I read this ... and thought of you

I just read these words by poet Brian Bowers from a piece titled The Pain of Separation and the Love Within on The Good Men Project's website.
I'm putting it out there, as it is truly beautiful:

Indeed we are truly blessed if we find someone who will hold us with meaning. And (hopefully) if we are given the chance to hold them in return, their very existence teaches us to hold ever so gently because life is incredibly fragile.

Don't ever let a chance (to love) go by...

Read the story here: goodmenproject.com/guy-talk/cc-the-pain-of-separation-and-the-love-within/

The notes that linger

I'll have what she's having: An Affair to Remember.

I was reflecting on my looooong single status last night - as you do in the wee hours when you have had too much red wine and have unwisely revisited some favourite romantic comedies - and I came to the conclusion: I am an acquired taste (AT).
This is not a bad thing. Not bad at all.
A few of my female friends are ATs. Each has more than their fair share of quirks, but their beautiful minds have taught them how to play well together.
I guess I am a connoisseur of this kind of friend. They are smart, funny, true and never boring.
Some of these ATs have found the Holy Grail of partners - their ultimate connoisseur who has managed to not only keep up with their rhythm, but has amplified it.
It is a sight to behold.
But these men are not your run-of-the-mill types either. They too march to their own drum.
Two connoisseurs sharing a life. It's the ultimate admiration society.
In my mind, these sorts of partnerships never get old. Appreciation grows and the coupling becomes a classic.
So, like that bottle of strange spirit that remains on the (top) shelf, I'll sit tight and observe the passing parade. It's nice, and I know that when I am curious and bewitched enough to leave the shelf again, it will be for keeps ... or at least long enough to make it interesting.
So, salute!
* For the record, I'm the little bottle of pink champagne liqueur on the left (origin: somewhere beautiful, exotic and very, very cool).

80s fashion: a touchy subject (Part 2)

Working it: Joan owns her Big Hair 

Please, don't make 80s fashion a Never-Ending Story. 
The ozone layer is in enough trouble.
Here's Part 2 of the Don't Touch This (DTT) list.
Man perm/New Romantic mullet combo: John Farnham, Iva Davies and Michael Hutchence  gave the mullet a red hot go for Australia. The rest of the world was represented by most of the men, and some of the women, who took part in Live Aid. Duran Duran was a perm super group, as every member embraced the new wave. 
It was crazy hair for crazy times. But it never needs to be that crazy again. 
Think of the children.
Bleached hair tips (for men): Foil freaks included Howard Jones, Limahl, Don Johnson and Whamsters George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley. Wham's contribution is best appreciated in the Club Tropicana video clip as Ridgeley's hair frosting clashes with Michael's white budgie smugglers (another DTT candidate, by the way).
Enormous hair (for women): There is nothing wrong with big hair. Cyndi Lauper still rocks the big do as does Siouxsie Sioux.  Amy Winehouse's beehive was sublime and Rhianna is keeping the dream alive. 
But if you already have big hair and you think a  perm  is a good idea, think again. 
I didn’t. 
My mid-80s spiral perm looked good for about two weeks ... tops. A male  admirer commented at the time that I looked like Nicole Kidman. That is, Nic in BMX Bandits (1983). I was flattered then; not so much now. If you don’t believe me, have a look at Working Girl (preferably rent it on video ... Beta or VHS) and see if you think Melanie Griffith’s or Joan Cusack’s dos have travelled well.
The 'Lady  Di' hairstyle: If you want to look like the kindly organist at a county church, go for it. But it’s creepy if you are just 17.
Man makeup:  I’m not talking about a hint of guy-liner and a smudge of  mancake.  I’m talking a full face of slap (see Adam Ant, the Cure’s Robert Smith, Boy George, Nick Rhodes and Marilyn – not Manson, just Marilyn. Google him, he’s fancy). Basically, it belongs on a stage. It looks acceptable in a spotlight – or headlights. But if I saw a youngster wearing it in the supermarket I would get out 20cents and wait for him to start his little mime act.
If you decide this is the path for you,  stop wearing it when you reach 30, unless you are a serial killer or a bona fide sad clown.
Alarmingly, the horse has bolted on a few DTT items: Canvas slip-on shoes in jaunty colours for blokes, male skinny jean, and the pastel suit/no shirt combo.

Kids, disregard this advice at your peril.
Go forth and create your own fashion catastrophes.
Choose right, because guilty feet have no rhythm - and that's a really, really bad look.

80s fashion: a touchy subject (Part 1)

The men, the mullets: Mick and Dave.

Loads of stuff in the 80s was, and still is, pretty great. 

