by Roger McEwan
I tried to call this chapter something else as I thought the term ‘a woman’s touch’ sounded sexist, but nothing else encapsulated the concept as well as that phrase. It isn’t employed in a derogatory sense, it’s more a compliment, and I’m using the phrase to convey the ability to bring together style, fashion and functionality.
I used the term ‘designed’ but that’s probably an over-statement. ‘Opportunistic’ is maybe a more apt description of my home’s unique look and feel. After I moved in there was little interior decorating that needed to be done and I only painted Liv’s room because she objected to the pale-blue colour. I bought furniture over the next two months, keeping to a solid wood theme, native rimu where possible. I added art to the walls and luxuriated in buying what I liked. Art is very individualistic and hanging prints of Dali and Escher felt liberating. Every knick-knack that wasn’t a gift or made by the children, along with the extensive range of pot plants, have all been lovingly selected and positioned by me.
The outdoor surrounds also bear my signature and here I was more ruthless. I took out a number of trees that looked out of control and generally expanded the size of the lawn for backyard cricket, tennis and soccer. I bought some second-hand outdoor furniture and used it to establish a compact breakfast area on the veranda and an outdoor setting in the backyard – though they aren’t used that frequently. Even less often since the two-seater collapsed under the weight of an unlucky guest.
Since the initial burst of activity after moving in I’ve only tinkered, leaving the house and surrounds a product of my male sense of fashion and function. I have an idea of the image that is produced – guests who are aware of my marital circumstances are often genuinely surprised when they arrive.
‘Wow, this is really nice,’ a university colleague remarked when borrowing a textbook.
‘What did you expect?’
‘I don’t know, something like your office, I guess. This seems, well … normal.’
I confess my office is a tip but when you’re studying you pile things on every flat surface. My home is different because it’s not solely for me, it’s a family home.
THE SALAD SERVERS
The inspiration for this chapter came from left field. I was oblivious to the fact that my home had a masculine feel until one Father’s Day Rog, twelve at the time, bought me a set of salad servers. Nothing unusual about that, I’m sure they’re a common present. The surprise came when I went to put them away and discovered that I didn’t own a set of salad servers.
Had you asked me how many salad servers I owned before that Father’s Day, I would have said at least two, maybe three. That was my brain reclaiming items long ago left behind in our marital kitchen. Of greater concern was that for over five years I’d obviously never needed to call on the service of salad servers. That just couldn’t be right.
Please don’t think that means my children and I haven’t had a salad in five years. We have, but for the three of us it’s easier to make it directly on the plates rather than in a salad bowl, which just creates one more dish to be washed. This method works well, especially for Liv who, unless salad is directly applied, is unlikely to let it grace her plate. Even then she gives it a token effort and treats it as though it will multiply if she touches it too much. I resort to the threat of withholding dessert unless she makes a decent attempt at the greenery and that results in a debate about what constitutes a decent attempt. She’s getting better, slowly.
You may be wondering what I do when I have friends over for refined and elaborate dinner parties or barbeques. ‘I don’t’ is the short answer. Throwing or attending dinner parties are seldom on the dance card of this single dad. I’ve hosted a few barbeques but zero dinner parties. My friend Simon popped over once for dinner but he brought fish and chips with him and I supplied the beer. Salad never featured on the menu or in conversation. I don’t count that as a dinner party.
I realise that this paints me in a forlorn and lonely light, but it’s mainly due to the mechanics of a week-on/week-off lifestyle. When the children are here the weeks are hectic. Inviting people over isn’t on the radar until Saturday, by which time it’s too late. Sunday evening they go to Rose’s. Maybe it’s just me, but being by myself does not instantly start me wondering who to invite over next weekend and what I can cook. Quite the contrary.
Dinner parties are also social events that traditionally revolve around couples or via work colleagues. Once you’ve been a guest you feel obliged to reciprocate, and the cycle commences. As I’m single and self-employed, the opportunities are limited. It isn’t that I don’t like dinner parties, I do. But there are people who consider being single as an illness to be cured and make dinner parties awkward first dates. Thankfully I don’t have friends like that and I haven’t, at least yet, found myself the subject of someone’s well-intentioned match-making experiment.
Re-reading and editing the previous paragraphs, for the umpteenth time which is the writing process, has made me wonder whether I’ve become too reclusive. Introspective writing, and its associated thinking, has a tendency to ask questions that you were blissfully unaware needed asking. While you may have an inkling that there are areas in your life that may benefit from attention, they’re like old clothes in the wardrobe – out of sight, out of mind. It’s when they’re brought into stark clarity that you see them in their true light. And once you’re aware, it’s impossible to become unaware.
The arrival of salad servers motivated me to look around my home with a critical eye, a feminine eye. I asked myself the question – what does my home look like to the rest of the world? What does it say about me? That’s something I’m sure most males seldom do because, let’s face it, we don’t really care. We are content leaving that question to our significant other! At the very least, though, I was curious.
On first inspection everything looked satisfactory, typical even. I began to think that the salad servers may be an aberration. It wasn’t until I looked harder that I started to understand that the concept of a woman’s touch is subtle and in the details. It’s making sure the carpets and curtains match. Having lamps and a lighting scheme that blend in – or simply being aware that having a lighting scheme is a good place to start.
