Forty going on Four or Eighty Four?




















I can drive, drink, vote, read and breed and am occasionally able to cook something using more than one pot but there are still so many more things I do that are really, really immature.

Such as:

• Eating a banana and half a 250 gram packet of marshmallows for lunch. Starting with the whites first and leaving the pinks (my favourite) until lucky last.
• Flexing in front of the mirror after my shower. Did you know that bikini supermodels pose like Egyptians? If you don't believe me, try shoving your shoulders forward and twisting your waist and butt around to the side. Then push out your hip bones and throw your arms back behind you like a troubled ape (or Paris Hilton) and voila, you've lost ten kilos and should be auditioning for the 'after' picture in fat busting advertisements.
• Laughing till I cried at seeing the search phrase "Ashleigh's Peanut Butter Farts" and wondering if I should send it on to him.
• Substituting four-syllable words to replace the 'Mu-nu-mu-nah' that Animals sings in that classically catchy Muppet song. Recent winners have included the Kath & Kim's bat-wing arm fat descriptor 'Foo-doo-bah-dahs' and pornography (but only after explaining what it meant to a horrified Sapphire), simplicity, undoubtedly, unbearable, exaggerate and, most appropriately, 'inanity'.
• Still writing my name or 'Kath loves LC' inside a lop-sided love heart in the steam on the bathroom mirror.
• Knowing that my chances of winning the lottery is about a billion to one, yet feeling absurdly disappointed when the slimy piece of paper is handed back with 'Not a Winner' on it. Refusing to touch that slip, saying 'Oh you can put it in the bin,' as though it'll damage my fortune in other aspects of my life.
• Painting Milly the dog's toe nails (paw claws?) shimmery purple.
• Popping a Lindt Ball into each cheek and letting them dissolve slowly as I read in-depth, thought-provoking articles in The Age. And doing it again for the next article. And the next insert.

And yet there are other times when I'm swear I'm looking towards eighty four instead of four. These are all true:

• Avidly reading the freebie community newspaper from cover-to-cover and then joining the local ratepayers association. And attending the council's community consultation session. Willingly.
• Consider googling where I can find a spiked litter pole thingy to ease the agony of continual bending over to pick up rubbish in my street, the local school, the poo lane alley adjoining the corner shop and the dodgy old flats next door.
• Looking forward to eating soup as the weather gets colder.
• Laughing at the re-emergence of eighties fashions being touted as 'Defying the recession with bright colours and bold optimism'.
• Noticing that the flesh on my neck doesn't turn in time with my head, but instead wobbles and stretches like a hesitant raw pizza base.
• Wondering why antimacassars aren't in vogue anymore.
• Discovering that I have a permanent pink tattoeed belt around my middle - even first thing in the morning - from years of wearing high-waisted elasticated underpants and jeans.
• Following and actively participating in discussions concerning politics. And realising that I'm actually a bit interested.
• Acknowledging that my most frequent thought and deed is determining where and when I can sit down.
• Doing a passable impersonation of a duck's mating call just by farting when I cough.
• Spending a longer time on the toilet and appreciating the solitude.
• Appreciating the fact that there's not one pair of heels in my wardrobe and 10% or less of my clothes need be be touched by an iron.

So yes, I insert the dog's name into ABBA songs and serenade her during the day ("Milly-mooster tell me what's wrong..."), have tried to photograph Skipper's tiny disapproving bunny lips from a weird angle and licked the chocolate cake mix bowl with Sapphire but have also noticed that my face has the imprint of the pillow left on it until long after lunch time and my legs are the physical representation of the blue and red streets of the Melways directory.

But most importantly I am that age - whatever mental, emotional or psychological number is assigned by the relevant experts - where coolness and a posh car don't matter. Just clean clothes and my loved ones. Oh and finding chocolate on special.

I'll pick Magic Johnson's face, thanks

Gosh golly darnit, it's been at least three months since my last meme.

This time, the tenacious Terence McDanger has tagged me, and seeing as I'm an unabashed fan of his blog, I'll accept his challenge.

What are your nicknames?

Used to be ‘Ready’ as a kid, or ‘reeds by the river’ because we lived in a river town, in a street named ‘River’ street even though it was actually nowhere near the river or even afforded any views of said river.

