Buckle Up for the Frock Fest

It’s the best news I’ve had all week: the Academy Awards fast approaching and fashion tragics can tune in two hours early to watch A-listers show off the gowns and jewels they've had thrown at them for Hollywood's biggest night. Frock porn! Yippee!

I have a date with the daughters. They have been instructed to ditch all other offers and get home as quickly as possible. Dinner will be served in front of the telly, and be careful any bloke who dares interrupt. Fox Sports News will have to wait.

Reg

He is small, black and white and most of the time very sweet. When you talk to him from afar, he cocks his head as if to say “Oy, what are you sayin’?”

“If you leave me, can I come too?” is his motto. And if you do leave, he sits in the hall, cocks his head: “Oy! Where you goin’?”

When visitors arrive he barks fiercely just for a moment, then caves in and begs for a cuddle. He barks at birds too, when they dive into the garden, teasing him, egging him on. They are bullies, those magpies. They sit in trees, laughing at him. They set his crooked little teeth on edge.

He cries with joy when the lead comes out of its hiding place. Yes! A walk! He trots along, sniffing and peeing. Doggy heaven is a nature strip with a bush or two.

He growls at the vet who faces him head on with a poke and a giggle. He also growls when it’s bath time. When I take off his collar he has been known to chase me around the house, teeth bared. This little guy thinks he’s a Rottweiler. But he’s just a mutt, eight years old and topping the scales at seven kilos. As vicious as a marshmallow.

Lately he has thinned down and when we walk him, he retches. He cocks a leg but only gets lucky sometimes. He used to sit and stare at the fridge, dreaming about scoffing the contents. Now he wanders away at dinner time. I have been worried for a while. So has his other mother. Every living thing should be shared, I believe. My friend knows this dog very well.

Time stopped for a moment when the call came. Grief hit hard like a balled fist straight to the chest, leaving me gasping, speechless. The catastrophic details went in one ear and straight out the other. But I got the vital bit. Cancer. What now?

“We could investigate further. Do tests But nothing can save him.”

Stunned silence.

“If he was your dog, what would you do?”

I don’t want expert opinion. I need help from an empathic human being.

“I’d take him home and care for him there. We will keep an eye on him and help you decide when he has had enough.”

No treatment. Oh that dealing with sick people could be as straight forward. Heaven knows this family has had its fair share of the cancer epidemic. Three close relatives lost in the past few years and one in active treatment right now. A toddler aged just three with a brain tumour. What’s goin’ on with that? Please explain! I am completely bamboozled.

“There are Nobel prizes there, but it won’t happen in our life time” says my wise Dad.

Puts the sick dog in perspective I suppose, all those sick people. But nothing will assuage our sadness. No logic or rational thought will ease our pain.

In between bouts of blubbering, I call and email members of a special club where membership is open to those who have dogs, or simply know ours. I know they will respond the way I want them to.

And here are some of their outpourings:

“I understand how sad and heartbreaking it is when our dogs are so ill and leave us. They are such a major part of our families. They never answer back! We adored our Jack and were all heartbroken when he was so sick and died.

But we were all with him in the room and hugged him the whole time. That was comforting afterwards. He went around to each one of us saying goodbye and then lay on the floor. He knew what had to happen and was ready. They have an amazing sense of themselves.

What a lucky dog to have been part of your family and loved so much. He will feel that and know it.”

“Reggie is NEVER 'just a dog'! He is your faithful protector who aggressively and unconditionally terrorizes anyone who feels bold enough to venture through your front door... Scary dog then lovingly melts, once he is reassured you are happy that the person is there to be with you! Such loyalty and devotion doesn't come so lovingly in a constant package in a human being. I understand the gaping hole that he will leave.”

“We lost our cherished 15-year old Lab two years ago. She had cancerous tumors and dementia and the vet recommended putting her down six months before she eventually went. When the inevitable happened, just as the vet predicted, I felt emotional overload as my children’s childhood came to an abrupt end. We gave her one last slow walk up the road, this time to the vet where we sat around her on the floor as she was put to sleep. It was very peaceful. We loved that dog and we know she loved us. Be gentle with yourself, it’s a big and painful loss.”

Friends related their stories with lumps in throats, remembering long ago details about the day their beloved pet died. For some, Reggie’s predicament triggered memories they had thought lost.

