Materialism

There have been a few tragic losses as a result of the move – particularly my career and social life. Some materialistic losses have also occurred. A few wine glasses, the toaster, a picture frame, a mixing bowl and the wheel bearings on my caravan all perished in the journey. These losses are trivial.
Before I left my little house in the city I packed all my precious things in a small box and took them with me in my car. These were things not to be trusted to the removalists, I would carry them myself. The box contained my most expensive rings, including my gorgeous black opal and white gold engagement ring and my mother's wedding and engagement ring from my father. Also my video camera and the tapes of the girl learning to walk and various other moments from her babyhood. These things are all gone. I have searched for them everyday for the past month. They are not here. The box is not here. I am devastated.
One of the philosophical questions that has arisen as a result of the move concerns my materialistic view of life. I acquire, I hoard. Why do I do this? I can contribute an element of it to my childhood in a single parent family in which money was scarce and "nice" things were few. I compensate now for what I feel I "missed out on" as a child. I love to surround myself with beautiful things, my sense of aesthetics is strong, if not slightly unusual and I feel more comfortable in an environment that looks good. Maybe I can throw this back to childhood as well. I always felt envious when I went to friends houses and they had nice furniture and things that matched. I was always embarrassed when friends visited me and our furniture was secondhand, tatty and what would now be considered "an eclectic mix".
I also have many hobbies, crafty stuff and cooking. As a result I own a sewing machine, over locker, boxes of dress patterns, sewing paraphernalia and mountains of fabric. I also have many knitting needles, crotchet hooks and bags of wool. I have a multitude of books that accompany these past times. But by far my greatest love is cooking. I have many cookbooks, hundreds of foodie magazines (porn) and folders full of recipes. When I cook (or do anything) I like to have the correct utensils, so I also own every kitchen appliance and gadget available. I have many knives, multiple wooden spoons in many shapes and sizes. I have peelers and zesters, corers and crushers. I can make ice-cream, bread, juice, waffles, toasted sandwiches and pasta. I can blend, puree, chop, shred, grate, grind, mix, whip and knead. All at the touch of a button. I can make cakes in various sizes and shapes. I can make cupcakes or muffins or madellines.
All this stuff I feel I "need" and I do actually use most of it. I admit I haven't made waffles for years and I haven't juiced a carrot for longer than I remember….but if I wanted to….
So the question has been presented – do I really need all this stuff? I have started to cull things and have made several sizable donations to the Smith Family bin at the shops. And just when I think I am getting better and I am attaching much less importance on material wealth I finally have to admit my box of precious things is lost. Of all the things I could have lost – why this stuff? Why not one of the boxes of the girl's baby clothes? Why not a box of books I haven't read for years?
I appreciate that occasionally the universe or the gods or whoever/whatever it is that dabbles with our lives feels the need to teach us a lesson – but why is it always so damn harsh? Why do we always bump into our ex boyfriends on the day we have finally felt brave enough to organize a date with a potential new love? Why, when we have a cold and are feeling glum do meet somebody who has a brain tumour and is cheerful? Why do we only meet old high school buddies in the street when we have just popped out quickly with no make up, bad hair and wearing track pants?
These things are sent to try us…try us for what? What are we being prepared for? To be the most well adjusted and serene corpse in the graveyard? Fuck that.
So I say this to the gods…stick your life lessons up your collective bums and give me back my rings and my girl's first steps. Read more!

Chocolate Biscuits and other Obscenities

..I remember reading an interview with Jeanette Winterson in which she wouldn't deny having prostituted herself to rich, bored housewives – and being paid in Le Creuset saucepans. Hmm…
To ease the heartbreak of dealing with my disintegrating saucepans I have purchased a new toaster (old one didn't survive transit) which has a digital display and goes "beep" when the toast is done. It's not a Biacore or a HPLC, but it goes "beep". I also bought a spider web and spider biscuit cutter – cute.

