My twitter friend @mummybb suggested that I write about my deepest, darkest secrets. So I shall.
Okay. Here goes:
Oh come ON, are you KIDDING???
Remember @mummybb, I am the kind of person who will tell you when I have used a nose pore strip (Sunday morning) or have had a fight with my husband (Sunday night, not related to the pore strip), or have a finger that resembles a bottom (see first ever blog post). If something is a deep, dark secret then it's got to be pretty damn deep and dark not to have made it into the public arena thus far.
However, given the intense interest about my personal life (well, you know.... from @mummybb), I have decided to expose myself even further. As I cannot reveal my deepest darkest secret for fear of social shunning and possible legal action, I shall instead disclose to you my most hideously embarrasing moment.
Okay. Here goes:
And no, I'm not kidding.
It was a kiss.
Yes, the year was... well... ages ago, and it was my very second kiss. I had just turned 15 and the boy was 17. For the purposes of this blog I shall name the boy Don, because a) that's not his real name, and b) he was wearing a ridiculous white suit that was intentionally reminiscent of Don Johnson in Miami Vice. He was not, however, Don Johnson.
Don and I were sitting on a friend's mother's bed (as one does). I didn't particularly like Don, but we were there, and my friend was kissing Don's friend, so when he leaned in I leaned right back. Then we started kissing. And it did not go well.
A few seconds later Don pulled away, a horrified look on his face.
"Did you do that on purpose?" he asked.
"Do what?" I responded. I was pretty sure I was doing it right, but it was only my second time.
Don looked at me, and told me I....
NO @mummybb, I can't!!! Forgive me, readers, but I just can't tell you. I want to, truly, but I can't. Some things are just too private to reveal, even to the entire bloggersphere.
Did I tell you I used a pore strip on Sunday???
POSTSCRIPT: Okay! Okay! You really want to know????
I bit him.
November 30, 2009
November 23, 2009
A Cleaner's Right To Choose
I’m really conflicted about my new cleaning lady.
She does a great job, but I’m horribly guilty about letting her work for me. I feel a pang of anxiety every time I watch her polish my floor, carry the washing, tidy the toys, or even put the dishes in the machine.
She’s not an illegal immigrant so I’m not worried about her being hauled off to a detention centre (which incidentally just happened to the cleaning lady of a friend of mine). My cleaner’s English isn’t absolutely fluent yet, but I know for a fact that she’s an Australian citizen.
And not that she’s elderly, like my mother’s ex-cleaning lady. (Honestly, that poor woman must have been 86, I thought she’d expire just walking up the path to the front door). No, this cleaning lady is young and sprightly and full of energy. She can’t wait to get the broom into her hand and start sweeping.
And it’s not that she is overqualified for the job – you know, a paediatric neurosurgeon from Bosnia who can’t get her degree recognised here. She has absolutely no formal qualifications; in fact, she hasn’t even finished school.
Well, actually, she hasn’t even started school.
You see, she’s only two years old.
Yes, my latest cleaning lady is my very own daughter, a vision in her pink skirt, flower top, and yellow rubber gloves.
It’s her latest obsession. Toddler loves to clean. Give her a messy floor and she’ll sweep it. Give her a puddle of water and she’ll sponge it. Give her a box of blocks, and she’ll tip them onto the floor, only to put them back again.
Look, don’t get me wrong, one part of me is utterly ecstatic about this turn of affairs. The problem is, her new interest kind of clashes with my feminist tendencies, and the values I am trying to instill in my children.
My son, at the age of ten, has still never voluntarily cleaned anything in his life, not even his teeth. Honestly, the child expects a treat just for putting his feet into his shoes in the morning.
But my other daughter, now eight, also seems to have been struck by the tidy fairy. What’s more, she is quite the stickler for detail. Just the other day, for example, my husband walked into Pinkela’s room to find her surrounded by piles of clothes which she had pulled from the drawers in her wardrobe. He was about to discipline her, when he noticed that she was conscientiously folding each item of clothing and returning it to its rightful place. She simply hadn’t been satisfied with the way that I had done it.
So here I am, trying to teach my kids about gender equality, as my son runs around the house ridding the world of imaginary enemies, whilst my daughters run around the house ridding the world of imaginary stains.
How do I resolve this conflict? Do I encourage Toddler in her newfound hobby, ignoring the cries of my feminist conscience? Or do I prise the scourer from her hands, and try to interest her in a family game of Sword-Fighting Car-Worshipping Devil Monsters from AFL Hell?
Then again, perhaps there’s no conflict at all. It’s possible that I can have my cake, and get my girls to brush away the crumbs, too.
After all, isn’t feminism about a woman’s right to choose?
She does a great job, but I’m horribly guilty about letting her work for me. I feel a pang of anxiety every time I watch her polish my floor, carry the washing, tidy the toys, or even put the dishes in the machine.