But it wasn’t all black and white. It was fluoro, shiny, eye-wateringly bright and a bit hyper-colour.
It’s always fun to borrow from other decades, and today’s kids have been known to turn their hungry eyes to the Greed Is Good decade.

Generation X, and the younger Baby Boomers, have been watching this revival very carefully, mainly because they are concerned you crazy kids might moonwalk into the vortex of stupidity that was ‘80s fashion.

It’s all fun and laughs until someone gets hurt.

Musical maverick MC Hammer boasted at the end of the decade, U Can’t Touch This. He was alluding, I think, to the fact that his clothes – and indeed his moves – were too hot to touch, like molten lava. Unfortunately, the friction caused by his enormous synthetic pants was the only thing raising a sweat. (You can buy MC Hammer “old-school rapper pants” on eBay. Search under “costume” – that’s a hint).

The following items have been filed in the Hammer-esque category “Don’t Touch This”.

That is, they should never be revived, well at least until every person who grew up in the 80s has gone to the big Studio 54 in the sky.

OK,  let’s ‘‘break it down’’.
Garments made of parachute material: Aviation kit, usually pants and jackets,  should be worn only if you are doing a job that has ‘‘Air’’ in the title. 
“Air Guitarist” doesn’t count.
Jumpsuits: Now this is a controversial area, as a few of my younger female friends have admitted to owning new-age jumpsuits. I’m still going to say don’t touch them, especially if they have elasticised waists/backs, and good luck avoiding that camel toe.
The jumpsuit is particularly bad if you are a bloke. 

Any doubts? Check out David Bowie and Mick Jagger in the Dancing in the Streets video. Yes, Jagger’s shirt and pants are  puffy, but his mate is rocking out in a snakeskin jumpsuit. The only thing that saves him is a cream trench coat, and that’s saying something.
He looked more than happy to be wearing the get up, but I’m guessing that had something to do with his love, at the time, of Peruvian marching powder rather than fashion joie de vivre.
So, to sum up, only wear a jumpsuit if you are qualified to work in an enclosed space, a carnival worker or involved in a HAZMAT ‘‘situation’’.

Knickerbockers: They appeared on the Paris catwalk a few years ago but never took off. For one good reason: they look bogus. If you have any doubts, put on a pair – preferably made from velvet or corduroy – and ask someone to take a picture of your arse.

Lady Di fancied them, but she also thought Chris De Burgh was a musical genius.
I know of no man, outside those in New Romantic pop groups, who wore knickerbockers in the 80s.
But, if you are a young male who is convinced that the knickerbocker will revolutionise your wardrobe, enact a 24-hour cooling off period and, in that time, Google pictures of Spandau Ballet, Duran Duran, Nik Kershaw and Ultravox in their heyday. They usually paired this pant with a frilly, or “poet” shirt. Bless their little synth-pop hearts.

Any garment with zips and ties that is able to be transformed into a jacket, dress, shorts, skirt, bag and boob tube: I bought one in Bali in the 80s. I got it home and realised it only looked good as a crumpled mess at the bottom of my wardrobe.
Tight acid-wash jeans: These look putrid worn on their own, but it’s a whole different ball game when they’re matched with an acid-wash denim jacket. If you commit to this combo, you also have to commit to a greasy mullet and a criminal record. It’s the law. 

One sequinned glove: Enough said.
White court shoes with  ankle socks, or anything else: They look like the ‘‘dress shoes’’ your great aunt pulls out for  weddings. Always did.
In the next ground-breaking instalment of this fashion report, I will discuss the perils of chemically induced curls and man makeup.

Zen and my shed

I have a girl shed and I’m not afraid to use it.

The little bundle of joy was brought into my world as a heap of panels wrapped in plastic.

A bucketful of rivets later, it had blossomed into a fine figure of a shed. The icing on the cake: it matched the colour of my house perfectly — it’s a girl thing. 

Who would have thought four walls and a roof could enhance not only your backyard, but your life? But, for me at least, it has.

Plenty has been written about blokes who regard their sheds as temples for Secret Men’s Business. In these havens males can tinker, drink home brew, get away from the kids/the “ball and chain” and think about, well, nothing much.

I did a quick stocktake of my female friends and not one of them has a girl shed. So why is it that I have yearned for one since I bought my first house about 15 years ago?

 I guess my love of sheds is genetic, inherited from my father who is a notorious hoarder (he prefers ‘‘collector’’) of all manner of stuff that he swears will one day either come in handy, be needed by a mate or realise $1million at auction. As far as I know, the family of mummified rats he found in the Great Shed Clean-Up of 1998 haven’t attracted the attention of Christie’s yet, but the old man lives in hope. He’s marketing them under ‘‘antiquities’’.

