SANDWICH PIGGIES II

The night after the Sandwich Piggies pissed me off, I received a phone call from the Monday Ladies comp coordinator of our club.  She had received a call from the District Associations President, who had received a call of complaint from the members of the Sandwich Piggy team. 

They had complained to the association that I was rude, and that I didn’t provide enough food for them to eat.

Can you fucken believe it. I didn’t provide enough food?  Sure; I can cop that I was rude (I was), but not enough food?

Fucken game on.

I hung up from my club coordinator, and rang the Association President myself to explain my side of the story, and at the same time, lodge a complaint about the Sandwich Piggies.

The shit hit the fan.

Soon, news of Sandwichgate spread through the Association, and became a hot topic of discussion at the matches we played.  The other clubs couldn’t believe that not only had the Piggies complained to the Association, but I had complained about them.

Pretty soon, clubs that use to ‘accommodate’ the Piggies by bringing extra platters of sandwiches for them, stopped.  I told a few clubs that when I came up against the Piggies next season that I would be leaving the sandwiches at home (because I only lived around the corner from the tennis club) and would whip home and get them just before lunch.

Fuck ‘em.

The Sandwich Piggies were becoming very, very unpopular.

Then one Monday night, later in the season, I received a phone call from a lady who played at one of other clubs in the Association.

‘Lee, I just had to ring you and tell you something.’ she was laughing.

Now, keep in mind that I didn’t know the ladies from the other clubs very well.  I only come across them twice a season, and just for a couple of hours.  A lifelong friendship from these sparse encounters is not really likely, and the fact this chick had my number freaked me a little.

‘We played against the Sandwich Piggies today.’ She began. 

Here we go, I thought to myself.  ‘I was in charge of sandwiches.  So, with you in mind, I made them, put them into containers, and stacked them in my esky, which I left in the car! I wasn’t’ bringing them into the clubhouse, just to be eaten by the Piggies through the morning.’

‘Really?’ I smiled.  This was interesting.

‘Yes, and you’ll never believe what happened.’ She went on.  ‘We had two teams at home today (which meant two separate matches) and the other team had their sandwiches in the fridge...’

‘Oh no…’

‘Oh yes.  The Sandwich Piggies helped themselves to their sandwiches, not realising that they weren’t ours.’

‘Oh my god!’ I laughed.

‘We didn’t realise this until our other team came out of the kitchen and asked the clubroom who had eaten all of their sandwiches?  We immediately knew it was the Piggies, and we all turned to them!’ she was laughing now.  ‘The Piggies went about four shades of red as we dobbed them in, and our other team ladies went mental at them for it!  They absolutely read them the riot act!’

‘What did you do?’ I laughed, envisioning some irate middle-aged woman in her tennis skirt and tan, waving an empty platter around whilst yelling at the Piggies.

‘Well, I gave the other team a couple of my containers of sandwiches to make up for it, which left us with very little for lunch.’

‘I bet they still ate the sandwiches…’

‘They did!  AND, get this: they didn’t even apologise.’

‘OMG! You’re kidding?’

‘Nope!’ she laughed. ‘AANND, they scoffed all of the sandwiches, gulped down their cuppas, and took off as quickly as they could!  They didn’t apologise to the other team, and didn’t even thank us for lunch.’

‘How fucken rude.’

‘I know!  The other team are going to put in a formal complaint about their behaviour today.’

‘Good.  They deserve it.’ I smiled, still quite shocked that they were still helping themselves to the food.

The upshot of it all was that the other team that had their sandwiches eaten on them, did indeed lodge a formal, written complaint with the District Association, and the offending Piggies were reprimanded for it. 

Not long after this incident, the Association held their Annual General Meeting, and there were quite a few complaints aired about the Sandwich Piggies.  Their club representatives present at the AGM were mortified.

At the start of the next season, a memo reaffirming that the hosting club does not have to provide morning tea or snacks for between sets: only lunch, was sent to all clubs.  If players required food between sets, they were to provide their own, and they were not to ask for or help themselves to the hosts food until lunchtime.

Slam.  I can smell bacon burning.

But that was not the end of Sandwichgate.

The following season, we came up against the Piggies at home again.  This time, true to my word, I left my sandwiches at home.  After the first set finished, the Piggies asked me if we had any sandwiches they could have, as they were hungry.

In the moments it took me to recover from the shock of them being stupid enough to even ask that question, I’m sure you can imagine the great pleasure I had in telling them that we do not provide morning tea; only lunch, as per the memo circulated by the Association.  ‘If you require some morning tea, you should have bought your own.’

If any other club had asked me the same question, I would have whipped the glad wrap off the sanga platter quicker than a hooker getting her kit off on New Year’s Eve.

But not for the Piggies.  They could fucken starve.

Needless to say, we won that day.

It would appear that a starving Piggy does not a good tennis player make.

Thus is the story of the Sandwich Piggies.

Peace out.

SANDWICH PIGGIES

So Monday, I got a call from my friend Shaz as I’m cruising along the road toward Kilmore.  I was all geared up for water aerobics and gym, but young Shaz was about to change all that.