She’s not an illegal immigrant so I’m not worried about her being hauled off to a detention centre (which incidentally just happened to the cleaning lady of a friend of mine). My cleaner’s English isn’t absolutely fluent yet, but I know for a fact that she’s an Australian citizen.
And not that she’s elderly, like my mother’s ex-cleaning lady. (Honestly, that poor woman must have been 86, I thought she’d expire just walking up the path to the front door). No, this cleaning lady is young and sprightly and full of energy. She can’t wait to get the broom into her hand and start sweeping.
And it’s not that she is overqualified for the job – you know, a paediatric neurosurgeon from Bosnia who can’t get her degree recognised here. She has absolutely no formal qualifications; in fact, she hasn’t even finished school.
Well, actually, she hasn’t even started school.
You see, she’s only two years old.
Yes, my latest cleaning lady is my very own daughter, a vision in her pink skirt, flower top, and yellow rubber gloves.
It’s her latest obsession. Toddler loves to clean. Give her a messy floor and she’ll sweep it. Give her a puddle of water and she’ll sponge it. Give her a box of blocks, and she’ll tip them onto the floor, only to put them back again.
Look, don’t get me wrong, one part of me is utterly ecstatic about this turn of affairs. The problem is, her new interest kind of clashes with my feminist tendencies, and the values I am trying to instill in my children.
My son, at the age of ten, has still never voluntarily cleaned anything in his life, not even his teeth. Honestly, the child expects a treat just for putting his feet into his shoes in the morning.
But my other daughter, now eight, also seems to have been struck by the tidy fairy. What’s more, she is quite the stickler for detail. Just the other day, for example, my husband walked into Pinkela’s room to find her surrounded by piles of clothes which she had pulled from the drawers in her wardrobe. He was about to discipline her, when he noticed that she was conscientiously folding each item of clothing and returning it to its rightful place. She simply hadn’t been satisfied with the way that I had done it.
So here I am, trying to teach my kids about gender equality, as my son runs around the house ridding the world of imaginary enemies, whilst my daughters run around the house ridding the world of imaginary stains.
How do I resolve this conflict? Do I encourage Toddler in her newfound hobby, ignoring the cries of my feminist conscience? Or do I prise the scourer from her hands, and try to interest her in a family game of Sword-Fighting Car-Worshipping Devil Monsters from AFL Hell?
Then again, perhaps there’s no conflict at all. It’s possible that I can have my cake, and get my girls to brush away the crumbs, too.
After all, isn’t feminism about a woman’s right to choose?
November 20, 2009
The Odd Ones
My last post brought to mind an article I published some years back, about... well... you'll see. Bear in mind it was written before Toddler was born. She's so totally whack she makes the others look like characters from Little House On The Prairie.
Sara, a little girl I know, insists on drinking out of a three- by two-inch shot glass. If you give her a drink in a regular cup, she pours it into the shot glass and drinks it mouthful by mouthful. Sara speaks with a broad Hungarian accent, despite the fact that she was born in Australia and has no living Hungarian relatives. She also responds only when addressed by the name ‘Pinkela’, a term she bestowed upon herself.
Okay, Sara is not her real name, and she is, in fact, my very own daughter. But she is rather an odd child, and if people knew that, well… what would they think of me?
I have always enjoyed blaming my parents for my own peculiarities. If I’m neurotic, histrionic, and overanxious, well, it’s clearly because of them (and all their typically neurotic, histrionic, and overanxious Jewish ancestors). But I am gradually learning that there is a flip side to that coin – that if my own children turn out to be a little strange, then it’s going to reflect directly on me.
I remember that when my son spent much of his second two years engaged in obsessive behaviour, meticulously organising his possessions into neatly ordered rows, the most common feedback I had was ‘Well, given his parents, it’s hardly surprising!’
Of course, I’m just as judgemental as the next person. When Jake chose the bridal gown in the dress-up corner every day for his first year at kindy, I raised my eyebrows knowingly. When four-year-old Nadia starting greeting adults with “Hello, are you going to die soon?” I was full of speculation. And when three-year-old Rosie began offering my son naked lap dances, I had a field day (though it did bring me tremendous joy to see my little boy so happy).
We all know that kids are born with their own personalities, that they are more than just the sum of their parents’ parts. But when it’s your own little Mikey or Lara who’s thrown themselves on the floor in the middle of a birthday party, howling that their piece of cake is ‘all wrong’ (because it is slightly asymmetrical), that knowledge is poor consolation.
The only comfort for people like me is to mix with the parents of other weird children. That’s partly why I love spending time with my friend Lily, who herself has exquisite dress sense, but whose daughter opened the door the other day wearing an orange t-shirt two sizes too small, a pastel frock with shoestring straps, a fluffy purple jacket, green woollen tights, and clear plastic sandals with rosettes.
