Two Weeks with the Sleep

I guess I must be still recovering from the trauma of Term 1.
Term 2 wasn't exactly traumatic, but it is always hectic. Four straight weeks of hunting reports is manic and draining. And yes, I could just create a formula, a report by numbers. But I do actually really care about what I write for my students. It is important to me that they (and their parents) have some idea of their progress... I am not wired to write "Billy is progressing well in this class" and leave it at that.

But this is why we get the two weeks. Two weeks to catch up on housework (it took me two and half hours to tidy my desk/dining room table). Two weeks to eat way too much fabulous food (my clothes are a little bit tighter now. I do so love the fact that Sparky can cook!!) Two weeks to make a quick trip to the Big Smoke and remind my Farest and Dearest that I still love them (and in the process drink few too many coffees and glasses of vino). Two weeks to catch up on DVDs and TV (Friday Night Lights, Game of Thrones, Mad Men and starting The Wire? Sounds FAB!!) Two weeks to catch up on registers and programming and planning and marking (but of course there is no bottom of the pile when it comes to being an English teacher!)

So now I am staring down the barrel of Term 3. The business end of My First Advanced HSC Class (I can just imagine them as My Little Ponies... Seriously, I can picture some of them as mauve with lemony yellow hair!!) and a term of football finals and chilly mornings.

Bring it on!!! 

Radio Silence

So things have been pretty quiet around here, haven't they?

This last term has been my most difficult one ever, and I have wanted to write about it, but it really hasn't been my stuff to write about.

So I haven't written.

In the mean time, as well as smothering myself in work, and trying to figure out how to compartmentalise my thoughts (why can't I be more like Sydney Bristow??!?!) there has been much good stuff in my life that really needs acknowledgement.

The Hunger Games film was released. And I have been evangelical about these books for a few years, and now it seems the rest of the world is on board.

Game of Thrones has sucked me into its gritty castle walls. All ten eps of season one devoured on the first day of the holidays, and now I'm sucked in to the books. Full post on that one to come.

I said goodbye to Henry. And I said hello to Jezabel. New wheels is a pretty big decision in a lady's life.

And here comes Term 2. A new football season. A new lot of reports. A new set of promises to myself about how to keep myself much more sane. Like: Write more on this blog.

The Art of Being Grateful

So this year there is a new project. A Blog Project. A Blogject.

Some year ago, I was working in a fairly thankless job manning phones in an advertising agency. The delightful Gemma was working in a similarly thankless retail job. After a particularly average Friday, we were sprawled in her living room, feeling particularly strung out, frayed and spent. Fridayed.

And rather than stay there moping, and whining, and whinging about how utterly unlucky we were to be living our day to day dreary lives, we switched it up.

We began to make a list of all the things we were grateful for at that moment. One of the first ones was the glass of red wine that was in our hands.

And one of the more memorable from that evening was "I'm grateful nobody is yelling at me right now."

A decade plus on, and we are now living a life that is much closer to what we actually desire for ourselves. We do grown up things, like own large pieces of furniture, and fall asleep before midnight on a weekend, and try sipping brandy at the end of the night.

But still we hope to remain grateful, for the good things that we find in our lives. The small things that make us smile, and the big significant things that we strive for. So we're keeping a record. A Blogject.

You can find it here, at Gratis. It is already teeming with the tasty, and silly, the smiley and the serene. And I can't wait to find what else is on there!

Real men of Oz Rock

The highlight of the musical calendar in West Bubblefuck this year (apart from the Both Kinds Of Music Festival) has been Bogan Mecca - a Chisel reunion tour. There has been much excitement about the return of Barnsey, Mossy and Walker. The inevitable rendition of all the hits played in almost exactly the same way as they appear on the album, except for the carving Ian Moss solo has had the rednecks in a tizzy.

Don't get me wrong, I don't hate Chisel. They have some BRILLIANT music, Walker has written some lyrics that carve a deep scar into the Australian psyche, telling some stories that capture and articulate our vague definition of culture in this country. But the Fans of Chisel kind of irk me. Much like how the fans of Midnight Oil will belt out the lyrics to "Beds Are Burning" with gusto, but chuck around racist slurs with similar gay abandon. Similarly, the thuggish Barneseque Seem not to care about the anti-war, anti-suburban lyrics of the songs that criticize the way they live.

My personal highlight of the evening was not watching Jimmy sweat it out on stage, or even seeing the beautiful digital art on the backdrop.

Having Rock Legend, and Musical Hero Tim Rodgers in my town made me so freaking happy. I don't care what the bogans and haters-of-the-support-band say, Timmy and the You Am I boys slayed that stage, on a Tuesday night. It was stunning.

Smells Like Victory

All families have traditions. Those rituals to marks the milestones or merely the passing of time. And our family is big on rituals. We're big on a lot of things really. Mostly, we're just big. Like Nana used to say "Rats don't have mice" (Surely Nana could have had another quip that didn't so heavily involve my two biggest phobias???!)

Some of our rituals are big. We do Christmas like a boss, on both sides of my extended family. Meats, fruits, salads, desserts. Booze. New and ingenious ways to give gifts without breaking banks or collecting masses of plastic tat.

We do 21sts with gusto. There are many golden anecdotes of 21st tales. Mystery vomiters. Ugly sweaters. Shocking speeches. Drunk uncles who refuse to let flat mates into family photos (when really. He just wanted to go past to get to the loo).

Our weddings are stylish, our birthdays are feasts. But what I really love are the little ones.