Two hours later, I found myself on a tennis court in Flowerdale, filling in for one of Pyalong’s team members.

I forgot how much fun Monday ladies comp could be.

Forget the fact that I was dressed for the gym and water aerobics (with my bathers on underneath my clothes!); I was having an awesome time!

As we sat down to lunch after the match, one of the Flowerdale ladies placed a platter of beautiful looking sandwiches on the table, and I smiled.  I was immediately taken back to an incident I like to refer to as ‘Sandwichgate’.

Many years ago, I was playing in a Monday comp for a local club.  I was relatively new to the club, and it was my turn to make sandwiches for lunch. 

Now, anyone that is not familiar with the etiquette of Monday Ladies tennis, should know that when the home team provides lunch for the visiting opposition ladies, one of the ‘plates’ they provide must be sandwiches. You can be all fancy with your cakes and savouries, but you must have sandwiches.  That was the case in this districts association anyway.

So I bowl in with my platter of sandwiches on this particular Monday morning, place them in the fridge, help set up the tables, chairs and courts with my team mates, and off we go to play.

When I came back in after our match to help set the food out and organise cuppas, to my horror, half of the sandwiches were gone.  I had made twenty rounds of sandwiches!  That was like two sandwiches per lady, with a few rounds spare (my sambo’s are awesome, so I make lots).

Fucken HALF were gone. 

I turned to my team captain and said ‘Half the sandwiches have been eaten… who the fuck has eaten the sandwiches?’

The captain looked over my shoulder at the opposition team members, and looked back at me.  ‘The other team will have eaten them.  They do it all the time.’

‘You’re fucking kidding me?’

‘Nope.  They are known for it.’

I couldn’t believe it.  They had fucken pigged out on the sandwiches through the morning, leaving us insufficient food for lunch.  I couldn’t believe it! 

How fucken rude!  You don’t go into the opposing teams kitchen; into their fridge, and help yourself to their sandwiches!  These women had eaten the majority of our lunch!

I was fucken furious!  ‘I can’t believe they’ve done that!  I’ve not enough sandwiches for lunch now!’ I knew how anal some ladies could be about their fucken sandwiches at ladies comp, and not having enough food was akin to murdering a puppy. 

‘A lot of clubs complain about them because of this…’ one of my other team members said.

‘Why doesn’t someone tell them not to do it?’ I asked, but my girls just shrugged. 

‘Are we supposed to supply morning tea in this comp as well?’ I asked, not 100% sure of the rules.

‘No,’ the captain replied.  ‘Not at all.  It’s them.  They always eat the sandwiches between sets.’

‘Did they ask anyone if they could have a sandwich, or did they just help themselves?’ I asked.

The girls looked at each other questioningly.  ‘No, they just helped themselves…’

So, I waltzed out into the clubroom and placed the half empty platter in the middle of the table, thinking ‘you fucken sandwich piggies have had enough to eat already!’

‘Is that all the sandwiches you have?’

‘Excuse me?’ I said.  Surely I didn’t hear them correctly. 

‘Do you have any more sandwiches?’ she repeated.

‘More? Are you kidding me?’ I snapped. ‘I’ve supplied twenty rounds of sandwiches for lunch today, and your team has eaten half of them already.  This is all that’s left.  No.  I don’t have any more.’

‘We get hungry between the sets, and like something to eat.  You should have provided more for lunch.’ she said haughtily.

‘More? What?  Twenty rounds aren’t enough?’ I was astonished, and looked over to the kitchen where my teammates were watching the scene unfold; well clear of the fireworks.  ‘You cannot be serious?  You have helped yourself to the food in our fridge, without our permission, and eaten half of everyone’s lunch, and you expect more?’

The woman frowned.  ‘We are the visiting team, and we expect to have food if we get hungry.’

‘If you get hungry between sets, you can do what every other player in the association does; you bring your own morning tea.’ I snapped.  ‘We bring our own fruit and rolls and chocolate to eat between sets; you can too.  How dare you expect morning tea as well as lunch, and how dare you be so rude as to help yourself in such a way! There are people at this table that will miss out because of you.’ I barked, and returned to the kitchen.

Fuck me!  Fucken sandwich piggies!

No surprise that they didn’t hang around long after that match.

Little did I know that I had thrown a fair amount of fuel on a fire that had been smouldering through the association for many, many years.

Little did I know, that it was about to turn into a firestorm.

WEEK 21 & 22 SYL CHALLENGE: DE-CLUTTERING

So, I haven’t posted for a little while about the Simplify Your Life Challenge, because the last few challenges were dealing with things that I felt I already have under control.

So, this next module that we’re heading into is about de-cluttering our lives; getting rid of the ‘stuff’ that is congesting our homes and our lives.

Time for a big clean out!

Now, I love a good clean out.  I do them on a regular basis (like every six months).  I hire in a skip and we just toss the shit we don’t need, or do a ‘charity run’, as we like to call it, and take the things we don’t use anymore to someone that will appreciate it.

It’s amazing how much stuff you really find yourself not needing.

