Someone Takes Responsibility

Children have an understanding of adults’ (or society’s) responsibility towards them.

We were driving in the city about two months ago (on our way home from my eldest daughter’s second performance on stage as an actress). Our four kids sat in the of back our ‘people mover’. In a lull in our conversation, the rain falling on the windscreen and the sound of the wipers on intermittent was all we could hear. Suddenly, Sally burst out with a display of indignation that was comical to her older sisters, “Kids can read that sign you know!”. 

We stopped at the traffic lights with the sign in full view. Although we all were laughing at Sally’s response, I noticed through the rear vision mirror that she had covered her eyes in an act of self censorship; her indignation aroused because of her awareness that the responsibility for censorship should not have fallen to her. 

Her outburst, although comical, gave me food for thought. Sally was visibly distressed. This fact sat uneasily with me and the seeds of a post were planted. I stretched my arm out of the window of the car and took the photo above in anticipation of writing about it one day. 

This morning I opened up my computer and scanned the online version of ‘The Age’ (our newspaper), as is my habit. On the front ‘page’ was the headline: Impotence Add Too Sexy to Stay Up.

The article explained that the Advertising Standards Board revised their earlier decision to allow the billboard in response to continuing complaints and community concern about the sexualisation of children. The justification for the about-face was summarised in the article in this way:

… the ASB determined that “the words ‘want longer lasting sex?’ were not medical or clinical in nature and were in fact a blatant message about a sexual act”.

With the offending sign no longer on display, there will be no need for Sally to avert her eyes. Thanks to the people who aired their concerns to the ASB.

Impromptu is all we can manage atm

Its Saturday night. I’ve been feeling disorganised. We are in the process of selling our old house. The additional effort of renovating it and getting it ready for sale seems to take its toll in the sense that we never seem to be able to plan ahead. The weekend comes around and I’m left wishing I’d invited people over, or organised something social to do. At the beginning of this weekend I felt as though I was staring into a social void.

However, on Friday afternoon I remembered to return a call I’d received during the week about catching up with friends (a couple and their three year old child) who had recently returned from a trip overseas. “Yes, we’d love to see you and it would be great if you could come over, but I’m not home yet and we’re not well organised”, I told my friend over the phone.

“Don’t worry about being organised, lets do take away”, she replied. And in this way, at five on Friday afternoon I arranged for these friends to come over at six. She rode her bike from work straight to our place and her husband arrived separately from home with their child.

I got home at five thirty, a bit tired. The thought of going out for take away didn’t appeal to me. After a quick stock take of the pantry and kitchen I decided to cook a chicken and zucchini risotto, which I managed to get onto the stove before they arrived. My children took their three year old under their wings, leaving us adults to a relaxing evening of catching up and planning ahead. From them we heard all about their recent paragliding adventures in Turkey and France and from us the story of our recent move and a tour of our new house was in order. Planning ahead involved setting dates for skiing.

Similarly, we had nothing organised for Saturday night (tonight). However, Emma (our eleven year-old) got onto the phone and invited her friends over for a movie night. I cooked sausage rolls for the kids with plenty left over for the hub and I. We put the fire on and as the parents of these girls arrived to pick up their daughters they joined us for a glass of wine by the fire. The last parent didn’t leave until after ten. In this way we enjoyed an impromptu social evening of chatting by the fire for hours. This turned out to be more fun than anything we could have planned.

Two new Billie’s for Melbourne

Tonight I met Libby at Her Majesties Theatre to see the preview to Melbourne’s Billie Elliot. The show begins here in December. Libby was invited to the preview because she coordinates group bookings for the school where she teaches music. I used to work with her. She often invites me to join her when she takes her students to shows, but this was the first preview I’ve been to.

I admit, I was expecting to see the whole show tonight and was initially disappointed when I sat down in the Stalls after complimentary champagne to learn that this was not going to be the case. However, tonight I heard one of the producers and one of the key actors speak about the show, I was introduced to the four “Billie’s”, I watched them perform together and saw the DVD of the audition process. 