Monday night is usually Fam Din (because we're just too lazy for all the syllables of Family Dinner). A chance for all the family who are in town to eat together.

But I think I like Saturday mornings the best. Coffee, and sometimes eggs, with a copy of the Sydney Morning Herals, bumper Saturday edition. More specifically The Good Weekend section. And The Quiz.

Trivial information seems to stick in my brain. Perhaps it is the allure of knowing something that not many people do. Perhaps it is that narssicistic joy of being right. Perhaps at collective junk of my brain just needs to have some kind of outlet. But trivial pursuits make me happy. When I lived in the Big Smoke, there was no mid week engagement more important or cemented into the diary than the pub quiz with my team, The Paddock Darts & Something Topical/Amusing Club.

Trivia teams require a delicate balance. A mixture of the extroverted and the introverted. Those willing to scribe, and those willing to whisper. Those keen to battle for their answers, and those happy to compromise, and then try not to shout "I TOLD YOU SO!" when the answers are announced. But even more importantly, there needs to be a balance of knowledge and interest. I like the music questions best. All the pop culture ones. Movies, TV, celebrity gossip. I also like the wordy ones - a word that can go before -jack, -box, -ban and -berry to make a new word? They are my favorites. But I am totally shithouse on geography. Mediocre on history. Sub par on fashion and architechture. Pretty rubbish on sport. (*there's too much sport*) But if you can build a team with the right balance, then your team will know no boundaries.

My family team is pretty well balanced. Dad covers off sport and geography like a champ. Mum is a history buff. Yes there are holes in our knowledge, but sometimes our brains trust for that week will fill them in. One brother does medicine, the other does psych and art (and does music a damn sight better than me). Usually we get about 11/15. Some weeks are worse. If we're less than 9, we're not happy with ourselves. If we're over 12, then we're pretty smug.

And we have said for a few years now that if we ever got full marks, we would take ourselves out to dinner.

Last weekend, we nailed it.

Dad rang me with 4 questions unknown. An Oscars one, a TV one, a comedy one and a celebrity one.

Smacked it out of the park.

That night we went to dinner at The Ritz. Tapas and tarts. And it tasted good. And it smelled like victory.


You can do the quiz in The Good Weekend magazine with the Saturday Sydney Morning Herald. Or you can do it on the smh app like I'm going to do right now!

White Coke

I'm not talking about illicit narcotics here.
Advertising and spin have a strange effect on me. I'm simultaneously intrigued and disgusted. Companies spending mega bucks on continuing to increase their ever swelling massive profit margins, the consumer being hoodwinked into handing over their hard earned, simple truths ignored for gimmicky tricks. All of which play into some seriously vague and unattainable vision of what We ( as humans, Australians, women/men etc) are SUPPOSED to be.

And I say this as a reformed advertiser myself.

I left the ad world for teaching, and have never regretted it. I loved the people I worked with, especially those that loved their job, but I thought it was a sad indictment on the society we live in that the most creative minds we have, the most talented artists, writers, photographers, use their talents to persuade people to buy shit they don't need. Instead of just art for art's sake.

Ah, crap. I really don't mean to sound like Judgy McJudge. This really isn't what this rant was MEANT to be about.

Advertising HAS brought some more golden gems into my life - as well as my pals from the agency lunch table. Gruen. 30 Seconds. Mad Men (HOLY CRAP!! Just realised I have written NOTHING on Mad Men!!! How is this possible??!?!). This Old Spice ad.

I try to remember some of these good things when I get a boiling ad rant going...

But...

Have you seen these?

All these photos via Coca Cola Australia's FB page 

As if the whole thing wasn't pissing me off enough already, some clown needs to bring the toxicity of Twilight into the equation

Notice anything?

Where is the representation of multicultural Australia? Where is Phu? Karma? Tamieka? Wallid? Teik Kim? At what point did the Brand Manager of Coke say "Yep. Our market here in Australia is all whitey white. Let's make them feel special about that."

And OK, my sample is not wide here. The bottles stocked in the West Bubblefuck servo may well be especially selected for our arch- Anglo demographic. Yes you CAN order your own custom bottle or can from the FB page, but they have to make choices about the ones they send to the supermarket shelves, right? Perhaps they corner shops in Cabbramatta and Lygon St are more reflective of the rich depth of cultures that we have in this country.

But I'm thinking not.

Blow up the Pokies

I hate poker machines.

I have nothing against local clubs and pubs. I have no grudge against local sporting teams and charities reaping benefits from those organisations. I don't mind if individuals choose to pump their hard earned into the belly of the one armed bandits.

But poker machines make me Oh So Cranky.

On a purely rational level, EVERYBODY KNOWS that the House Always Wins. EVERYBODY KNOWS that pubs and clubs don't put those sparkly tinkly machines in just to GIVE money away to patrons. We KNOW that there are algorithms and computer equations that ensure a teeny tiny percentage is paid out hill the rest goes into profit.

But when fueled with the power of a few frosty sherbets, a punter is powered by Possibiliy. It COULD pay out big. And it COULD be me.

But chances are, it won't be.

Xenaphon, Wilkie and Gillard have come up with a plan to help problem gamblers. I'm not sure I 100% understand what it is. Something about a compulsory precommitment to new machines that require a registered card to keep a track of who puts what in? Clubs Australia says it won't solve the problem, but it will hurt the clubs. Which makes as much sense as when the retailers said plain packaging won't stop sales of cigarettes but will send corner stores broke. You cannot hold two diametrically opposite points as true. Unless you are a hormonal female in need of TLC...