So, the girl and I made biscuits: spiders and bats (I always try to bring some Goth into everyday life) and butterflies (my compromise to 4 yo girlishness). I chocolate coated them and decorated them. The plan was to put a red stripe on the spider's tails to make them into redbacks. Unfortunately in order to make biscuits that look like spiders the legs need to be a bit fatter than desirable for perfect spiders or they would break. So I have these pudgy spiders, covered in chocolate with a blob of red icing on their tail. They didn't look right, so I gave them eyes. I have successfully created chocolate 8 limbed frogs with pubic hair. Fortunately to an innocent 4 year old they are still red back spiders.
Then I knitted the arms for the princess – sewed up the hands and arms, stuffed them, then thought "my god, they are knitted penises". I teased the husband with them for a bit. He is mortified and has offered to get me some help but couldn't find the number for Obscene Knitters Anonymous. Anyway, once they were adorned with frilly bits and sewed onto the doll they became much less pornographic. But between the husband and I the doll will forever be known as Princess Penis Hands (she is pictured above).

I received some very bad and incredibly distressing news on the weekend – the husband informed me that I am supposed to be doing housework all day, not just phaffing around at the gym, in cafes and plebbed on the couch knitting. Really?? That's terrible and I'm sure it can't be right. I've given it a bit of a go this week, but I don't like it. I'm sure he's made a mistake….
Oooo, better go, my coffee is getting cold and Dr Phil is on.

Read more!

Fucken Fours

This morning, I decided to sit on the couch and knit and watch kerry-ann instead of going to the gym. The princess now has two legs, a bum and a torso. Much more productive than attacking old women. After that I had to collect the child from kinder then go to the loocal shops to buy a toaster, some mushrooms and sour cream (for a strog) and a microphone for the computer. This should have been easy as all the relevant shops are in the same centre. The child had other ideas...

I remember the smugness that comes from being childless yet knowing exactly how to raise children and recognising instantly the mistake the parent of the rampaging child is making. To all those I ever judged, to each and every parent to whom I ever cast dirty looks at or made snide comments about to a companion, comments like "..those people.." and "I wish they would control their child.." I most humbly apologise. I prostrate myself on the ground before you and plead most humbly for your forgiveness.

When you are in a busy shopping centre and your child is lying on the ground, dress over their head, screaming and crying and thrashing their legs around – what do you do? Walk off and leave them? Offer to hand them over to the strange grey tracksuit pant and sock and sandal clad man who is admiring your "pretty girl"? Do you use your "I'm serious" voice very loudly and attract even more attention to yourself? Or do you give in to desire and just punch the little bugger?
I chose the angry voice, threats of punishment and dragging her behind me option. It didn't work. I pig headedly completed my shopping and three and a half hours later shoved the little shit into her bedroom and slammed the door.

To top off a less than wonderful day I discovered my large Le Creuset saucepan has huge divets in the enamel in the base as if it has been attacked with a hammer. I am heartbroken. I love my ridiculously heavy saucepans, they cook evenly and retain heat and don't stick, they are worth every cent of the hundreds of dollars I paid for them. And now it seems they are disintegrating. I blame miss-use by recent housemates. Ignorant bastards who didn't know the difference between a saucepan and a fry pan.

When I was about 25 I had saved a big chunk of money to buy a set of Le Creuset. Myer was having a 50% off sale – I was ready, I was going to do it. Then the French government decided to test nukes in the pacific. The global call to boycott French products went out. I was devastated, torn between my love of cooking and political beliefs. What was I going to do? I snuck into Myer, bought the saucepans (set of three saucepans, big pot, two baking trays – cost a ridiculous amount, even at 50% off) smuggled them home, hid the wrappings in my neighbours bin. I then went on every anti-nukes anti-France march I could find. I put bumper stickers on my car (I don't do bumper stickers) The first march consisted of thousands of people, the last months later was about a dozen of us. I figured I had earned my saucepans and my contribution to the French economy had been outweighed by my marches. I could use my gorgeous pots without guilt. They have served me well, and 13 years later are starting to fall apart. I mourn. I can't afford new ones. The march is over. Read more!

Grannies, dogs and Princesses

So I did a class at the gym called Bodyvive, a combination of resistance and dance and yoga. During the dancy bit we needed to have a partner. Now, do you know who goes to the gym at 9:30am? Fat housewifes and retirees, needless to say, I fitted right in. Anyway, I ended up partnering a woman who was, without any exaggeration, about 70 years old. I was thinking "great, I'm doing aerobics with somebodies nanna". The problem was, this nanna could salsa - I can't. She salsad all over me. I was humiliated. Later in the class we were waving balls around (remembering this is a chicks only gym) and my ball slipped out of my hands and hit salsa nanna on the head. Fortunately she laughed and exclaimed "lucky it wasn't a cricket ball!". Latent hostility on my part? I hope not. I can cope with a lot of things, but the knowledge I may subconsciously be a nanna basher is too much.

