Basically, I feel like shit. After a horrendous shopping trip this morning I convinced the girl that she needed to look after me and let me lie in bed and rest. Soon I was tucked under a sequined purple piece of fabric, clutching a teddy bear and eating a pear that she had massacred for me. Bless her. I even managed to read a few chapters of my latest Bourdain acquisition (A Cook's Tour) before she got bored and demanded attention.
I am not a traveler. I have been a few places, but I don't really enjoy it. I am a homebody to the core. In my own home I feel safe and comfortable, I can relax. But reading Bourdain's accounts of exotic lands and even more exotic food I imagine that I could enjoy traveling; all it would take is an unlimited budget and the license to eat anything I wanted – this would mean a get-out-of-jail-free card in terms of calories and dysentery inducing micro-organisms.
Bourdain's descriptions of Vietnam brought back many memories of my trip there several years ago, in fact, he was there the same year I was. It was pre-bird flu and Vietnam was still finding its feet in terms of the massive tourist rush that was in progress. I had never been to any Asian countries and I was totally unprepared for the poverty and the constant harassment.
But back to the start…
At the end of 2001, after more than 18 months of trying to get pregnant and two miscarriages I walked into my doctor's office and asked her to try to find out why things weren't happening for me. She shrugged, reached for one of those big books doctor's have on their shelves, and commenced to write an order for every test imaginable. I had blood work done for hormone levels, vitamin and mineral levels, anything that may have been a factor, including genotyping. She ordered all the same tests for my husband. Weeks later we were back in her office as she explained the findings: my husband had a genetic mutation, a translocation of a part of chromosome 8 with chromosome 10. There was a chance we would never be able to have children. We were gutted, the rug pulled out from under, hit by a truck and several other metaphors for devastated. We walked out of the doctor's surgery, turned right and walked straight into a travel agency. "Send us somewhere nice, with beaches and good shopping, nothing too touristy but nothing too primitive, even a bit of luxury" was our request and we handed over our credit card. $8000 later we were booked to go to Vietnam for two weeks. Now anybody who knows anything about travel in Asia will immediately exclaim "$8000? That's outrageous!", and it was, but we had neither the strength nor the will to argue, we just needed to get away and have somebody else organize everything for us. And we did what I called the "rich white bastards" tour of Vietnam, we stayed at the best hotels, had guides and a personal driver for all commuting. We had several stretches of independence so we didn't feel like totally useless tourists, but these proved to be only opportunities for us to argue over what to do.
One of the drawbacks of attempting to run away from problems is that they invariably follow you. After two weeks of bickering our way around Vietnam it should have been obvious to us that our marriage was doomed, but we were both pig-headed idiots and soldiered on. A few months later I was pregnant with the girl.
I brought back with me from Vietnam many things – a gorgeous lacquer dinner set (which we gave to friends as a wedding present), a few lacquer photo albums, many clothes, hundreds of photos and an embarrassment for the excesses of my rich western lifestyle but also a deep seated shame for the damage my country helped the Americans inflict on people who basically just wanted to be left alone.
Also I think the seeds of hatred for my then husband had started to sprout, he was the worst traveling companion I could have imagined and turned what should have been a great adventure holiday into a grueling ordeal.
Anyway, I have decided that when I don't have anything utterly riveting to blog about, e.g. what I gave the cat for dinner last night, I will write an episode of a travel blog from my trip to Vietnam. Read more!