Ray Warren accidentally gave an ad-that-as-not-a-political-ad during the Manly Broncos semi final. And Nick Xenaphon is baying for some political blood. Clubs Australia has gone a little bit nuts here in West Bubblefuck, with Our Tony such a kingmaker down there. Bowling clubs, rugby clubs, all freaking out that they will go under without the coin from the Pokies.

GetUp, the lefty More Lower Case liberal Than Labor activist group aired their own ad, depicting pokies as taking the money straight from the punters at the ATM.

What not one person or interest group has mentioned here is that, unlike a game of poker, or a race of horses, pokies are the product of research. Addictive Behaviour research. Computers that are programmed to Keep you coming back! To keep you pumping your hard earned in. Rational, logical, intelligent humans who know all of those universal truths that I mentioned earlier are fully aware that they will not get their money back. But these computers, just like nicotine, just like my beloved caffeine, just like crystal meth, are addictive. And designed to be so.

And this doesn't even mention how toxic they have been to live music in Australia...

I don't know if a nanny state ID card system is the way to go. But I do think that these toxic machines should all be unplugged. Right now. Destroyed.

I'm with Tim Freedman on this.


 

Childhood Home. Or My Life as a Belonging Text Part II

The first home I can remember was in Manly. Well, Fairlight to be more precise. And returning to it today was a true assault to the memory. The Corso smells the same. The Esplanade has the same wind whipped sensation. The bus stop mirrors the past perfectly, I could almost see my friends huddled in wait for a late night bus, after we had played a sweaty, smoky game of laser tag, and eaten our own body weight in Royal Copenhagen ice-cream.

And to make matters even more comfortable, the whole place is draped in maroon and white, anticipating a great Sea Eagles victory on Grand Final Day this Sunday. I spend a fair bit of my life at The Boy Factory, and in various watering holes across QLD & NSW defending my love of the Manly Warringah Sea Eagles. There are not many of us out there that are true believers in the Silver Tails. As HG Nelson said "Everybody hates Manly. Except a few people who grew up in the Brookvale area."

But I love them. And most of the people I went to school with love them too.

My first proper boyfriend busted out the smooth moves at Brookvale Oval. Or perhaps I played the damsel-in-distress My Hands Are Cold card... Anyway, we ended up holding hands. I didn't mind much that Cronulla beat us that night. I was too busy swooning.

Brookvale Oval was a very great place for a date in the following years. Cheap, seeing as Dad snuck me a $4 entry players card from when he was coaching the school team. And demonstrating me to be the kind of chick that likes football, that isn't afraid to sit on a hill, that doesn't need the cliche girly treatment.

I understand the hatred from the other clubs. I understand the perception of the Silvertails from the fancypants Northern Beaches, in the working class game of Rugby League. Incidentally, the docoThe Fibros and The Silvertails is a brilliant film for looking at sports, journalism and identity with junior students. Works wonders with Year 8. But I digress...

Last night, my friend Jase used my love of Manly as a kickstarter for conversation at the pub. The aghast looks I received I found laughable. I was with a hard core St George supporter, a Souths player and a Queenslander. Not much support for Sea Eagles there.



So after swanning about with the lahdidah set in the city's east, I now feel a little more at home. Seeing palm trees wound with my team colours, and the wings of a spread eagle snapping on flags atop awnings and car rooves is comforting beyond belief.

How my life just might be a Belonging text

Term 3 is notoriously hectic. Near hellish, really. Shunting Yr12 out the gates in a fitting celebration, with minimal casualties. Cranking Yr11 up into their HSC year. Trialling Yr10 in the last school certain ever. Mania is a word that begins to cover it.

So now I have escaped West Bubblefuck to the increasingly unfamiliar sites of The Big Smoke. Considering I grew up here, moved back here and lived here for most of my adult life, I am somewhat surprised by how much of a tourist I am here now. The fact that I am staying in the uber-alienating leafy Woollhara, with the Yummy Mummy set and gentlemen who punctuate their sentences with "dahling" and the sound of them kissing their own teeth... Is is any wonder I am feeling a tad of an Outsider??

In West Bubblefuck, I think the Locals tend to consider ME out there. Latte sipping (even though my addiction is soley The Flat White), lefty, trendy tshirt wearing, artsy and a bit too opinionated for a chick. The fact that I refer to my "home"town as West Bubblefuck may indeed suggest that I feel like I am living somewhere not as progressive as I might like. But here I am not ENOUGH of a lefty/fashionista/trendy/out there human.

I'm sure it's just the hipster suburbs I've been floating in. Woollhara. Paddington. Surry Hills. This afternoon will be Bondi Beach. Maybe I should stop being such a posuer.


Or maybe I just need some more sleep.

Teacher Geek

This arvo I have been totally Teacher Geeking out. Trawling twitter for teachers to follow. Discovering blogs. Finding resources. Signing up to edmodo.com.

And rediscovering Wordle!!

Here is my current Wordle for The Mixed Metaphor!! I wonder what it will look like in a year's time? A month? A week?

Sell Sell Sell!!!!

Sometimes, as Mother to 110, you spend vast chunks of the day talking to teachers, counsellors, executive staff and SAS about students. Some days it is one specific student. How you can get him to break a pattern of behaviour, how you can get him to build some positive feedback and positive experiences in his life. Some days there are so many emotional coins invested in someone that when that individual (and sometimes you need to be reminded that he is just a child) tries very hard to push you away, to openly and publically disrespect you, to demonstrate that he is "doing alright" on his own... It smites a fair bit.