It is also reassuring to spend time with other adults who were once odd children themselves, Josh, for example, who spent a year of his childhood wearing a balaclava everywhere – even in the sweltering heat of Surfers Paradise, where it looked particularly fetching teamed with his Donald Duck swimsuit.
Josh has since grown into a fine, upstanding citizen, and appears to be fairly normal on the surface. Still, you never know what goes on behind closed doors, and only his wife can tell us whether he still whips out the balaclava from time to time.
Of course, there is no guarantee that my odd children will turn into odd adults. But if they do, you can be sure of one thing - that everyone will nod and say gleefully “Well no wonder they’re weird. Have you seen the parents?”
Sara, a little girl I know, insists on drinking out of a three- by two-inch shot glass. If you give her a drink in a regular cup, she pours it into the shot glass and drinks it mouthful by mouthful. Sara speaks with a broad Hungarian accent, despite the fact that she was born in Australia and has no living Hungarian relatives. She also responds only when addressed by the name ‘Pinkela’, a term she bestowed upon herself.
Okay, Sara is not her real name, and she is, in fact, my very own daughter. But she is rather an odd child, and if people knew that, well… what would they think of me?
I have always enjoyed blaming my parents for my own peculiarities. If I’m neurotic, histrionic, and overanxious, well, it’s clearly because of them (and all their typically neurotic, histrionic, and overanxious Jewish ancestors). But I am gradually learning that there is a flip side to that coin – that if my own children turn out to be a little strange, then it’s going to reflect directly on me.
I remember that when my son spent much of his second two years engaged in obsessive behaviour, meticulously organising his possessions into neatly ordered rows, the most common feedback I had was ‘Well, given his parents, it’s hardly surprising!’
Of course, I’m just as judgemental as the next person. When Jake chose the bridal gown in the dress-up corner every day for his first year at kindy, I raised my eyebrows knowingly. When four-year-old Nadia starting greeting adults with “Hello, are you going to die soon?” I was full of speculation. And when three-year-old Rosie began offering my son naked lap dances, I had a field day (though it did bring me tremendous joy to see my little boy so happy).
We all know that kids are born with their own personalities, that they are more than just the sum of their parents’ parts. But when it’s your own little Mikey or Lara who’s thrown themselves on the floor in the middle of a birthday party, howling that their piece of cake is ‘all wrong’ (because it is slightly asymmetrical), that knowledge is poor consolation.
The only comfort for people like me is to mix with the parents of other weird children. That’s partly why I love spending time with my friend Lily, who herself has exquisite dress sense, but whose daughter opened the door the other day wearing an orange t-shirt two sizes too small, a pastel frock with shoestring straps, a fluffy purple jacket, green woollen tights, and clear plastic sandals with rosettes.
It is also reassuring to spend time with other adults who were once odd children themselves, Josh, for example, who spent a year of his childhood wearing a balaclava everywhere – even in the sweltering heat of Surfers Paradise, where it looked particularly fetching teamed with his Donald Duck swimsuit.
Josh has since grown into a fine, upstanding citizen, and appears to be fairly normal on the surface. Still, you never know what goes on behind closed doors, and only his wife can tell us whether he still whips out the balaclava from time to time.
Of course, there is no guarantee that my odd children will turn into odd adults. But if they do, you can be sure of one thing - that everyone will nod and say gleefully “Well no wonder they’re weird. Have you seen the parents?”
November 17, 2009
Things That Make Us Go 'Weird'!
I have a secret. I eat oranges. Compulsively.
Well, not oranges, per se. More like orange. One per morning. Every morning of my life.
The first thing I do when I get out of bed, before brushing my teeth, before feeding my children -hell, before even greeting my children – is sit down at the table and eat an orange. It's as fundamental to me as breathing.
Now, I admit, no-one else I know eats an orange every single morning of their life. No-one else ensures that their fridges are stacked with oranges at all times, even denying their own children an orange in the evening if it means there won’t be one available for the morning.
And, for a while, I was ashamed of my orange fetish. I tried to hide it from friends, furtively eating my orange in bed on weekends away, guiltily smuggling oranges from the breakfast buffet on holidays.
But then, as I grew older, and started looking around me, I stopped being ashamed. Everyone has idiosyncrasies. Everyone does weird things. And who are others to judge me when they are just as peculiar themselves?
My father, for example, is known for his devotion to apples (yes, fruit fetishes must run in the family). He eats a minimum of four to five a day, core and all. And my mother (she who thinks I’M strange) will not leave the house without making the bed. EVER. She could be deathly ill, on her way to hospital on a stretcher, and she would ask to be let down to make the bed before they depart.
My own husband has dozens of odd habits. Some involve food, others involve his work practices, and several involve his choice of underwear. And my youngest child is so quirky she could qualify as another species. From offering complete strangers a smell of her blanket, to sucking the noses of people she loves, to singing Happy Birthday at the top of her lungs to everyone she meets, the child is unconventional, to say the least.
