Originally published in The Clifton Courier, September 13

I have long thought that I would make a great parent.

I can say this with confidence, as my parenting skills have never been tested on an actual child of my own. I’m still allowed to be totally deluded when it comes to my notion of parenthood. I’ll have four daughters and we’ll all be best friends and everything will be as sunny as a Cornflakes commercial*.

* Except when we have emotionally-charged moments. Then it will be like Little Women, only with nicer furnishings and less restrictive clothing.  

But I do concede that I have concerns. Many of them. Like, what if my children enjoy screamo music? What if they point out plot holes in Harry Potter? What if they’re sleepwalkers and I accidentally stab them because I think they’re demon children? These are all legitimate concerns.

And the list keeps growing. The last addition: what if my child expressed an interest in dance?

I was talking with my sister the other night, and somehow my end of year childhood dance concert came up in conversation. The whole show was lolly-themed, and involved some BS storyline about candies coming to life and dancing around for some spoilt brat princess’ birthday.

My class was dressed up in red hessian sacks and feathers as we were cast as redskins, the shockingly culturally insensitive lolly (these were different times) so sticky that it nearly ripped out your filings.

As a six or seven year old, I wasn’t overly coordinated. In fact, I was barely functional. I couldn’t handle complicated moves, and apparently neither could the other classmates my age. So while the older students took centre stage and did intricate step-ball-changes, we skipped around in a circle and clapped along with Will Smith’s Wild, Wild West (Again, I’d like to point out that these were different times).

Thinking back to that experience, I would have been bloody fuming if I were my parents. That measly, pathetic excuse for a dance was such a poor return for what would have been a sizeable investment.

Like, out of all the lessons kids can get, I feel like jazz ballet wouldn’t have been the cheapest*.

* I don’t really remember liking it all that much. Like, I did it, but it certainly wasn’t my passion. At least not then, anyway. I’ve never really been able to learn steps, you know?

If dancing is poetry written by the human body, I am more of a slam poet. I make bold, loud statements with my body. I am powerful. But I am not rehearsed. There’s no way you can pre-plan for that kind of explosive emotion; there’s no way to anticipate what will come next. Nope, I can’t learn steps of coordinate my moves. I have to dance from the heart, not my head.

There was also the whole thing about driving into town. Every. Saturday. Morning.

Our class was in the centre of Toowoomba, which meant at least an hour of driving for whichever unlucky parent drew the short straw to cart us in and out each week.

And when the concert drew nearer, we had extra practises, which meant more trips into town. Trips into town at night. And trips into town at night often meant a Happy Meal or some Super Rooster chippies which, while delicious, would have only added to the cost of the whole exercise (not to mention undoing whatever good that small amount of aerobic activity did in trimming my puppy fat).

Also, our “dance” went for about four minutes in a concert that, from memory, spanned over a good two hours. I think we were even after the intermission, so my parents couldn’t even peel off after our act to avoid sitting through the second half of the show.

So to go through all that for a whole year and sit through two hours of watching other people’s kids prance around only to watch your child skip, clap and mess up a grapevine step* would have been pretty hard to swallow.

* The depressing thing is that this would have been a vast improvement for me. I have a very strong memory from a few years earlier when I was in preschool of my teacher doing her best to force me to dance. But I wouldn’t have it. I stood stock still, holding the position as if I was mid-pencil dive while my classmates flailed about the room like their limbs were made of spaghetti. I thought they were imbeciles. My arms were pinned to my sides, my knees were locked, and my ankles were snapped together. Miss Julie, heaven bless her, tried her best to get my to engage with the song (and the other kids) by trying to move my arms. But I refused. I still remember the song. Wiggly Woo, by the Wiggles. It echoes in the dark space at the back of my head.

I don’t know if this incident made it to my report card, but looking back, it was certainly very telling for the kind person I would one day become. So yeah, me participating, skipping around in a circle, and let’s just say it, being enthusiastic about something would have been a good sign.

What a bloody joke.

Sure, I’ve complained about my parents. I’ve sassed them. I’ve slammed doors in their faces. And yet, not matter how heated our exchanges got, they’ve never hit me with the sucker punch of guilt I wholeheartedly deserve for putting them through that. Never once have that said “you owe me, remember that crappy concert you put me through?!” in the middle of an argument. You have to respect that.

Sorry Mum and Dad, you deserved better.

* UPDATE: On a recent trip home I had a visit with the relative who was also my dance teacher. We both agreed that her guidance helped me to shake my proverbial groove thing with very minimal drink spillage, if any. She was impressed. 

So maybe it wasn’t such a poor investment after all? I mean, think of the many litres of hot beer I was able to drink because of that skill. 

Originally Published in The Clifton Courier, September 6, 2017

Catching public transport before dawn is like belonging to a club you were forced to join.

I generally catch the 6.30am train into the city, hurtling toward productivity while most people are still waking up. But for a brief stint in the past fortnight, I’ve been hitching a ride on 5.30am train as an early bird trying catch the proverbial worm. And while it’s only an hour earlier than my normal ride, the difference is staggeringly different.