When Charlie and I first moved in together nearly eleven years ago, we had two houses to cram into one little eleven square house in Broadford.  Yep; you read right.  Eleven squares.

We had so much shit, that it wasn’t funny, and I will point out, that most of that ‘shit’ was Charlie’s. 

I’m not a hoarder.  If I haven’t used it or worn it in six months, it’s gone.  The end.  Charlie’s the extreme opposite.

When we moved from Broadford to Tooborac, we took ten trailer loads of stuff to charity.  TEN.  And that was after having a friggin garage sale, too!  TEN!

Charlie was nearly crying.  He just looked at all of this stuff and said ‘I’ve paid for all of this! I’ve worked hard for it all, and we’re just giving it away!’  You can imagine how hard it was to explain that we just don’t need it all.  Let’s forget that my tastes were completely different than his ex-wife’s (I had taste; she clearly did not), so why store so much crap.  You just don’t need it all.

Nearly eleven years later, I swear we’re still getting rid of that shit from the garage!  Seriously!  The garage is Charlie’s domain, and the house is mine.  Needless to say, the house only has things in it that we need and use, and the garage is full of shit.

So, back to the SYL Challenge. 

The challenge for Week 21 was to conduct a ‘Home Audit’.  Go through your house and look at all the annoying little things that need your attention, but you’ve been putting off.  Little jobs that will only take twenty minutes, but might cost $20, and you can’t be bothered with it.

So, I printed out the Home Audit sheet from the SYL website, and off I went.  I was surprised how many little things I needed to do. 

For example, the playstation and wii games in the back room are in cane boxes, and are a shambles.  They shit me.  I need to buy stackable boxes to make them look a bit neater, and tidy up the messy area that they’re in.  Will cost me about $40 and take ten minutes, but I’ve been putting it off since forever.

Things like that were everywhere in the house, and before I knew it, I’d written a page and a half of little bits of shit that I need to do, like getting rid of the old satellite modem that’s been sitting on my desk, unused, for two years.  It’s about the size of my fucking handbag, and needs to go. 

So, over the next however long, I’m going to focus on this list, and knock things over one at a time; tidy up my home. :D

The challenge for Week 22 travels along the same lines as the Home Audit, however, we are required to go through our house, room by room, and assess the things that we keep.

Do we really need what we have in there?  Is there just a heap of clutter that we’re clinging to for a particular reason?  Is it because someone gave it to you? You thought you would use it but don’t? You used it in the past, but don’t anymore? Is it precious because of past experiences? Are they clothes that don’t fit anymore, but you’re hanging on to them just in case you lose/gain weight?  Have we dropped the ‘craft’ bug, but hang on to our supplies ‘just in case’?  Do you really need that pile of magazines on home renovations, when your reno’s finished four years ago?

This challenge brings me back to what I was talking about earlier in this blog.  If I haven’t used it or worn it in six months; it’s gone. 

Deb, the creator of SYL, suggests that we need to imagine that we were moving house; what would be keep and what would we get rid of?

Having moved house several times myself, the first thing I learnt is that you de-clutter and get rid of the crap before you move.  That not only saves you time packing and unpacking necessary crap, or having to store shit that you really don’t need, but it saves you money in the cost of boxes and removalists.  The more work they do, the more it costs you.

I live my life as if I’m going to move again soon.  Every six months, I go through the house and toss or give away the stuff we simply don’t need.  Clothing is usually my main target.  Cookware or utensils that I don’t use anymore, books, magazines, crafts… and so it goes on.  Nothing like a good clean out.

A little while ago, Charlie was complaining about there not being enough room in the garage/shed, and that he may have to build an extension on it.

‘If you got rid of half the shit in there, you’d be astonished at how much room you would have.’ I said one day.  I went through the shelving and boxes with him (bashing our way through the huntsman’s as we went!), and stuck stickers on the boxes and stuff he could get rid off.  A few trips to charity and dump bins later, he had more room than he realised.

He just needed to de-clutter.

So these two challenges are something that I incorporate into my life as it is, but the Home Audit is something that I can certainly work with to carry out some more specific tidying up.

It’s funny; no matter how neat and clean your house is, there is always something about it that pisses you off, and if you just attack the problem (like my playstation and wii games), it’s done, and you can move on.

In other cases, we’re just clinging to things for emotional reasons, and by getting rid of this stuff, we’re release its hold on us, and our hold on the past, therefore freeing us to move forward.

It’s just a matter of defining what’s important (realistically) and what’s not. 

What’s holding you back?

Just feel the fear, and do it anyway.

Peace out.

GROWING UP

It’s funny how people change.

I feel old saying this (maybe I am), but it’s amazing to see someone transform into an adult, particularly when you wondered if they would ever make it.

Thus is the story of my cousin, Matt.

I wondered if he would ever make it.  When he was going through his teen years, he was a prick of a kid.  He made mistake after mistake, got into trouble with the police, hung out with the wrong crowd, made all the wrong choices, and his life was heading down the toilet.

This devastated me, because I thought he was such a beautiful kid.