A big deal was made of the fact that two new “Billies” were joining the show for the Melbourne performances. Like many of us who are not aware of the logistics of staging shows of this scale that employ over fifty children, it tickled me to listen to the producer talk of their “Billies” in plural. It was an education for me and a delight to have ‘met’ all four of them.

Each of these Australian boys, when interviewed, spoke in familiar Aussie accents, yet in character produced a thick Irish twang. Their performance of the song at the moment when Billie describes how he feels to dance brought a tear to my eye.  These four boys danced sublimely, each of them obviously gymnasts as well as classically trained. 

I came away from the preview rather inspired on a number of levels. Firstly, the quality of dancing in the Billie’s performance was astonishing. It would be for this reason alone that I will see the show, and take as many family and friends as I can with me. 

Secondly, I came away with a feeling of pride for Australian theatre. Billie Elliot has been running in Sydney for a year. Australia is the second home of the musical Billie Elliot. It doesn’t open on Broadway until later in the year!

In April I was in New York, staying on Broadway. I was there for a conference, but saw Chicago the day I arrived. Aspects of the show were disappointing. For example the lawyer was poorly cast (played by a non-charismatic character who couldn’t tap), and the set and costuming were unexciting. 

A couple of weeks later in Melbourne, I saw Guys and Dolls with Libby and was impressed with it in comparison to Chicago on Broadway. At the time I remarked to Libby that I needn’t have gone to New York to see a great show. I’m feeling the same way tonight after previewing Billie Elliot: Its all right here at my finger tips in Melbourne!

The people that you meet

I’m thinking of that classic Sesame Street song about people in your neighbourhood, “the people that you meet each day”.

We have a small, local supermarket run by two or three incredibly old people, with a few young people (who could easily be their offspring) working for them. If you want super fast impersonal service, you shouldn’t go there. The people are friendly and never in a hurry.

The older people greet customers as they come in and wish them well as they leave the shop. Often the old bloke asks if I need a hand carrying my bags to my car.  I’ve seen his stooped form helping other customers with their shopping. However, he looks as though he could carc it any day and I wouldn’t want it to be on account of him hauling my shopping.

All of the young people look as though they would be perfectly cast in a movie like “Super Bad” or “Napoleon Dynamite”. One of them has been working the check out at this supermarket for years. He is a quietly dorky guy, who holds his body as though he doesn’t want to take up too much space. His demeanor screams, “don’t notice me”. I occasionally find it difficult to understand what he says. His voice is incredibly quiet and he tends to mumble. However, I’ve realised that in his own way he is friendly. His replies are intelligent and eventhough he doesn’t often make eye contact, he smiles. One day I realised that he actually said, “Have fun!” as his parting remark after handing over my change and receipt . I left the store wondering if I’d heard him right. Sure enough, he said it the next time and the next. If you don’t listen for him to say it, its easy to miss. But now the kids and I wait for it. The humour of it is not lost on them.

The guy who works in our video shop works alone. He is a wiry guy and a smoker. You often see him out the front of the shop having his break with a cigarette. He looks as though he could be pretty cool in some circles - a Harley Club maybe? He wears jeans and a leather jacket. He rarely talks and never smiles. If he does try to communicate its in grunt-like monosyllables.

Once we hired the Ninja Turtles. Inspired by the movie, Sally drew little pictures of turtles in action poses on scraps of paper from a narrow pad. Some ended up hanging on fridge magnets. I liked one of the pictures so much that I asked her if I could have it. I wanted to use it as a book mark. But my favorite picture disappeared. I didn’t think much of it at the time.

It came to pass that we returned the video a day late. The next time the kids and I went to hire a DVD I wondered whether he would fine us. We took our new choice up to the counter. The guy grunted as usual as he took the case off me and turned to find the DVD. But when I told him our address he turned around and in a monotonic voice, with a smile just discernible at the corner of his mouth said, “Who drew the picture of the ninja turtles?”. The four kids and I were absolutely stunned that he’d spoken, not to mention our confusion about how he ended up with one of her pictures. Sally quietly owned up to the drawing by putting her hand up.