When gifted assassin and earless bad-boy Mark ‘Chopper’ Read became slightly more well known than feared, I was called ‘Chopper’ by the brave few. Of course, after I married Love Chunks and got ‘Lockett’ as part of the package deal the nickname changed to ‘Plugger’.


What TV gameshow/reality show would you like to be on?


I always say I’d like to be on Survivor, but I know full well that I’d be lying under a tree with a migraine sobbing uncontrollably within an hour of setting foot on an island with nothing but a dodgy swimsuit, even dodgier fellow contestants and only soggy bamboo with which to rub together for a fire.

In my own reality I’ve actually been on two game shows:

1988, Wheel of Fortune. Channel ten was then located in Walkerville and we poor students lived in Hackney so I could walk there, and hoped to win a colour TV, stereo, heater and some clothing to replace that which was stolen from us a few months earlier. My eighties spiral perm was blowdried out so hilariously hugely I looked like Bonnie Tyler in a wind tunnel and my request for ‘very little make up’ was translated to ‘I want to BE a peacock, I mean really BE one.’ Won the show, but realised that the room of prizes they show on TV is just a video for the home viewer while the contestant is being given the ‘hurry up you dick’ sign by the Floor Manager and being forced to pick from only ten items (such as cast iron cookware, mag wheels, skin care and diary sets and a poxy mat you place in your normal bath and pretend that it’s a spa) scrawled on a clapperboard.

Sale of the Century, 1997. My vanity – and love of useless trivia – allowed me to pass the audition and, seeing as we were living in Melbourne where the show was being filmed and I was a sheila, they were gagging for me to go on. Best moment of the show (a very long day in which up to seven episodes were filmed back to back, months in advance, so Glenn and whatsherface would whitter on about the Melbourne Cup even though it was June), was seeing a big headed contestant who’d annoyed the rest of us in the Green Room be led out by a hunky male model to the hot seat only to have her heel catch in the carpet and go arse over rack. Cracked us and the audience up and ruined her concentration so that she started on 20 points and left on twenty points; a comatose deer-in-the-headlights who might – I hope – have then gone home and taken a good hard look at herself.

As I did, but for different reasons. Won a few ‘Who am I’ segments (with those ‘pick a face’ prizes that are beyond tragic) and knew most of the other answers but just wasn’t as lightning fast as the two dudes on either side. Still have the Italian leather briefcase and the diamond set stickpin. Didn’t breathe a word to anyone at work that I’d been on the show (as if EPA greenies would watch it) during my flex day, and when it finally screened I was ribbed mercilessly by everyone there who’d somehow seen it.

What was the first movie you bought in VHS or DVD?

This is Spinal Tap. Then got it on DVD in 2000. “We were called the Originals until we found out that there was another band called the Originals and we didn’t want to be known as the Original Originals….”

First video watched at home, on a top-loading BETA video player at a friend’s house in Murray Bridge, 1982. Porky’s. Of course. It was only one of three choices at that stage – Porky’s, Stir Crazy and Emanuelle.

What is your favourite scent?

Can I have more than one? As a low maintenance gal who rejects make up, I do like perfume – Chloe by Karl Lagerfeld to be precise; worn it regularly since 1990, and occasionally veer to Joop, CKOne and even good old refreshing 4711.

Non perfume scents include Sapphire’s hair, vanilla, bacon frying, melted chocolate, freshly ground good quality coffee and clean dog fur.

If you had one million dollars to spend only on yourself, what would you spend it on?

Just me, eh? So no guiltily-obligated sharing or being good….

A really good car. Not a Ferrari because such an ostentatious set of wheels is only going to earn you sneers and catcalls, but a gleaming, high performance machine that, like Rexona, won't ever let me down.

A stonkingly fabulous, first-class-all-the-way world trip. Shopping spree with a personal stylist who actually cares. A self published book that looks good enough to convince all bookstores to stock, earns me more millions that I then could spend on family, friends and charity.

One place you've visited, can't forget and want to go back to?

London. Lived and worked there for two years and still hadn’t discovered it all. Damp, grotty and expensive but I loved the place. Cutting my toe nails out of my bedsit window one minute and down Churchill’s underground war rooms the next.

Do you trust easily?