As for my girlfriends, well, one lets her toenails grow to ridiculous lengths, one is on a constant quest to buy the perfect pair of brown boots to add to her collection -none of which she ever wears, and a third gets – wait for it – eyelash extensions. And one obsessive friend wears nose pore strips every two or three nights. IN BED. WITH HER HUSBAND.
Oh, hang on. That nose strip one is me. Guess some of us have more than one weird habit.
We all have our eccentricities. They are what differentiate us from, well, each other. I mean, if I wasn’t a nose-strip-wearing-eater-of-daybreak-oranges, I could be you. So let’s embrace our inner weirdos, and be proud of how odd we are.
But if I see you laying a hand on one of my oranges, you’re outta here.
Well, not oranges, per se. More like orange. One per morning. Every morning of my life.
The first thing I do when I get out of bed, before brushing my teeth, before feeding my children -hell, before even greeting my children – is sit down at the table and eat an orange. It's as fundamental to me as breathing.
Now, I admit, no-one else I know eats an orange every single morning of their life. No-one else ensures that their fridges are stacked with oranges at all times, even denying their own children an orange in the evening if it means there won’t be one available for the morning.
And, for a while, I was ashamed of my orange fetish. I tried to hide it from friends, furtively eating my orange in bed on weekends away, guiltily smuggling oranges from the breakfast buffet on holidays.
But then, as I grew older, and started looking around me, I stopped being ashamed. Everyone has idiosyncrasies. Everyone does weird things. And who are others to judge me when they are just as peculiar themselves?
My father, for example, is known for his devotion to apples (yes, fruit fetishes must run in the family). He eats a minimum of four to five a day, core and all. And my mother (she who thinks I’M strange) will not leave the house without making the bed. EVER. She could be deathly ill, on her way to hospital on a stretcher, and she would ask to be let down to make the bed before they depart.
My own husband has dozens of odd habits. Some involve food, others involve his work practices, and several involve his choice of underwear. And my youngest child is so quirky she could qualify as another species. From offering complete strangers a smell of her blanket, to sucking the noses of people she loves, to singing Happy Birthday at the top of her lungs to everyone she meets, the child is unconventional, to say the least.
As for my girlfriends, well, one lets her toenails grow to ridiculous lengths, one is on a constant quest to buy the perfect pair of brown boots to add to her collection -none of which she ever wears, and a third gets – wait for it – eyelash extensions. And one obsessive friend wears nose pore strips every two or three nights. IN BED. WITH HER HUSBAND.
Oh, hang on. That nose strip one is me. Guess some of us have more than one weird habit.
We all have our eccentricities. They are what differentiate us from, well, each other. I mean, if I wasn’t a nose-strip-wearing-eater-of-daybreak-oranges, I could be you. So let’s embrace our inner weirdos, and be proud of how odd we are.
But if I see you laying a hand on one of my oranges, you’re outta here.
November 12, 2009
The Strange Case Of The Disappearing Mouthguard
The day began badly, at 10pm last night. I reached into my bedside drawer to grab my mouthguard, and realized it wasn’t there. I’d taken it to the dentist to be checked, I recalled throwing it into the car after the appointment, but clearly it hadn’t made it home.
I trudged outside to search the car and it wasn’t there. Remember that. It will be important later. It. Was. Not. There. If it was there, I would have seen it, because it lives in a sizeable fluorescent orange container. It’s pretty easy to spot.
I began looking around the car in the dark, but then I remembered that a killer is on the loose in my area, so I decided it wasn’t a great idea to be hanging around outside at night wearing nothing but a long t-shirt and bedsocks.
I slept fitfully. (Actually, I slept fine, but it sounds better to say ‘fitfully’, and besides, it helps to justify the exorbitant cost of the mouthguard.)
This morning I awoke, thinking of my mouthguard. (Actually, I was thinking of my coffee and toast, but that doesn’t progress the story as well.)
I hustled the kids out to the car to go to school, and when I opened the car door, my mouthguard was there. Did you read that? It. Was. There. I was elated and disturbed at the same time, because, though I was thrilled to have my mouthguard back, I knew that something very strange had occured.
When we arrived home from school I put the mouthguard in my pocket. Remember that. It will be important later. In. My. Pocket. I picked up toddler and my bags and went into the house.
About ten minutes later I realised I couldn't remember where I'd put the mouthguard, and it was no longer in my pocket. I was not pleased. I searched the house. I examined every corner and the mouthguard wasn’t there. I even enlisted the Toddler in my hunt.
“Find my mouthguard!” I told her. “It’s orange!”
“Mama loss a moufgud?” she asked. “Oh no!” She helpfully presented me with an orange plate, an orange bowl, an orange crayon, and even an orange. When I explained gently that these items were, in fact, orange, but not a mouthguard, she seemed bewildered, and a little hurt.
