Lucky Dip

  One of the writing prompts at the masterclass yesterday was 'Lucky Dip'. It sort of summed up the day. I didn't exactly waste my money; I definitely plucked a few shiny treasures to bring home from the grab-bag but mostly I ended up with a pocketful of semi-useless but pleasantly diverting plastic trinkets. 

Anyway, my consciousness stream wasn't flowing especially creatively yesterday, and this topic somehow became glued in my imagination to Forrest Gump's mother's metaphor about Life as a box of chocolates. Which, in turn, prompted me to ponder what advice I would give myself about how to act when I find I have selected a mandarin cream. I don't love mandarin creams...See what I mean. My stream was more like a dribble of consciousness yesterday...  

So here's what I told myself:

Dear Wendy

When faced with the mandarin cream dilemma, as I see it, you have three possible choices. 

1: Just eat the damn thing. Without fuss. Without drama. Be a big girl. Suck it up.

2: Give it away. Offer it to someone else whose taste is different from yours. They might enjoy it.

3: Chuck it. No big deal. 

I do hope this approach will be helpful to you as you navigate the lucky dip of Life. And always remember there are only a few of those Turkish delights you so adore in every box of chocolates. 

Yours sincerely, 

Wendy

This morning, reading back over my scribblings, I decided that I'm going to take my own advice. 

My mantra for 2015 is going to be:

Choose it. Share it. Or piss it off. 

Now although I'm perfectly content with that mantra, there's always room for improvement. And I have no doubt there are plenty of Mrs Gumps out there and I'm equally sure there are more than three choices to be made. Help me out here. What's your approach to the lucky dip? 

Breaking the Ice

The last time I went to one of these workshops I spent the day battling myself.

It began with one of those introduce-yourself- to-the-person-beside -you-then-introduce-that person-to-the-group exercises. I know it was meant to be an ice-breaker but all those get-to-know-each-other activities ever do for me is make me freeze. Honestly, who ever enjoys those things? ... except maybe the facilitator who gets to finish her coffee or find the right file or get the damn projector working while everyone chats uncomfortably.... She and that annoying extrovert sitting to her left who is going to make me want to  poke sharpened pencils in my ears by the end of the day.  They both love it. The rest of us feel our tongues start to swell as they suck every drop of life-giving moisture from our mouths. 

I was the second last to speak. The last person introduced. The facilitator looked distractedly at her watch, undoubtedly tossing up what to leave out now this session had run overtime, as Jacqui from Alphington introduced me like this:

"Gosh... Um... Well everyone's been so interesting that I've actually forgotten what Wendy said about herself." 

Yep. Just dress me in beige and bring me a cup of dishwater. Wendy the Dull. Wendy the Forgettable. Wendy of the Clan White Bread with the Crusts Removed. 

It was the perfect moment for a retort that would have made Dorothy Parker proud, a scathingly witty one-liner  that would sum up exactly who I am. But of course that didn't happen. The cliff crumbled beneath me. 

I began to make word-like sounds in my own defence. Pathetic pallid word-like sounds floated limply around me as the internal speaker, woofas and tweeters pumped to 11, screeched: "See! You don't fit in. You are not worthy.  Leave. Get out. Disappear. "

But I didn't run. I stuck it out. I didn't enjoy it because I wasn't able to engage. I couldn't quell that critical bitch in my head. But I did persevere... in spite of her. 

And tomorrow I'm going back to the cliff top for part two of the workshop.  I won't be with the same group of people, but if Jacqui from Alphington happens to be there, I swear this time I'm going to push her off. 

Touch that shell and I'll have to shoot you...

The beach near our home.

Perhaps it’s the joy of a surprise find. Or the serendipity of happening upon something bizarre, something glittery, something smooth, something fascinating… Perhaps it's the profound beauty of found objects. But for whatever reason, I have always always loved beachcombing. Not with a metal-detector kind of thing, determinedly mine-sweeping the sand in the hope that some poor bastard has lost a valuable ring or watch or the contents of a coin purse. No, I mean just leisurely shoreline wandering, stooping to gather up treasures rolled like dice by the tide or to study the living art that lies beneath the skin of the water.

Back in the 60s, my brother and I used to play Housie Lotto and Pontoon with our grandparents, using shells they kept in a clip-top jar as the counters and chips. We called them trapdoor shells. Every time we went to the beach, we looked for some to add to the jar. The very best ones were worn bone-white and smooth. I still collect them. You never know, maybe one day I’ll have grandchildren to play old-time welcome-to-the-magical-world-of-betting games with too.

 

Sign at above beach.

But these days, collecting shells, sea urchins and tumbled glass from the beach we overlook here on The Rock is more like subterfuge than serendipity. You see it’s against the law. Not just frowned upon. Not just advised against. Illegal. A crime.

