Is It Just Me?

by Chrissie Swan

  The films are achingly sweet – and hilarious. Outside a cathedral on the occasion of one son’s baptism, the lens swiftly veers from a cavalcade of safari-suited parishioners to an unfolding drama in which a Hillman Hunter is in flames in the middle of the road. Reminded of the scene, The Chippie’s dad exclaimed, “That’s right! A car exploded!”

  I’m a naturally nostalgic person, so these home movies, hours of them, are my idea of heaven. In their flickering frames, I saw faces that confirmed with one look the kind, memorable people I’d only been told about. The Chippie’s paternal grandmother passed away decades before I came on the scene and I’d heard wonderful things about her. Gentle, they said. And sweet. And funny. And what a cook! To see her, fussing in the kitchen and cheekily shooing away the Super 8 with a tea towel, or sitting quietly on the couch as the family socialised around her, confirmed without words the kind of woman she was. I felt I’d met her.

  The Chippie’s family knew how to live large. Weekends were about charred snags on makeshift barbecues, kung-fu fighting under the Hills Hoist or driving the Torana to a sunny spot to feast on egg sandwiches and Auntie Norma’s world-famous cakes. They got out and about en masse. Not to theme parks or shopping centres or the movies. Just being together was the event. It’s inspiring.

  My favourite scene is in the lounge room of the old house where The Chippie grew up with his parents, brothers and his blue-collar, happy-faced Grandfather Popsy. Popsy was a mountain of a man who raised his daughters, one of whom is my mother-in-law, after their mother was taken suddenly by breast cancer. I’d heard he had a big heart. Now I could see it. Because there he was, silently, on my TV, shiny with joy, in his impossibly crowded lounge room, dancing what looked to be the dance of Zorba the Greek. These, I thought, are clearly my kind of people.

  I believe in fate. Perhaps my yearning to have been born Greek is a nod to my children’s great-grandfather, who, despite having been born Irish Catholic, could summon an internal bouzouki with the best of them.

  8th July 2012

  Reverse bucket list

  Everyone is making bucket lists. A bucket list, in case you haven’t heard, is a list of things you want to achieve before you kick the bucket. Common activities on this list include sky­diving, riding the Orient Express and learning to cha-cha. You get the drift.

  I have always found the term obnoxious, like when people put their hand up and say, “Too much information.” It just sticks in my craw. Or maybe it touches my immortality nerve. I haven’t bought life insurance, either – because, like my “cousin” Bella Swan from Twilight, I plan on living forever.

  Instead, I’m putting together a reverse bucket list of the things I’m not going to do before I perform my final shuffle. This seems so much easier to achieve. So, here we go:

  I will never …

  Learn to make pasta. I’ve attempted this and my kitchen ends up looking as if the marshmallow man from Ghostbusters has left leprous parts of himself all over my benchtop. The pasta turns out to be a cross-breed between Clag and rubber bands. San Remo will do me fine, thank you.

  Jump from anywhere high (attached to a parachute or a perky other person). This has zero appeal. People say it makes them feel alive. You know what makes me feel alive? A strong coffee. On my own. In a cafe courtyard. No emergency straps required. Which brings me neatly to …

  Order skim milk. Takeaway coffee is wildly overpriced, and yet I buy it. Indeed, I worship it. Why would I pay good money for sugary, blueish milk when I can get the good stuff? I can tell when a barista has mistakenly used skim in my double-shot flat white by looking at the bubbles. They look like detergent. And taste like it, too. Pass.

  Be horrified when my children swear. I wish I could be better at this. But I just can’t. Every time my three-year-old drops the Sh-bomb, I have to bury my face in the cupboard so he can’t see that I think he’s funnier than Tina Fey. Bad Mummy.

  Grow anything resembling vegetables in my patch. No matter how I try, my parsnips look like chicken bones, my rocket is positively Jurassic, and my zucchinis could give Dirk Diggler a run for his money.