Sure, I’m bias; he’s my cousin! But… I could see beneath all of that… bullshit.  Though all of the tough ‘gangsta’ crap he was rolling, I could see the beautiful person inside.

I just wondered what it would take for him to grow up.

When he was in his teens, he came to work with Charlie.  He lived with us for three months, and worked (if you’d call it that) for Charlie.  It was a disaster.  Being a boiler maker just wasn’t for Matt, and he walked away from it all.

If he’d stuck to it, he could have gained so much.  Much more than just a qualification.  However, he wasn’t in the right ‘space’ for that, and his life took him down another path.

Job after job, career opportunity after opportunity; all went by the wayside as this boy struggled to become a man.

And still, I waited.  Waited for this boy to grow up.  Waited; wondering what he would be like when he eventually did.

You know… you hear reports on the telly about someone being shot or killed (don’t stress – that hasn’t happened to Matt), or getting caught up in crimes and the like, and the family are on there saying ‘he’s such a beautiful person.  I can’t understand this… he’s such a beautiful person..’

Well… I get that.  I look at Matt, and for all his dumbarse decisions and faults; I see the beautiful person he is.  The beautiful person that rushed over to my car on Saturday night, bypassed me, and went around to the passenger side of the car to help Auntie Iris out of the car.  It was dark, and he was worried she would fall.

An arsehole wouldn’t think like that. 

However, Matt’s not an arsehole.  He’s beautiful.

I’d lost contact with him over the last several months.  He disappeared off Facebook, and because I didn’t have his number, I lost contact.  That happens.  No one’s fault. 

When he reappeared on Facebook a few months ago, he told me that he was going to be a father in July. 

I nearly fucken died. 

A father?  You’re like 22 man? WTF?  Aren’t you a bit young, I thought?  Fuck me.

So, when I was contacted by his Auntie Marg to help get some addresses and contacts for people so Matt and his brother could organise a surprise 50^th for their mother, I realised then that this would be an opportunity to talk to Matt, face to face, and ask what the fuck was going on.

At the party, I was in the kitchen (where all the cool stuff happens) chatting to his Auntie Marg.  ‘So what’s the go with Matt?  Is he happy about this baby coming along?’ I asked.  I’d only just met his partner about ten minutes earlier, and was astonished at how young she was, and how old I felt.

Isn’t that a sign of getting old?  Everyone else is starting to look really young? *sigh*

‘Well,’ Marg said.  ‘He doesn’t say much about it.  We try to get information out of him, but he just tells us that he’s fine.’

‘Oh, ok.’

‘Lee, if he’s going to talk to anyone, it’s gonna be you.  He idolises you mate.  Go and have a chat to him.’

A little later on, Matt and I find ourselves in the kitchen (again, where all the good stuff happens), and start chatting.  I’m as blunt as a box of hammers, and ask him straight up how he’s going.

Over the course of the next however long we chatted for, I realised that the dumbarse teenager that use to live with me was gone.  There, in front of me, was a man.  A man that was worried about money.  He was worried about providing for his family, and getting a house.  He was worried because he’d spent thousands on baby stuff, and that had chewed into his savings for a deposit.

There was also a man who greatly regretted his past actions, particularly those around Charlie.  Poor kid could barely look me in the eye when he said he wasn’t happy about the things he’d done in his past.

I made this man look at me, and I said ‘Matt; it’s the things we’ve done in the past that makes us who we are today.  These are the lessons we learn from.  However, it’s what we do with those lessons that define us. 

Don’t be ashamed of what you’ve done; you’re human mate.  Just learn from it.  Look back in acknowledgement, and move forward with an understanding.  This new family is a new chance; an opportunity to start again.’

It took a bit of convincing, but I think I got through.  I hope I got through, because a life lived in shame is a waste.

It would have been different, I think, if he was still a dumbarse wanker that thought he was the shit.  He’s looking back on those years with different eyes, and although he cannot change the past, he can accept it, learn from it, and mould a different future.

I was proud of Matt that night; he’d finally grown up into the man I knew he would become.  Hopefully, he keeps growing.

Peace out.

OLD LADY KARMA

So, I was flapping around at water aerobics the other morning, when something I can only describe as opportunistic karma occurred.

Firstly, I need you to be aware that on Mondays, there is the ‘oldies’ class, which Iris does, but before that, is the more advanced class, which I do.

Now, when I started water aerobics, I started in the oldies class, as the time suited me better.  The class wasn’t overly challenging, but the beauty of water aerobics (and any exercise class, really) is that you can go as hard as you like.

Anyway, I can’t remember if I blogged about it before, but a few months ago, when I was participating in the oldies class, the instructor changed the music.  Instead of being shit from the 1950’s, we were suddenly rocking out to stuff from the 1970’s.  T’was awesome.

However, some of the old dears in the class had a conniption fit, and complained so much, that the instructor changed the music.

Fuck me.

So, one of the oldies, who I’ve dubbed Queen Maggie (her hair AND makeup are immaculate, and she wears her big gaudy earrings and necklace to each class), said to me that day ‘The music is terrible, isn’t it?’ to which I replied ‘It doesn’t bother me. It’s something different.’

