Take me back

I've just received a twitter message from a good friend who's currently very excited about having a new mobile phone service provider (Michelle, read her blog here http://www.michellemcaleer.com/blog/). What's so exciting about this new provider? Nothing. Today service is no longer about being the best; it's about convincing the public that you're not the worst. Our standards of consumerism have severely dropped.

Messages of support followed my friend's twitt, all allies against Telstra (yes I've named you, if you don't like, lift your game).

My husband and I have a significant difference in our opinions of the use of time-travel (this may one day come between us, should technology catch up); he would not blink before jumping into the future, whereas I am nostalgic for a 1950's past. A time that those superior black & white movies convince me was a time of integrity. A time when families valued talking, couples worked out (or ignored) their problems and a time when marketing was focused on the personal touch.

I'm sure my Nanna would have complained about all the door to door salesmen that turned up to show off the new Hoover, Encyclopedias or pots and pans. The difference was that these people really were just a phone call away if something went wrong. Try finding the guy now who signed you up for your Internet service when your connection keeps cutting out.

Why were they more accessible, my theory (based on absolutely nothing but my own rants) is that they had products that you could stand by. Look at the cars of the 1950's, the work that went into creating each one, the materials and design. If you bought a telephone back then, you would have it ten years later - can you imagine owning the one mobile phone for more than 18mths?

Today when we buy products we do it with suspicion, deciphering the lies from the marketer, but back then was a time of trust. We could bring it back, it's up to those service providers and manufacturers, just stop giving us crap products.

Of course I realise that post-modernists will explain that even the 50's wasn't like "the 50's", but it will always be there in my time-travel fantasies.

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The Music Lover

She suggests country ballads. He shrugs. What about Kenny Rogers? He picks biscuit crumbs from his beard.

Sinatra, or Elvis, older Elvis? His facial features, not prone to expression, make the slightest move towards the resemblance of a cringe.

Meatloaf then? She puts forward yet another shaggy, overweight singer. Denis bloody Rousos? His shifts his large figure forward, but only to reach the remote.

His CD collection gives her no clue. An almost random compilation of artists, common only by the fact that they are all gifts. Each one revealing something about the giver but not the receiver.
She remembers crying and yearning to so many different ballads over the years. Has he ever felt that passion?

She accuses him of not liking love songs. He answers that he doesn’t not like them. She thinks he never really wanted to get married, he just didn't not want to. Maybe he just doesn’t not love her. She puts this idea to him, but he doesn’t react.

She suddenly realises, after years, that she can't remember seeing him cry or yell or belt out a hearty laugh.

His mother took the children into the city for the day. The trip from Bendigo to Melbourne was a hot, sticky one, made more uncomfortable by her very pregnant bump of her fifth child. Walking through the streets she had the children line up behind her like little ducks, except the youngest, who she pushed in the pram.

Tim was always last in line.

When she turned a corner, heading toward the Grace Bros building, her little ducklings turned. Except Tim. Tim kept waddling straight ahead, oblivious that he was no longer following anyone.
He was Four and he was lost. Lost in the big city, the city filled with strangers, whom he must not speak to. He sat on the nearest bench.

His mother noticed one of her little ducklings was missing when she reached the café. Latter she would claim to be overcome with fear that she would never see him again. She took the remaining ducklings to lunch and afterward made her way to the police station to report him missing.

The police did not find Tim until later that evening when all the shops had closed. A green grocer came across a little boy sitting, waiting on a bench. His mother was very angry because they were late heading back to Bendigo. Tim did not cry.

She asks if he likes any songs of the Carpenters. He says he doesn’t know. She reminds him that he sang Close to You, on their first date. He is quiet and she thinks he won’t remember ever loving her.

She gasps when he jumps out of his chair happily and yells’ “Yes!” Is he so excited to recall their passion? He dances around the living room and hugs her. She smiles. She is loved. She walks out of the room feeling elated, he is hers. Close to You will be their song.

He sits back down in his sofa, still grinning as he watches the horse he backed in a trifecta, being led to the winner’s circle.

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The Truth about Lies...

“I don’t lie,” I simply state.
My husband raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t.”
“Somebody scratched the car.”
“It wasn’t me, if it was I would just tell you.”
He mumbles something and heads for the couch to watch sport.