Last night felt a little bit like an Emotional GFC. My wise and very experienced mother told me when I started teaching that she has seen a pattern of female teachers taking the experiences of teaching far more personally than the male members of staff.

And I KNOW it is not personal. I KNOW it is written into the job description that a 14 year old boy must be emotionally stunted, must challenge authority and push boundaries. But in a vulnerable moment, I was exposed.

This morning it feels quite difficult to get back into the middle of that educational and emotional stock exchange. If I could just store all my emotional banknotes under my mattress, and take only apathy into the work place, there are times when I would.

Greening out

I don't usually get political on this site.

I did once, and it turned out to be my most popular post ever. Which is getting WAY more hits now than it ever did. Not that it is the meaty, political contents of my Q&A loving brain. If you didn't read it, I am basically comparing Tony Abbot (Or Mr Rabbit as careless/amused journos are liable to call him) to Bert of Bert & Ernie fame. Yeah, not the biteyest of satire, or the most profound of observations.

And the reasons I don't rant politics much is because of my job. Being an English teacher, we are often painted as radical lefties trying to brainwash the younger generations into joining our unions, saving our planet, and closing the gap between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people in this country. I know. We're outrageous. Just ask Miranda Devine. (Her going back to the Daily Tele has totally reduced my paper-reading anger levels...)

But I have to be very careful NOT to try to saturate my students with the contents of my own brain. I need to teach them HOW to think, not WHAT to think.

But.

(There is always a But.)

Today I went to a "rally" that was "organised" by Get-Up, the lefty-left-left-left advocacy group who want things like basic human rights, equal rights for genders and sexual preferences, a sustainable future for our country and planet, and other unreasonable demands. This "rally" was a Say Yes To Carbon Pricing, an attempt to show support for the "tax" and generally try to indicate that here in West Bubblefuck, we are not actually a bunch of red-neck bible bashers who want to mine and pollute to our hearts content.

Except it seems we are.

I reckon there were only about 60 people there. Granted, I am pretty rubbish at estimating numbers, so there might have been anywhere from 50-100, but to my dodgy eye, it looked a bit like 2 classes worth of greying hippies. But it was a pretty insignificant number, in this city of about 50,000 that we live in. Hence the sarcasmo "inverted commas" when I mention the term "rally."

Here in West Bubblefuck, our local member is Tony Windsor, one of the most powerful men in the country, holding the balance of power in his brown, leathery farmer hands. He was a National Party Member, until they screwed him and his seat over a few too many times, and he went Independent.

And while he is not a hard core, global warming advocate, he holds the belief that most people do. If the actions of humans are in any way impacting the climate of our globe, then we should change our behaviour. And if there is a chance that our actions are NOT affecting the climate, then what have we got to lose by NOT pumping pollution into the air/water/ground?

This is what irks me about climate change Deniers. (Which does include some of my nearest and dearest. And most of my students.) Approximately 97% of SCIENTISTS believe that humans are changing the climate of the earth. But Deniers have read something that someone said about people not having any impact on the climate of this planet, and because it was more safe and comfortable and status quo, they chose to believe THAT person.

Not the economists. Not the experts. Not the resounding majority of the scientific community. But the person with the vested interest in mining/coal burning/deforestation.

So when 3 of these 60 people started ARGUING with the speakers at this "rally" I realised that not all of these 60 people were believers, some of them were shit stirrers who wanted to pick a fight. Yes, shouty man next to me, it is a PROVEN SCIENTIFIC FACT that Australia is the BIGGEST polluter per capita. Lots of space/mines/machines/cars? Not many people? BINGO!! Yes, China DOES pollute more than us. But here is the thing about the phrase "per capita" - it means per head of population? And yes, we make more than them in that particular ratio...

And I also know that the term "carbon" is all wrong, especially when discussing emissions and taxes etc. What with us being carbon based life forms. And carbon being a kind of essential thing for us all to get by. But they had to pick an element to fixate on, and some of the others already have too many connotations. And the fact is that listing all the pollutants on the name of the tax is just not feasible.

The Daily Tele/my students/my BF/my aunt/my mother's aunts/talk back radio hosts and listeners may all believe that Ms Gillard is charging us "another big tax" but I hope nobody crumbles. I hope Mr Windsor realises that there are more than 60 people in his electorate who believe in him. Put the price on. Pay the $10 a week. Get the rebates back. Let the government put some more money into research of power sources that don't involve pumping toxins into everything.

How about we stop treating the planet like we, in this generation, in this century, in this species, in this country, in this economic climate.... like we are not the be all and end all of this planet.

"This Week". Or "Bad Poetry that is Not Well Thought Out". Or "I'm Tired."

Radio silence again.

Here is why.

Monday.
4 periods.
90 min staff meeting of being told what a shit job we're doing.
2 hours of report writing.

Tuesday.
6 hours of school.
45 minute welfare meeting.
2 hours rehearsal for closely pending play.
1 hour report writing.
Basketball.

Wednesday.
6 hours again.
4 periods again.
Piecing together emotional boys and refereeing minor conflicts.
2 hours rehearsal for closer pending play.
2 hours reports.

Thursday.
6 hours school.
Cancelled soccer training - one hour of Me time to chase the B Team before their player numbers increase.
3 hours duty.
2 hours report writing.

Friday.
4 hours of class.
2 hours of soccer training, but not my team.
1 hour of game, U14s vs the Privos from Up The Hill.
5 hours of watching/supervising football in various codes.