I was there for an exercise class, not a fucken sing-a-long, so to be quite frank: I didn’t give a shit. 

But she did. 

‘Well, if you want that type of music, you need to go to the earlier class!’ she snapped.  ‘This is a pensioners class, after all!’ and went back to her version of exercise. 

Fucken rude cow! I thought to myself.  If your life is hinging on the type of music being played at your aqua class, then it’s a fucken sad life you lead, Queen Maggie.

I’ve never forgotten those words, because apart from it being totally unnecessary and really rude, it gave me the impression that she felt she ruled the pool.  Hence, the ‘Queen Maggie’ title.

Ever since then, if she’s been in a class with me, I make it my mission to splash her as much as possible.  She’s usually in front of me or beside me, because we’re the same height, so we need to stand around the same depth in the water.  She’s an easy target, and I get some satisfaction out of flattening her do.

Anyway, childish pettiness aside; I found myself flapping about in the advanced class yesterday, when her majesty decided to bless us with her presence.

Naturally, she was in front of me, and as usual, I’m making my casual attempts at ruining her hair, when the instructor started handing out dumbbells for us to use.

Yep.  Dumbbells. 

Instead of being weighted, these fucken things are made of foam, and of course, float.  It takes a fair bit of strength and effort to keep them underwater, and then use them in various exercises like real dumbbells.  Strange as it sounds, these floaties from hell become very heavy.

So, we’re punching away in the water with the floaties from hell, when Queen Maggie turns around to face us commoners, and says ‘I don’t know what she’s thinking!’ Of course, I assumed she meant the instructor.  ‘These are ridiculously difficult to use! It’s far to advanced for this class!’

Really?

I smiled.

‘Speak for yourself, Marg.’ I said sweetly.  ‘If you’re finding it too difficult, maybe you should stick to the pensioner’s class.  This is an advanced class, after all…’

Queen Maggie’s jaw dropped open, and she turned back toward the instructor, and kept going. 

Suck on that, you fucken old biddy, I thought as couple of the ladies around me giggled.

The Queen has just been de-throned.

Peace out.

LASAGNETTE

WTF is lasagnette?

Have you ever heard of it?  I haven’t. 

However, I’m not a Masterchef, am I? 

Hang on… neither are Gary, George or Matt, and they didn’t know it either!

So how was the big, cuddly Canadian Kevin supposed to know?  ‘Any lasagne I’ve ever bought looks like that.’

You know what?  In his defence, I have bought lasagne sheets that look similar to that.  They are like normal, flat sheets with frills along the edge.  So, he wasn’t far off the mark for mine.

However, Big Kev, who was my favourite from the start, made an absolutely monumental blunder in last night’s elimination.

The first round was a simple ‘name that pasta’ game that we’ve all seen before.  I think in seasons past, it was like fungi, fish, and various ingredients of a cake that people have to guess.  All stupid competitions to me, because the contestants should be judged on their ability to cook, not whether they know what risoni, fusilli and fucken lasagnette is.

Anyway, the first one in the line-up was to pick a pasta, name it, and move to the end of the line.  Whoever guessed incorrectly had to step to the side.  The first six that guessed wrong (and stepped to the side) went into the next round of elimination.

Now, let me ask you this; if your future in the Masterchef Kitchen was at risk, if you getting your guess wrong pushed you through to the next elimination round, wouldn’t you pick a pasta you definitely knew?

Why the fuck did he pick lasagnette? 

There was spaghetti, fettuchini, vermicelli, risoni, fusilli, gnocchi and lasagne on the table that nearly every dumbarse out there would have recognised. Why would you pick one that’s not so obvious? 

Maybe he didn’t recognise any of them, accept the lasagnette?  Which he got wrong.  Wtf?

So not only did he fall on his own sword, he took the five people behind him with him into the next elimination round.  Then because he couldn’t make fettucini from scratch in time, he was through to the final round with Jules. 

At least he knew what fucken fettucini looked like.  What didn’t he pick that from the fucken table in the first round?  Dumbarse.

So, even though his final dish of a ricotta and egg yolk ravioli in burnt butter sauce was the prettiest, it didn’t taste as good as the ‘flying saucer’ that Jules produced, and he was in the back seat of the big black car.

I’m shattered.  I loved his cooking.  The first one to win an apron was the first one to go home. 

We’re not even a full week in yet, and I’m already starting to see some interesting character traits come out in people.

A few of them are quietly working away in the background; doing what they need to do to get through.  But there are a couple of stand outs that are worthy of note.

Firstly, there is Kath: she freaks me out.  I don’t know what to make of her, but her intensity and forced smile and big eyes scare the living crap out of me.  She’s possibly a really nice lady, but she still freaks me out.

Then, there’s the resident crier.  Emma.  She’s my ‘Dani’ for this season, because she is just giving me the fucken shits already.  Even Iris said last night that ‘her constant crying is driving me to distraction!  She cries at everything! She’s a pain in the butt!’  Enough said.