Besides my dad’s pride and joy, the sheds I knew and loved as a child were inhabited by my granddads and uncles. These man caves had a few things in common: the smell of grease, a damaged roller blind on the window, a bench displaying the ‘‘work in progress’’ (usually a car part), a bottle or can collection and a dodgy transistor radio that seemed to only pick up Dad Rock AM.

As a happy little single, I have no need to escape anyone in the big house, but a certain peace descends upon me when I enter the girl shed. Maybe it comes from a sense of purpose.  If I’m standing at my shed’s threshold I have work to do, tools to collect, stuff to find, world domination to plan.

At one stage, my parents owned a hardware store and I happily worked there at weekends. It was here I learned that hardware knowledge was power. I  made it my business to acquaint myself with screw threads, gauges and the intricacies of plumbing paraphernalia after a few tradies sniggered at when I nervously asked if they needed help with screws. Like a scene from Carry On Hardware, my response was to yell out across a crowded shop to my father:  ‘‘Jimbo, these confused blokes need help finding a screw’’. 

 I have no mummified rodents in my girl shed, but I do have an impressive collection of jars filled with screws, nails, nuts, bolts, wall plugs and other top stuff. They are lined up like weird museum specimens and elicit the appropriate level of interest/awe from male shed visitors. Some even pick up the jars for a closer look, turning them carefully before eventually nodding knowingly and restoring them, reverentially, to their spot.
Female visitors are mostly impressed by my collection of hooks on which hang power cords and ropes. The hooks are sturdy enough, but not exactly industrial grade as they are decorated with flowers. Consequently, they lose a bit of cred with traditional ‘Sheddies’.

I’m most proud of three galvanised shelves. They belonged to a former boyfriend who forgot to take them when we parted. They fit one wall perfectly.  I guess the shelves, unlike the ex, were always meant to be mine. That said, every time I look at them I mentally give my old mate the two-fingered salute.

As I was sorting through my hardware in the former ‘‘shed’’ — an old cupboard under the house – I discovered about six Allen keys. I’m going to come clean and admit I have no idea what they are used for, despite my extensive hardware store experience.

Regardless, these shiny specimens have their own jar as the penny might drop some day and I’ll start Allen key-ing all those things that need Allen key-ing. I could ask someone, or Google it, but that would spoil the mystery. 
Yes, my girl shed is almost complete. The only things missing are my gratuitous Hottest Tradies and Sizzling Firemen calendars.

I don’t care if they are a few years out of date, it will give the shed the right vibe ... 

It’s a girl thing.
  

Panic in the suburban wilderness

It makes me wild when suburbanites are confronted and angered when they have an "uncomfortable" encounter with native wildlife. 
A few weeks ago, in my neck of the wild woods, a fired-up kangaroo lashed out at a teenager in a suburb built near bush. Sure, it's horrible for the teen who was hurt, but maybe if we stop appropriating huge amounts of the roos' home (aka 'vacant' bush) for inefficient housing estates, we could all live in harmony. 
Bats, possums, roos, snakes, spiders and wombats need somewhere to live, eat and thrive. 
Take it away, and they'll plonk their furry, scaly arses in your suburban backyard.

Dump the cliche

Women can be their own worst enemies.
Why do celebrity types, after being dumped by their husbands or boyfriends, wait a year and then come out with "I Learned To Love Myself After [enter dumpster's name] Left Me" media blitz?
Usually these women have lost quite a few kilos, have accepted that their dumpster is now dating - or has married - someone who's 100 years younger than him, and are getting all giggly about the prospect of returning to the "dating game".
Just do it OK? Shut up about it.
These stories are not inspirational, well not to me at least. They are based on a cliche that's trotted out all the time in magazines and the "chattier" (see "white noise") sections of newspapers and the TV news.
You rarely, if ever, see dumped celeb men paraded in this way. Apparently they are allowed to get fatter, or skinnier, go silly with their mates and generally carry on with getting over being rejected without the nation judging them. Then, in time, maybe our hero will meet someone, maybe he won't. Amazing.
All this goes on without lame stories about these poor dumped blokes undergoing extreme manscaping to make themselves more attractive to the ladies, starving themselves or wondering aloud if anyone will ever love them again because, after all, they aren't that young anymore.
Maybe these dumped men have been approached to tell their story, but said no.
There's an idea. Just say "NO". A single word with so much power.
Yes, being dumped is horrible and can tear massive holes in your self worth, but this crap hurts women more.
Ladies, it's time to dump this cliche.
C'mon, I'm sure you always suspected it was a stupid, boring, good-for-nothing presence in your otherwise fabulous existence.