Outside of the shop we relived our surprise and slowly the humour of the situation sunk in. Their father had slipped the picture into the case, hoping that the drawing might get us out of a fine. 

Now whenever we’re in the car on the way to the video shop, one of the kids invariably quotes “Who drew the picture of the ninja turtles?” in an almost perfect impersonation of the dead-pan voice. We laugh.

Conversations in the Car 3: Spud-funky

I used the word ’spunky’ in conversation with my two teenaged daughters yesterday. We were driving out to do some shopping after school.

“Ew, don’t use that word!”

“Yeah, that word must be banned!”

“What, ’spunky’? What’s wrong with it?”

“Its sooo old fashioned. No one uses that word!”

“Yeah, and I hate it anyway. It reminds me of rotten potatoes”.

“What? How could it remind you of rotten potatoes?”

“Spuds! Reminds me of funky spuds”.

“Hehe funky spuds!”

I thought about funky spuds as an alternative expression to spunky then said, “Funky spuds doesn’t quite work, I could use ’spud-funky’ as an alternative though”.

The eldest of the two was obviously on a similar wave length to me because after a couple of seconds contemplation, she concurred, “Spud-funky. Yeah, I like it. I’m going to use it! It will be my new word”.

“Yeah, me too!” agreed the younger one.

The two sisters discussed the likely spread of the term ’spud-funky’ at their respective schools.

This morning in the car driving the eldest to school I asked, “Are you still on a mission to convert all your friends to using spud-funky?”

“Oh yeah!”

“I wonder if Rosie has remembered?”

“Hmm. I’ll text ’spud-funky’ to Rosie in the middle of first class. She’ll look at the text and say ’spud-funky’. Her friends will hear her and that will be the beginning!”, she plotted.

(What she doesn’t know is that last night at parent teacher interviews I gave her English teacher the ‘up’ on the expression). Mwahaha.

Conversations in the Car 2: a parent is berated by her eight year old for excessive computer use

Conversations in the Car 1: on the topic of dissection

This time last year: I was in Florence

This morning I was waiting for the kettle to boil for my first cuppa at 7.15am. I was in my pink toweling dressing gown and hadn’t even washed the sleep out of my eyes, when out through the kitchen window, I saw the builder and the plumber. The builder waved and smiled as our eyes met but he didn’t stop. The two men were walking with far too much momentum down the side of our property to slow. The heavy work boots probably also make it harder to decelerate. 

I knew the builder, but didn’t recognise the plumber. In fact when I saw him I thought he was the builder’s apprentice. The lad looked too young to be a tradie in his own right. The two men (young and older) stopped near our water tanks and began a conversation with each other. I couldn’t hear what they were talking about because they were out in the back yard and I was inside eating breakfast at the table (by this stage) and we were separated by a distance and double-glazed windows. 

They stood with their backs to me. I admired the form of the young man. It was then I remembered that around this time last year I was in Florence. 

In Florence I experienced being surrounded by statues of the male form in public squares. I queued for three hours in forty degree heat (celcius) to view the statue of David. How the sculptors of those times must have seen beauty in that form! I wonder now whether the sculptors reflected their society in this reverence. If so, it seems to me that I have grown up in a society vastly different on that score.

Does our society tend to revere female beauty more than male? I think it might. 

When I was a young woman, it was female beauty I noticed more. I compared myself to the standards of female beauty set by fashion and media. When I went to night clubs, I noticed what other women looked like. I would critique them in my head and compare myself to them. Now I wonder if I had been swept up in societal values, to the detriment of my own sexuality. Its almost as though I looked through a male perspective at myself and other women.