On morning TV
A giggly blonde woman said
That if you work more than 11 hours a day,
you are 64% more likely to have a heart attack.

Bring on Europe!

Return to the field. Or How my body is beginning to betray me

This here digi-tome has mentioned my efforts at coaching. I took the Mighty U13s to third 2 years ago, and last year the same boys (or mostly) went down 1-0 in the GF. This year I have taken on another squad of Mighty U13s, a new assistant supercoach and a different set of strengths and weaknesses. So far so good, one win, one loss, one draw. The team hasn't really played to its potential yet, but I have faith that they will finish the season strongly.

But even more importantly than my sideline encouragements and masterminding puppetry of young footballers is my own return to the park.

Moving back to West Bubblefuck four years ago, I was devastated to learn that there was no women's football competition. I think the words I actually spake (I'm teaching Shakespeare at the moment, and it is affecting my vocab) were "What kind of a backwards town am I living in?!" At the end of each game of coaching for the last two years I have ended up bubbling with unspent adrenaline, and each week I made a small curse (silently or otherwise) that there was no comp I could play in to spend the pent up energy. Sure, I could play with the blokes, but my serious lack of fitness kind of embarrassed me out of that.

This year, the West Bubblefuck District Football Association has finally got a 6 a side comp off the ground. Just.

In the last two months I have been palpable in my desperation to find players. I emailed parents, I mentioned it in almost every conversation "Do you know anyone that might be interested in playing women's soccer?" West Bubblefuck has a really great culture of sport - a thriving netball comp, a really successful basketball comp, hockey, tennis, austag AND touch, indoor mixed soccer, cricket and netball... West Bubblefuck women play a number of sports, and tend to keep playing them until their bodies betray them. As mine may well currently be doing.

Yes I have been getting my competitive kicks with the Flames on the baskeball court for a little over a year. But this has led to various joints of mine deciding they will no longer operate at 100%.

Betrayal.

But I have loved the round ball game dearly for over 15 years, and it is where  my sporting heart truly lies. Despite the fact that Sparky despises the game in an unworldly kind of way. So when I managed to get 7 ladies together, I contacted a club and poached a few more players, helped to coordinate a SECOND team and became a part of a women's football comp in my backwards town.

But then of course, not everyone could make it this week.

I showed up with 3 other girls, hoping desperately for some juniors to help us out. We found one. And then sneakily poached one of the keepers from our opposition.

Since I dinged my shoulder a month ago, I haven't graced the basketball court. I haven't been to body balance, or to the gym at all. I may have walked the dog a few times, but nothing that was really strenuous. Within three minutes of kick off, I was scraping the bottom of my lungs for breath. Turns out, a complete lack of exercise leads to a seriously diminished fitness. Who knew?

Betrayal.

I was delighted to be playing a shortened game. 30 minute halves instead of 45. Six a side instead of 11. Half field. As it was, I was wheezing and doing so much field walking that if I was COACHING me, I would have given myself a total blast at half time. Imagine if I had played the real mccoy? At the end of the hour, I was already aching. My stupid basketballed ankle was moaning, my niggly basketballed shoulder was whining (from the throw ins).

Betrayal.

As I limped to my car, my calves started to seize, and the burn set in to my quads.

Betrayal.

Delayed onset muscle soreness - which the professionals call DOMS, but I like to call Second Day Syndrome - will ensure that tomorrow I will be tight and achy. And even worse on Monday I will find it difficult to walk.

Betrayal once more.
But despite the fact that my body is kicking me back, and despite the fact that my team went down 6-0, and despite the fact that half a dozen dudes from The Boy Factory sat on the side line as a witness to my defeat (against the team in black and white, and against my body) setting my humliation up for further discussion over the course of the week, I had such a brilliant time.

I just hope I can get my body to work with me a little better next week. The South West Bubblefuck Womens Green Machine has started its epic journey and I hope it is long and fruitful and rich in great football.

Tangible proof of memory

Nostalgia is a funny thing. According to the wisdom of the internoodle, it comes from the Greek words for Homecoming and Pain or Ache. The idea of the good old days. The notion of "living in the past! Hung up on some clown from the 60s!" (cannot help but slide into Seinfeld when the idea of living in the past comes up).

When I came home from South West Rocks, it was not a pain (aside from my errant and wilful sinuses and ear canals. And the mountain of marking to embark on.) Sure, I was glum that my escape to the seaside was over, and that Sparky had to be up before the birds for work the next day. But being home, not so painful.

There was a few gifts to greet me.

In preparation for an upcoming move (perhaps some grey nomading?), my parents have decided that I am grown up enough now not to store all my stuff a their place. Three neat piles of boxes and bags of irregular sizes and states of disrepair. Full of what can best be described as Stuff. I think this is where the Miscellaneous Crap from ALL of my house moves has ended up.

I call them my Nostalgia Showbags. ('Tis the season for the Royal Easter Show, after all.)

I found my Year 10 formal dress. The cowboy boots I wore to my 21st party. An essay I wrote for Year 11 drama about Cosi - the play I will be teaching to Year 12 at The Boy Factory next term (I got an A, 19/20. I don't think it was worth that much. I would have only given me a 15... But I've been told I'm pretty harsh!) My university assignments from the first year of my BA. My birthday cards from my 21st.

More fresian cow print than I care to admit.

That indistinguishable mass at the back is a pyjama top.

I seem to have kept every ticket, program and flyer for all the shows I've ever seen.