In the end we gave up, and went out to the shops. When we got in the car, the mouthguard was there.
My head started to spin. I looked around for cameras, a ghost, a dentist... anything to explain the unexplainable.
But there was no making sense of it. I rubbed my temples, put the mouthguard into my handbag, did my shopping, came home, and put the toddler to bed.
And now I sit here, handbag is at my feet, terrified to open it.
Will the mouthguard be there, in its fluorescent orange case? Or will it have shifted again, through time and space, to the bedroom, my pocket, my car?
I don't know, but for now I'm going to have a little lie down. This day has done my head in.
And besides, my jaw is aching.
I trudged outside to search the car and it wasn’t there. Remember that. It will be important later. It. Was. Not. There. If it was there, I would have seen it, because it lives in a sizeable fluorescent orange container. It’s pretty easy to spot.
I began looking around the car in the dark, but then I remembered that a killer is on the loose in my area, so I decided it wasn’t a great idea to be hanging around outside at night wearing nothing but a long t-shirt and bedsocks.
I slept fitfully. (Actually, I slept fine, but it sounds better to say ‘fitfully’, and besides, it helps to justify the exorbitant cost of the mouthguard.)
This morning I awoke, thinking of my mouthguard. (Actually, I was thinking of my coffee and toast, but that doesn’t progress the story as well.)
I hustled the kids out to the car to go to school, and when I opened the car door, my mouthguard was there. Did you read that? It. Was. There. I was elated and disturbed at the same time, because, though I was thrilled to have my mouthguard back, I knew that something very strange had occured.
When we arrived home from school I put the mouthguard in my pocket. Remember that. It will be important later. In. My. Pocket. I picked up toddler and my bags and went into the house.
About ten minutes later I realised I couldn't remember where I'd put the mouthguard, and it was no longer in my pocket. I was not pleased. I searched the house. I examined every corner and the mouthguard wasn’t there. I even enlisted the Toddler in my hunt.
“Find my mouthguard!” I told her. “It’s orange!”
“Mama loss a moufgud?” she asked. “Oh no!” She helpfully presented me with an orange plate, an orange bowl, an orange crayon, and even an orange. When I explained gently that these items were, in fact, orange, but not a mouthguard, she seemed bewildered, and a little hurt.
In the end we gave up, and went out to the shops. When we got in the car, the mouthguard was there.
My head started to spin. I looked around for cameras, a ghost, a dentist... anything to explain the unexplainable.
But there was no making sense of it. I rubbed my temples, put the mouthguard into my handbag, did my shopping, came home, and put the toddler to bed.
And now I sit here, handbag is at my feet, terrified to open it.
Will the mouthguard be there, in its fluorescent orange case? Or will it have shifted again, through time and space, to the bedroom, my pocket, my car?
I don't know, but for now I'm going to have a little lie down. This day has done my head in.
And besides, my jaw is aching.
November 9, 2009
Hot Or Not
originally published in the Sunday Telegraph
I’ve had a revelation. All that primping and preening we women do to impress the men in our lives? They don’t notice. And when we’re having a bad hair day or we’ve gained a couple of pounds? They don’t notice that, either.
In fact, when it comes to women, men don’t notice much of anything.
The other day my husband and I bumped into P, a female acquaintance. I’ve always considered P to be very attractive, but on this occasion she looked – to put it subtly – considerably less ravishing than usual.
“God, P looked crap today!” I remarked to my hubby as we moved on (I don’t bother with subtleties when I’m with my spouse).
“She looked the same as always,” my husband replied. “She looked good.”
“But her face was puffy!” I protested. “And her hair was frizzy! And didn’t you notice that pimple on her chin?”
My husband bestowed upon me the exaggeratedly patient look he usually reserves for explaining number concepts to our eight year old daughter.
“Kerri, P is hot.”
“But she looked terrible today!”
He rolled his eyes. “Only a woman thinks another woman looks good one day and bad the next. A man decides if a woman is hot or not. If she’s hot, she’s hot. If she’s not, she’s not. Whether P is frizzy or pimply or has a horn growing out of her ear, she’s hot. End of story.”
I thought about what my husband said as P disappeared into the distance. (Her hair really was a mess.) If it was true – and a far reaching survey of my two closest male friends has since confirmed it – then a lot of male behaviour began to make sense.
So that’s why men don’t appreciate celebrity magazines. They don’t look gleefully at shots of J-Lo’s cellulitic thighs and think “Ah, I see! She’s fat and ugly after all!” They think “The girl is sex-on-legs. Stop wasting my time.”
And that’s why men don’t notice the nice features in a woman they find unattractive. (“She’s got such lovely eyes!” I’ll say. “She’s still a shocker,” my husband will reply.)
And that’s why men can’t recognise when a normally plain woman scrubs up beautifully for a special occasion. (“She looks exactly the same,” my husband says. “She’s just got mascara on.”)