Yes, bugger it. I have a heart bigger than my cynical rants on this 'ere blog would lead you to believe. It gets shocked, hurt, squeezed and disappointed often, despite me telling myself to harden up, be colder, feel colder, eat or be eaten.

Do you generally think before you act, or act before you think?

When I have the time, I think. And plan. And worry. And get anxious and all guts-churny and hate myself for and wish I was a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-trousers kind of person.

Other times, I can seize the moment and act in a kind of ‘fight instead of flight’ way. I’ve punched a cabbie in the face who pretended he was lost in Finchley and decided to reach over and try his luck with me; I’ve thrown a drunk bloke’s shopping bags off a bus so that he’d get off and stop bothering other passengers and bawled out people for littering in public. If only I could bottle that kind of attitude for stuff like public presentations or for dealing with the ‘Mummy Mafia’ who lurk at the school gates…..

Is there anything that has made you unhappy these days?

My previous boss. HR departments that support the management regardless of truth, fairness or abuse of power. The fact that Ryan Shelton is on TV. Dove removing their dark chocolate from their block range and KitKat for continuing to release shiteous versions of a classic that should be left in dignified peace. Any jerk who thinks that abortion – under any circumstances – should not be granted. Saying yes to public speaking opportunities even though I crap my body weight out for weeks beforehand. Oh and enormous boxy houses without eaves or adequate environmental provisions that accommodate fat kids and need as much artificial heating and cooling as a city office block. Is that enough?

Do you have a good body image?

It’s getting there. I won’t pretend that I don’t wallow in the ‘I’m not good enough’ kinds of whingeing that most women are prone to but I’m proud of the fact that I keep pretty damn fit by running, walking and pummelling the punching bags in our garage gym.

What is your favorite fruit?

Darren Hayes. Oh, sorry, passionfruit. Ridiculously expensive, so it’s important to know someone who actually grows them, like my Grandpa did. Nothing nicer than to hollow a few out on a hot day and suck down those ridiculously sweetly sour seeds.

What websites do you visit daily?

Blogs (see my sidebar), The Age, Perez and D-listed (I know, I know), E!, Tom’s Trivia Challenge and a host of news and writing-related sites. Was a regular on Facebook but now just go to read what other friends are up to: 'Darryl is sitting at his desk in silence with a Cadbury Creme Egg wedged in each cheek when he should be on the phone talking to his boss about their next ministerial briefing'

What have you been seriously addicted to lately?

Flight of the Conchords and Seinfeld DVDs. Chocolate. Great coffee from beans roasted at Simply Coffee in Kent Town. Sapphire's soft cheeks. Milly’s soft, velvety ears. Skipper nibbling my fingers. Red Rock chips.

What kind of person do you think the person who tagged you is?

Terence McDanger is hilarious, intelligent and a bloke I’d love to meet should I ever wind up in Ireland. With a wit and attitude to life sharper than a stick insect on a razor blade, he clearly is wasting his skills in whatever day job he has and should try doing some comedic writing for a living. With Franzy, Radgery, Myninjacockle and Miles McClagan.

What's the last song that got stuck in your head?

Sapphire was singing that old Rolf Harris classic about the powder on the noses of the ladies of the harem of the court of King Caractacus….who were just passing by and the pharkin’ thing is now firmly wedged in my grey matter. Trying to explain who Rolf was to my nine year old (who only knows him from the rather pleasantly enjoyable ABC portrait painting program) was impossible: "What do you mean there were lots of Rolfs that the Goodies had to track down?" "Why did he have a third leg - was he being naughty and rude?"

Favourite clothing

Brooks running shoes. My first pair beyond $150. Make me feel like wearing a firm pair of Crocs - but are socially acceptable - and make my running seem effortless: What are your legs? Springs, steel springs. And how fast can they run? As fast as a leopard! In Kathland anyway.

Do you think Rice Krispies are yummy?

No. They possess about as much mastication-fascination as a wood dust and interest my early morning taste buds about as much as powdered chipboard. I hate eating any kind of cereal for breakfast, especially meusli. I can force a bowl down a couple of times a week but it takes so bloody LONG to chew all the nuts, bolts and widgets and it’s so unfun to taste.

