(No Shamin') Second Best

 Through the intricacies and mysteries that are Friday nights around here, I ended up down a rabbit-hole.

A notice had been posted on the modern day village noticeboard (where the village is composed entirely of women of a certain age and stage in life by virtue of the fact that we all attended the same school together in the same year).

Below the said notice (of an annual luncheon that is indeed quite wonderful to attend for a myriad of reasons) was a photo that had been taken of approximately one half of the possible candidates for this village that I am part of.  

 

 

It was familiar, yet not - for these girls of 37 years ago were bright and promising and resplendent in their blazers.  I scanned the faces - and the names - and realised that this was part of the shared experience of the half that I was not part of.

Someone asked if anyone had a copy of the other half.

Funnily enough...

 

Loose in an old photo album on the Kallax right beside me I found - 

• a rare picture of me in the early 1970s with my father, 
• several friends and I at "O" week adventures when I first went to University, 
• my rowing crew, 
• a long lost pen-pal from New Zealand in her hen-house - 
• and THAT photo.

Now - technology, night-time and actual care factor mingled and I took an inadequate shot of the other half.

 

10B.  

I was actually never in an "A" form in my whole high school career.

People always kindly said that it was random, form selection - but we all know they were lying.

Everybody wants to be chosen for teams early.  You learn that young.  Well, other people learned that young.  That was probably one of those lessons that I missed from hiding behind a door when they were handing them out.

Some kids learned how to make themselves likeable and popular.  They had the knack of attracting people and connecting.

Apparently.

I watched this behaviour a lot, and have always found it quite fascinating.

I wasn't one of those kids.  As I said, I watched.  I read.  I occasionally got brilliant ideas and sometimes would, in a mad rush of blood, act upon them and I was actually quite good - early on - of enthusing others with my visions.

The hair salon that was three solid days of exhilirating joy - until it was shut down by the fun police and their "head lice" warnings.  I cannot recall if it was someone else's gem of an idea that I fanned by managing the salon - I knew my artistic limitations, and they extend to numbers, words and a tiny bit of bossing around.

I learned that when you are the manager, you are in constant fear of the others realising that you are doing none of the hard work and you will be found out as a fraud.  This is a very fraught lesson when you are very young.

And then there was the "ball-bouncing" olympics, organized in a fit of "throw it to the wind" grandiosity that could not sustain the organisational frenzy that was the concept of a finite group of children and balls of varying sizes and ability to bounce and a world to conquer.

This was in the days prior to social media.  Be glad.

I learned then that sometimes, brilliant ideas can be enjoyed without allowing the masses to define it.

But yes.  Choosing sides.  I was never chosen on sheer ability.  I was occasionally a curve ball - or a trick pick - but for brilliance, popularity or ability to know how to play by the rules, colour between the lines and wear the right clothes - not me.

Thus 10B - with the completely out there, 6 foot tall sarcastic madame of scathing wit and a second language form mistress Miss Phillips.

Three circles with a magnifying glass and + sign, magnifying glass and - sign and two diagonal arrows going in different directions, a skanky brown background and the top of Miss P's head

 What on earth happened to us?  Admittedly, I do have to take blame for some of it.  The photo is taken on a phone, and what is more for someone who works with technology, I am a luddite when it comes to improving upon my "what the heck" artistic style thus what you get is what you get.  On top of that, the 37 year old photo is indeed looking its age - although hiding between the gradually drying cardboard and plastic it has faded and seems worn.  Apt.

 

But we are in shirt-sleeves, somehow the height of 1984 fashion had laid a lighter hand on our haircuts and look like a likely bunch of misfits.

I scan the names from back row left to front row right.

When I had gone through the 10A list, my reactions were "oh, her" and "her" whereas the 10B list it was "oh, that's right" and "her?"  (you probably have to be inside my head to hear the nuances).