Men – heterosexual men, anyway - don’t notice details. They don’t see a couple of extra kilos, or a couple of wrinkles, or bulge around the tummy. They just see hot or not. As my friend J says, “We women notice when someone is looking tired or washed out, but a man is just appreciating her bum and boobs.”
Women will focus on the good features of people we like, and hone in on the bad features of people we don’t. Men, however, aren’t influenced by such piffling considerations as personality. As my husband has said, completely without guilt or irony, “Yes, M is a horrible person. But she’s hot.”
Understanding this about men can be very liberating. Clearly there is no need to expend all that effort on hair products, clothing and makeup. If a man thinks we’re hot, he’ll think we’re hot no matter what we’re wearing or how long our eyelashes are or whether we’ve been on an eating binge for a week. And if he thinks we’re not, then no amount of Pantene or Maybelline or Lemon Detox will change his mind.
Still, it’s not like we can relax and completely let ourselves go. We still have to present ourselves nicely to other women.
Because we women are each other’s worst enemies, and our own and everyone else’s harshest critics.
And let me assure you. We notice everything.
I’ve had a revelation. All that primping and preening we women do to impress the men in our lives? They don’t notice. And when we’re having a bad hair day or we’ve gained a couple of pounds? They don’t notice that, either.
In fact, when it comes to women, men don’t notice much of anything.
The other day my husband and I bumped into P, a female acquaintance. I’ve always considered P to be very attractive, but on this occasion she looked – to put it subtly – considerably less ravishing than usual.
“God, P looked crap today!” I remarked to my hubby as we moved on (I don’t bother with subtleties when I’m with my spouse).
“She looked the same as always,” my husband replied. “She looked good.”
“But her face was puffy!” I protested. “And her hair was frizzy! And didn’t you notice that pimple on her chin?”
My husband bestowed upon me the exaggeratedly patient look he usually reserves for explaining number concepts to our eight year old daughter.
“Kerri, P is hot.”
“But she looked terrible today!”
He rolled his eyes. “Only a woman thinks another woman looks good one day and bad the next. A man decides if a woman is hot or not. If she’s hot, she’s hot. If she’s not, she’s not. Whether P is frizzy or pimply or has a horn growing out of her ear, she’s hot. End of story.”
I thought about what my husband said as P disappeared into the distance. (Her hair really was a mess.) If it was true – and a far reaching survey of my two closest male friends has since confirmed it – then a lot of male behaviour began to make sense.
So that’s why men don’t appreciate celebrity magazines. They don’t look gleefully at shots of J-Lo’s cellulitic thighs and think “Ah, I see! She’s fat and ugly after all!” They think “The girl is sex-on-legs. Stop wasting my time.”
And that’s why men don’t notice the nice features in a woman they find unattractive. (“She’s got such lovely eyes!” I’ll say. “She’s still a shocker,” my husband will reply.)
And that’s why men can’t recognise when a normally plain woman scrubs up beautifully for a special occasion. (“She looks exactly the same,” my husband says. “She’s just got mascara on.”)
Men – heterosexual men, anyway - don’t notice details. They don’t see a couple of extra kilos, or a couple of wrinkles, or bulge around the tummy. They just see hot or not. As my friend J says, “We women notice when someone is looking tired or washed out, but a man is just appreciating her bum and boobs.”
Women will focus on the good features of people we like, and hone in on the bad features of people we don’t. Men, however, aren’t influenced by such piffling considerations as personality. As my husband has said, completely without guilt or irony, “Yes, M is a horrible person. But she’s hot.”
Understanding this about men can be very liberating. Clearly there is no need to expend all that effort on hair products, clothing and makeup. If a man thinks we’re hot, he’ll think we’re hot no matter what we’re wearing or how long our eyelashes are or whether we’ve been on an eating binge for a week. And if he thinks we’re not, then no amount of Pantene or Maybelline or Lemon Detox will change his mind.
Still, it’s not like we can relax and completely let ourselves go. We still have to present ourselves nicely to other women.
Because we women are each other’s worst enemies, and our own and everyone else’s harshest critics.
And let me assure you. We notice everything.
November 5, 2009
Holiday In A Parallel Universe
My friend Michelle recently returned from a camping weekend with her family. In the rain.
They erected their own tents, built their own campfire, cooked their food on a butane stove, and huddled in sleeping bags for warmth. In the rain.
And they shared shower facilities and a toilet block with about twenty other families. Oh, and did I mention it was raining?
I love Michelle dearly and I respect her tremendously. I’m just starting to think that she is, perhaps, not quite right in the head. Because Michelle and her family loved their camping holiday.
They loved erecting their tents. They loved their clever little stove. And they even loved the shared toilet block (okay, so maybe ‘love’ is too strong a word, but they used it, which is more than I would have done).