This explains why one of the tasks many people dive into when moving into a new house is replacing carpets, curtains or lighting. This was lost on me as I’ve been in this house for over seven years and the carpets, curtains and lighting have remained untouched. That would indicate to me that they must blend in, or I would have noticed. Right? Unfortunately I get the feeling that if you don’t notice and act straight away, you never will. Over time everything becomes part of the background. It’s similar to being in a new country where initially everything is new and fascinating – ‘Wow, look at these double decker buses.’ A few weeks later it dissolves into the mundane – ‘The bloody bus is late. Again.’
If you cast a cursory glance around my house you could be forgiven for thinking fashion is on an equal footing. But, as I said, the absence of a woman’s touch is in the detail. I performed a few critical circuits of my house and I started to see things of which I was previously blissfully ignorant. For example, nearly every lampshade is different. I don’t know if that’s wonderfully eclectic or simply a mishmash.
In my bedroom there’s no mirror. The reason for this is that after seven years clearly I don’t need one. After my usual morning shower, if I think it’s necessary I can check myself in the bathroom mirror. But there isn’t much in a grooming sense that requires feedback. How I emerge from the shower is pretty much as good as I’m going to get.
Once dressed, I have no need of a full-length mirror to make sure my shoes go with my suit. They either have or haven’t, with minor variations, for years. There is, I grant you, the odd occasion when I do want to see myself in all my glory. I do this by using the full-length mirror in Liv’s room, which I installed as I thought she should
have one. Rog doesn’t have a mirror and has never asked for one. I think this is because he’s unaware he needs one, though this may change as his teenage years gather momentum.
When I use Liv’s full-length mirror it requires two views as it’s a full-length mirror for a seven-year-old. I view the top half by kneeling in front of the mirror and then stand to view the bottom half. It’s a cursory glance at best, if I’m honest. The chances of changing clothes based on this feedback are slim – though it has been known.
There are more effective ways than a mirror of receiving feedback about how you look and whether you’re putting on weight. Friends, like my brutally honest student colleagues, are ideal.
‘Did you have a good break over summer?’ Uri asked.
‘Yep. I managed to forget all about study and caught up on doing nothing,’ I replied.
‘We thought so. You are looking fatter in the face.’
We thought so. They’d obviously all noticed and discussed my weight increase but it wasn’t said with any malice, just as a fact. You’ve put on weight, you munter.
I was aware I’d put on a few kilos that summer as on my return to work my suit trousers felt overly snug. Confirmation came violently one morning when I bent down to retrieve my car keys. The sound was like a zipper being undone and I was suddenly aware that the morning breeze was on the cool side. I retreated inside without a word, leaving the waiting children perplexed. Thankfully I have a spare suit. When I reappeared at the front door, I held up my trousers to demonstrate what had happened.
‘What the – that’s the biggest rip I’ve ever seen,’ Liv said wide-eyed. ‘What a munter.’ It was impressive.
KIWI INGENUITY
A functional feature, unlikely to be a fixture in many bedrooms, is an ironing board. It isn’t the ironing board per se, it’s the fact it’s been permanently erected for years and performs a similar function to a chest of drawers, without the drawers. It’s seldom used for ironing, though it was initially erected for this purpose, with business shirts the major exception. It’s now a suitable place to put clothes when they’re between being put away and the washing basket. Usually it’s piled with sweatshirts, track pants and casual shirts waiting for a second wear. I suspect style would dictate another approach, but the ironing board serves admirably and it’s able to be cleared in seconds if required.
After writing the last paragraph I decided that a permanently erected ironing board wasn’t the look I wanted to portray and so I took it down, put it away and deleted the paragraph. However, without it I started copying Liv and using the floordrobe. It was back within a few days and the paragraph reinstated. I could buy a chair or something similar to replace the ironing board but that, I think, illustrates my point.
In terms of décor and taste the children’s rooms seem perfect. To get them feeling snug only required a parent’s touch, which I have in spades. The only aspect that’s questionable is their wardrobes, or to be more accurate the lack of them. When I bought the house there were two plastic, skeletal, stand-alone wardrobes which I immediately ditched. Even I could detect they were unsightly and I would have paid someone to take them away but I sold them on TradeMe (the New Zealand equivalent of Ebay) and got a bonus $20.
For the next few years wardrobing wasn’t a problem as the children had little that needed hanging except for coats and I’d acquired a stylish, wooden coat rack for that purpose. It was the arrival of school uniforms that necessitated a change in their wardrobing requirements.
The children and I went to a local furniture shop and discovered that stand-alone wardrobes were universally ugly and expensive. I had in mind a sleek, modern, bird-like form in steel for about $50. The best of an average lot, which was also the cheapest, wasn’t in stock and would take two weeks to arrive. In my typical style I’d left it until school was about to start, so we returned home empty handed. I got the feeling that Rog and Liv couldn’t have cared less but I was determined that they have somewhere to hang their school uniform. Otherwise they would happily ditch them on the floor without a second thought.