I understand that minimal environmental impact is important. Very important. I don’t understand why I’m not allowed to walk my dogs along the same cliff-top track where people ride bikes. Apparently my on-leash dogs on the designated pathway cause damage to the nests of ground-dwelling birds but rampaging mountain-bikers are harmless.

  And I don’t understand why I am forbidden to walk my dogs on the same

Another sign at above beach.

beach where hoards of day-trippers pitch their sun tents, teach their kids to pee in the sand dunes or water and then piss-off back to the city leaving the detritus of their daily festivities for locals like me to clean up. Maybe the problem is that when I pick up after my pooches, I might also scoop up some of that precious sand created by the crumbling of those protected-by-law shells. Ptui...

Times have changed, Wendy. We all need to be more respectful of planet earth. 

Photo by F Holmes, Museum Victoria

Yes. I get that.When I was young, back in the days before electricity was invented, we regularly rummaged around the local cliffs and beaches for little fossilized sea urchins. We had a shoebox full of compact sandstone domes, each imprinted with a spiky star. There were bits of bone and teeth in there too.When I was educated enough to comprehend that they belonged where I found them, I returned them all. (OK, so I just dumped them at low-tide and it’s altogether possible that I completely stuffed up some very long-term research about the distribution of fossilized sea urchins along that particular piece of coastline. But hey, at least I was trying to make amends.)  

So I get that nature parks are vital. And I totally get that it was my choice to come and live at a nature park and of course I could just get in my car and drive to some other less protected beach for my walks...but seriously. Is the world so short of sand that beachgoers removing shells should be treated like shoplifters? Let’s face it, the trek back up the cliff is pretty steep. It’d take the Hulk to make-off with more than a handful.

Or should I look at this another way? If all the people who have ever been guilty of removing what they combed from our beach were to put everything back, is there a good chance that the accumulated returned sea-debris would reclaim Bass Strait and Tasmania would once more be connected to the mainland?

The whole scenario reminds me of how whenever my brother and I punctuated our explanation of why we were bickering, or squabbling, or punching-on with the familiar refrain : S/He started it, Dad would respond with the equally familiar refrain: Two wrongs don’t make a right. I never fully understood what the hell that meant either.

I respect our beach. Immensely. I never dislodge anything living, or trample where the dear little (but unbelievably hapless) Hooded Plovers make their nests (only about 5 percent reach adulthood). I clear away rubbish and remove sharp objects. 

And I still love beachcombing. 

I always will.

The Soundtrack of Our Lives

You know those pointless-speculating-until-it-happens-or-coz-it-has-no-real-answer sort of questions you ask each other like: Cats or dogs? Bourbon or whisky? How would you spend the last day of earth? What will your dying words be? Well, when it comes to the one about what sense you’d give up first, I think mine’s sight.

It couldn’t be touch, because with the way I sear and slice myself in the kitchen, you’d be calling me Stumpy and mopping the blood from the floor in no time. And I reckon the Michael Hutchence Factor is absolute proof of the integral connection of smell/taste, and what happens when that bond is lost.  No, I reckon the last sense I’d give up would be my hearing. A world without music? Unthinkable. Impossible. Inconceivable. 

If I’m upright, there’s music playing somewhere… even when I’m horizontal there’s a good chance there’s a soundtrack.  I don’t actually know much about music. In fact, I’m an ignoramus about classical stuff —last year when we went to see L'incoronazione di Poppea at Palais Garnier, I kept getting the giggles. So you see, I don’t know much about music, but I do know that it’s my lifeline.   

I wish that I had the wisdom to fully understand the unspeakably complex and glittering concept of Songlines connecting all life and space. But mostly I’m just a pleb with a penchant for any tune that makes me feel alive.

The first concert No.1 Son attended was Midnight Oil. It was 1991. He was eight. The first live gig Girlchild and Boychild experienced was a memorable outdoor event at a winery — Josh Pyke, Paul Kelly, The Church, The Pretenders — we attended with some very dear friends and their kids. It was 2007. The kids were 7 and 9.

Aside from being essential to their education, these occasions were also perfect opportunities for me to practise one of the most sacred of all mothering duties: embarrassing the children in public. No.1 Son was gobsmacked to learn that grown-up music-lovers stood on chairs and shouted really loud. Girl and Boychild will forever have this imprinted in their impressionable brains:

Time has passed, and while the kids have matured, I have not. Just a few nights ago, we had a family excursion to 2Cellos at The Palais. Row C. Awesome. As they hit the stage and I began to whoop immodestly, Miss 14 — fashionista and cellist in training who was seated at my left— attempted to give me the deathstare. Pffft… As if…  

In my best maternal hissing whisper I reminded her to get her head out of her butt. And before long, I was sneaking such impressive recordings as this (imagine you are listening to You Shook Me All Night Long):

 8 seconds in: My shirt

11 seconds : No.1 Son on my right

19 seconds: My hair

23 seconds: Possibly me

24 seconds: Random guy in Row B.