I feel guilty about the car. I know I didn’t scratch it, but I still feel embarrassed.
It’s the same unjustified shame I feel when I’m at the supermarket and I hear that static accusing voice, “Security, isle four”. Is that my isle? Do they think I’m going to steal the tin tomatoes I’ve been deliberating over? I know there is no reason to think they mean me, I know its just paranoia. But still I quickly put the tin in my trolley and get out of that isle.

Once, when I was twelve, and so desperate to belong to that elusive cluster of cool girls, I was dared by one of them to shoplift. The girl, Brooke or Carrie or some other fashionable name of the eighties, picked up an item and blatantly put it in her bag. It was a ridiculous thing: A packet of giant balloons.

I did the deed with less flair than the Brooke or Carrie or other, but as we walked out I performed a feet that took more courage and skill than lifting. I slipped the packet back without Brooke/Carrie noticing.

If I’d taken the balloons I would have experienced that rush of fear that teens crave, the heart pounding moments as you head for the safety of the exit. The difference for me is that I would have kept that fear when I got home (and for a long time after). What if my mother found them in my bag, or under my bed? What if the store manager grabbed me next time I was in the shop? Or the next time? Or the next? The balloons would have chanted threats to me forever.
I knew this. I saw it all the moment my fingers grazed the plastic wrapper. It’s not that I didn’t have the ‘guts’ to walk out the door with them, I just didn’t have enough courage to live with the anxiety of waiting to be caught.

That’s why I need to convince my husband I’m not lying. I would rather be branded a bad driver for life, than be thought to be a liar. I consider a false confession, but then that would be an admission of lying earlier. I have only one choice. I tell him why I don’t lie.

My confession is probably the most embarrassing self-inflicted ordeal of my past. No, I didn’t sleep with his brother, I wasn’t once a man and I’m not hooked on hard drugs. This I did when I was nine.

Longing for anything to interrupt a particularly boring day in class, I was pleased when a note distracted me from teacher’s blah blah blah. My best friend asking about approaching holidays. We shuffled scribble back and forth until I guess she got tired with that activity and decided to return to blah blah land. Needing something big to write to get things going again (like Dr Seuss’ Grinch, I had a wonderful, awful idea!), I told a lie. I wrote that I was moving from Sydney to Brisbane to live with my Dad.

What a lark I thought as I pushed it over.
A lark until she cried.
Not just tears - big loud hiccuppy sobs. The teacher rushed to her, comforted and eventually found the note. All kids were looking at my friend, except me. I stared straight-ahead waiting for the apocalypse to begin.

The teacher called me up and asked if it was true, and this is the worse moment. The moment I mentally recall and try to press the Microsoft ‘undo’ button. I said yes. From there it was an avalanche, starting with a tiny drop of snow and with increasing speed building up to something that was going to wipe out my existence.

Teacher was unhelpfully caring and organized a going away party for me that week. We had to bring snacks. I told mum it was for a new girl. It was the least fun party I had ever been too. And it wasn’t just my class that knew. Suddenly I emerged from invisibility to celebrity status. Every kid wanted to know what kind of things were in Queensland, would I write to them, could I take my dog?

Days passed and I thought the incident might just fade away. Perhaps my buddy would forgive me once she realized I wasn’t going anywhere. Teacher might stop looking at me with pity (I was actually starting to miss her usual stern gaze). Just bide my time.

Of course it could never be that easy, and my mother was summoned to the school to fill out the necessary paper work for my transfer. As a single working mum she was not too pleased at having to take time off for my charade.

That’s when the awful moment of being found out comes. And it doesn’t happen the way you think it will, you don’t jump out and yell ‘tricked ya!’ and everybody laughs. No one laughed. I can’t even say how they looked at me because I’m pretty sure I would have been staring pleadingly at my shoes for help.

I’d love to say that was it, my one harsh lesson that turned me around for good. Truth is there would have been a few more incidents along the pathway to here, but I always got caught. Not always straightaway (which is much kinder), sometimes I would live skittishly waiting for it. But it always came. Slowly I discovered an amazing power. Confession.

Tell all straight away and it’s like the Band-Aid ripping off quickly. Sharp short pain. But hide the truth and eventually it finds you and the humiliation can last forever, plus whatever you’ve hidden under your Band-Aid has festered for lack of air.