  Align the number of books I buy with the number of books I can physically read. I’ve done a little maths, and if I were to read all the books I own, I’d be horizontal for 243 years. Fine for Nosferatu. But I have to work.

  See the pyramids. Why?

  Climb a tree. See above.

  Read Fifty Shades of Grey. Controversial, I know, but I have no interest. I was sitting on a plane next to a woman who, with a sneaky smile, ripped her copy out as soon as the spiel about the oxygen masks was over. I read two lines over her shoulder, and the woman gave me a dirty look as if I was the creepiest person around. Hey! Take it easy. I’m not the one with a thought bubble over my head with a throbbing gland in it, lady. Sheesh.

  Buy a sports car. I’ll never get this. I love station wagons because they’re practical. Fast cars can be as fast as they like but the speed limit is the speed limit and no matter how much car you have, you still have to stick to sixty. It’s like attending a luau: there may be a whole suckling pig but your stomach can only take so much. My friend, who has a car roughly the size of a nit, did a big supermarket shop at Christmas and had to call me so I could take some bags home for her. That’s right. In my station wagon.

  Get a Brazilian (again). Devotees of this brutal, humiliating procedure insist it’s the best thing since Stevia, but I tried it once and I had to book in for therapy. The beautician told me, while my leg was over her shoulder, that her oldest client was seventy-seven – which adds a whole new disturbing vibe to The Golden Girls.

  Skin a kangaroo tail. That’s right. Skin a kangaroo tail. My friend, who works with indigenous communities in the NT, wanted to do something special for her friends. She googled a recipe and off she went. Step one: skin tail. These tails are roughly the size of a pool noodle, but covered in hide. When I left her, she was steaming each fur-covered pool noodle and peeling it millimetre by millimetre. She was in a sweaty frenzy, and muttering, “Maybe there was a reason they traditionally throw these in the fire first.” I didn’t have the heart to mention that big groups of people are usually happy with lasagne.

  15th July 2012

  Unmarried and proud

  What is your marital status? It seems like such an easy question to answer. But it isn’t. I have two small children and a giant mortgage and a wonderful partner to whom I am totally committed. But I am not married.

  I always squirm at the question because I’m not married, but the other option is “single” and, Lord knows, I ain’t that, either.

  The fact that I have never tied the knot hasn’t been due to a philosophical stance. Unlike Brad and Angelina, I’ve never said I’m waiting for marriage equality before heading down the aisle to a Shania Twain song. I kind of just never got around to it. Well, why not?

  We’ve all seen the TV wedding shows and lost count of the number of scenes in which, eyes wet with tears, a woman with newly visible collarbones looks down the lens and says, “This is the day I’ve been dreaming of my whole life.”

  I was never one of those. As a child, I never dreamt of a wedding. I was mad about having babies and nursed kittens, dolls and, more alarmingly, a wheat bag in a bonnet.

  But I never played dress-ups in my mother’s wedding frock. In my imaginative games, even Barbie and Ken were living in sin. I don’t think I was an early feminist; marriage just never struck me as a milestone.

  My Barbie was always more focused on remodelling her living room and providing for Skipper, who was her little sister, personal assistant and foster child on a rotating roster. Sometimes Ken was gay. And everyone knows gay men can’t get married (well, not in Australia).

  Don’t get me wrong, I love weddings. I am always the first to weep at the vows. It is such a beautiful, raw moment when, in front of everyone th
e bride and groom hold dear, each says they love that one person the most of all. I tear up just thinking about it.

  So why haven’t I done it?

  I was “with child” about a year into my relationship with my fella. The simple answer is, we just didn’t make it a priority and then – boom – we were having a baby, and getting married felt like asking someone who had just eaten an entire Black Forest gateau if they’d like a slice of cake. Redundant.

  There is also the small issue of my very shy partner. His idea of fresh hell is to be looked at, even adoringly, by hundreds of loved ones. To add a cake-cutting photo opportunity and a slow waltz to Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” to this scenario would bring on months of counselling.