As I have often said, when I was young I didn’t appreciate young men. But now I do - I really do. I find the male form incredibly beautiful and sexually attractive - much more so than I did in my teens or my twenties. (In my teens I went for the pretty boy face, and in my twenties I was too busy establishing my place in the workplace and treating men as equals to really take stock). 

I discussed my sudden attraction to young men with lots of women around my age. When they confessed similar feelings, I decided it was cruel trick of mother nature’s played on older women. But two years ago, the return of sexual desire after a period of intense motherhood hit me like an avalanche. I’m much more comfortable with it now. I’m content to admire from a distance…

… and I might see about getting one of those statues for my garden!

My Bad

“My bad” - an expression attributing error to the speaker used frequently by young hip and groovy people. Generally this doesn’t include me. However, a recent situation unfolded to be the perfect moment for its use.

It unfolded like a real life comedy skit. The actors were my daughter (Kat, who is fifteen), myself and a medical receptionist.  We were at the front desk filling out new contact details for their data base. You need to put yourself in my shoes to understand my failing.

The receptionist is a lanky gentleman with wispy, greying hair defying confinement, hunched over his computer.  Upon your entry as clients, he lifts his head momentarily and smiles sheepishly (hesitantly as though he doesn’t know what to say). You announce your names to alleviate his pain. He squints as though he has forgotten his glasses, nods and you take a seat in the waiting area.

After the appointment, you find yourself at his desk, separated from his work area by a high bench but able to peer over to see his screen on his corner bench and beyond to his system of files.

“Could you fill this form in for me please?” he asks. It is expected because you are new to this surgery.

“Sure”. You fill it in and pass it to him, your teenaged daughter looking on.

“I need you to wait there a moment while I type this in. It won’t take long”, he says. You wait with your daughter, both resting your arms on the high bench, watching him as he swiveles around his corner desk, completed form and typing digits to the ready. Its all expected.

But he squints at the form and lowers his eyes a little closer to the print than expected. As he reads the first few lines, his back rounds into a hunch. After awhile he places the form on the desk beside his keyboard and readies to type. But rather than using both hands (as expected), he raises only one hand and types in your details using his right ‘pointer’: tap… tap… tap. He does it so slowly that you and your daughter exchange glances with eachother. You see the surprise and amusement in her eye, with it a touch of something that indicates she, like you, is stifling the urge to leap over the counter and type it all in for him.  But you remain where you are and watch as he repeats the process of squinting over the paper followed by mono-digit typing every few words. 

Suddenly, the humour of it strikes you fiercely. (Here, of course, is a secretary. He is employed to do this every day!). You feel laughter escaping from deep within your chest and through your eyes which begin to water as you try to stifle it. You notice that your daughter (who is an actress) has managed to maintain a beautifully straight face against the odds, and this just adds to the humour. What would you do?

Well, I couldn’t contain my laughter. I walked away from the counter to have my laughing fit in relative private. I left Kat there to answer a query he had about our post code. 

Once I had the laughter under control I joined her at the desk. She took my measure with her serious actress face. “Fail!” she mouthed. The ‘L-sound’ nicely exaggerated by adding an ‘ah’. 

“My bad”, I whispered.

The Big Screen

Do you remember when home videos became popular? Was it in the late eighties? Everyone said, “Oh that spells the end of cinema”.

Now everyone is creating home cinema experiences with purposefully made recliner chairs, blue ray DVDs (not sure what these are, but my kids are up to date with it), surround sound (not that surround sound is new - my boyfriend in the late eighties had it. He was so proud after he’d installed it. Is this a guy thing? Personally I don’t mind if the sound of an approaching train emanates from the telly. For my enjoyment it does not have to appear to be coming from behind me to the right), projectors mounted from the ceiling and large screens on the wall. We’ve got one of these in our new house too - the home cinema room. Our four-seater recliner (in red) is yet to be delivered.