I’m not sure that my story convinced him or you for that matter. As believable this tale might be of my quest for honesty, if I have a packet of giant balloons lurking in my top drawer, then you’d have reason to doubt me.

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Some of me' favorite things...

I love:

Twitter - sure, I feel like I'm talking to myself - but sometimes I answer.

Facebook - the only way I can find out what my little sister is up to.

Wikipedia - I don't care, I like it.

iTunes - don't get me started on how much I love podcasts!

Blogger - 'cause obviously.

Cutest Blogs on the Block http://thecutestblogontheblock.com/ - adorable backgrounds for your blog and easy to install (free too!)

All banking websites - never have to go inside a bank again.

I'll Be In My Trailer (blog) http://www.michellemcaleer.com/blog/ - good read for all those who would like to be obsessed with the theatre but find other little life occurences (like pets, people, studies, work, etc) keep popping in.

Uni websites - some are better than others, but I do love studying online.

Betchablog http://betch.edublogs.org/ - great blogger on education technology, check out the podcasts they're very inspiring.

Inkfever http://ink-fever.blogspot.com/ - aspiring author, useful writing tips and writer's network.


Sorry Skype, you do not make my list anymore.

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Why he didn’t call

Sometimes I think I married my husband so I never have to wait for another 'call'. I still cringe at all the times I've heard about the men who promise to call but disappear from the face of the earth, I still have enough memories of checking if my mobile is working to know how my single girlfriends feel...

Often after a disaster free, relatively fun first date a woman will feel optimistic about the ‘couple’s’ potential future. This optimism starts to wane when day after day passes and he still hasn’t called.

Men will very rarely confront a date/girlfriend/wife about their doubts. Instead they will just slink away and play that childish game where they close their eyes and you disappear. Of course we are left very much still existing, wondering why we have become invisible. Inevitably we happen across these men again (or sometimes we muster up the gumption to actually call them) and when we do they will give one of the following reasons for not calling:

“I lost my phone” - (remember the good old days, when he only had to loose a slip of paper?) he will of course find it again in time to call that swimsuit model.

“My baby broke/hid my phone” – clever. You look bad if you hold a grudge against a small child. This will especially shut you up if you had no idea of the existence of this baby.

“My phone ran out of credit” – seeing as a text message only costs 20c to send, this excuse makes your man seem like not such a good prospect.

“My ex-wife (woman who still lives with me as no divorce proceedings have been put in motion and is probably oblivious to her ‘ex’ status and your existence) is unreasonably jealous and took my phone”.

“I was out of the country” – last time my friend got this excuse the guy was referring to New Zealand and I am pretty sure their phones can call out.

“I knew you’d be busy with work” – well at least he has such a high opinion of you that he thinks you work 24 hours a day and so hard at it, that you can’t be bothered with annoying ringing phones.

“I was sick” – there is a rather nasty virus going around which renders men unable to use their dialling finger for over a month. Then again, knowing what sooks men are when they are ill, this is possible.

“I can’t always get to my phone” - where the heck does he put it???

“I didn’t want things to get too serious” – read: I will still root you, just don’t expect me to talk to you.

“I lost your number” – and didn’t know how to use directory service.

“I just don’t think we’re compatible” – meaning you like me to call and I don’t like to call.

“I just want to be friends” – one of those friends he never has to call or speak to again.

“My mum was in town” – and he’s not allowed to use the phone?

“I’m not ready for a girlfriend” – but two weeks later he is and gets engaged.

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Pruning the Family Tree

When discussions about my children’s family tree are raised I plan to tell them, “There is no history, our family began with your father and I.” Mentally I have lopped off the sprawling, infested branches that revealed the sins of my heritage.

Concealment of these living ghosts stems from envy of other’s interesting and respectful legacies, such as my husband’s acceptable genealogy. My mother-in-law is proudly aware of the name and details of each member’s father’s mother’s father.
In my daughter’s baby albums, many blank spaces appear accusingly above my own parent’s names. Sure, the girls have their grandmother’s name and their great grandmother’s name, because the women stay. It is the men in the family that abscond, leaving us to guiltily explain the gaps. There’s a void right above my mother’s name, next to her mother, and as if to prove there was once some bond between my divorced parents, my father has the same blank space above his name.