Another of my intriguing life skills, in addition to the lack of being able to put "A" form on my CV, is the ability to ALWAYS be in the front row of school photos.  Some might call it "below average height", but I think it is worth more.  (Yes, okay - or less.  Happy now?)

 

 

So when I get to my own name, there is a addition that I had COMPLETELY FORGOTTEN ABOUT until this moment.

It said (in parenthesis) "(Vice-Captain)".

I know, right?!

That part of my history I had somehow completely erased.  

I wonder why?  (and was the "O" week photo a clue to where it went?)

So there you have it - I was chosen.  Well, chosen second.

I wonder how big a race it was?  And how I did it?  And if it formed any part of a lesson that I learned? 

Or maybe my memory got enticed by the wicked fairy "feels like a fraud" which we didn't have a diagnosis for (or a magazine article covering) and went down a rabbit hole.

So 

• have you ever held a position of power?
• how much do you remember?
• have you ever felt a fraud? and
• what were you doing in 1984?
  

(The ahead is a fictitious post to a ficticious messageboard. Any person, living or dead, who you may think is being depicted in this post probably isn't. I'm not that clever.)

What do you think?
Dear Messageboard

My husband's family have control issues and I think I am losing my mind from the scuttlebutt of his "old mates".

Long story.  Sorry.  I don't want to drip feed.

I am a somewhat older mum - usual story.  Took some time to deal with my rather perculiar paternal family, married the wrong bloke, work got interesting.

(Honestly, if you want an hour on a therapist's couch - my father is the sort of man that I would NEVER EVER marry, busy marrying every second bimbo who fall into the category of obviously would - what my mother saw in him I will never know - and spawning all of these siblings who - well - I can only say thank god I had Mom.  Shiver)

So I met DH through friends - honestly, he was a prince among all others - he listened, he was quiet and deferential, he seemed to really GET ME.  His brother was okay - a bit stuffy with a wife who was, at the time - friendly but reserved.  I got the feeling I was invading her turf, but then, my then boyfriend had been single a while and sort of an extra setting at their place a bit, so she was probably entitled to feel that way.

We really GOT each other.  And you know, my (and his) body clock was ticking and given the complete noneties on one side of my family tree, his extended family seemed quite interesting - right there for each other, you know?

Anyway, his dad was quite gung-ho for the whole thing - his first wife - the boys' mother - died when they were quite young but he had finally found happiness again when he rekindled with an old flame when the boys reached adulthood.  Step-mom is lovely - apparently she had a few issues fitting in to the family at first but each family has its wrinkles, it seems.  I think he is a bit of a romantic at heart, the old man.

Well, that was then.

Since then - its been horrible.

First, there are all these people who knew him from when he was a little boy pecking at me day in day out - if I didn't know better, I would say its almost what schizophrenia feels like, all these little voices chattering to fill the void, over and over about everything.

Ridiculous stuff, too.

"Her nails are too long - the wrong colour - the wrong shape - held at the wrong angle to the scapular on the vestry"

"What is she wearing?  Designer clothes?  An old ring?  Foundation?  Perfume that her SIL despises?"

"Did she look at him okay?  Was that for reassurance?  Reprimand?  Retribution?  Did her lips move?  Did his?"

It got worse.  Apparently these people speculate about everything.  Who his father is.  How his mother died.  What he wore to a uni party.  (Admittedly that was big time dumb.  He told me about it once and just was gobsmacked - but considering his family).  Whether his SIL felt overshadowed by me.  (Really - we laughed about that at first, but then I got to thinking - huh?  She stopped calling me soon after that, so maybe she is a bit insecure.)

And of course, then my own father added fuel to the flames.

What a cretin.  And that waste of space that is - well, most of my siblings really.  The kept telling these people all of this stuff - most of it made up, you know, the sort of stuff they did when I couldn't be bothered with them when I was a teenager and they were trying to gross out my friends.

Thank god for Mom.  Actually she is pretty gobsmacked at the whole thing too.  She is normally so zen and together, but she can only do very limited contact with these people - my dad's or my husband's.

