I was in my early thirties, I was spiralling into a life of crime, and it was all my children’s fault.
Before I became a mother, I was a very moral person. I never stole, I never lied (okay, I did lie, but only when I had to), and I never, ever cheated (except for that one time in Year 8 Maths, but the teacher had left the room, it would have been silly not to).
Since I’ve had kids, though, I’ve been shocked at my descent into delinquency. It started about nine years ago. I had a trolley full of food, and I was wheeling my baby through the fruit department in his pram. He grabbed a handful of grapes and I pulled them away. He started to wail and I gave the grapes back. He ate the grapes and there was instant peace. Who on earth says that crime doesn’t pay?
From then on, when shopping with my son, I became a regular grape-pincher. I thought that I could stop at that. I thought that I was in control. But then one day my toddler grabbed some fruit pastilles off the shelf and devoured them before we got to the checkout. I was going to pay for them – honest! – but he’d chewed the wrapper and the bar code was all mangled and soggy, and I just couldn’t be bothered going back for another.
Stolen fruit pastilles. That’s bad, right? Well, unfortunately, it got worse. Eventually my son went to day care, only to be replaced in the trolley by my cherubic baby daughter. And my daughter, I discovered, was rather a dab hand at shoplifting. There I’d be at the checkout, presenting my bread, milk and groceries, and I’d find a packet of Smarties at the bottom of the trolley which I definitely didn’t put there myself. Of course, I’d put them back and scold her, but after a few rounds of ‘Try to trick Mummy into thinking she chose the Freddos herself’, my daughter began to refine her technique.
Instead of finding the chockies in the trolley, I began discovering the stash at home - in my handbag, in a shopping bag, even wrapped in my daughter’s blanky. Now, I know I didn’t steal them myself, and I know that the store shouldn’t put this stuff at littlies height, but when I found myself feeling chuffed after a particularly big hoist (I discovered a Bugs Bunny plate with a matching spoon and cup in the bottom of my daughter’s pram), I knew that I was headed for sin.
Which brings me to my final transgression – the crime that ended my shameful spree. It happened at an indoor play centre, which I visited with my son, who was five, and my daughter, who had just turned three. Approaching the counter, I noticed that there were two separate prices, four dollars for kids aged two and under, and eight dollars for ages three and up. I thought for a moment, considered the four dollar price difference, and then said to the lady, “She’s two, and he’s five”.
“She’s not two, Mum!” yelled my son. “She’s three! She’s THREE!!!”
“She’s two and three quarters,” I told him, my face burning beetroot red. The lady looked at my son, looked at me, and smiled serenely.
“Twelve dollars”, she said, and ushered us through. She knew what was going on, I knew that she knew, and I felt like an utter disgrace.
All the way up the stairs my son gleefully chanted “Hah! You’re only two!”, and my daughter looked very confused. After ten minutes of trying to explain the situation to my son (who was too busy chanting, and wasn’t really listening), I was consumed with guilt. I knew that I’d come to a turning point in my career, as both a mother, and as a criminal. Nicking grapes was one thing, but lying in front of my children was another. It was time to face the music, or, to be more accurate, the serene lady behind the counter.
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “I lied. My daughter really is three. I wanted to save some money, but I feel very guilty. Could I pay the extra money please?”
“Four dollars,” she said, and smiled again. And I smiled too, because I knew that the same kids who had led me into crime had just led me out again. Oh, and because my son had finally stopped chanting. What a relief.
October 30, 2009
October 22, 2009
How Nicole Kidman Stole My Life - Part 2
"LOST IN CATERING"
The first impediment to my brilliant career was my hair. Why, I hear you ask? After all, Nicole got through with hers, and it was frizzy and red.
Well let me tell you, red curls are a dream compared to the short grey hair that I was sporting.
Yes, for my foray into fame, I had short grey hair. Of course, I didn't have short grey hair in the weeks before the shoot. I was 15 years old, for god's sake! I had gorgeous brown curls, hanging down past my shoulders. But after the director decided I needed blonde streaks, and the hairdresser made an error with the mixture, I turned grey in a tragic bleaching accident. To try to cover it up, they then dyed my entire hair, which left me grey, but with streaks of orange. To try to cover that up, they cut my hair to my neck. Then my ears. Then above my ears. Then it lost its curl, so they permed it. The final result provided an excellent solution to the problem of a 15 year old girl playing a nearly-18 year old. I now looked approximately 65.
Still, the good news was that I was still very slim, and - after several production sponsored sessions at the solarium - tanned. So off I went, with grey hair and stars in my eyes, to Queensland.