PS: get rid of the stupid fucken beanie. 

Then there’s Alice, whose ridiculously overside glasses make me want to smash things.  Seriously; does that much glass help you?  I can achieve the same things with an inch of glass strapped across my face.  You look fucken ridiculous, and you will not win this competition, simply based on the fact that you look like a fool, and no one takes you seriously.

Then there’s Amina.  I like Amina.  She’s a lovely personality and I think she’d have an amazing palette for food and balance of flavour, simply because of her amazing heritage.  OMG… I’m salivating thinking of the audition dish she cooked.  Mmm….

Interesting that I seem to have got most of my stereotypes back this year.  The token cute Asian (TK), the older contestant (Debra), the mumsy type (Lydia), the young dumbarse (Matt), the Indian (Dalvinder), the spunky young ones (Mindy, Ben, Alice, Andy, Beau, Kylie), the easy going hippy type (Tregan), the funky glasses wearer (Alice) and the token gay (Kevin).  No surfie dude this year, for what I can see.

Though, Beau is my hot construction worker, which is awesome.  In fact, I could nearly form the Village People out of this lot, I reckon. 

Anyway; master class tonight, which is my favourite part of the week.  Even I learn shit watching it.

Wonder what next week will bring, and who will be going home.  I hope it’s the crier, the freak or the ‘stupid glasses’ girl.

What do you think?

Peace out.

FERALS ON HOGS

What I have learnt from watching Bikie Wars: Brothers In Arms:

1.                   A ‘one percenter’ is a member of an outlaw motorcycle club.

2.                  The term ‘outlaw’ does not refer to criminal behaviour, but means that the club is not associated with the AMA (American Motorcycle Association).

3.                  You must have a mullet, a beard, tattoos and like wearing denim and leather.

4.                  You must like titties or showing your titties (in the case of bikie moles).

Did anyone watch this show the other night?

It’s Channel 10’s version of Underbelly, which from the opening credits, appears to ‘look’ and ‘feel’ the same.  Makes sense considering half the Underbelly cast is in it, and the writers/creators of Underbelly are behind it.

‘I wonder if I’ll see any tits?’ Charlie asked as the opening credits were rolling.

‘I don’t think it’s a matter of if, Charlie,’ I replied.  ‘It’s a matter of when and how many.’

A couple of minutes and lots.  *rolls eyes*

Why don’t they show more doodle and arse for the women watching these shows, I ask you?  pffft… When I see these young girls titties, all I end up feeling is depressed because theirs are sitting where they should be, not around their waist, like mine are.

Another one of Charlie’s opening comments was ‘So we’ll settle into another series that has more ads than substance.’

Right again.

I swear, I’ve never seen an ad on tv for a motorbike before.  Cars, yes.  Caravans, yes.  Boats, yes.  Motorbikes? I can’t remember any….

However, in saying that, I now want a Spyder Roadster.  Charlie said that if you were a serious motorcyclist (or a member of a gang), and you saw a Spyder coming toward you, you’d just laugh.  He said it’s a girls bike.

Daa… that’s why I want one.

So, Bikie Wars. 

Tits, violence and alcohol combined with denim, beards, bikes and mullets.  Throw in a cool rock soundtrack, and that pretty much sums it up.

Awesome television. 

However, in reality; not so awesome.  If anything; it’s shameful.

Sure, they try to convince us they’re not violent; they try to convince us that they’re not running a criminal empire that generates nearly as much profit one of the big-four banks (there are currently nearly one hundred bikies in the NSW penal system); and they try to convince us they’re not bludgers or rorting welfare.

Yeah.  Right.

Bikie Wars is a six-part mini-series, based around the 1984 Father’s Day massacre in Milperra, where rival gangs the Banditos and the Comancheros engaged in what law enforcement at the time simply labelled ‘war’.

According to Wikipedia (yeah I know – not totally reliable) the founder of the Comancheros (Jock Ross) and one of the members (Snoddy Spencer) had a falling out, which resulted in Spencer branching out and forming a second chapter of the Comancheros.  After visiting the US, Spencer met members of the Texas motorcycle club, the Banditos, and became allies.  Eventually, the Banditos patched-over (took over) the second Comancheros chapter, becoming the first Australian chapter of the Banditos.

As a result, the two Australian gangs became violent enemies, and it all came to a head in 1984.  The violence that ensued that day saw 6 bikies and an innocent 14 year old girl killed, and about 28 other people injured.

I think, for the public, this event cemented the negative stigma that follows bikie gangs around like a bad smell.  It confirmed what everyone believed these gangs to be; violent thugs.

You’ve gotta admit that when you see a bikie; you wonder.  That little thrill of fear ripples through you, because the names on the back of their vests are so familiar.  Hells Angels, Comancheros, Banditos, Rebels… the list goes on.

I believe that every year, the Hells Angels do a road trip with stuffed toys and the like for one of the Children’s Hospital, as a special charity event.  Yeah.  That’ll soften your image, fellas.

So, after watching the first episode of Bikie Wars: Brothers In Arms, I find it addictive.  I’m totally fascinated about the bohemian lifestyles that these people lead.  How brazen they are; how secretive.