It was bliss.

Nope, I’d rather see darkness than not hear such exquisitely coloured music as this:

And I’d rather poke my eyes out than miss giving myself whiplash to sounds like these:

But the pointless-speculating-until-it-happens-or-coz-it-has-no-real-answer sort of question that stumps me every time is: What’s your theme song?

No idea.

What’s yours?

Is there an Over-Packers Anonymous?

 I am the world's worst packer. I'm a whiz at folding and a genius at stuffing undies in shoes, I'm even slightly more than handy at rolling things so they don't get crumpled. What I'm truly crap at is actually deciding what to take. Girl child and I have come to town for two nights... We're here for a total of 46 hours and I swear on my favourite patent pumps  that I have just released no fewer than nine outer garments from my bag. And four pairs of shoes. 

In a pathetic attempt at some kind of defence, this IS Melbourne. Yesterday it was 30 degrees Celcius and today is heading for a top of just 17... with rain. And we ARE here to attend a couple of very different functions. 

Nope... Not even convincing myself here, am I ?  The truth is, I'm a chronic over-packer. 

Actually making the decision about what to include in the final cut for any overnight bag/ backpack/ suitcase/ carry-on... to be totally honest, even a goddamn picnic basket ... brings out the hyperventilating banshee in me. It was especially dangerous to be nearby when the kids were little and there were about fifty zillion extra what-ifs to be advance-planned and catered for. Stand too close to me and you could get totally sucked into a veritable vortex of wringing hands and mind-changing. 

I love those packing cell thingies. They allow me to neatly locate and organise all the extraneous in-case stuff I bring along. And they make it easier to cram more into a smaller space. Genius. 

Every time we go away, I go through the motions of the put-everything-out-and-then-take-away-half routine. Right before I start sneaking it all back in. 

Bit.

By.

Bit.

What about 2015?

I don’t really need an excuse to sit in front of an old movie — or a new one for that matter. By simultaneously indulging in a little arts and craft of some kind, I dupe myself into believing I’m actually doing something productive while I while away a few hours of any day—I can be so gullible when it comes to enjoying sedentary pursuits. One of my genie wishes would surely be that multitasking in front of the TV was number one on the list of 10 Ways for to Burn Calories without Even Trying. 

 
On especially hideously hot scorchers, and 2015 began with a couple of days like that, movie-watching becomes a given. Naturally enough, knitting is off the accompanying activity list, so too is ironing. Blissfully and utterly off the list. And guilt-free too —which is a total bonus because even the most miserably lame of excuses is a good reason for me not ironing… even on a cold day.  But when it’s stinking hot outside, sometimes I don’t feel the need to even pretend to be productive. Just breathing is enough heat-generating activity. 

So as an integral part of Day 1 of 2015, I plonked myself down with an icy Coke–Zero  …Yes, I know, it has absolutely no nutritional value but it has no calories either, and I reckon it tastes better than water. And hey, it wasn’t a glass of wine so cut me some slack already. And yes, I know “they say” that the artificial bumph in diet drinks can hasten the onset of dementia, but I already have a post-menopausal-black-hole where my memory used to be so I wish “they” would all just shut-up and let me enjoy my chemical cola drink. 

Plonked beside me and my memory-sucking calorie-free beverage was Miss 14. Educating my children in the classics is something I have always taken very seriously. I’m immensely proud to say that last year when we visited Madame Tussaud’s in London, it wasn’t Angelina that Girlchild wanted to be photographed with, it was Audrey. 

We’d already recently re-watched many of the greats that our movie channels were offering: Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, School of Rock, Pretty in Pink, An Officer and a Gentleman, Roman Holiday… so I opted for the timeless joy that is the Frank Oz masterpiece What about Bob?  

 Absolutely perfect New Year’s Day fodder. In fact, SO perfect that as of 1 January 2015 I have declared that What about Bob? is to New Year's Day what Love Actually is to Christmas. And here's why.

1: When it comes to making New Year Resolutions, Bob Wiley and his new bestie  Dr Leo Marvin have the very best of advice to offer: Bob begins with his regular mantra, "I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful...".

Then, with help, learns that almost anything is achievable if you break it down into Baby Steps. 

No nebulous namby-pamby goals or fantastic wannabe wishes are going to come to fruition. Huge resolutions lead to mega-fails. There are too many other uncontrollable factors and loonies out there. So as far as New Year Resolutions go, for me it's baby steps all the way. 