The mini-series was being shot as a film, and films are shot out of sequence. All the exteriors were being photographed in a six week shoot on a small island near Cairns. Cast and crew would be accommodated in the motel type facilities, before returning to Sydney for another six weeks of studio work.
And it was here, in Queensland, on location, where I personally erected the next hurdle on my path to superstardom. More like a roadblock, really.
It had to do with what I put in my mouth.
Film sets are notorious for their lavish catering. Full, hot breakfasts, morning teas of cakes and pastries, stodgy lunches, more sweets for afternoon tea, massive dinners with a selection of desserts, and suppers for night shoots. They are designed to help the mostly male crew to keep up their strength for the physical exertions of the day (not to mention their physical exertions of the night, another thing film sets are notorious for, but that's another story).
For me, it was a paradise. Up until now, my mum had been primarily responsible for what I ate, and she kept a very healthy home. I'd eat the dinners she cooked, and make breakfasts and lunches from the selection of ingredients in our kitchen. Away from her and my dad, with buffets on display five times a day, every single day, I went a bit beserk. Porridge and french toast for breakfast, muffins for morning tea, burgers for lunch, cakes, hot chips, ice cream, pasta, schnitzels..... My costumes got tighter and tighter, my cheeks got fuller and fuller, and with my short grey hair I took on the appearance of a molding Mr Potato Head.
By the time we arrived back in Sydney to shoot the interiors, I had gained a stone. By the end of the 12 week shoot, I had gained nearly two.
The continuity girl was frantic. It was her job to ensure that all the shots filmed at different times matched up to make one cohesive scene, one flawless narrative. This posed a tremendous challenge when the scene showed Sally frolicking in denim cut-offs on the beach, a petite size eight, only to walk through the door and enter the family home, suddenly a rather chunky size 12.
The makeup artist spoke to me sternly, the wardrobe mistress lectured me about my responsibilities, but I was a 17 (ehem - 15) year old girl, away from home for the first time, virtually unsupervised, and I was running wild.
Needless to say, the producers were unimpressed. The mini-series turned out to be reasonably successful, and it was picked up as a regular series. Sally, however, was written out. Apparently, she had left her island home to become a flight attendant. Clearly on an airline without weight restrictions.
TV week reported that I was likely to return for "several of the new season episodes". This several turned out to be "one". So humiliated was I with my big (literally) failure that I politely declined the offer of a day's work, and another girl was flown in for eight hours to play Sally. Apparently she wasn't very good either.
In the end, I went back to school and let go of my acting ambitions. Still, it was fun while it lasted. I had my moment in the sun, light streaming through my orange streaks, my fat cheeks glowing with health.
Maddeningly, though, there is always that reminder of what could have been... the woman whose career mirrored my own, up until she took off into the stratosphere, and I headed back to the buffet for seconds.
Ah, Nicole. My nemesis. Bet you're glad I stood aside.
October 19, 2009
How Nicole Kidman Stole My Life - Part 1
It is a truth universally acknowledged (at least in my own head) that Nicole Kidman stole my life. Or - to be more precise - she took the life that should have been mine, had she not ever existed. Oh, and had I not the tendency to eat everything in sight when confronted with a buffet.
As a fifteen year old girl, I harboured dreams of becoming an actress. My parents - thrilled, as you can imagine, by the prospect of their private-school educated daughter ending up a waitress instead of a lawyer - relented and found me an agent.
My success was meteoric, in a somewhat muted kind of way. Just weeks after joining the agency, and having attended only a handful of auditions, I got a call back for a leading role in a movie. I was beside myself. It was breathtakingly exciting. I was going to be a star!
The read through with the director went extremely well, and I was subsequently called back for a third audition. This time I was asked whether I rode a bike. I did (or at least I had, when I'd last been on a bike some 8 years prior) so I confidently answered 'yes'. I went home with high hopes, and a resolution to begin practice cycling immediately.
Later in the week I received a call from my agent. I'd come runner-up for the role - the lead in a film called "BMX Bandits". They'd chosen another newcomer, a tall girl with frizzy red hair who I knew from my acting classes. I was seething with jealousy. Still, I figured, who's going to see a movie about some kids on bikes?
Happily, my bitterness was short lived. Just weeks after missing out on the BMX Bandits role, I received a second call back for another role - one of the leads in an eight part television mini-series, to be shot on location in Queensland. I'd received the script, but no indication of which part I was up for. There were three female characters - a woman in her mid-thirties, a twelve year old girl, and a teenager of nearly eighteen. Whilst I felt pretty sure I wasn't being considered for the thirty-something role, I wasn't sure which of the others I was auditioning for. At fifteen, I was smack bang in the middle.