Shortbread and Bitterness

Well, it's been a while since my last blurb….so what's been happening…..We had our first go at making Halloween pumpkins, which went quite well. They looked great at night with the candles going. We had one bunch of trick or treaters knock on the door – in their casual clothes. So I told them their costumes were shit and gave them some of the overcooked shortbread I was in the middle of making. They seemed pretty happy with their brown biscuits. The pumpkins are now sitting in the yard going mouldy and no doubt the boys went home and told their mums that I make really bad shortbread.
The shortbread was for the pre-school stall at the primary school fete. I cut it into Christmas tree, star and bell shapes, and put 9 pieces into a little cellophane bag and put some curly ribbon on it. It looked very naff. I haven't heard how much they sold or how much for, but I can feel good about having contributed.
The veggie patch is going well although for some reason the bok choy, parsley, rhubarb and rocket have all bolted to seed. This needs research and remedy. I am battling some little green caterpillars for ownership of the remaining bok choy and the weeds are just starting to encroach but otherwise it's all good.
There was a rather unexpected and tragic death in the immediate family that lives abroad. The circumstances of the death have rattled us quite badly. My husband has had something of an epiphany as a result and is promising to be the world's best husband and step father from now on. Meanwhile, he had to wear Speedos to work under his jeans because he didn't have any clean underwear. My efforts towards domestic goddess status are not going well.
On the weekend I took the girl to the big city to stay with her father and I spent the weekend catching up with friends and family. Over the past few months the girl and I have traveled south a couple of times due to my grandfather's illness and as such I allowed the X to spend time with the girl without asking him to contribute to airfares, which is our usual arrangement. So to reward my generosity he refused to take the girl on Friday night as he and his wife had tickets to Phantom of the Opera so he picked up the girl from my hairdressing appointment on Saturday morning. This caused several logistic problems with accommodation and travel and ultimately cost me extra money. When he informed me that his wife's sister was staying with them (and I extrapolated that to could-have-baby-sat) I was not amused. Later in the weekend he informed me that his wife was pregnant. Now this is something I have been anticipating and I actually am glad that the girl will have some siblings, but I was very unprepared for just how much the news triggered me into bitterness and pain. Don't get me wrong, I'm not jealous of the new wife, in fact I pity the poor fool and feel little but compassion for her and her naivety. But I feel cheated. I am unable to have more children, my age being a contributing but not the only factor. The X gets to simply marry a younger woman (much younger) and he can go for family no. 2. He carries a genetic mutation which caused us problems when we were trying to conceive and I had two miscarriages before getting pregnant with the girl. It took two years and was heartbreaking. By the time my third pregnancy reached viable status I was already exhausted physically and emotionally from the previous miscarriages and spent the entire pregnancy in super-paranoid mode being totally fearful of more loss.
My pregnancy was relatively easy physically, the usual nausea at first, sinus problems and then reflux/heartburn later and some intermittent sciatic pain and perpetual tiredness. Nothing too bad, yeah? Now, I'm not precious and I'm not a princess but making a person is hard work and puts an enormous strain on your body. A little bit of pampering, sympathy and compassion would have been nice – in fact, it would have been wonderful.
But the X thought it was hilarious to grab my oversized boobs and squeeze them, and when I cried from the pain he would laugh and do it again. He refused to allow me any indulgences, if I was tired or my back was hurting it was just too bad. If we went out at night he would refuse to come home early and at one party stayed until after 1am and even teased me with the car keys and laughed at me in front of his friends when I started asking if we could go. He even started competing with me and I would come home from work (so tired I was almost crawling) and he would already be in bed because HE was so tired/back hurting/not well leaving me to walk the dogs and organize dinner. I wanted to eat well, nutritious food, do the right thing etc but X refused to cook so if I was too tired to cook we had take-away. I used to joke that the girl was made of pizza.
The labour was difficult and ended with an extended episiotomy and forceps. I was badly damaged and actually totally incontinent for days after. The pain lasted six months. I was determined to breast feed as I had bought right into the "breast is best" propaganda but of course the baby had other ideas and fought me all the way. After 10 weeks of every feed being a fight I finally gave up and I was heartbroken and felt like a failure.
For the first month X was great, he helped with preparing formula and bottles and would even do his share of night feeds, I wouldn't have coped without him. But then he went back to work and the help stopped. He would put in token amounts of help but was basically emotionally and almost totally physically absent. The more I asked for help the more excuses he came up with to stay out at nights. Due to our financial problems (not entirely X's fault, but largely) I returned to work when the girl was only 3 months old. I was still only getting 4 hours of sleep a night and after six months of this I reached breaking point and considered suicide. I was diagnosed with Post Natal Depression and put on medication, which helped. Did the X change his ways? Did he offer any help, support, affection, compassion even a cup of tea?? No.
I was very isolated, ashamed and scared. When the girl was almost two years old I had finally had enough of his bullshit and told him to leave. My life hasn't stopped improving since.
The point of this tirade is to say – I didn't get to enjoy being pregnant, I didn't get to feel special. And I didn't get to enjoy having a baby. It was an ordeal; I was constantly stressed, deeply unhappy and very, very lonely. I blame him for this. If he had just helped me more, if he had just loved me as he said he did, if he had just shown some concern for my welfare if he had just BEEN THERE then things would have been quite different.
I now have a wonderful husband who loves me very much and I'm sad that I won't get to experience pregnancy and a baby with him, that my only experience was with a totally selfish, heartless bastard who ultimately didn't care if I lived or died.
So on Tuesday when they returned the girl to me, I looked at them and knew I should say congratulations, but I couldn't. I know it's wrong, but I resent their happiness. He doesn't deserve to be happy; he doesn't deserve a second chance. I do, but I don't get one. There is no justice here and it hurts me.
Shit happens, get over it, yeah? Yeah.

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