Remember, what happens in a bikie gang, stays in a bikie gang.  They handle their own internal issues themselves, thank you very much.

A law unto themselves.

The law of the one percenters.

So, we have to keep watching now, not only because we’re already hooked, but because Charlie and I have a little competition going to see how many ‘titty exposures’ we can count per episode.  I lost count after about twenty in the first episode…

Just as its predecessor (the Underbelly series) has done, Bikie Wars: Brothers In Arms exposes the seedy aspect of our society; warts and all.  That’s what make is so addictive; the fact that it’s so far removed from our ‘normal’ lives, it’s shocking. 

After all of the Underbelly dramas, I wonder if we’re becoming desensitized now.  It’s all much of the same, isn’t it?  This is just another drama full of violence, sex, drugs and rock n’ roll, and in the end, they all lose.  Insert Harley Davisons, and you’re on it.

Now, when you walk down Lygon Street, you wonder how many of the Carlton Crew or Sunshine Boys are floating around out there. 

After watching Bikie Wars, I can guarantee you’ll be looking at those mullet wearing, leather clad, patched denim-vested hog riders through very different eyes.

Get on it peeps; it’s worth the ride.

Peace out.

THE UNWANTED MOTHER

I hate Mother’s Day.

Actually, to be more accurate: I love and hate Mother’s Day.

You see, I love it from the aspect that I can show Iris how much I truly appreciate her and everything she’s done for me. 

I don’t go over the top or ridiculous in my efforts: this year involved us going to the Grace Kelly: Style Icon exhibition and having lunch in Benders.  Twas lovely.

So, even though I feel that Mother’s Day (like other ‘celebratory’ events throughout the year) has become a little commercialised, I still love to acknowledge everything Iris has done for me.

I’m lucky to have Iris as a Mum.

However, there’s the flip side to Mother’s Day.  The side that sees my depression try to take hold as I’m constantly being reminded of the fact that I’m the ‘unwanted mother’.

This is the joy of being a step-parent.

Well, for me it is, anyway.

Anyone who is not from a blended family, who has never been a party to a step-family, can never understand.  I’m sorry, but that’s a simple fact.  Unless you have stood in my shoes, you can’t even begin to comprehend what life is like.

So, I have a beautiful young girl living with me, that although demonstrates erratic displays of fucktardedness, that wants nothing more than the love of a mother that left her eleven years ago.

I can understand that life in her shoes would be difficult; she’s always coveting what she hasn’t got, and jealous of the lives that ‘normal’ families lead.  I fear that she’ll never be happy because she’s always missing that something she didn’t gain from a decent, loving and nurturing relationship with her biological mother.

However, there has always been someone here willing to fill the shoes left vacant by another’s selfishness.

Another person that has done all of the ‘mothering’.  Someone that has taken her to school, made her lunches, washed and ironed her clothes, cooked her dinner, taken her to the doctors, mended her cuts and nursed her bruises (whether physical or emotional), and stood up for her.

One that did not believe the doctors or her father, and was insistent she had appendicitis, and went against everyone’s recommendations and wishes, and took her straight to the hospital.  Lucky.

Someone who has held her whilst she cried when her real mother has hurt her; yet again.  Someone that will not let her down as other’s so flippantly have.

Someone who buys two presents, one for Iris and one for Nana Marl (Charlie’s Mum), and a couple of cards, and insists that she wrap them, write in them and give them to her grandmothers when we see them on Mother’s Day, as a personal ‘thank you’.

Someone that is disrespected, abused, lied to, stolen from, mislead and whose generosity is taken advantage of.

Someone who has offered her heart and love on a plate, only to have it thrown back in her face, because she’s not the coveted one.

Someone who has always been there as a mother, but is never seen as one.  Never wanted. 

Someone who feels the loneliness and pain of being an unwanted mother.

So as Mother’s Day rolls around, my place in the world is made very clear, and the simple blocks of chocolate (which are cheap and easy) are presented (unwrapped) along with a forced smile and a ‘I would have made you a card, because I know you love handmade cards, but I left my textas at school…’

A token effort that doesn’t even include a thank you, but does include a forced ‘Happy Mother’s Day’.

A token effort that her father has forced her to make, which to keep the peace, she has done.

When I bought tickets to the Grace Kelly exhibition, I asked Jade if she wanted to come, but her father pointed out that she had netball on that day.   No problems; just Iris and I will go.

However, if they had read the draw ahead, they would have seen there was a bye on that day: no netball. 

So when I discovered this, I asked Jade several times, would she like to come out for mother’s day and see the exhibition (because she loves fashion) and have lunch with us for Mother’s Day, she politely declined.  Several times.

She would rather stay home than spend time with me on this day, which I understand, because it’s not important to her.

However, she did do my vacuuming and baked some biscuits and a slice for the lunches for the next week to help me out, which I thought was lovely, and thanked her repeatedly for.

However, I would have forsaken that for her company.