I sat in my chair, between the director and producer, listening to their concept (a family on an island) desperately searching for clues. Do I swing my legs and try to look young, or cross them and try to look sophisticated?
"Of course, we're considering you for the part of Sally," the director said. Ah... the seventeen year old.
"Of course," I said knowingly. I crossed my legs and tried to look mature.
The read through went well, and I was called back the following week to audition with the actor already cast as Sally's father. I was getting closer and closer to my dream, and it was way better than some silly film about bikes. A TV mini-series! I'd have my photo in TV week! I'd be famous!
I passed the audition, and then it was time for the final stage. The swimsuit contest. Okay, so it wasn't exactly a contest, but close. The director needed to see me in my bathers, to check that I was, well, lithe enough for the role. No-one wants to see a chunky 17 (ehem - 15) year old girl frolicking around in shorts on the beach. Not on TV, anyway.
I was demented with excitement at the final audition (and quite light-headed from lack of food). I wore a black faux-leather bikini which nicely showed off my 17 (ehem - 15) year old figure, whittled down dramatically from eight stone to seven-and-a half in the week before the audition. I felt ridiculous parading around, but quite frankly would have stood on my head wearing a red nose and leg warmers if it gave me my shot at fame.
I didn't have to. The faux-leather bikini worked. I got the role.
"We're definitely casting you as Sally," the director said. It was the greatest moment of my 17 (ehem - 15) year old life.
The path to fame was lit ahead. I just had to walk down the red carpet to the Hollywood career that awaited. Unfortunately, though, there were some minor bumps along the way.
As a fifteen year old girl, I harboured dreams of becoming an actress. My parents - thrilled, as you can imagine, by the prospect of their private-school educated daughter ending up a waitress instead of a lawyer - relented and found me an agent.
My success was meteoric, in a somewhat muted kind of way. Just weeks after joining the agency, and having attended only a handful of auditions, I got a call back for a leading role in a movie. I was beside myself. It was breathtakingly exciting. I was going to be a star!
The read through with the director went extremely well, and I was subsequently called back for a third audition. This time I was asked whether I rode a bike. I did (or at least I had, when I'd last been on a bike some 8 years prior) so I confidently answered 'yes'. I went home with high hopes, and a resolution to begin practice cycling immediately.
Later in the week I received a call from my agent. I'd come runner-up for the role - the lead in a film called "BMX Bandits". They'd chosen another newcomer, a tall girl with frizzy red hair who I knew from my acting classes. I was seething with jealousy. Still, I figured, who's going to see a movie about some kids on bikes?
Happily, my bitterness was short lived. Just weeks after missing out on the BMX Bandits role, I received a second call back for another role - one of the leads in an eight part television mini-series, to be shot on location in Queensland. I'd received the script, but no indication of which part I was up for. There were three female characters - a woman in her mid-thirties, a twelve year old girl, and a teenager of nearly eighteen. Whilst I felt pretty sure I wasn't being considered for the thirty-something role, I wasn't sure which of the others I was auditioning for. At fifteen, I was smack bang in the middle.
I sat in my chair, between the director and producer, listening to their concept (a family on an island) desperately searching for clues. Do I swing my legs and try to look young, or cross them and try to look sophisticated?
"Of course, we're considering you for the part of Sally," the director said. Ah... the seventeen year old.
"Of course," I said knowingly. I crossed my legs and tried to look mature.
The read through went well, and I was called back the following week to audition with the actor already cast as Sally's father. I was getting closer and closer to my dream, and it was way better than some silly film about bikes. A TV mini-series! I'd have my photo in TV week! I'd be famous!
I passed the audition, and then it was time for the final stage. The swimsuit contest. Okay, so it wasn't exactly a contest, but close. The director needed to see me in my bathers, to check that I was, well, lithe enough for the role. No-one wants to see a chunky 17 (ehem - 15) year old girl frolicking around in shorts on the beach. Not on TV, anyway.
I was demented with excitement at the final audition (and quite light-headed from lack of food). I wore a black faux-leather bikini which nicely showed off my 17 (ehem - 15) year old figure, whittled down dramatically from eight stone to seven-and-a half in the week before the audition. I felt ridiculous parading around, but quite frankly would have stood on my head wearing a red nose and leg warmers if it gave me my shot at fame.
I didn't have to. The faux-leather bikini worked. I got the role.