And of course, we got pregnant.  Absolutely over the moon about it - it was straight away, of course, but you know, what with statistics and that, we had no time to waste.  And oh, the baby is so gorgeous.  A little boy.  Just DH and Mom with me and we all just kept on falling in love.  I just wanted to sit there and adore him.

And all of these people just want want want want want.  You think the vaccination conversation is a hard one with in-laws, try doing it through their rather convoluted method of chinese whispers and implied meaning - and if you ever tried to say anything head-on to any of them, you get "well, DH's grandfather's godfather got blown up by terrorists so this is how we protect ourselves" which really kyboshes whooping cough as a topic.

But all these people - its hard to describe them - if you ask them to back off, they say "well, you knew of our existence when you married him so sucks to be you" and they truly think they are right - so much so, I am starting to think I should have run early.  They are truly sick.

But it shouldn't have to be this way.  I see other family's resolving stuff and allowing people to live their own lives, but I see this one and I just can't deal with it any more.

I just want to take my baby and run away - I want DH to run away with me - go to near my mom.  She will help with the bub while I get my old job - well something like it - back and DH can find out what he wants to be (he worked in the family business - they won't like it if he resigns).

What would you do?

Santa-moanious...

Apparently a celebrity arrived at (every) Shopping Centre in the local big smoke over the weekend.

I am afraid I am fairly firmly on the "Humbug" side of the ledger when it comes to the whole success story of Santa-marketing strategies.

Don't get me wrong, there are some truly lovely things about Christmas, but they ain't the jolly old man in red malarkey (in my opinion).

I will tolerate - and I ask that the rest of you tolerate my lack of the enthuse.

Luckily (?) my children have not inherited my attitude.

Don't get me wrong, there will still be no Christmas Cards of my kin on any red-trousered knee.  

(Well, there may be, as 'Salina is now a legal voter and she got some other rights thrown in with the birthday as well, so while I may HOPE that there is no knee activity of any sort of Christmas Card she may choose, I have to accept the lot in life that comes with the price.

But I am pretty sure that it will not feature any birds, fire or Santa suits.)

Both of the girls have a terror of the strangers dressed up as Santa.

I am pretty sure that I need NEVER worry about Paris breaching the 4 metre zone around such dangerous creatures - that is not based on intuition, she is quite verbal in what is not an acceptable request even when it has never been (and unlikely to ever be) requested.
 

 I was going to be the mother that was honest with her child and would NEVER foster the fairy-tale, and thus not build the song and dance routine that seems to accompany the whole performance.

Initially, I was unwittingly aided and abetted by my mother-outlaw, Baka, who presented the 13 month old with a "Singing Santa" -it was a scream.  Quite literally.  Salina only had to look in its direction to start screaming, let alone insert the batteries and turn him on to sing and dance along to her hysteria.

I was talked into terrorising her again at two - the only difference is she had really learned to gain control of her reaction and put some POWER into it.  Some other little child thereupon received the joy of Christmas through the delights of the Op Shop after that.

However, when 'Salina was three - when 'Salina was three I was advised that she was "going to marry Santa Claus as she loved him so much".

I mean, I know that, as a mother, I will break my children's hearts throughout their childhoods, but that was a very big crossroads moment for this mother to chose the path of least resistance.

As she is the eldest of all of the cousins, 'Salina still "believes" because she knows the true value of Christmas - stay schtum and ye shall receive (the gratitude of my siblings and their spouses) (not me, the original grinch in the beginning of this story - still under this fun loving exterior).
 

Paris, on the other hand, interrogated me with evidence and theories of the non-existence when she was only 5. 

Ever the thinker, she mysteriously changed her tune (after frank and earnest discussions with 'Salina) and I was advised that her new policy would be to believe in whatever I want her to believe.  I think that she too has realised the true value of Christmas - stay schtum and ye shall receive.  She is one of the youngest - she doesn't need gratitude.
 