For one, the entire train reeks of morning breath. It basically smells like stale skin, onion and old couch with a hint of ciggies. It’s so powerful you can almost see it, like that smoky haze that hangs around when someone nearby is burning off. In my mind, it’s the yellowy beige colour your tongue goes when you have a sinus infection.

At 6.30pm the train it doesn’t exactly smell like a scented candle stand, but it’s less offensive. It’s not that it smells better; it’s just a lower potency of these smells.

It’s also very difficult to tell what jobs people are headed to, because most people are in trackies, sloppy joes and, like me, the kind of shawls the stereotypical cranky great aunt wears on bad daytime movies. At 6.30am, it’s much easier to distinguish what people do for a living. You have the tradies in high-vis, the site foremen in slightly-smicko high-vis, receptionists in pencil skirts and the banker wankers in suits that cost more than my car. But at 5.30am, it’s just a mash of non-descript comfy clothing.

It’s like people don’t really care at that time of the morning. The societal norms are relaxed. You don’t have to be as clean or well dressed or even lucid before dawn, because it’s a miracle you’re up at all. And everyone seems to be rather forgiving of each other, because we’re all in the same boat/train.

We’re all up hating life, avoiding eye contact as we shuffle groggily to whatever location we’d pledged ourselves to be at that time of the morning.

And if on the very off chance we did make eye contact it was the non-judgemental kind. We would each give the other a look that says: “yeah mate, this is a grievous injustice that we’re awake, bumping into one another when we could be in bed like all other people who have are not currently being smited by the universe. But we’re in this together. I get you. I feel your pain. And while I have no evidence to base this on, I believe you can do this”.

It’s amazing how much one cranky but non-threatening glance can communicate. We’re all like that bird Ronan Keating was banging on about when he sang When You Say Nothing At All – except we collectively smell like damp bed sheets that need a wash.

At first I thought this 5.30am club were a crude kind of people, but after just a few days, I became one of them. I mean, I would still brush my teeth but I certainly began caring even less about my outward appearance. I relied much more heavily on dry shampoo. I wore socks with my sandal-ish flats. I wore a shirt twice in one week without a wash in between (although I did strategically space the second wear from the first by a few days to make it seem plausible that it could have been washed).

Because, let’s face it, no one important was going to see me at 5.30am. And by the time I headed home again at 2.30pm, everyone important would be in meetings or getting a coffee to ward off the 3pm slump. I would come and go without really being seen.

By virtue of the time of day, it was like I was invisible. And I have to say, I liked the power that came with.

I may not be able to integrate back into society.*

* UPDATE: I’m still wearing my shawl to work and I DID get about with three-day-old hair despite going for two jogs. I mean, sweat plus head grease plus dry shampoo equals volume. I did, however, wear make up today to counteract my grungy hair because it’s all about balance. 

Originally published in The Clifton Courier August 30, 2017

I think living away from the country is making me more country than living in the country ever could.

Confused? Yes, me too.

When I was in Armidale, I worked with a bunch of Sydney-siders whose first real taste of “country living” was in a town with a Kmart and a KFC. I mean, wear a puffy vest and your shiny RMs if you want, but if you’re living somewhere you can get drive-thru bacon and egg muffins for a hungover breakfast, you’re not exactly living in the sticks.

I found myself enjoying how stunned my co-workers were when I told them we didn’t have a McDonald’s in town. They just couldn’t get their heads around the fact that “going to Maccas for breakfast after a big night out” meant grabbing a plate and letting my Dad – who, like Cher or Madonna, is so iconic that he goes by one and one name only – load you up with bacon, eggs and that garlicy-oniony breakfast veggie slop he’s famous for after you woke up in a swag somewhere. Macca’s was definitely a thing, it just wasn’t drive-thru; you had to dine in and have a chat.

My co-workers thought of my Clifton life as a fantasy, like the town in Gilmore Girls mixed with McLeod’s Daughters and Crocodile Dundee. And I can’t say I didn’t play up to that.

I found myself morphing into this loud-mouthed, charmingly-bogan country mouse after spending considerable hours as a teen lamenting my rural roots.

I would talk about sleeping in a swag out in the open as they’d shriek about bugs. I’d talk about the bottle tree filled with the cement. I’d tell them the unnecessarily long story about how my belt with the pony buckle was made for me by the bloke who used to be my swimming coach and how I traded him and his wife – the woman who taught me how to type – a batch of gingerbread for the leather.

The small-town label had become a badge of honour, and now that I’m living in the biggest smoke in Australia, I like to keep that badge nice and shiny. I’ve fully embraced my point of difference from the Sydney masses, and flaunt it whenever possible. It’s like I needed to go full city to realise just how much of a country girl I actually am.

The other day I called my bank to ask them to redirect my replacement card to a Sydney branch. Because as much as I’d like to be able to pop into Clifton to pick up my card, it would be kind of tricky to explain my boss why I was away for six hours when I’d told him I was, “just ducking out to the bank quickly”.

I made it clear I was new to Sydney, I used the word “mate” and, when he put me on hold to call the Clifton branch, I told him to “say his to Jenny for me” just to really drive the message home that I was a fair dinkum, small town girl.