"We're definitely casting you as Sally," the director said. It was the greatest moment of my 17 (ehem - 15) year old life.
The path to fame was lit ahead. I just had to walk down the red carpet to the Hollywood career that awaited. Unfortunately, though, there were some minor bumps along the way.
October 16, 2009
Looking Good, Babe! (At Least To Me.....)
Dennis, the guy behind the counter at my local chicken shop is large. Very large. He’s also what my mother would refer to as a ‘rather plain’ young man (my mum is nothing if not diplomatic). He is, however, a lovely person and I enjoy having a chat with him when I come in to buy dinner for the kids (using ‘dinner’ in the sense of ‘hot chips’). Frequently, Dennis’s sister is in the chicken shop with him. She is equally large and equally plain and remarkably similar in appearance. Except that she is not his sister at all. She is his girlfriend, and – apart from the fact that his parents deny it – they could be twins separated at birth.
Now, Dennis and his girlfriend fascinate me, because they are clearly in love, and clearly extremely physically attracted to each other. I know this because I’ve seen them fondling, which – until I was alerted to the fact that they were not actually related – made me more than a little uncomfortable.
What interests me about Dennis and his girlfriend is the evident synchronicity of their appearances. Now, obviously there is no such thing as a universal scale of attractiveness, otherwise how can I explain the fact that not everyone in the world finds my husband irresistibly gorgeous? However, I think it isn’t too far a stretch to suggest that on a scale of One to Ten - where Brad and Angelina are a Ten, and your ancient ex-history teacher with the bulbous nose and yellow teeth is a One – then Dennis and his girlfriend both score around a Three.
Now this is clearly not a problem for them, as they are totally hot for each other. But if Dennis was an Eight or Nine - if he had been blessed with a fabulous face, went to the gym occasionally, and stopped eating all of that fried chicken - in other words, if he looked more like Zac Ephron, and less like Homer Simpson - would he still be as madly in love with his obese girlfriend?
I know this is going to be a contentious issue, because we all like to believe that it’s what’s on the inside that counts, and that looks just aren’t important. Really beautiful women ‘want to be loved for who I am, not what I look like!’, and less genetically blessed women want to be found attractive for the same reason. We all want to think that Dennis would have chosen the same girlfriend even if he was gorgeous himself. But the proof is in the pudding.
I know there are always exceptions, but very frequently people end up with partners who are remarkably similar in appearance – either in their degree of attractiveness, or quite literally in terms of facial structure and features. In fact, looking at photos taken of a recent dinner party with seven couples, I can see that five couples could have passed as brother and sister, and the remaining two would certainly have been rated as good looking (or not) as their partners. I would guarantee that, had I shuffled the pictures of each of the 14 participants, a stranger could have matched each woman to her correct spouse.
Now, we can all think of examples of exceedingly stunning women married to remarkably unattractive men. Generally in these cases there are compensating factors, like money, fame, and…. well…. just money or fame, really. And when we occasionally see very plain women with really attractive men, no doubt the same pattern is at work. As an acquaintance commented to me recently, ‘When my friends meet my husband, they assume I’m really rich’.
Now I know some of you are going to be squealing about how cynical I am: “Love is blind!”, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder”….. but come ON! How many couples do you know where one partner is incredibly attractive and the other incredibly plain, with all else being equal? REALLY????
And why is this? Why are we attracted to what is similar? Was my husband’s face comforting because it reminded me of my family of origin? Was it a narcissistic attraction to myself in male form? Or was it an attempt to continue my own genetic line in my offspring? You know, so that even if they looked exactly like their father (which they freakishly – and, quite unfairly - do) they’ll still end up looking a little bit like me?
Well, I’m sure these factors do play a part, but certainly not consciously. Consciously, I fell in love with my husband because he shared my love of West Coast Coolers and looked cute in a white suit (not, mind you, the criteria I would have today).
But why did I fall in love with him and not the captain of the varsity basketball team? Well, firstly because it wasn’t High School Musical, and if there was a basketball team, I didn’t know the captain. But even if I had, I suspect he would have been off kanoodling with the head of the cheerleading squad (if there had been a cheerleading squad, which there was not, given as it wasn’t… you know.. High School Musical) instead of giving his attention to me.
You see, when it comes to the game of love, I think a very large part of our choice boils down to access.
I don’t mean to be cynical because there are always people who love others for who they are no matter what they look like. But the reality is that most people are conscious of looks when meeting potential partners, which means that a good looking person simply has a wider pool of potential mates from which to choose. In other words, I – with my slightly daggy looks and great personality – had to compete with the totally stunning girls with great personalities. And my husband - with the white suit and West Coast Cooler – had to compete with… well… guys with even greater assets.