  I’ve never been officially asked, either. I’m old-fashioned in that I’d feel weird getting down on one knee and asking a man to marry me. I have no problem being the breadwinner. But marriage? I think it’d be up to the fella.

  And then maybe also I’ve never been thin enough. Giant white frocks are the natural enemy of size-22 women, of which I am one. I remember hearing Dawn French, the curvy comedian, talk about her wedding in the ’80s to funny fellow Lenny Henry. She starved herself down to a size 10, got hitched, then had to do it all again a couple of years later so she’d recognise the woman in the photos.

  So now here we are. Five years down the track with my bloke. Totally committed, two gorgeous children, a beautiful blended army of mutual friends.

  My dad has stopped asking me when we’re going to get married. A traditionalist, it took him some time to get his head around the fact that his daughter was living in sin, but when he saw how my man could hang a door and change a nappy, he knew he’d got a bona fide son-in-law – even without the papers to prove it.

  I’m organising a Christmas-in-July party for tonight. Thirty-five of our nearest and dearest buddies are going to indulge in amazing French food at my favourite restaurant. Parlour games will not be out of the question, and someone will probably dress up as a wonky Santa and give out stupid presents.

  A few of my friends have asked, “Is this one of those secret weddings?” and I admit I did think about popping into the registry office, making it official, then celebrating the certificate with all our friends. My partner has always said he wants to get married but doesn’t want the wedding. I’m not mad on a registry-office affair. I think I’d be wanting to register my car, too, in a two-for-one deal.

  So it leaves us happily together with no papers. And in the end, I suppose, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

  22nd July 2012

  Crafty plans

  I once met the amazing Pip Lincolne from Melbourne. She is a master craftslady, has written three beautiful crafty books and drinks cups of tea behind the counter of her amazing shop full of cute bespoke bits and pieces. She has sparkly blue eyes and a blunt black bob and she wears cardigans and has a son called Remy. She’s one of those people you meet and within a few minutes you’re thinking, “I would not mind at all if I wake up tomorrow and I AM Pip Lincolne.”

  This happened to me when I did a TV segment with her in which we made cushions out of old shirts and greeting cards out of op-shop copies of Golden Books. After being in her orbit for just a few short minutes, I had tantalising visions of me making little pencil cases at home in my craft room with a cat on my lap and Carole King on my iPod. I would wear a wooden owl brooch and eat home-made plum cake and drink Lady Grey tea from a polka dot cup. I would be the Queen of Pencil Cases! I’d have a pencil case for every occasion!

  All I needed, Pip said, was a sewing machine. Which reminded me, I did have a crack at sewing once when I was in my early twenties and literally sewed through my finger. Twice. I actually had to unpick the stitch out of my index finger with a Quick Unpick.

  In primary school I was a dab hand at finger knitting. Who needs actual needles when you have fingers? I made several holey, long, skinny sheaths of wool using only my index fingers. Their purpose is still a great mystery to me.

  My grandmother was amazing at crochet. She was a woman possessed, really. She’d spend the lion’s share of her pension on hand towels, face washers and tea towels from Best & Less and proceed to trim each of them with crochet. Every time I’d visit her she’d make me sit in front of her chair as she plucked each work of art from a bag, laid it across her lap, and met my gaze expectantly, waiting for a unique reaction for each one.

  I ran out of adjectives after the 113th facecloth. When she passed away she left me her timber cribbage board in the shape of Australia and all her crochet patterns. She must have picked me as a fellow craftslady.

  So, inspired by Gran and Pip Lincolne and those “Here’s How To” pages in the paper, I decided I really needed a sewing machine.

  I rallied my sisters and best friend and begged for a Husqvarna for my birthday. Thrilled at the suggestion (apparently I’m hard to buy for and, strangely, none of them had thought of a sewing machine as a possible gift … wonder why?), they dutifully purchased it and wrapped it up, and I clapped when they presented it to me over strawberry melbas and coffee.