My husband and I share an intimate joke that whenever anyone of appropriate age appears in the public eye, we’ll suggest the possibility of that being my grandfather, or ‘Pop’ as I like to call this enigma.

What of the relatives I do know?

Should I entertain my daughters with tales of the Aunt that actually did run away with the circus at sixteen? She went on to have five children to an equal amount of fathers, all of whom ended up in foster care and the youngest pregnant at eleven. There’s the enchanting story of another Aunt, mother of six, heroine addict and now released from prison for the second time. I could explain the encouragement my Nana provides for any girl that continues our family legacy of teenage pregnancy and single parenting. I’m pretty sure Nana thought I was gay or worse – infertile. When I hadn’t produced any children by my mid-twenties, she let me know that it still wasn’t too late (I was single at the time, but apparently there are ways to convince men to have sex with you even without a relationship), good advice Nana, thanks.

I’ve considered conjuring up relatives and backgrounds anyone could be proud of, the kind that have invented or imported some much loved Australian icon. But, by gathering stories from those I’ve envied, I have come to realize I’m not alone. Even my Husband has the brother-in-law who, as an addict, devised a foolproof scheme to break into a pharmacy after hours, undetected, via the ceiling. Great plan, except for the fact that once inside he couldn’t leave by the locked doors or reach the ceiling and was arrested when found in the morning.

Every family has that Aunt with questionable morals or the cousin who froths at the mouth. I can let my skeletons come out and talk freely of their antics. There is always going to be a relative that makes every family cringe and whisper about them, and if you think there isn’t one in yours, maybe it’s you.

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Getting back on the horse.

Tonight I was thinking about the saying "Getting back on the horse", you know, when you fail at something and helpful well-meaners tell you to "hop right back on the horse", usually in the same line as "plenty more fish in the sea". Does this saying really make sense the way it is? I've done some riding in my time, being the typical young girl obsessed with the belief that every other child has a pony except her and that it was just so unfair. Of course getting to ride horses usually teams at some point or other with falling off a horse. I've done my bit of falling, this is the worst time:

I was nine and on my weekly trail ride, this time I had been allocated an unfamiliar horse named 'Storm'. Storm did not live up to his name initially, he plodded along, way behind the other riders. Regularly a trail ride leader would come back and try to hurry him up, but he resisted all prodding and encouragement. Until we got to the halfway mark. This is the spot the horses turn around and head home. Storm knew this spot. Suddenly he was very excited and decided to be first home, he bolted. That was a little nerve-wrecking, but the deal breaker was when he jumped something in his way and I came off. Only I didn't come straight off, I somehow got caught up and dragged (only for a moment, I'm sure, but it seemed a lot worse as I bounced off the ground).

I was lying on the ground, my jeans ripped and grazing embedded with small rocks and dirt right down one side. I bawled. My only comfort was seeing the two men riding frantically towards me, as if they were really worried. They rode straight past me, they were worried, but about the horse.

If someone had told me to get straight back on the horse, I don't think I would have gone along with the idea. Certainly not that horse.

Similar advice was given to me when I split with my first husband. I wasn't even speaking to him, let alone getting back on for a ride.

No, I don't think if you suffer a bad fall that you should hop straight back on the horse. I think you should shoot the bloody horse and ride the next one.

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Wednesday Spagetti

Monday night: Chops, peas, corn and mash potato. Tuesday night: Fish fingers, peas, corn and mash potato. Saturday night: Tomato soup and toast. Sunday night: Roast lamb, peas, corn and baked potato. Throughout . childhood, these meals never strayed from their allocated evenings.

Wednesdays, my mother prepared her most international, exotic meal: Spaghetti Bolagnaise, or her provided name of ‘Wog Spag Boll’, at least, a censored version. Mince, tin tomatoes and onion (no suspicious herbs). I would sit at our brown Formica table and chairs next to the kitchen entrance and anticipate this meal with dread. As I squirmed on the carpet padding of the seat I would pre-empt the offending onion taste trying to conceal the bland mince background. The only way I could soldier through the meal was to battle the villainous flavor with my own allied cheese and tomato sauce (which luckily always stood proudly in the middle of our dining table – after all what meal couldn’t be enhanced by ‘marty sauce’?). My defence tactics never held up and the nasty presence of my mother’s pride and joy would sneak back and linger in my throat for hours.