Even so, the kids don’t want to wait until the new releases hit DVD. They’re off to the cinema as often as ever. During the school holidays Prince Caspian, Kung Fu Panda, and Get Smart drew them to the box office. For the children, I believe their motivation for going to the cinema is to be up with the conversations rather than the desire to get out into society. For me, its all about getting out. Sitting at home with surround sound and blue ray will never replace meeting a friend in the foyer, squeezing in a drink or dinner before hand, filing in after purchasing a choc top to watch a movie on the big screen and chatting about it later (not to mention the people-watching opportunities), and you never know who you might bump into when you’re out.

Fruits of our labour

We have moved house. For eighteen months we have been building an environmentally friendly home. It has two twenty thousand litre water tanks buried underground (in Australia we are in drought). We have enough solar panels to be either electrically neutral or contribute to the grid. Our house design was audited by Going Solar before construction to ensure we had incorporated energy saving technology and know-how. We have LED down lights and other energy saving globes throughout and the house design is solar passive. In other words we have double glazed windows everywhere, and the house is orientated to the north with large eaves to allow winter sun in to warm our travertine-covered concrete slab but to block out the sun’s direct rays in summer.

But the thing I’m appreciating most is the new kitchen. My daughters love it too, all four of them. The most dramatic appreciation has been shown by Emma. She has developed an interest in cooking since we have moved. She has been riding her bike down to the shops to pick up packet cake mixes. She whips these up independently or with her friends. Twice she has made biscuits by herself from scratch (asking for help at strategic moments only). Its only a matter of time before she’ll be able to make family meals. I have a plan to teach her something simple (like tacos) to begin with. I think its worth harnessing this newly developed enjoyment of working in the kitchen. The best bit about it is: the kitchen is big enough for both of us to be working at the same time, with enough room for Sally to be doing her homework on the bench!

When Amy Met Stumpy

“Hello beautiful lady”, said Amy (my hair dresser) catching my eye in the mirror as I sat down on her black leather chair. She had a familiar look of complicity in her eye. (Those of you who have been reading epossums will know that Amy is outrageous, and cheeky). It was her first day back after a three week break. She had been to visit her brother who runs a pub in the outback, a mining town. She seemed lively and elated as she fastened the black cloak around my neck and negotiated a plan for my hair.

The break had obviously done her good. When she leant forwards, her hands affectionately resting on my shoulders and confided, “Have I got some goss for you!”, I laughed.

“So you’ve had a good holiday?”

The gossip she was itching to tell related to a night in her brothers bar. Being a new, single female in a town overpopulated by men from the mining industry, she quickly became well known. On this particular night, she chatted with blokes she had already met until she noticed a guy she felt particularly attracted to. Amy cannot resist a man with tattoos. But apparently this guy was also attractive, tall and muscular.

“Did you swoon?” I asked.

“Yes, I swooned”, Amy laughed.

They hit it off. It was a long night of talking, drinking and laughter. At the end of the night she went home with the tattooed fellow.

“He was perfect in every way”, she said, “but when he took off his pants all he had was this tiny little stump”. Amy held her thumb and forefinger up for me in the mirror to indicate about an inch.

“Oh dear! Were you disappointed?”.

“You betcha I was! He was gorgeous. I couldn’t believe it. That’s three stumps in a row for me now”.

“Gosh, that’s bad luck. In my time, I’ve only ever come across one. Oh well they say things usually come in threes. That’s your life time quota of stumps I reckon!”.

Through our laughter she continued, “Anyway we had a fun night. But get this. When I was in the town the following day one of the other blokes came up to me. I heard you got lucky last night, he said. That’s one way of looking at it, I told him”.

“Gosh, news travels fast in a small town!”.

“Tell me about it”

“Did you bump into Stumpy again?”

“Stumpy?” Amy doubled over with laughter. ‘”Yes, I saw him again later that day. He asked if I was free again that night. I told him I had a family dinner on and he said Well, I’ll leave my door unlocked just in case!”.

“He was hopeful. He must be oblivious. What did you say to him?”

“Yeah, you do that”.

“Did you go back?”

Amy laughed, “No, oh god, no!”.