I don’t know why it is, but I find myself doing this all the time now. Whether it’s being an overly polite, talkative customer or scoffing at the audacity of the trendy market in my neighbourhood selling bunches of cotton to hipsters for $20 a piece, I get a kick out of playing the country mouse.

I’m not sure if I’m playing up to the country stereotype or just being my authentic self. And I don’t know if it’s because I’m homesick, or if I’m taking the p— out of myself and my town. Perhaps it’s a little bit of everything.

But it feels nice and it usually results in excellent customer service so I guess I’ll keep it up.

But if I start saying “g’day” too much, maybe tell me to pull my head in.

Also, in case old mate didn’t pass on my regards, can someone please tell Jenny I said hello?

* Apparently Jen got the message. A few times. 

Originally posted in The Clifton Courier, August 23, 2017

I’ve started calling my Grandma every week.

Every Monday at about 5.30pm I give old Audrey a call in a bid to feel like less of a terrible person, check how she’s doing and rip the Favourite Grandchild title from the hands of my younger cousin. She’s often wearing cute dance costumes, is very polite and loves to read, so it’s a tough fight to snatch that metaphorical prize from her little fingers. To help my cause, I try to make my conversations as animated as possible.

Grandma doesn’t have all that much going on these days. She has her puzzles. She has her books. She has her TV shows. She still lives in her own home and does whatever the heck she wants. And while living in a palace of solitude with a large supply of Tim Tams* sounds like heaven, it’s not overly exciting, day-to-day.

* A large supply of grandchildren calls for a large supple of chocolate bickies. One time grandma must have got a great deal on homebrand Tim Tams and they were terrible. My sister and I would gradually throw them out so her supply would run out. I like to think we did it for the family. 

So I like the idea of regaling her with thrilling tales of my life in the big city to spice things up… and to convince her that I’m not wasting my youth*.

* This is tricky, because I find it very difficult to lie. 

Unfortunately, I’m failing a little on both accounts.

I’ve found most of our conversations tend to wind up with me promising to “do something fun next weekend” to tell her about.

Each time I say it, I know it’s a hollow promise. But I had no idea how much of a lie it actually was.

Because sitting around on Sunday afternoon reflecting on how I spent my two days made me realise my weekend duller than an infomercial on cleaning products*. I’m really not sure how I’m going to spin the following into a juicy tale for the old bird:

* Actually, this depends on what cleaning product we’re talking about. Because while most infomercials are terrible, the CLR one still dazzles me. It mesmerised me a child and it still speaks to my soul. That ad is like a magic show. It had such a profound effect on my, as I can remember most of the scenarios to this day. Interestingly enough, I’ve never actually gone out and bought the stuff. Perhaps it’s my subconscious protecting me from the disappointment that would crush my spirit if it didn’t work like it did in the ads. I’m not sure how I could take a blow like that, come to think of it.

Friday night: I went to the supermarket immediately after finishing work so I wouldn’t have to leave the house and battle the wind again. I came home with a hot chook, vacuumed the flat, took out the garbage and put on a load of washing.

I’m not going to go into the finer, more mundane details of the rest of the evening, but I will tell you that I ended up taking 24 photos of the hot chook on my phone and tweeting my excitement over the fact that someone had finally bought a property they’d viewed on Escape to the Country.

Saturday morning: The first thing I did was I take three hours to eat breakfast. After that, I cursed the blind in my room for falling down, fixed my blind with a spare hair tie I kept around my wrist, felt like some kind of feminist MacGyver handyman. I then basked in my glory for at least half an hour.

Saturday afternoon: Went to the supermarket hungry, came back with $90 worth of groceries. Soaked in my filth/had a bath with eucalyptus oil to loosen the gunk on my chest. Finished Wuthering Heights. Muttered to myself about how much I disliked Wuthering Heights. Searched online for reviews from people who had the same opinions as me about Wuthering Heights. Stewed angrily.

Saturday night: Ate Brussels sprouts for dinner. Ate porridge for desert. Apparently felt the desire to punish myself. Looked at my HECs debt. Panicked. Wrote a to-do list of things I could do that might help my situation. Lied to myself that I would complete the to-do list in the future. Lulled myself into an uneasy slumber.

Sunday morning: Woke up. Debated about whether I wanted avo toast, eggs on toast or toast and Vegemite. Compromised by having all three. Instagrammed my decision.

Sunday afternoon: Put sheets in the wash. Got puffed. Napped. Ate a chicken sandwich. Realised I hadn’t written my column. Recounted my weekend. Realised my grandmother had a more exciting weekend than I did.

Sunday evening: Questioned who I had become.

** Just a heads up, I’m taking a little break this week and probs won’t be able to post my ramblings remotely for my usual Sunday sesh. I mean, if I were desperate I probably could post something. But one of the horoscopes I read today told me to take a breather, so I’m going to side with that one because it’s convenient to my needs right now.

I hope to return with a swag full of humiliating tales I can recount in an unnecessarily drawn-out way.