Furthermore, when it started to rain, Michelle and her gang stayed at the camping site. They didn’t run home. They didn’t book into the nearest motel. They just got wet.
Despite being such close friends, it’s clear that Michelle and I live in totally different universes. Mine is a sane universe, where people go on vacation to be in a better place than where they are now. Hers is a demented, parallel universe, where people go on vacation to inflict upon themselves tremendous inconvenience, discomfort and – in certain circumstances – wetness, presumably in the name of adventure.
Now don’t get me wrong. I like adventure as much as the next girl (provided she’s neurotic, anxious and anally retentive). I like to go to new places and see new things. I just like to see them from the comfort of a nicely air conditioned hotel.
Now I know you’re thinking I’m just a Princess, but in reality I don’t need great luxury in my holiday venues. After all, it doesn’t take much to take me somewhere better than I am now – particularly when I haven’t vacuumed or done the laundry in a while and the dishes are piling up in the sink.
I can do without room service. I can live without 25 TV channels. I can manage without a spa in my bathroom. I can even cope without chocolates on my pillow (provided that they are within easy access at a convenience store down the road).
There are however, certain basics that I cannot live without. A bed, to protect my aging back from the floor. Walls, to protect me from wild animals (in fact, any animals at all). And a roof to keep out the rain. For some bizarre reason I don’t like getting wet as I sleep. I know. I’m just strange like that.
But still, the most fundamental of holiday essentials is the private bathroom. You see, there is something about shared bathroom facilities that makes me want to immediately go out and take a shower, which creates a rather vicious cycle when the shower itself is in a shared bathroom. You know when a dog runs frantically after its own tail? Well, that’s what happens to me in that situation. It’s not pretty.
As for Michelle, though, I’m really happy she enjoyed her bizarro holiday. And I can’t wait for her to come round and show me all her photos.
But before she comes over, I’d really just like her to have another shower. She’s been in this public bathroom, and it’s just a funny thing I have…..
They erected their own tents, built their own campfire, cooked their food on a butane stove, and huddled in sleeping bags for warmth. In the rain.
And they shared shower facilities and a toilet block with about twenty other families. Oh, and did I mention it was raining?
I love Michelle dearly and I respect her tremendously. I’m just starting to think that she is, perhaps, not quite right in the head. Because Michelle and her family loved their camping holiday.
They loved erecting their tents. They loved their clever little stove. And they even loved the shared toilet block (okay, so maybe ‘love’ is too strong a word, but they used it, which is more than I would have done).
Furthermore, when it started to rain, Michelle and her gang stayed at the camping site. They didn’t run home. They didn’t book into the nearest motel. They just got wet.
Despite being such close friends, it’s clear that Michelle and I live in totally different universes. Mine is a sane universe, where people go on vacation to be in a better place than where they are now. Hers is a demented, parallel universe, where people go on vacation to inflict upon themselves tremendous inconvenience, discomfort and – in certain circumstances – wetness, presumably in the name of adventure.
Now don’t get me wrong. I like adventure as much as the next girl (provided she’s neurotic, anxious and anally retentive). I like to go to new places and see new things. I just like to see them from the comfort of a nicely air conditioned hotel.
Now I know you’re thinking I’m just a Princess, but in reality I don’t need great luxury in my holiday venues. After all, it doesn’t take much to take me somewhere better than I am now – particularly when I haven’t vacuumed or done the laundry in a while and the dishes are piling up in the sink.
I can do without room service. I can live without 25 TV channels. I can manage without a spa in my bathroom. I can even cope without chocolates on my pillow (provided that they are within easy access at a convenience store down the road).
There are however, certain basics that I cannot live without. A bed, to protect my aging back from the floor. Walls, to protect me from wild animals (in fact, any animals at all). And a roof to keep out the rain. For some bizarre reason I don’t like getting wet as I sleep. I know. I’m just strange like that.
But still, the most fundamental of holiday essentials is the private bathroom. You see, there is something about shared bathroom facilities that makes me want to immediately go out and take a shower, which creates a rather vicious cycle when the shower itself is in a shared bathroom. You know when a dog runs frantically after its own tail? Well, that’s what happens to me in that situation. It’s not pretty.
As for Michelle, though, I’m really happy she enjoyed her bizarro holiday. And I can’t wait for her to come round and show me all her photos.
But before she comes over, I’d really just like her to have another shower. She’s been in this public bathroom, and it’s just a funny thing I have…..
November 1, 2009
The Night We Discovered The Best Job In The World
So last night my husband and I went out to dinner to celebrate his birthday. We went to a Very Fancy Restaurant, because my husband fancies himself as a Very Fancy Man. Fancy that!
Now, this restaurant had Very Good Food, with Very Good Service, and even some Exciting Experimental Dishes. You know. Like foam. And ice cream made of ingredients that really shouldn't be made into ice cream. You know. Like asparagus.