It has been a surreal weekend. We spent it all together which is a rare blessing these days. The grown up kiddies cancelled their engagements. Social life was put on hold as they sat with him around the kitchen table or on the couch watching garbage TV, patting him gently and rubbing ice blocks around his parched mouth. His peeing is a barometer and we have stalked him mercilessly as he heads out to the garden, tail down, trudging across the long grass like a little old man.

“Did he do anything” I ask nervously, constantly.

“Nuh.”

We talk about what we want for him and mercifully there is agreement. No treatment but no suffering. But how to get it right? We have a delicate situation here which must be managed. There is tension. It’s bloody hot which doesn’t help. We have a eureka moment when we discover that a cool cloth over his skinny little body and a cosy spot on the bed under a fan works wonders. He snores and we all smile.

Late on Sunday evening: a tiny break through! Chief dog sitter, 19 year old man-child deduces dog that hasn’t eaten for five days is hungry but has a sore throat. Man-child chops up half a sausage into micro bits and…dog eats! Then trots to dish and laps ferociously. Trots outdoors and pees! Small mercies, small miracles. We remind ourselves we can’t save him but we feel sweet joy nonetheless.

It will be a grim week. I have butterflies in my stomach and I will wake up at 3 am feeling wretched, just like last night and the night before.

But for now he sleeps. And that's a blessing.

Life Without Plonk

Yesterday I heard a journalist speaking on daytime radio about her non-relationship with alcohol. She drank moderately as a youngster growing up in the country, but never enjoyed it and hated the way it made her feel. She gave up alcohol because she was a “one pot screamer” and didn’t much like the headaches, nausea and general malaise which she experienced whenever she imbibed.

She spoke with good humour about participating as a non drinker in a social world where abstinence is akin to leprosy, where socializing without alcohol is rare, except maybe for the latte crowd enjoying wake up time in cafes before lunch. If alcohol is not your drug of choice, life can get tricky. It’s like paddling upstream in a river of booze and never stopping to slurp. Exhausting!

Drug taking – illicit or otherwise – is a hot topic right now. Matthew Chesher, Chief of Staff to the Minister for Roads has resigned following his arrest for ecstasy possession. Whilst his wife, Education Minister Verity Firth relaxed at home with the kiddies on a warm Friday evening last week, husband Matthew strolled down to the local park and bought a single pill with a street value of $20.

All hell broke loose. The Premier Kristina Keneally was outraged and spouse Verity was disappointed and mortified. The fallout will continue as the legal treadmill grinds on.

The reaction of the general public was illuminating. Letters to editors and countless bloggers reveal overwhelming support for the aggrieved gentleman and derision for the action of the police and the hypocrisy of the circumstances. How can this happen when every day, pubs and bars are full of drunks who never cop the full brunt of the law - unless of course they pee in public or clobber someone. Why don’t police spend our taxes fighting real crime? What kind of oppressive regime converts this hard working dad into a criminal?

It’s clearly acceptable to be “doing” drugs and almost fashionable to defend the doing of them, so long as the drugs are “soft” and no one else gets hurt. There is a civil libertarian undertone to the bleating. The real crime is that Mr Chesher was arrested in the first place. Taking soft drugs is normal. Leave those who wish to partake in peace. Heroin or ice of course is entirely different. Once our pretty houses are ransacked by desperates or our kids are threatened it’s gloves off in the war against drugs.

Mr Pill Popper’s habit was compared favourably to a few drinks down at the pub with mates after work. A cultural institution! Part of our national identity and linked to that sacred concept: mateship. I’m moving onto dangerous ground here and must tread warily…tippy toe, tippy toe. Warning! The great Aussie laid back, fun loving, easy going beer and skittles moral highground is armed and ready, like a Cambodian minefield plonked quietly there, ready to explode.

This is a topic close to my own heart. For it isn’t drinkers and drug takers who are the pariahs in our community. It’s people like me! Let the rant fest begin! I’ve been calm, controlled and mostly silent on this for a while now but thanks to that sweet abstemious soul who giggled away in radio land yesterday, I feel permitted to vent with unrestrained joy.

I am Julesdog and I am a teetotaller. It’s been nine years since my last drink. I terminated my relationship with alcohol after a night at home with friends. I cooked, ate, laughed, cleaned up, saw them to the door and said to by bemused husband: “I’ve just had my last drink. I’m never going to drink again.”

It was sudden, cold turkey and to many friends and relatives, inexplicable. I didn’t discuss it at the time but I had been thinking about it for a while. There were many reasons for the decision: some complex, some simple. The bottom line was there was much to love but paradoxically so much to hate about drinking alcohol, and it was easy to halt proceedings and avoid this dilemma completely. I’m a black and white, no nonsense kind of girl!