 


2: Bob and Siggy remind me to have the courage to try new things and take some calculated risks...



 

 



Especially with the support of friends.






3: In 2015 and every year hereafter, I'm going to employ Bob's approach to social anxiety:  “You know, I treat people, as if they were telephones. If I meet somebody I think doesn't like me, I say to myself, I say; 'Bob, this one is temporarily out of order.' You know, don't break the connection, just hang up and try again!”

4: I don't care what day it is, this scene always makes me laugh and to my absolute delight, it was Miss 14's favourite too and thus will henceforth remain a part of our 
stock repartee:

5: Anyone and everyone who lives in a holiday town over the summer season can totally relate to Bob's t-shirt. 

(Note to self: have a few thousand printed to sell during November.)

So from Bob and me, here's to a hassle free 2015... 

5 reasons & a few flimsy excuses for not belonging to a book club

 Ding-dong merrily quite high… I have a post-Christmas pile of soon-to-be-lost hours of intrigue and edification. Such joy.

I maintain I’m easy to buy for…books, music, food or alcohol… with the occasional scented candle (preferably not floral… something sapid like lemongrass and ginger… orange and cilantro…lime and basil — perhaps I’ll repost this in November… just in case you lose the note you just took). Life’s essentials: ambrosial combinations of words, mouth-watering sometimes foods, heavenly scents and grog. No excuses or adjectives for that last one on the list. In my life, it’s always pinot grigio o’clock somewhere. And this year, I received all four of those essentials. In abundance. Yay, and verily yippee ya-hoo I say.

 

A delectable mixture of fiction, non-fiction and poetry was lovingly selected for me, and on Christmas Day I was delightedly informing my sister-in-law’s sister-in-law of this fact when she began the conversation I have so often had:

“Oh, well you must belong to a book club then.”

“Ummm, no, I don’t.”

“Really? Well you absolutely should.”

‘Should I? Why do you think that?”

You see I have never belonged to a book club. I’ve often thought about it. I’ve talked about it. I’ve even tried to find one I could join. But, truth be told, I’ve never followed through. So it’s with thanks to Shirley that I hereby explain why.

1.     I don’t always finish what I read. Some of you are aghast at that confession aren’t you? Nope. If it doesn’t grab me, I dump it. There’s too much great stuff to waste time on anything that’s badly written. So if I was in a book club, I’d feel obligated to plough through pages that annoy the utter be-hooey out of me or leave me cold. What a waste of good reading time.

2.     Following hard on the heels of the last point, I understand that the theory behind committing to read the entire book list is that stepping outside what’s usual for me is mind-expanding and beneficial.  I suspect, however, that reading stuff that bores me up a drainpipe might just make me the weensiest bit belligerent, and then I’d end up being the nay-saying party-pooper of the group. Nobody wants a nay-saying party-pooper in their group. They’d be better off if I stayed up my drainpipe.

3.     I fear landing with book-knobs. No, I don’t mean book snobs, I definitely mean book knobs — people who only read what they think makes them at least 10 per cent

smarter or hipper than anyone else…or at least appear to be 10 per cent smarter or hipper than anyone else. You know, the ones who say things like you really MUST read Proust because wah wah wah… and… Oh dear me no, I don’t waste my time on derivative things like THAT but I did just finish that plotless streams-of-consciousness post-modern deconstructionist novel recently translated from ancient Tibetan by a barista from Brunswick.  Total knobs.

4.     I have an even greater fear that a book group may be a whole new way for me to be my own worst enemy. My natural inclination to over-prepare and over-think could lead me down the rabbit-hole of checking Goodreads and researching ABR to see what others think, which behaviour would expose me to the very real danger of disappearing up my own butt-hole.

5.     I worry that while I’m reading, instead of just floating with the rhythm of the structure and absorbing the music of the language, I’ll be thinking about what I’m thinking. That’s not fun. That’s anti-fun. I don’t want to think about what I think while I’m reading. I just want to read.

6.     I’m aware that many book groups are largely social, with the reading only an incidental part of the drinking. Naturally, I’m all in favour of that, but what if they all drink sauvignon blanc? Okay, so I might be starting to get to the flimsy end of the list here, but seriously the only upside of sauvignon blanc is that I can sit on just the one glass all night. I. Don’t. Love. Sauvignon. Blanc.

7.     What if they all find out that I’m an editor and start trying to get me to read the manuscripts they have had on the back-burner since they took that creative writing class at the community centre a few years ago?

8.     What if they all hate me?

 

 So there it is. What do you reckon? Was Shirley right? Am I candidate for book club membership or is the Groucho Marx approach the right way to go?