It was a degustation menu, which is always fun. They bring you a series of Teeny Tiny dishes, all of which add up to a Hugely Big meal. You start out starving and demolish the first three courses in a couple of mouthfuls, mopped up by the delicious breadroll; by the fourth course you realise you are full; and by the sixth course you can't even taste the food anymore, which is a shame because that's when they're starting to bring out the good stuff. You know. Like meat.
Now, degustation meals take a great deal of time, and my husband and I have been married for 12 years. In other words, the dinner lasted longer than the conversation. We had a lot to discuss during the first couple of courses, by the third we were floundering, and by the fourth we had started talking about the kids. (By the fifth course we were actually looking at photos of said offspring on our iPhones, which is so sad I considered not even writing it, but I am all for journalistic honesty).
So I spent a lot of time looking around me. Being in a corner booth, in a squared off section of the restaurant, we only had one set of table neighbours. They were a well groomed foursome who took detailed photos of every dish, before eating in earnest silence. Clearly they were either food bloggers or people with no family, who sat alone of an evening, surrounded by framed photos of tuna mousse and walnut encrusted duck. Either way, they weren't terribly interesting.
So I found myself gazing at the sommelier. Now, he was fascinating. A young man of slender build, his job was to open every bottle of wine, pour a sample into a glass, swirl it, examine it, sniff it, swallow it, nod, paste little labels on it, and serve it to the diners - presumably to ensure that none of the bottles had been corked, mislabled, poisoned, or somehow replaced with Diet Coke.
What's more, he had to carry over huge trays of glassware to each table. Without smashing them. Then pour the wine into the glasses. Without spilling it. Whilst getting progressively more drunk as the evening wore on. Because this was his job.
I was entranced. So much so that, when the bill came, revealing to me that this Very Fancy Restaurant was also a Preposterously Priced Restaurant, I didn't even resent paying the billions of dollars they requested. (Okay, I did, but not as much as I otherwise would have.)
Because this restaurant showed me something I had never seen before. A world in which young men can get paid to drink fabulous wine all night. A world in which one's job can be intoxicating. Literally.
Wouldn't suit me, though. I'd start off excitedly with the first three mouthfuls, be drunk by the fourth, and by the sixth I wouldn't be able to taste it anymore.
Guess I'm just a Diet Coke kind of girl.
Now, this restaurant had Very Good Food, with Very Good Service, and even some Exciting Experimental Dishes. You know. Like foam. And ice cream made of ingredients that really shouldn't be made into ice cream. You know. Like asparagus.
It was a degustation menu, which is always fun. They bring you a series of Teeny Tiny dishes, all of which add up to a Hugely Big meal. You start out starving and demolish the first three courses in a couple of mouthfuls, mopped up by the delicious breadroll; by the fourth course you realise you are full; and by the sixth course you can't even taste the food anymore, which is a shame because that's when they're starting to bring out the good stuff. You know. Like meat.
Now, degustation meals take a great deal of time, and my husband and I have been married for 12 years. In other words, the dinner lasted longer than the conversation. We had a lot to discuss during the first couple of courses, by the third we were floundering, and by the fourth we had started talking about the kids. (By the fifth course we were actually looking at photos of said offspring on our iPhones, which is so sad I considered not even writing it, but I am all for journalistic honesty).
So I spent a lot of time looking around me. Being in a corner booth, in a squared off section of the restaurant, we only had one set of table neighbours. They were a well groomed foursome who took detailed photos of every dish, before eating in earnest silence. Clearly they were either food bloggers or people with no family, who sat alone of an evening, surrounded by framed photos of tuna mousse and walnut encrusted duck. Either way, they weren't terribly interesting.
So I found myself gazing at the sommelier. Now, he was fascinating. A young man of slender build, his job was to open every bottle of wine, pour a sample into a glass, swirl it, examine it, sniff it, swallow it, nod, paste little labels on it, and serve it to the diners - presumably to ensure that none of the bottles had been corked, mislabled, poisoned, or somehow replaced with Diet Coke.
What's more, he had to carry over huge trays of glassware to each table. Without smashing them. Then pour the wine into the glasses. Without spilling it. Whilst getting progressively more drunk as the evening wore on. Because this was his job.
I was entranced. So much so that, when the bill came, revealing to me that this Very Fancy Restaurant was also a Preposterously Priced Restaurant, I didn't even resent paying the billions of dollars they requested. (Okay, I did, but not as much as I otherwise would have.)
Because this restaurant showed me something I had never seen before. A world in which young men can get paid to drink fabulous wine all night. A world in which one's job can be intoxicating. Literally.
Wouldn't suit me, though. I'd start off excitedly with the first three mouthfuls, be drunk by the fourth, and by the sixth I wouldn't be able to taste it anymore.
Guess I'm just a Diet Coke kind of girl.
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