When Sapphire is around, I’ll do fruit and coffee. When she’s not, I’ll do leftover cake, chocolate, reheated spaghetti bolognese or a Farmers Union Feel Good Iced Coffee and a custard tart from the corner shop.

What would you do if you saw $100 lying on the ground?

Have a quick squizz around to see if anyone’s patting their arse in dismay, and if not, shove it in my own arse pocket. Knowing me, then head off to the nearest bookshop, newsagent or chocolatier and blow it all. Found a ten quid note on the Tube three days before payday in London which was a lifesaver, as I was in the habit of walking into my local McDonalds and yanking out a handful of their paper napkins to see me through a few days of toilet paper – monthly paydays were a horror.

Items you couldn't go without during the day?

My shoulder bag. Sunnies, wallet, little notebook and pen (for writing ideas), tic-tacs, keys, bus tickets and wet ones. Wet ones because the mother in me had found, too many times, that stingy café napkins placed directly UNDER sticky cakes aren’t helpful, especially if you have a child with caramel and cream smeared all over their face or your hands are covered in orange juice because the Fruitbox exploded like a grenade when you inserted the straw….. And some chocolate – couldn’t go without some every single day.

What should you be doing right now?

Writing a proper blog post that I thought of myself, preparing for my workshop, helping Love Chunks tizzy up our house plus discover the cure for zits in mature-aged women.

Day Nineteen - Appreciative August

Cars













Despite soaring petrol prices, hypocritical wars and 'help' provided by the US (and us) for not-so-pure reasons and the expense of buying hybrids, I'm grateful for the cars in my life.

Starting with the Holden, pictured above, brand spanking new with its owner, my mother, on her honeymoon in 1964. As the full time bank worker, it was her hard-earned that bought our family's first wheels because Dad was in his final year as a student (four years of medical school, then a year to round off a science degree, then practical teaching). As such, his only material contributions towards the commencement of their married life was a tartan blanket, transistor radio and some anodised mugs that are still used and kept in the glovebox.

In the early seventies it not considered a potential case for manslaughter for parents to say, "Now you stay here and behave yourself" and leave their children in the car whilst they nipped into the shop to get something. Thankfully mine never did this during oppressive heat or for times longer than about five minutes, but it was long enough. Long enough for my older brother and I to spot a 'long-haired layabout' (who'd clearly got up from his supine position in order for us to see him walking by) and yell out "Ya Maniac" at him whilst giggling, winding up the windows and locking the doors.

Mum recalls how seatbelt laws were non-existent, as were the actual belts in the back seat of the car. Baby Dave was simply stowed on the front bench seat between Mum and Dad in his wicker bassinette. Rob and I sat in the back - often on beach towels so that our skin didn't meld with the burning hot vinyl seats.

In 1973, they decided to trade in the Holden and get our beloved white Volvo. This beast could be heard a kilometre away and is therefore not recommended as a car left with its engine surreptitiously idling whilst the driver is looting a caravan or to sneak in under the carport when you're two hours past your curfew.

It survived literally hundreds of chunders from three kids in the back seat, featured in several weddings, could drive itself to Adelaide and Murray Bridge and back and saw us all learn to drive and get our P plates on it. Mum won a car rally in it with Dad being her wingman as the navigator: I distinctly remember her doing a classic donut in a paddock that sprayed cow shit and mud in all directions. Mum kicked arse in that car! Said machine lasted for twenty seven years when, in 2000, it was heartbreakingly 'given away' to a volvo parts guy and replaced with a soul-suckingly blah Commodore. Writing the commodore off completely was the only positive thing that came out of my mum's recent car accident. "I never ever liked it as much as the Volvo," she said. Neither did I.

My own car was Rodney the 1971 Renault 16TS - also known as the 'Flying Turd' - proudly purchased for $1600 in 1989 (as if my Harry high shorts, dodgy perm and sockless white shoes weren't a giveaway). He was always easy to spot in a crowded car park.

Dad found him for me so I suspect that only being able to nudge Rodders up to 80km per hour on the freeway wasn't a coincidence. He took me and the two other bridesmaids all the way to Whyalla for a wedding, decided to fling the front passenger door wide open when I was turning the roundabout at the airport and once deposited a huntsman spider down my aerobics cleavage when I flicked down the sunshade. I loved him but gave him away when I went to the UK and discovered later that he spent his final days on Kangaroo Island where he 'rests' still.