While putting Liv to bed that night I noticed a chain that was fixed across the corner of her room. It was part of a hammock used to display her stuffed teddies and along the chain she had hung various teddy bears. Hung in a nice decorative way, that is, rather than a teddy bear horror show.
‘Why don’t we hang your clothes from that?’ I asked, motioning towards the corner.
Liv frowned, considering the option.
‘What about the teddies?’
‘We can make a small gap. You haven’t got that many clothes that need hanging up.’
Liv continued to frown.
‘Yeah,’ she said suddenly, bursting into a smile.
Brilliant. One down and at zero cost.
I strolled confidently into Rog’s room, where I wasn’t so lucky. There was nothing that resembled a place that could accommodate hanging clothes. But I wasn’t to be defeated and the next day I bought a wardrobe rail and secured it with picture hanging wire to the top of his chest of drawers. It wasn’t my prettiest work, but it was effective. Rog’s clothes could all be accommodated and kept off the floor. Just. Rog wasn’t yet a strapping six-footer and the school uniform dictated short pants.
There was an alarming health and safety issue with this arrangement as the rail projected towards his bedroom door at goolie height. This was a significant concern for Rog and me but so far only Liv has blundered on to it with her stomach. Rog and I were in hysterics as she yelled, ‘Your wardrobe solution gutsed me!’
I managed to find wardrobing solutions for both children, and all for $7.50. That is Kiwi ingenuity at its finest. The solutions are, I admit, definitely well towards the useful side of William Morris’s golden rule that started this chapter.
THE KITCHEN
My kitchen is okay, though function has whopped style here. The stove and the previously described bungee cord and the dishwasher’s need of a bamboo pole being the two most obvious examples. The bungee cord may be a negative in terms of style but I’ve never thought that any stove possesses beauty.
The fridge, on the other hand, is functional and has a beauty the stove will never have. The fridge contains items that can be consumed immediately. To acquire this beauty the stove needs to be able to present the piping hot soup or lightly seared orange roughy and couscous ready for the person who opens the door. This level of technology would benefit humanity by eliminating the need for cooking shows and celebrity chefs.
My kitchen lacks the gadgets that someone with a greater affinity for cooking would possess. It has all the basics needed for preparing and cooking mainstream dishes, but few of the devices dreamt up by chefs looking to make money and avoid cooking. If I had to julienne something or someone I’d be likely to surprise and disappoint them, probably in that order.
The crockery and cutlery are all plain and unexciting but functional. Similar are the glasses, which are in uninspiring depleted sets. I wouldn’t call them cheap but they are low middle-of-the-road. They’re there primarily to be useful and not beautiful. If I desired classier glasses or plates, which I don’t, then I would happily pay a lot more. They would get broken by myself and the children in exactly the same way as the current ones do, except I’d get more irate. I’m saving money and reducing stress; it’s a bargain. I’m sure there’ll be a time and place for classier kitchen items. Maybe.
The final area of note, as Liv marches towards her teenage years, is the sparseness of the bathroom. I don’t have screeds of liquids and potions dotted on every available surface. In fact Cathy’s left behind more items than I had in the first place. One item I have recently invested in for Liv is a hair dryer. For years I convinced her that the fan heater in her room does exactly the same job, which it does, but the functional argument was wearing pretty thin. Added to that was the sight of Liv drying her hair while looking as if she was
listening to a boom box wasn’t great.
If I had to give my home an overall mark for style and beauty as opposed to functionality, I would award the mark I consistently received at school, B- with the comment ‘Could do better if he applied himself’. In saying that, writing this chapter wasn’t the revelation I thought it might be. I thought the lack of a woman’s touch was going to stand out like a sore thumb, but apart from a few areas my home is normal. Leaving the kitchen aside, my home has a look and feel that would be similar to the majority of family homes. Including those that have a critical feminine eye.
The most important element in my home that bucks the function over fashion trend is my children. They must be beautiful, and they are, as most of the time they aren’t that useful. Though they have their moments.
Reflections
The abundance or absence of salad servers is a useful measure of the state of your house on the fashion/function continuum.
It pays to assess your home from time to time with a critical eye to make sure function hasn’t dominated style to an embarrassing level. You simply stop seeing after a while.
As a single parent it is easy to become isolated and you need to be proactive to counter this.
You don’t have to spend lots of money to add touches of style to your home. Art prints and pot plants worked for me.
Mirrors appear to be optional accessories in a male world. Ironing boards, however, are a little-known bedroom accessory.
14. Fitness and Fatness
I spent my whole single life trying to be thin just to find someone who’d love me once I got fat.
Stephanie Klein (writer)
We’re besieged during our waking hours by the weight-loss industry looking to increase their sizeable profits. Most of their messages are subtle, though some are brick-like in their bluntness. The endless stream of perfect bodies used in marketing and entertainment subliminally impresses upon us that this is what you, and your partner, should be aspiring to look like. Have you ever made the mistake of suggesting that your partner may need to lose some weight or focus on exercise? I have. Once. That cooled the temperature in the room pretty damn quick and it didn’t warm again for days.