This is just some the flyers from the latest Edinburgh trip. But you can just see (top right) a ticket stub for The King's Speech.

Last night, my bedtime story was reading my journal from age 17 to 20.

Full of teenaged angst and really awful poetry. The English teacher I am now wants to take the hand of that cliched over-writer and show her how to use a red pen. Ah, the power of the red pen. If I knew then...
Of course, as with most half-arsed writers, I only ever wrote when I was in the throws of emotional turmoil - more often than not over a Boy - or too bored to think of anything else to do. Part scrapbook, part journal, part artwork... It is an artefact. It charts the rise (but not always getting off the ground) and fall of a number of significant relationships of my past. Romance and love and unrequited lust and friendships. It is truly a tome of the last moments of the 20th century. But this is Not a book that I want my parents to read. Or anyone I actually know. For when I die, I may well put it on the Burn Before Reading list, and organise a buddy to get to my home before my parents do to destroy the evidence. Like an arrangement some blokes have about destroying their porn (or maybe that is just on Coupling.)

And then there are the letters. And birthday cards. And notes. The signs off my door in college. 21st birthday invitations from that season of about two years long, where almost every weekend was a road trip somewhere in the state for another. Posters from all of the plays I have been involved in. Boxes of photographs.

Basically, if you know me, and you have ever sent me a birthday card or given me a drawing or written me a note, chances are, I probably have it.

I've had a good time living in the past. Finding new homes for my old rubbishy things. Deciding to ditch the stuff I really really don't need. Reading unsent letters, covering the full range of emotions from puppy love to vehement spite. Kind of makes me wonder how I'll feel when I read this blog is 10 years time...

But there is no Home Pain here. I'm really pleased I'm not that girl I once was (despite all the lovely messages on my 21st birthday card saying "don't change, your awesome!" (sic).

Escape to the Seaside

After ten and a half long weeks of molding (or moulding? - could I be coating their brains with greenish scum?) young minds, confiscating spray deoderant, failing to track down a thief and helping to write 120 essays, I was exhausted. Just smashed. Like close to tears for no reason all the time kind of tired. If someone had have pulled the "Teachers get too many holidays" line on me in one of those last weeks, I would have sconed them, Glasgow Kiss style. Then I would have sat on their chest and tried to drown them in my irrational flood of tears, Alice in Wonderland style.

But the light at the end of the tunnel is in the shape of almost three weeks off - Easter and ANZAC Day conspire to give us an extra long break. And what better way to escape the Boy Factory and West Bubblefuck than to hijack Sparky's brother's family holiday at South West Rocks? Ah, nothing. There is no better way than that.

Sleep little town, with a few cafes (where the coffee is just passable for the addiction and to keep the whinging at bay) and a few pubs with great counter meals and a few days of sunshine to ease the pain of  marking those 120 essays that I helped to write. Beachside markets for a new raffia fedora, and a gorgeous trinket for Mum's birthday. Sparky distracted by (largely unsuccessful) fishing trips. Cold beers, chilled cider, wickedly good gelato. A few dunks in the ocean (already more than I got in my Almost A Disaster summer floody road trip.) Time to paint my nails and read some pages and watch some trashy DVDs... Holidays? Yes please!

However, South West Rocks brings me just one gripe. I have NEVER understood why it is called South West Rocks. Yes, it is indeed rocky. There is a plethora of rocks. No misnomer there. But exactly what is it South West of? The USA? The moon? Fiji?

Really, if that is my biggest problem, then I seem to be going OK, right?

Physics in action.

And I'm an English teacher.

I was never much good at Physics at school. I am ashamed of how little I know about amps and watts and terminal velocity (other than the Wesley Snipes film, which is appauling).

But I seem to recall a little pithy piece of information from the dark recesses of my Physics memory.

It is more difficult to gain momentum, than to keep momentum.

As in Physics, so in life.
This week (and it is only Tuesday, mind) has heard me tootling along in my off-key voice "The first week is the hardest," bastardising Rod Stewart for my own ends. And it is. I know we teachers get great masses of holidays, but I firmly believe they are earned. We work damn hard those weeks that we are on, and we do a job that The Haters wouldn't touch with someone else's tax file number.

And nobody likes that Back To Work feeling, post blissful summer. Not the Boys, whining in their trussed up ties. And not the teachers, with their soon-to-be-faded thong tans on their feet.

Don't get me wrong, the prospect of being back in a classroom is exhilerating. And the notion of My First Ever Drama Class has me excited out of my skin. But as much as I love my job, "It's always better on holidays." Thanks Franz.

The Real Resolutions

As opposed to my Reading Resolutions, discussed here.

Each new year, I try to nail down 5 promises to myself to make my life better. Five, because if I accomplish 3 then I am going pretty well. The 5 resolutions need to be realistic, achievable, quantifyable and positive. I also try to have them nailed down by the 5th of Jan, but I am running a little behind schedule.

So here goes:

1. Do not buy any more shoes in 2011. The year '11 may be the year of the legs, according to bingo, but my collection of footwear is vast and varied. Especially when it comes to red mary-janes. So I promise myself, and my wallet, and the corner of my bedroom where the shoes get chucked (and all the other corners where they invariably end up) that I will not NOT purchase a new pair - unless one of the Essentials On High Rotation gets broken and needs replacing. This means no browsing in shoe shops, no gravitational pull to the shoe section of department stores. No shoes in 2011.