What’s to love about grog? It’s fun and social. It lubricates us and makes awkward times smoother. It is a crutch, a healer, something to fall back onto when times are tough. It is a unifier and contributes to positive feelings of security and worth. I could go on…

But I don't like the stuff that goes with drinking: the toll on health, especially for people like me with a pre-existing illness, the hypocrisy around parental drinking at the same time as warning adolescents off the stuff, the insidious prevalence of it in this grog soaked, pickled country of ours, blah blah blah. Mostly it was the headaches and sluggishness that befell me almost always after drinking, even when I'd had just a couple.

What about the way alcohol shapes our play time? For those who don’t fancy mixing with the legless, smelly pubs are places to be avoided. I’d rather sit in the gutter outside and stick pins into my eyes than venture into a late night pub. The volume rises as the bellies swell and the eyes glaze over. Pick your pub or leave early. Do you know how many glassing incidents occur late at night when tempers and blood alcohol levels are boiling? Pubs don’t report incidents because the next step is to be put on watch. Plastic cups come out and the patrons bolt.

You might wonder why I worry about places I’m unlikely to be seen dead in. It’s the three almost adult children who live the night owl existence, not me. Adolescent boys and grog are a well known toxic mix. What is not acknowledged is that adolescent boys almost always emulate or evolve into the father, regardless of the relationship. And this is where it gets tricky, as health experts will readily concur. Try asking this colony of middle aged best male mates to navel gaze for a minute or two and self assess personal drinking levels. Nuh…not going to do that…no problem here…it’s those drunken hooligans that are the trouble…I’m fine…piss off and leave me alone.

Young women hang out with those boys, so they are equally at risk. Sculling vodka is a popular past time these days. We know drunkenness is dangerous. It is also reasonably fashionable.

When it comes to grog, I give thanks for being of a certain age and female, where abstinence finds more soul mates, feels less like leprosy and more like good sense. I would find it excruciating if I were to metamorphose into a non drinking male aged anywhere between 18 and 40. I remember one guy, only one lonely single sock from uni days who didn’t drink. Orange juice was his preferred thirst quencher. Like many of his friends I was curious about living as a non drinker. What was it really like?

“Boring mostly” he said, “especially late at night when parties are warming up. That’s when I leave.”

I never really understood this until I stopped drinking. There is a capacity for liquid tolerance with alcohol which doesn’t equate to soft drink consumption. Try this quick test: count how many beers or wines your bestie can put away compared to your one or two glasses of mineral water or coke. Unbelievable! At least three to one and that’s a conservative estimate.

At least middle aged chicks don’t usually shout by the dozen. It’s more likely they share a bottle of wine. Or throw in equally regardless of who drinks most. Beware those big groups in restaurants. It is only the teetotalling curmudgeon who feels brave enough to query the bill. That spaghetti marinara and smallish side salad can break the bank once the grog is factored into the fun!

Dinner parties…ho hum. The conviviality of drinking is exclusive. Without it, parties lose their gloss and conversations don't sparkle much past main course. The funsters in the group warm up as their jokes fade. Or get repeated. And beware that dangerous phase which starts right after dessert, when the “one for the roadies” warm up, just as this tired and sober little wombat craves a pot of tea and a good lie down. I become the antisocial one right about now, not because I am, but because not wanting to finish off a dinner party "with a coupla ice coldies" makes me the party pooper. The begging begins: “let him stay…just one more..." It's tedious being the boring one sitting there jangling the car keys.

Along with my certain age, I am also glad I am uninvolved in the mating and dating scene which revolves totally and exclusively around drinking. A date in a park feeding the ducks is sweet but those little duckies don’t want to be harassed four times a week. Art galleries and museums are lovely, but rather quiet. Coffee shops have ambience, but did you know caffeine is very bad for you? Add a muffin and it's so fattening!

I prefer morning socialising in cafes where there is a level playing field re alcohol. It might come up in conversation; people are curious and that is understandable but I'm unlikely to be interrogated. Whereas when I'm with people imbibing... We non drinkers are a rare species! I try to explain without zealotry, but defensiveness often lurks. It is as if my choice speaks volumes about their habits, even if I’ve never met them before.

I am sometimes neglected at parties and often ignored at functions; after everyone else has been offered a drink, I need to ask for one because if it isn't grog I want, there is an assumption that I’m not thirsty. And if I am thirsty, surely Chateau Tap will do?