So it’s not a deliberate decision to seek a partner at your own level of attractiveness; it’s just that the field is narrowed down for you. Which is helpful, really. If I’d been bombarded with all the fabulously wealthy, famous, and gorgeous basketball stars, I would not have noticed my future husband in his lovely white suit. (Well, actually I probably would have, the thing was practically fluorescent. But you get my drift.) And I’m glad I did. My husband may only be an 8 (okay, 7.5), but he’s MY 7.5. And one woman’s 7.5 is another woman’s 10. Just as one man’s 3 is Dennis’s 9, and clearly the love of his life.
Unless she really is his sister. I’m still not 100% sure.
originally published in TRIBE magazine
Now, Dennis and his girlfriend fascinate me, because they are clearly in love, and clearly extremely physically attracted to each other. I know this because I’ve seen them fondling, which – until I was alerted to the fact that they were not actually related – made me more than a little uncomfortable.
What interests me about Dennis and his girlfriend is the evident synchronicity of their appearances. Now, obviously there is no such thing as a universal scale of attractiveness, otherwise how can I explain the fact that not everyone in the world finds my husband irresistibly gorgeous? However, I think it isn’t too far a stretch to suggest that on a scale of One to Ten - where Brad and Angelina are a Ten, and your ancient ex-history teacher with the bulbous nose and yellow teeth is a One – then Dennis and his girlfriend both score around a Three.
Now this is clearly not a problem for them, as they are totally hot for each other. But if Dennis was an Eight or Nine - if he had been blessed with a fabulous face, went to the gym occasionally, and stopped eating all of that fried chicken - in other words, if he looked more like Zac Ephron, and less like Homer Simpson - would he still be as madly in love with his obese girlfriend?
I know this is going to be a contentious issue, because we all like to believe that it’s what’s on the inside that counts, and that looks just aren’t important. Really beautiful women ‘want to be loved for who I am, not what I look like!’, and less genetically blessed women want to be found attractive for the same reason. We all want to think that Dennis would have chosen the same girlfriend even if he was gorgeous himself. But the proof is in the pudding.
I know there are always exceptions, but very frequently people end up with partners who are remarkably similar in appearance – either in their degree of attractiveness, or quite literally in terms of facial structure and features. In fact, looking at photos taken of a recent dinner party with seven couples, I can see that five couples could have passed as brother and sister, and the remaining two would certainly have been rated as good looking (or not) as their partners. I would guarantee that, had I shuffled the pictures of each of the 14 participants, a stranger could have matched each woman to her correct spouse.
Now, we can all think of examples of exceedingly stunning women married to remarkably unattractive men. Generally in these cases there are compensating factors, like money, fame, and…. well…. just money or fame, really. And when we occasionally see very plain women with really attractive men, no doubt the same pattern is at work. As an acquaintance commented to me recently, ‘When my friends meet my husband, they assume I’m really rich’.
Now I know some of you are going to be squealing about how cynical I am: “Love is blind!”, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder”….. but come ON! How many couples do you know where one partner is incredibly attractive and the other incredibly plain, with all else being equal? REALLY????
And why is this? Why are we attracted to what is similar? Was my husband’s face comforting because it reminded me of my family of origin? Was it a narcissistic attraction to myself in male form? Or was it an attempt to continue my own genetic line in my offspring? You know, so that even if they looked exactly like their father (which they freakishly – and, quite unfairly - do) they’ll still end up looking a little bit like me?
Well, I’m sure these factors do play a part, but certainly not consciously. Consciously, I fell in love with my husband because he shared my love of West Coast Coolers and looked cute in a white suit (not, mind you, the criteria I would have today).
But why did I fall in love with him and not the captain of the varsity basketball team? Well, firstly because it wasn’t High School Musical, and if there was a basketball team, I didn’t know the captain. But even if I had, I suspect he would have been off kanoodling with the head of the cheerleading squad (if there had been a cheerleading squad, which there was not, given as it wasn’t… you know.. High School Musical) instead of giving his attention to me.
You see, when it comes to the game of love, I think a very large part of our choice boils down to access.
I don’t mean to be cynical because there are always people who love others for who they are no matter what they look like. But the reality is that most people are conscious of looks when meeting potential partners, which means that a good looking person simply has a wider pool of potential mates from which to choose. In other words, I – with my slightly daggy looks and great personality – had to compete with the totally stunning girls with great personalities. And my husband - with the white suit and West Coast Cooler – had to compete with… well… guys with even greater assets.