2. Write 52 blog entries for 2011. An average of 1 a week. Last year, being the first year of Mum to 110 meant that This Here Record Of Ramblings was somewhat ignored, especially towards the end of the year. And writing feels good. Not just teaching people about writing, but clarifying my own opinions into the crystal clarity of words on a screen. Edging out my own little dialogue with the e-ther. Plus, as KidsTheseDays put it, it is good for a teacher to be a practitioner - to practise what I am preaching. Of course, this year I am already off to a good start, and holiday times should help my averages!

3. Sweat an average of 3 times a week. Not really for weight loss, more because my brain, my body and my emotions are always much more rational when getting a regular sweat on. Gym, swim, bball with The Flames. I reckon I can get 3 times a week of getting my heart rate up to sweating.

4. Get my spots checked. This should only take a moment, or half an hour at max, but checking that my skin is cancer free, for someone as dotty as me, is actually really important. I just have to face my boy-like fear of the medical potential for Nasty Truth and get someone to examine my skin.

5. $100 a week in savings. Living at The Boy Factory should allow me to save more cash than I do. So it is time to make a concerted effort. I set up a savings account last year, and it is really time for me to use it.

I will have to try to do an assessment of progress throughout the year, but now it has been written, it cannot be escaped! The pressure of the internet compels me to try!

Wanted: One ark. Reasonable condition.

A road trip to the coast, summer with my brother. Beach, booze, a bit of art and music, but mostly catching up with friends flung northward. Sounds like fun, eh?

In reality, the road trip was a little more eventful than relaxing. Less beach time, and more avoiding the rising flood waters. Which the media is saying is "the biggest natural disaster to ever hit Australia", and I am sure if you count the devastation in Victoria (where flood meters have been swallowed by the torrent), New South Wales, Tasmania and South Australia, it is probably true. But they do tend to stretch that thing called truth, now and again, don't they?

Escaping Brisbane before it was totally inundated was a wise move. Waiting for the insanity of lunatics evacuating early was also fairly well thought out - we drove in fairly dry conditions, with near empty roads, to the safety of the Gold Coast. But after we got out of Dodge, the flood waters across the nation's rivers continued to follow us. We took a 4 hour detour to travel 65ks around Grafton to Woopi.

Grafton, the Clarence River

The rivers we crossed were swollen and ragey, pregnant with the promise of angry, anarchic watery children of chaos.



Woolgoolga and her flood stained beach

 The beaches we planned to swim at were stained unpleasantly with untreated sewage and chemicals that wanted nothing more than to inflict me with another summer ear infection.

But listen to me whinging while the multitudes of flood refugees from Brisbane, Grafton, the Lockyer Valley and northern Victoria have lost all their worldly possessions. I know my plans had to be tweaked a little, but my diatribe is knowing - I have sweet FA to complain about.

Most of the minutes of the last week on television have been saturated by tear stained faces, and all-too-eager reporters trying to evoke extreme emotions, prodding them sharply with microphones until they bleed the required tears. Lives have been lost, and more are still missing, a week later, and it is devastating what the floods have done to homes and businesses. But the overwhelming response from most of the victims of the journos is hope, and relief that things aren't as bad as they thought they would be, and so much joy at the generosity of helpful strangers with the cleaning and the sweeping.

It has got me to thinking, and these thoughts were somewhat clarified by the oh-so-articulate John Birmingham in the SMH. He wrote a beautifully bitter piece about the fact that this country we live in continues to remind us that we're not welcome. that it isn't Ours to control, not really fit for human habitation. This continent continues to push back, against our riverside properties, and our constructions that don't seem to hold up to the winds or the flames, the deluges of water or the long stretches of time without it. The sheer arrogance of "It Won't Happen To Me", the reason behind so many teenage driving deaths, the reason behind people catching STIs, is the same reasoning behind riverside properties being overtaken by Mother Nature. Yes, it happened to that property in 1974. Why wouldn't it happen again?

The day the flood warnings came to Brisbane, Tuesday, the day after the horrors of Toowomba and the Lockyer Valley, I tried to go to a cafe in Newstead. And I was told, with very little sugar coating in the tone of her voice, that the cafe was shut, in preparation for the rising flood waters. I scoffed.

Rising flood waters in Brisbane. At about 4.6m

Sandbagging in action

Then the waters rose. And the city evacuated (not officially, mind you. Just all of the office managers said "if you want to get home, you'd better leave now). And the sandbags began to appear, as if from nowhere. At times it was adventurous. We stocked up on booze and frozen pizza, rolls of toilet paper and candles. Then the reality of no power and no plumbing hit home. So my bro and me - we hit the road.

I too am of that same brand of arrogance that expects it Not To Happen To Me. I thought it all a media beat up. Scare mongering in the vein of post-tsunami a few years ago. And I have had to eat my words most humbly.

I haven't donated to the flood appeal yet (aside from a few gold coins rattled into buckets and tip jars here and there). Mostly because I am waiting for pay-day on Wednesday, because it needs to be a significant donation.

Give lots. Give to Queenslanders with their new-found kick arse premier Anna Bligh. Give to New South Welshpeeps, with their divided and isolated towns. Give to Victorians, who really deserve a break. Give to Government appeals QLD: http://www.qld.gov.au/floods/donate.html. Donate to charities http://www.vinnies.org.au/qldfloodappeal, to animal shelters, to anyone who will do good with the cash.


Side note:
In times of floods, good road trip listening material can be found in Eddie Izzard's Glorious. Noah has a Sean Connery voice.

2010 - The year that was

This has been a pretty roller-coaster kind of year. In the style of ACA, lets have a look, shall we?