I’ve been hammered by those with strong ideas about bottled mineral water (especially if its imported) and badgered to partake by people who know I don’t drink, just because it is their way of demonstrating friendship and social inclusion.

“Are you sure you won’t have a drink? Just a drop?”

“It’s OK really.” I can belong here happily, and not drink….can’t I?

What about this, my latest weapon:

“Do you know I haven’t had a drink for nine years? I’m fine thanks. Really.”

There was a phone-in after the journo vented. Two guys and many more women. All living parallel existences, all with remarkably similar stories. It was the blokes I really felt for. Both chose to cite alcoholism as their reason for not drinking. Shock and embarrassment shuts down all discussions and though they suffer an ill deserved reputation, it allows them peace to get on with the business of living without the stuff. A female self confessed alcoholic concurred. It is noble to live in abstinence in defiance of addiction.

Back to the unlucky soul who strolled the park one lonely evening, seeking out a pill dealer down in the dark by the bushes. I’ll reserve my opinion on his behaviour and life choices. I think I’ve said enough already!

Bottoms up!

It's About the Clothes

What are you wearing? Somehow dwelling on clothes engenders intense feelings of guilt. Surely in life there are many more important things to think about than the garb one fishes out of the wardrobe to cover one’s naughty bits. But for women, clothes signify something more than an investment in modesty. Women who swear blind they don't give a toss about clothes make powerful statements wearing something (usually horrible) that they don't care about.

Temperature Rising

You won’t hear me complaining on this stifling 38 degree day. The western sun is pelting down on this here blogger and it couldn’t be more unpleasant. But I do not complain. You won’t hear a thing about the buzzing mozzies that kept me awake last night, dive bombing my face, nipping my nethers and leaving me red, worn and frazzled.

If it’s not the insects, it’s the offspring (i.e. almost adult children, aka AAC) coming and going at all hours in the middle of the night. Door opens, door slams, dog barks. With friends or alone, it’s all the same bloody annoying racket to me. For God’s sake what is it about universities? Three month holidays? I reflect about a time way back when I worked in such an esteemed place and moaned like everyone else there about the workload. What a joke! Face to face teaching never exceeding 24 weeks a year! Get real, public sector!

I’m not whingeing about the burning smell which wafted into the house last night, causing one AAC to cough most violently and noisily and another to creep around in the small hours, worrying, not wanting to wake me up, but “Mum I think the house is on fire!”

I’m even rethinking my rant about the furious non-stop pings when new emails drop into the inbox. Wish I could gloat that I’m popular, but no. It’s that damn spam, boiling my blood and leaving me in an exhausted tizz. I'm muttering and cursing like a mad woman. Despite the family fortune blown on a wallet-fleecing computer clean up service, the geek who robbed me blind cannot stop them. He cannot explain the appallingly obscene run I’m having, right here on this bedeviled beast. Man enhancement pills (“You Can Enjoy Bigger, Harder, More Intense …”), Olga the Russian princess looking for a man, pharmaceutical bargains galore, Nigerians with schemes to burn, Matthew in Madrid with the stolen wallet, Viagra support subscription service, or the lotto I can’t seem to stop winning (15 million quid last email…”just click on this….”)

How is it I can wallow for months in cyberspace serenity whilst those darned emails hibernate like snoring bears in a polar forest (don’t mention cool climes: I’m sweating like a hog here) then Pow! The temperature gauge and inbox rage hit the heights together. Ping, ping, ping.

At least I am online here, unlike the poor loves in FNQ (Far North Queensland), many of whom are likely to lose more than an internet connection in the next few hours. I’m not going to wail, gnash my teeth or bleat about anything anymore because as I write, Miss Mich, blogger extraordinaire (follow the prompts on my blog straight to hers) is crouching in her best (and only) Max Mara trench in the hallway of a house in Cairns, clutching her grandmother’s yellow crystal rosary beads and cuddling her baby AAC. Luckily those pretty beads were blessed for her by the Archbishop of the Northern Rivers. Time to call in the big guns! Those poor souls are going to need all the help they can get.

As Queenslanders once again feel the terrifying force of nature, I’m starting the Miss Mich novena. Cyclone Yasi, home wrecker and category 5 disaster in waiting is right on course, poised to flatten. As the eye of the storm pops out into the treetops above Miss Mich and the AAC, say a little prayer they will rise up through the chaos to see another shiny new tropical morning.

That dark little tale of how to escape the AACs will have to wait a little longer…