And whatever you do, don't get me started on that bloddy Elf on the Shelf. 

Out of my way on the 22nd December, folks - that is my designated Christmas shopping day.  Tra-la-expletive-deleted-LA.

Unblocking the drain...

(WARNING.  THERE IS LANGUAGE IN THIS POST.  BAD LANGUAGE.)

(WELL, BAD GRAMMAR REALLY.)

(And Words that aren't being polite.  

Words that haven't brushed their hair in ages and probably wouldn't know a razor if they fell over one.  

If you are easily offended by words and their potential interactions in an uncontrolled environment, look at the pretty picture of a kitten and click on like.)

oops...  I will try again, shall I?

I was only joking about the click on likes.  But really?  Now is the time to skedaddle...

V and I were arguing over discussing the relative merits of the great word “gotten”.

It feels a little grubby, doesn’t it, rolling this gem around in a sentence scenario, attempting to insert the little bastard of verbal expectorant?  But it is also oh so rich and creamy, and has a versatility that leaves more proper verb families aghast.

I know there is a smattering - perhaps even a veritable smattering - of folk who listen and read amongst us who would love to strangulate any possibility of such scat utterance.  I know because I have been known to don the sheep’s clothing – be it Merino or be it Dorset – and have heard their ear-felt pleas to peers.

But I also know that there are shedloads of instances when it feels like the insertion of a gotten gives the glue that a sentence requires.

 

I said shedloads there, didn’t I?  The auto-correct inside our brains immediately did the M rated translation, the word that she should have used but this is a family blog – you didn’t even have to manoeuvre yourselves through the labyrinth of why, your mind immediately put it there.

But what if I meant “shedloads”?  What if I was being as literal as possible?  What if I had done the maths, and worked out that a shed could hold a much larger amount of instances?   

Where does that leave the shortcut in our prehensile brain – dangling for want of an expletive?

Sometimes it just doesn’t pay to give heed to those who hold grammar in higher regard than those evolutionary theorists that walk the streets, natural preachers of the fluidity of speech.  We’re different is all.  But it’s also naughty and a little bit fun to take rules and flout with words graffitiing the walls of shrines.

 

Shitloads.  Really?  Thought about it?  I mean, what does that mean?   

What is the unit by which this measure is regarded?  Is it volume, density, profundity or potential of expression? 

Come on –unless you have medical issues about which I don’t know (and can only attempt to express the measure of sympathy required without full explanation of the details - I understand that it could get fairly awkward), then it is a pretty sure bet that you have your own load experiences to know what I might be talking about.  

 There is one thing for sure and certain, and that is when all is said (or unsaid) and done, you have an emotional response to that which we are not to discuss.

Is that why we love the word so much in every which way but, well, butt, you know…?

Whereas sheds…  How many here have sheds in their lives right now?  In their pasts?  In their myths about life?  

 So why are we so certain that “shedloads” is in some way even comparable to “shitloads”?

“We will have shedloads of fun”.   

No we won’t!  If our fun is to be measured in shedloads, we have already toned down for mother.  

 Mind you, there are probably some out there to whom the concept of shed equates to fun, be it mechanical or biological in nature, and good luck to you, good folk.  Love your work!

“I’ve got shitloads of housework to do”. 

 Now, that is an altogether different unit of measure we have to contemplate.   Perhaps with a good book, a cup of coffee or a surf on facebook.   

We get it.  Shit.  Loads.  Of.  Housework.

Let it go, I say.  Let all of your expectations about the enormity of the job in front of you float away and consider instead that perhaps this is a mantra, and we can correlate the requirement for cleanliness and its ability to assist in the void of the soul, unclench and regard “shitloads of housework” in terms of project management and finish with a smile on your face as you press the button on “finished”, flushed with success.

So when I reach for an easy “gotten”, I realise that there are worse things.  Far, far worser things I could say or do to get people off side.