So it’s not a deliberate decision to seek a partner at your own level of attractiveness; it’s just that the field is narrowed down for you. Which is helpful, really. If I’d been bombarded with all the fabulously wealthy, famous, and gorgeous basketball stars, I would not have noticed my future husband in his lovely white suit. (Well, actually I probably would have, the thing was practically fluorescent. But you get my drift.) And I’m glad I did. My husband may only be an 8 (okay, 7.5), but he’s MY 7.5. And one woman’s 7.5 is another woman’s 10. Just as one man’s 3 is Dennis’s 9, and clearly the love of his life.
Unless she really is his sister. I’m still not 100% sure.
originally published in TRIBE magazine
October 12, 2009
Shaving It All Off
This may come as a shock to you, but I'm fantasizing about shaving it all off.
I have these fantasies from time to time, when I'm tired of all the trimming and styling. When it drives me crazy that - even after fluffing and adding product and putting clips in it - nine times out of ten it still looks messy. I just think it would be easier to be bald.
This current fantasy about shaving my head (yes my head, what did you think I meant?) has been coming on for a while. And it's luring me in with the promise of tangle-free mornings; of days without frizz; of evenings without my shiny head of cascading curls mutating into a dreadlocked mess of chunky knots.
On days like today, on a Bad Hair Afternoon, in a Bad Hair Week, at the end of a Bad Hair Month, I understand what Britney went through on that fateful day in the salon. I wonder if her 'bizarre' head-shaving may have had less to do with a drug-fuelled breakdown, and more to do with being tired of scraggly, overly bleached, impossible-to-comb long hair. (Okay, so maybe the drug-fuelled breakdown had something to do with it, but I'm sure it was the scraggly hair that was the clincher.)
Most women know Bad Hair Days. We all have times when we long for our hair to be different, whether thicker, finer, straighter, more curly, flatter, or more bouffant. But surely it's not just women who feel frustrated with their coiffs? Surely men feel the angst too? Not all, of course; after all, my husband doesn't seem to worry about styling - the fact that he has still has some hair at all is a source of delight to him. But perhaps men like Vin Diesel and Bruce Willis are bald not out of genetics but choice, having rejected a lifetime of knots and split ends in favour of a shiny, easy-to-maintain pate?
As a young woman, I was full of Hair Hope. I was sure that if I just kept searching, I would find the right product, the right hairdresser, the right style, and the right hairdrier to make my hair perfect. My hair would fall, magnificently, in beautifully defined ringlets, with just the right amount of body on the top, and just the right number of tendrils gently grazing my face below.
Now, as a more, er, mature person, I have come to accept reality. Which is that my perfect hair is never going to happen. The best I'm going to get is a nice cut and blowdry every so often (interspersed with some really crappy ones), creating a look I will only be able to replicate on rare occasions by complete fluke, and never on a day I actually have plans.
So for now, it's fantasies about shaving, which I shall harbour until my hairdressing appointment on Friday. And I'm really going to have a radical change this time. I might even let my hairdresser cut a whole three centimetres off.
What, you think I want to be bald???
I have these fantasies from time to time, when I'm tired of all the trimming and styling. When it drives me crazy that - even after fluffing and adding product and putting clips in it - nine times out of ten it still looks messy. I just think it would be easier to be bald.
This current fantasy about shaving my head (yes my head, what did you think I meant?) has been coming on for a while. And it's luring me in with the promise of tangle-free mornings; of days without frizz; of evenings without my shiny head of cascading curls mutating into a dreadlocked mess of chunky knots.
On days like today, on a Bad Hair Afternoon, in a Bad Hair Week, at the end of a Bad Hair Month, I understand what Britney went through on that fateful day in the salon. I wonder if her 'bizarre' head-shaving may have had less to do with a drug-fuelled breakdown, and more to do with being tired of scraggly, overly bleached, impossible-to-comb long hair. (Okay, so maybe the drug-fuelled breakdown had something to do with it, but I'm sure it was the scraggly hair that was the clincher.)
Most women know Bad Hair Days. We all have times when we long for our hair to be different, whether thicker, finer, straighter, more curly, flatter, or more bouffant. But surely it's not just women who feel frustrated with their coiffs? Surely men feel the angst too? Not all, of course; after all, my husband doesn't seem to worry about styling - the fact that he has still has some hair at all is a source of delight to him. But perhaps men like Vin Diesel and Bruce Willis are bald not out of genetics but choice, having rejected a lifetime of knots and split ends in favour of a shiny, easy-to-maintain pate?