  I’d had it for a whole week and hadn’t opened the box. Then a month passed.

  Then a couple of months. Then I had another birthday. Then I had another baby. Then I did my kitchen. Then I started a new job.

  Life was certainly busy, but every so often I’d make sure to find a few moments to indulge in a pang of guilt and mourn the loss of my crafty dream.

  I now realise it’s not going to happen. I’m just not that person. I don’t like Lady Grey. I prefer Joni Mitchell to Carole King. I don’t have a craft room. Or a cat who likes to sit. Sadly, the sewing machine is staying in its box. It’s going to be two years in November.

  I might even put it on eBay.

  Actually, maybe I could exchange it for a pasta machine! I’m sure they do that sort of thing on Gumtree. I have this vision of making all my own pasta … from scratch.

  I can see it as clear as day! I’ll spend whole weekends scooping big handfuls of semolina out of a fabric sack and wiping my floury hands on my red checked apron … a village dog will be milling around my glazed terracotta floor collecting scraps and I’ll clap and say, “Prego!” then crack fresh eggs with one hand.

  Or maybe I’ll just go to the local and buy a packet of spaghetti. And a pencil case.

  29th July 2012

  Obeying your gut feeling

  I’ve been sick. Very sick. This week, I met gastro face to face. And even though I liked it about as much as I like a person who brings out a calculator to divvy up a dinner bill, I am kind of grateful it visited because, weirdly, I learnt some stuff about myself.

  I was talking to my friend Mel about the dreaded lurgy. We had our babies a few weeks apart a year ago. She had a long and spine-chilling labour. She gives a softly spoken warning before she tells anyone about it because if it was a movie, it would be classified by adult themes, horror and obscene language. And even Mel said, “Proper gastro is like childbirth. It makes you crazy. If someone offered you a choice between death, or living through it, there’s a chance, in your rank stupor, that you could quite easily take the former.” She has a point.

  Being out of action when you have small children is terrible. I was holed up in my bedroom, acting like whatever that was that lived under the stairs in The Munsters. I was drifting in and out of consciousness, snatching small conversations with my three-year-old, who would tentatively enter the room, climb on the bed and engage in conversations like:

  “Mummy … are you okay?”

  “Not really, no. I have a bug.”

  “Is it a … ladybug?”

  Then he’d scuttle away and I’d hear him saying in an adult voice to his dad, “I don’t think Mummy’s going to make it.”

  I wanted to assure him I would, but I was out of it again, flatten
ed like a wounded seahorse, in my nest of towels. Remind me to burn those, okay?

  My one-year-old, we decided, was not to be touched by me at all. I knew I might be contagious and wanted desperately for this little angel to be spared twenty-four hours of acting like something from The Exorcist. So he would come in in his dad’s arms, catch sight of me, then be whisked away Sophie’s Choice-style, screaming with arms outstretched. I would mutter something like, “Trust me, kid, this is not the mummy you want today.” But it was terrible. Just terrible. The great news is that after approximately forty dry heaves and feeling like I’d done three days of ab crunches, it passed. Just like that. And I could enjoy Saladas for fun, not survival.

  My family is my kingdom. I spend every waking hour making sure they have a beautiful, kind, comfortable and enriching life. It is my life. It is ours. I am present in it every minute of every day. It is my very favourite thing to do. My very favourite place to be. So it is very odd to be absent. To step down. I found it a bit confronting. I don’t think I’m a control freak. I just felt like I was missing out on something. Meals were prepared. Eaten. Baths taken. Hair washed. Stories read. Even Buzz Lightyear crises were averted. In the distance, down the hallway at lunchtime, I heard the fridge open and in my head I was screaming, “There’s a chicken, sweet potato and chia stew I made for baby Kit in resealable tubs!” But, as in a bad dream, nothing came out.