Being the evil Wiccan that I am (rolls eyes), I believe that you cannot force anyone’s will.  You cannot make someone feel something they don’t want to.  You can’t make someone love you if they don’t want to.

You must trust in the universe, because if it’s meant to be; it will happen.

I’m trusting, and I’m waiting.  But… I don’t know what I’m waiting for…

Until then… I guess I’ll just continue to be the unwanted mother.

Peace out.

I WANNA LOOK LIKE GRACE KELLY...

So, Iris and I headed up to Bendigo for Mother’s Day, to see an exhibition at the Bendigo Art Gallery called Grace Kelly: Style Icon.

I suggested it to Mum a while ago, thinking it would be something she’d enjoy.  She was enthusiastic about it, but didn’t say too much as the event came closer. 

So, here am I thinking ‘fuck… I hope she likes this, and I’m not dragging her along to something she’ll suffer though in silence.’

I couldn’t have been more wrong.  I near had to drag her out of the place.

On the drive up there, Mum said that she remembered Grace Kelly during her Hollywood years (Mum would have been in her very late teens/early twenties, at the time).  She said that she thought she was just so beautiful; a real, natural beauty.  Just like Elizabeth Taylor; stunning beauties.

She rattled off some of the movies she had seen, especially Rear Window, To Catch A Thief and High Society.  She remembered her pictures in magazines all the time.  She remembered that so many women, including herself, loved her beauty and fashion. 

Mum said that her name reflected her nature: she was just… graceful.

She also remembered that just about every woman out there wanted to marry a Prince and live happily every after; just like Grace Kelly.

The exhibition featured a lot of outfits and dresses that she wore during both her Hollywood career (including the one she wore to the Oscars in 1955, when she won an Academy Award for Best Actress for The Country Girl), and her time as Princess of Monaco.

It even has her magnificent wedding dress and shoes on display, as well as a few select pieces of Cartier and Harry Winston jewellery, included a crown that belonged to the Crown Princess of Monaco, Prince Rainer’s (Grace’s husband’s) mother, which Grace had worn herself.

I was astonished at the history in these items.  A gorgeous outfit from High Society, the last film she ever made (apart from the film of her marriage), Rear Window (I actually remember the scene in which she wore that very dress), and many others.

However, the most amazing gowns are from her royal period.  Gowns designed by Dior, Balenciaga, Givenchy, Chanel and Yves St Laurent, in styles and designs that are typically reflective of their periods (1950’s, 60’s & 70’s).

It’s surreal to stand there and look at a photograph of Princess Grace standing in the dress, and then see it behind glass directly in front of you.  The dresses are stunning, but seem lifeless without the soul of Grace in them. 

Again, the history is amazing.  Some of these dresses are now nearly sixty years old, and are in pristine condition.  They look like they’ve never been worn, yet she wore some of those dresses several times.  She had her favourites, and wore them again and again.

The fashion then was so different to now.  Now, it’s all about fake tans, fake boobs, flesh and crass behaviour. 

Back then, during the golden years of Hollywood, it was about beauty and elegance; grace and style. 

Apparently, Princess Grace use to do her own hair, makeup and nails, and was more concerned about wearing clothes that suited her personality and style, and didn’t necessarily conform to the demands of current fashion. 

 

Understandable attitude when you’re the person setting the trends.

With flawless skin, gossamer hair, a beautiful figure and perfect features, it was no wonder Princess Grace was one of the most photographed women of the 20^th century.

She’s had such an amazing impact on fashion, and she’s certainly made an impact on history itself.  Thirty years after her tragic passing, we still remember her so well.

As I stood back and watched Iris waddle her way through the crowds of people with her walking frame so she could get closer to the glass displays, I couldn’t help but smile.  I could see a young woman standing there looking up at these dresses, lost in a mixture of admiration and memories.

These were the times and fashions that young Iris grew up with.  Periods where people wore dresses below the knees, matching hats, bags and shoes, and of course: white gloves.  A lady never stepped out without her gloves.

Here was a woman that spent years making clothes and working with fabrics, standing there admiring the cut of these dresses and the beautiful, lavish fabrics.  At one point, she turned to me and said ‘You would think they wouldn’t have her wear a dress with a puckered seam down the front, would you?’

I laughed.  Only someone with dressmaking knowledge, and knowledge of fabrics would pick that.  Forget that Princess Grace of Monaco wore that very dress to her 25^th Wedding Anniversary celebrations, and it had been designed by an internationally famous couturier. 

It had a pucker down the front seam.   Bless.

For Iris, I think that trip down memory lane was over too quickly.  She reminisced over some movie posters before we finally left the life of Grace Kelly behind us, and entered the cold reality of a chilly Bendigo autumn day.

Whether you’re a lover of Hollywood history, a student or admirer of couture fashion, or just love the idea of ‘the Grace Kelly story’; if you have the opportunity, take a trip to the beautiful city of Bendigo, and check the exhibition out.  It’s exclusive to the Bendigo Art Gallery, and will be leaving the country after its run has finished in June.

Peace out.

http://www.bendigoartgallery.com.au/Exhibitions/Current_Exhibitions