As a young woman, I was full of Hair Hope. I was sure that if I just kept searching, I would find the right product, the right hairdresser, the right style, and the right hairdrier to make my hair perfect. My hair would fall, magnificently, in beautifully defined ringlets, with just the right amount of body on the top, and just the right number of tendrils gently grazing my face below.
Now, as a more, er, mature person, I have come to accept reality. Which is that my perfect hair is never going to happen. The best I'm going to get is a nice cut and blowdry every so often (interspersed with some really crappy ones), creating a look I will only be able to replicate on rare occasions by complete fluke, and never on a day I actually have plans.
So for now, it's fantasies about shaving, which I shall harbour until my hairdressing appointment on Friday. And I'm really going to have a radical change this time. I might even let my hairdresser cut a whole three centimetres off.
What, you think I want to be bald???
October 9, 2009
Holiday Insights From A Frozen Woman On A Bench
I am a firm believer that one can learn something from almost any experience. Whether it's going to the supermarket ('Ah, stringers are a type of cheese'), attending a kids' birthday party ('Hmm... so it's not appropriate to take a slice of birthday cake before the candles have been lit...') or meeting a friend for coffee ('Yes... Botox can go hideously wrong'), we can take something away from every experience.
So, even on holidays at the central coast, where I have been visiting for over a decade, I still learn something new every time.
And on this particular trip, the list is already quite impressive:
- When visiting a holiday home it is not sufficient to have the keys to the front door. It is also an excellent idea to have the keys to the security padlock, so that you can actually GET to the front door. At 6.30pm. In the driving rain. With three kids in the car. Who are hungry.
- Being at home in the rain is annoying. Being at a holiday home with kids in torrential rain is like being trapped in a cage with three angry tigers. There are only so many games of Jenga and Cluedo one can throw at them before they eventually turn on you.
- The new and improved version of Cluedo is far more complicated than the original. It frightens me. I don't like change.
- In the presence of spiders, I am as Brave as a Lion.
- In the presence of mice, I turn into a cartoon character, screaming hysterically and jumping on benches. This does not earn me the respect of my children, though it gives my mother a very good laugh (though who is she to laugh I do not know, considering that in the presence of spiders she screams hysterically and jumps on benches).
- Sleeping with the Toddler in my bed does not lend itself to a good night sleep, unless one considers being woken every two hours to the cheerful sounds of "Loot, Mama, Teddy Bear!!!" to be 'good'.
- My favourite pair of jeans are disintegrating. This has little to do with my trip to the central coast, but is a fascinating piece of information nonetheless.
- I am the World's Most Inconsistent Packer. Though for one week away I brought two varieties of toothpaste, about 10,000 nappies, every children's DVD ever made, 150 outfits for Toddler, five packets of biscuits, and two foam visors for the kids to decorate (don't even ask), I neglected to pack minor essentials such as pyjamas for my daughter, a jacket for my son, long-sleeved tops for me, and chocolate. So as evening falls, we huddle frozen in front of the television, watching Shrek on DVD, trying to warm ourselves by burning nappies as I satisfy my chocolate cravings with Aldi wafer biscuits. Oh bliss.
- It is a great idea to take children's activity books with you, to provide distraction and entertainment. I wouldn't recommend the Junior Spot-The-Difference Puzzle Book, though. Way too hard for me. The kids liked it, though.
- The holidays are long.
October 5, 2009
A Dream Of Lunch Unmade (aka Goodbye, Golden Bum)
I had a horrible nightmare last night.
I have a lot of bad dreams, and this wasn’t any of the usual suspects: being chased by evil demons down dark alleys, falling from great heights, realising I’m topless at a 40th birthday party, or being rejected by Josh Goldenbum at school.
No, this nightmare was about making sandwiches.
It was awful. In the dream, I was standing in my kitchen, desperately trying to cut the crusts off slices of bread for my children’s lunches. It was morning, and we were running very late for school, but despite my best efforts, the knife kept slipping out of my hand, and the slices of bread kept crumbling. In desperation, I went to the fridge to find tuna and sliced cheese to put in my kids' lunchboxes, but all I could find was broccoli and peanut butter, neither of which they like (besides, they’re not allowed to take nuts to school, but I wasn’t actually thinking about that in the dream).