Only years of complaining had my mother reluctantly consider the doctor’s preposterous notion of my possessing an onion allergy. Her creative solution to this situation was to dice the onion much smaller and scoff, “How can you taste it when it’s cut so small? Don’t be stupid!”.
It was an exciting treat when we ventured out on our regular take-away nights. Rugged up in flannel pyjamas, robe and slippers (even now my mother believes no child can leave the house without a vest and jumper, apparently even on humid nights children catch chills) to head for exotic but familiar venues to pick up our meal.

Nowadays when ordering takeaway I simply phone ahead, my mother could never do that, because the chances were that the incoherent numskull on the over end would stuff up our order (we never varied our choices and God forbid something alien turned up in our order). So instead we would be in a Chinese restaurant waiting room with a pretty partition failing to conceal the Oriental glamour of the dining area, dim with flickering of red and gold. Other times it was the pizza parlour where you got to wait amongst the other diners, looking at posters of travel adverts or photos of bread and listening to ‘The Village People’ on the jukebox. Of course the fish and chip shop, run by the Greeks, was less glamorous with its lino floor, long continuos counter protecting baskets of battered goods crackling away in oil. A few tables would adorn the remaining wall for those teenagers who just didn’t have anywhere better to take their meal, waiting for their parcels of chips soaked in vinegar at the pinball machine or the coin hungry table of Space Invaders.

When ordering foreign food, the rule was to talk LOUD and pause … between … each … word. My mother was sophisticated enough to include a slight imitation of the proprietors accent, to make it easier for them to understand. I’m sure Mr. Lee, who had to take orders for his restaurant for ten years from inconsiderate patrons not showing the same ‘accent copying’ courtesy, appreciated my mother’s thoughtful efforts.
We played it safe when ordering foreign foods. We never took risks by straying from our regular providers. Who knows what the other Chinese restaurants were trying to pass off as pork. Many rumours openly bandied about revealed that most Chinese chefs would prefer to spend their nights scouring the streets for children’s beloved Snowballs, Socks’ and Scruffys, risking closure, deportation and even prison rather than simply purchasing their meat from a wholesaler. Still my mother cautiously trusted familiar outlets where she grew to know the staff who always showed polite interest.

As much as my mother delighted in friendly chitchat with these resident foreigners, she scowled at the ones that dared to invade her street, her workplace, her daughter’s school and her supermarket car park.

Of course in those days we only knew three nationalities of immigrants. The Chinese included anyone with Asian features, who came to steal jobs and cause car accidents. The Wogs were from one country that included Italians, Greeks and Maltese. Likeable, amusing people that provided us with endless food services, pizza, corner stores, fish and chips and fruit and veg. These were the immigrants that my mother least minded. Even if their outspoken mannerisms were questionable, they were more tolerable than many of our original residents. Nearby to us was a scenic beach suburb that was mostly occupied by Aboriginal families, which she always said was, “Such a shame.”.

The third most intriguing race to reach the shores of our awareness was Indians. We knew nothing of them (they were suspiciously quiet people) and certainly wouldn’t be trying these weird ‘curries’.

It is not surprising that my mother never travelled, never desired to leave her comfort zone. She would constantly tell me, “We live in the best country in the world, why would you want to go anywhere else?” (hint: under no circumstances volunteer an answer). I’m pretty sure by ‘country’ she meant Sydney and surrounding suburbs because until I was eleven, we never ventured outside this circle.

I can’t imagine my mother touring a country where residents are rude enough to speak any language other than English. She had enough trouble tolerating foreigners here that speak their home language freely in public. I think they infringe on her given right to eavesdrop. Often she would raise the point, “How do I know they’re not talking about me?” I remember the distasteful look I received when suggesting she listen for the name "Joyce".

Although my mother proudly displayed her own version of tolerance to immigrants that were a constant irritation to her, I was still surprised when as a teen I learned my Nanna had once remarried. My birth certificate revealed that my mother’s maiden name was not ‘Wright’ as I had always thought, but instead ‘Valentini'.

Charmaine Clancy

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