When I went to get my girl from kinder I took the dog (english staffy) with me for a walk. The teacher saw me from the door and called out to the girl (who was still inside) ".. your dog's here". The girl looked up, exclaimed "that's not my dog, that's my mum." Bless her. She had also drawn a picture of herself next to what appears to be a building with a "VB" sign on the roof. She reassured me that it was, in fact, a "TV" and she wasn't trying to covertly inform the authorities that her mother is an alcoholic.

I then spent 2 hours this afternoon devising an elaborate speadsheet to track the ex's child support payments and what money has/should change hands. I also have another spreadsheet documenting the mileage I have been getting on my car. Missing work? Nah....

So far I have knitted the right leg and foot of a princess. Read more!

The transition

I lived in the same house for 14 years. When I first moved in I was a student and everything I owned fitted in the back of a ute. Two weeks ago everything I own was crammed into the back of a 9 tonne truck and carted up to Blanberra. It was unsettling to say the least, ripping myself out of my comfort zone, my little house that had seen me through 3 relationships, including a dud marriage, my career changes from graduating uni to becoming a somewhat recognised expert in SPR, the birth of my daughter, post natal depression, end of my marriage, the beginnings of a new marriage. The only consistent thing over the past 14 years was my house and my ever loyal dog.

As I drove away from my empty house, my dear four legged friend having been buried in the back yard a few months previously, I felt an enormous sense of loss. I was leaving behind where I had spent most of my adult life, all the places and routines I was comfortable and secure with. Driving off to begin a new life with my new husband and my little girl. I'd never really had the chance to be a full time mum; my butthead ex-husband had screwed things up for us so badly that I returned to work when my baby was only 3 months old. Working, trying to manage a baby that wasn't exactly the easiest going little creature, sleeping on average 4 hours a night, a husband who was either never home or critical and unsupportive when he was all contributed to me going quite loopy and even considering suicide at one point. Finally, with medication, counseling and my dear friends I found the strength to chuck out the deadwood husband and reclaim my life, my house, my sanity. My house had become an expression of who I was, my statement of independence and my sanctuary.

I drove that night to my mother's house, where my little girl was. The next morning we all set off on the epic 12 hour drive north. That morning I woke with a sense of optimism and hope and was keen to get on the road to my new life. My new (and much improved) husband had promised me the opportunity to stay home with my girl for at least 12 months before I had to think about working. It was a dream come true.

When we finally arrived in Blanberra my stuff had been delivered and husband was sitting on the front doorstep (there was no room in the house) in total shock and utterly dismayed as to where we were going to put all this STUFF! Over the next two weeks we unpacked, crammed, built shelves, crammed some more, filled cupboards and eventually found places for most of my stuff. I had quite a bit of help with the packing, some very wonderful friends had put in quite a lot of effort to make sure I left town. So opening some of the boxes was a bit like a lucky dip. A photo or old birthday card would bring back forgotten memories, ghosts would leap out and at times I shed tears for lost friends, lost love, lost pieces of the big jigsaw. Other moments made me smile, like cramming my copy of Wuthering Heights into the bookcase next to The Female Eunuch. Forgive me Germaine but I remain a romantic in spite of my feminist ideals.

So now I wave my husband goodbye in the mornings, usually still in my dressing gown, and greet him in the evening with a cooked meal and stories of how I went to the shops or did the washing. He is coping quite well, really, and fortunately is very patient and good humoured.

Tomorrow I begin a two week free membership at Fernwood. Then I might do some knitting. Read more!

Here I am

I started a blog on myspace 18 months ago. I have decided to transfer it here and will add photos. So to the beginning:



Tuesday, May 15, 2007



I am starting a blog to document my transition from full-time biochemist/part-time parent to full-time parent/housewife. Read more!

is this thing on?

Where am I? Read more!