I woke as I wake from any nightmare, in a cold sweat, with my heart pounding. And, as normal, I had to go through a mental reality check to calm myself down. Usually this checklist consists of things like ‘there are no evil demons’, ‘I’m not falling from anywhere’ and ‘I really will find a top to wear to the party’. (Sadly, though, I actually was rejected by Josh Goldenbum, so I can’t talk myself out of that one.)
In this case, however, the checklist was a bit different. I had to remind myself that the bread was fresh and the knives were sharp, so a crumbling loaf was highly unlikely. The fridge was well stocked with tuna and cheese, there was no broccoli to speak of, and the peanut butter was almost finished, after I got stuck into it with a spoon the previous day. I always make school lunches the night before so the whole dream was redundant anyway, and what’s more, the dream took place in the school holidays.
I finished my checklist and felt better. It was just a dream!
And then I felt worse. Much worse. Because it hit me.
I was dreaming about school lunches.
Not demons. Not nudity. Not even Josh Goldenbum. No, I was dreaming about sandwiches. Yes, this is my horror now. This is what wakes me, sweaty and panicked in the middle of the night. The fear of sending my kids to school without a nutritious, suitably non-allergenic meal. The terror of not being able to cut the crusts off.
I realised that I have turned a significant corner in my (inner) life. My subconscious - once a proud receptacle for all sorts of complex existential fears – is now completely empty, except for a couple of plastic lunchboxes and a pile of crustless bread.
So what does this all mean? Is it good news or bad? Have I become a simpler, less angst-ridden person? Or have I merely repressed my true existential anxieties (“Who am I?” “What is the meaning of life?” “Do I exist if Josh Goldenbum doesn’t know I do?”) and replaced them with metaphorical anxieties about lunch?
I don’t know. I do know, however, that the fear of a sandwich unmade is every bit as scary as thinking about death, or contemplating the nature of infinity, or pondering the meaninglessness of the universe.
And from now, I’m going to sleep with a lunchbox under my pillow.
I have a lot of bad dreams, and this wasn’t any of the usual suspects: being chased by evil demons down dark alleys, falling from great heights, realising I’m topless at a 40th birthday party, or being rejected by Josh Goldenbum at school.
No, this nightmare was about making sandwiches.
It was awful. In the dream, I was standing in my kitchen, desperately trying to cut the crusts off slices of bread for my children’s lunches. It was morning, and we were running very late for school, but despite my best efforts, the knife kept slipping out of my hand, and the slices of bread kept crumbling. In desperation, I went to the fridge to find tuna and sliced cheese to put in my kids' lunchboxes, but all I could find was broccoli and peanut butter, neither of which they like (besides, they’re not allowed to take nuts to school, but I wasn’t actually thinking about that in the dream).
I woke as I wake from any nightmare, in a cold sweat, with my heart pounding. And, as normal, I had to go through a mental reality check to calm myself down. Usually this checklist consists of things like ‘there are no evil demons’, ‘I’m not falling from anywhere’ and ‘I really will find a top to wear to the party’. (Sadly, though, I actually was rejected by Josh Goldenbum, so I can’t talk myself out of that one.)
In this case, however, the checklist was a bit different. I had to remind myself that the bread was fresh and the knives were sharp, so a crumbling loaf was highly unlikely. The fridge was well stocked with tuna and cheese, there was no broccoli to speak of, and the peanut butter was almost finished, after I got stuck into it with a spoon the previous day. I always make school lunches the night before so the whole dream was redundant anyway, and what’s more, the dream took place in the school holidays.
I finished my checklist and felt better. It was just a dream!
And then I felt worse. Much worse. Because it hit me.
I was dreaming about school lunches.
Not demons. Not nudity. Not even Josh Goldenbum. No, I was dreaming about sandwiches. Yes, this is my horror now. This is what wakes me, sweaty and panicked in the middle of the night. The fear of sending my kids to school without a nutritious, suitably non-allergenic meal. The terror of not being able to cut the crusts off.
I realised that I have turned a significant corner in my (inner) life. My subconscious - once a proud receptacle for all sorts of complex existential fears – is now completely empty, except for a couple of plastic lunchboxes and a pile of crustless bread.
So what does this all mean? Is it good news or bad? Have I become a simpler, less angst-ridden person? Or have I merely repressed my true existential anxieties (“Who am I?” “What is the meaning of life?” “Do I exist if Josh Goldenbum doesn’t know I do?”) and replaced them with metaphorical anxieties about lunch?
I don’t know. I do know, however, that the fear of a sandwich unmade is every bit as scary as thinking about death, or contemplating the nature of infinity, or pondering the meaninglessness of the universe.
And from now, I’m going to sleep with a lunchbox under my pillow.
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