January - 2 weddings in the sun, and a few weeks in Bondi. My relationship with Sparky was just new, and exciting and full of promise. The Festival, otherwise known as the West Bubblefuck Country Music Festival was full of dancefloor fun, and far too many bottles of Pure Blonde to be healthy. The Basics, Bob Evans and The Bushwhackers were highlights. The lack of school for the month was also a sparkling gem. Won the Guess the Hottest 100 comp at Sparky's Hottest 100 party. Competitive? Moi?

February - Possibly worked the hardest in this month. New Year 7s asking fifteen bajillion questions, and constant supervision, distraction and conversation for Boys away from Home, finding their feet at The Factory. Got incredibly sick in Week 4, followed by year 7 camp in Week 5. Tried to compete in Oscarsfest, but failed rather dismally (still blaming West Bubblefuck cinema for being so crap). Joined a basketball team, The Flames, in C grade of the West Bubblefuck Basketball comp, kind of made me feel like a local?

March - Slightly less manic than the first half of the term. Got my PERMANENT JOB!! Feeling very validated and grown up, and a little bit like all my hard work had paid off. Bought my couch, my first piece of proper real grown up furniture. Took an hour and a half for the delivery guys to get it into my lounge room. Neglected to tell them that I had negotiated for free delivery... The start of my beloved Couch Time. Cruised on in to Easter. The start of football try outs, the debating team kick off - or the Boy Factory First IV. Won most of the games with The Flames.

April - Turned 30. Felt exceptionally good about it. All grown up (new permanent job), all loved up, and all liquored up. Fantastic party at The Coast House, with a dozen or so of my closest friends converging for a BBQ and prawns, and a few frosty beverages. The night before party of curry, carrot cake and 30 year old port was also a blast. Sprained my ankle with The Flames - changed direction without telling my feet I was going to do so. Trip 1 to Melbourne for The Comedy Festival, slightly more hobbly than wandery due to ankle injury.

May - Slightly swamped at The Factory again. So much so that I have little memory of May at all. A weekend in Sydney. More basketball, more Sparky time, more Couchtime. The Mighty U14s kicked into gear and started playing like a team of teammates, which is just what a Supercoach wants. Games of local rugby in the freezing cold

June - The World Cup, and the ensuing sleep deprivation that goes along with it. A lot of bandwagon jumpers to the round ball game, and overnight experts in team configeration. Henry broke down in the drive thru of Oporto. The Flames won the C grade basketball grand final, but I damaged my rotator cuff in the semis.

July - More delicious school holidays. A trip to Sydney to celebrate the success/birthday/bon voyage of good friends. Read the Chaos Walking trilogy, and excellent book decision. Became addicted to MasterChef, despite my own desire not to. The Flames were promoted to B Grade, but I wasn't playing due to my body falling apart. More football Supercoaching, more rugby games.

August - Got to see my favourite Shakespeare play performed by my favourite Shakespeare company playing at the West Bubblefuck theatre - and love it. Got flooded in at The Boy Factory as the drought of the past 10 years decided to break with great vengance. More football. Started a list of 100 things that make me smile. Finished reading the Hunger Games trilogy, and wished it was more than 3 books, a la Douglas Adams.

September - Supervised 2 dances in one week. No-one busted drinking on my watch. Saw my cousin get married, and nearly cried making a speech. Finished writing the list of 100 things that make me smile (100 is a big number! It took some time!). Got to hang out with The B team. Made a return to the court with The Flames, but tentatively - fitness an issue, and plagued by injuries. Mighty U14s narrowly lost GF, 1-0. A sad but proud Supercoach, here. Powderfinger, superb  Aussie band, started their farewell tour, including a brilliant night in West Bubblefuck, despite what the cynical locals say. Brought to tears by Bernard and the boys. Drowned a little in report writing. End of Term 3 insanity with Year 12, including the Annual Staff v Students Soccer Match and the Formal. Big month.

October - Marking marking marking of Year 10 trial exams. Sheesh. Almost total holiday wastage. Brilliant few days for Trip 2 to Melbourne with Little Red, with the excuse of seeing Tim Burton's exhibition at the ACMI. 80s dress up party for by boss' 40th. I looked AWESOME as Dana from Ghostbusters. Year 11 Leadership Camp. More report writing.

November - Not one single blogpost. Drowning in report writing. HP7 came out. Road trip with The O Team to see the Ultimate Powderfinger concert in Brisbane. Informed that I would FINALLY be teaching a DRAMA CLASS in '11, tres excitement. Quick trip to Sydney under the guise of learning to be an English teacher. Also a brilliant excuse for tax deductable flights to a Mad Men party - the birthdays of several excellent friends. Took Year 7 camping - like PROPER camping, in tents and stuff - by the side of the river.

December - River we were camping beside flooded, camp moved at midnight on day 2 and evacuated on day 3. High stress situation. Grandfather died. Took year 7 on tour to Dubbo, which was flooded. Sparky's mum died. Got close enough to a giraffe to touch it (but didn't because it was against the rules) but patted a wombat. Came home from Dubbo early due to flooding/weather. Fardy's funeral. Family friend died. Sparky's mum's funeral. Wagged presentation day. Family friend's funeral. One year anniversary understandibly ignored/forgotten. Well earned holidays. Caught up with friends who flitted home from OS, including engagement party. Enormous Christmas with Paternal Tribe. New Year's Eve long weekend with burgeoning Chosen West Bubblefuck Tribe.

And now I am here.