On my return to Australian in 1993, I enrolled in the Grad. Dip. Ed. course at Adelaide university because:
a) I qualified for Austudy;
b) my Dad, Aunties and grandparents had been teachers so maybe there was a genetic disposition lurking inside me somewhere; and
c) I didn't know what I wanted to be when I grew up.

Once again, Dad helped me find a student-budget-friendly vehicle to get me from A (Beulah Park, the pub, tennis, Murray Bridge, the shops) to B (uni, camping holidays, Melbourne, teaching pracs, the pub). Good old Volvo again - a 1971 two door version that Love Chunks immediately called 'The Sucked Crunchie' because its fetching 'safari orange' colour made it look as though the chocolate had been sucked off.

The bonus was that the butt-ugly contraption had been updated to gas, which was a godsend when 'Gogas' (which I honestly thought was one word when I first saw it) was 18c a litre compared to 65c for petrol. The Sucked Crunchie is pictured here at Halls Gap - we took the photo and sent it to one of my UK mates, telling him that the roo was our pet, 'Wobbleboard'. To this day he still adds, "Say 'Gday' to Wobbleboard for me," as a post script.

A few years later found us both in sensible jobs (that's right, not teaching) and living in Darwin. Love Chunks' 1976 Ford Cortina made the trip up, but not my volvo. This had been LC's one and only vehicle since first year uni. It wasn't coping with the heat or in fact any kind of 'please drive me somewhere' demands required of it and quite truly conked out in front of the Darwin used car and scrap metal yard. This meant that Love Chunks' haggling abilities were somewhat restricted and a short time later he returned home, tearful and silent in a taxi, holding a fifty buck note. We went out for dinner that night and the meal cost, yes, you guessed it - fifty bucks. We had eaten the Cortina. A week later, we bought a lawn mower costing $450. He didn't take it kindly when I said it was nine Cortinas and still can't laugh about it now.

Being Darwin, the mere act of walking to the letterbox left us dripping in sweat, so a car with air-conditioning was in order. Not to drive to the letterbox necessarily but for general travelling comfort. In 1995 we bought a 1991 Suzuki Vitara. It was the very first time that either of us had ever owned car from the decade we were actually living in: "It's from the nineties!"

Here I am in a dodgy haircut, Mindil market batik top and holding our tiny new puppy Tess, looking at the white wonder. (Well, the second white wonder when you consider my own pale English rose skin and legs that are quite rightly often compared to fluoro tubes).

LC used to pick me up from work in this car, with Tess sitting in the passenger seat, panting happily. "Yes, I'm completely comfortable with my sexuality", he said, as I'd hop in laughing.

As Tess grew older, we rued the fact that our two door jobbie didn't have the capacity for a dog barrier as she'd stand on the tape and map holder between the seats and lick us in equal measures as we drove along. Pushing her back only made her wedge her furry face in between the drivers' seat and the door, which earned the driver several wet and smelly slurps on the neck.

When we were in Melbourne five years later and it was apparent that Sapphire was indeed arriving and was not an enormous case of Bali belly we knew that the Suzuki would not be large enough or safe enough to carry a baby capsule and the half-tonne of paraphernalia that an eight pound human being requires in order to be placed in a car. The Vitara was sold to a florist whilst I was pacing the kitchen, writing down the time shortening between each contraction. I waved to the excited purchaser from the safety of the kitchen, unwilling to open my mouth in case "Dear God my arse has split all the way up to the back of my neck, make it STOP!" slipped out.

And thus, Maggie the 1996 Mitsubishi arrived in 1999. Ex-government, low mileage and clearly sends the message that you're about as single, carefree and wild as Old Mother Hubbard on a turnip run.

She's a bit bingled (yes, all me), stained (all Sapphire), hairy (Milly, and even some of Tess's hairs are still in there) and muddy (Love Chunks), but she hasn't let us down. Ever. She's hauled dogs, rabbits, camping equipment, IKEA flatpacks, plants, chook manure, straw, helium-filled balloons, sugared-up children, envirobags and bricks without a whine or chug of complaint.

She may very well be the oldiest and daggiest car in our increasingly-aspirational avenue, but we love her. (I still dream of owning another Volvo, next car around).