It's my party, I'll drink if I want to!

I think Christmas parties were invented by grog shops.

It's like a marathon of social interaction that starts a week before Christmas:
"We must catch up before Christmas!"
"Come across for drinks!"
"When can you come over? Monday night? Tuesday night? Wednesday lunch? No? How about afternoon tea Thursday?"

Fortunately, I work in a profession where I am given all manner of lovely Bogan things to eat, serve and drink at Christmas parties so catering isn't usually an issue, especially in the alcohol stakes (nothing says 'thanks for a great year' like a bottle of fizzy wine, bucket-o-slushie, pre-mix RTD or Dan Murphy gift voucher).

 Not to mention the capacity to use some of the crap I receive for emergency gifting:
"Oh bugger! What will we take to Bill & Beryl's barbie? I know!!!! That box of leopard print boxed truffles, some shortbread and a shoe-shaped tree decoration! Where's that bottle of champers? Bugger it, just bring the cask of Tropicana in the fridge.... hurry up, get in the car..."

There are Christmas party rules to abide by in Bogan-ville-ea. Not that it matters if you break the rules of Boganism. It's the silly season. Nearly anything goes (except those purple fake Christmas trees, that's just WRONG).

1. We're not-that-close-to-these friends party rules:
1.1 Take your own drinks. Not too many though in case the party sucks and you have 'leave early' and experience that embarrassing moment of digging through the communal wheelbarrow of melting ice to reclaim the rest of your six pack and bottle of wine.
1.2 Don't arrive too early unless you've prepared a series of small talk conversation starters. There's only so many times you can say 'Wow, this year's flown', 'Gosh what a great job on the new driveway' and 'This is nice cheese...is it from Aldi?'
1.3 Park the car on the neighbour's nature strip so you don't get blocked into the driveway. If the party stinks, you'll need to develop either a mystery illness, sick child at home, dying grandma or 'early start tomorrow'.

2. Work party rules
2.1 Do not sit next to the boss.
2.2 Do not sit near the soaks who drink everyone else's BYO wine. You know the ones? You duck to the loo, come back and your Chardonnay's been gobbled.
2.3 Car pool with the non-drinker.

3. Spouse's work party rules
3.1 Try to avoid going at all. Safer that way.
3.2 If you must go you are required to say nice things all night, not drink too much, look pretty but not slutty, not eat too messily but make sure you eat enough, not comment about his workmates, not flirt or get hit on, not try to escape or swear or yawn or roll your eyes. AT ALL. Just don't go.

4. Drinks with the neighbours rules
4.1 Do NOT boast that your lawn is the best in the street. No one cares.
4.2 Everyone can walk home, so it's these parties that you can take an esky to. Doubles as an extra chair. Settle into the corner of the back pergola with the chips, dips and cabanossi (while its fresh, not once it's manky...you know, when it loses its sheen...) and try to avoid having to play with the ADHD kid from up the road or talk to the single mother with brain damage.
4.3 There can never be too many chippies or snags. ESPECIALLY if the cricket's on during the party. Settle in, no one's going home anytime soon.

5. Hosting it at our place rules:
5.1: It's my party and I'll drink if I want to. As much as I bloody well like. A WHOLE bucket-o-slushie if I want. It helps me make small talk until you leave to look at the festy... I mean FESTIVE lights display at the Vegas-house around the corner.
5.2: Be on time or the cheese and bikkies will be gone. The Aldi Brie is only a little tacker and once you get a taste for it...
5.3: Bring dessert. It's OK if it's a dodgy frozen boxed concoction you got from the servo on the way into the valley. Just make sure it's edible, otherwise I'm going to serve crap I brought home from work, like three-day old cheesecake or cake balls rolled in coconut.
5.4: Let me know if you're a funny eater. Case in point: We have vegequarian friends (nice people if not just SLIGHTLY stunted by the lack of red meat) and we'd had them over FOUR times for a Christmas party before one year they finally told us about 'the meat thing'. Always wondered why there were so many leftovers. One of the kids eats snags, but I spose they look a bit like (sustainably grown, cruelty-free) fish fingers. I'm not such a poor hostess that I can't chuck some garlic prawn skewers on the barbie for you. Have a good reason though. I'm not sympathetic about your Liver-Cleansing diet or the Lemon Detox whatsit.
5.5: We're eating out the back. I don't care if it's hot or cold, that's where we're going. Yes, I know the Bogan dog will whine, but you have to understand that if we eat inside, I'm going to have vacuum tomorrow with a hangover. If we eat out the back near the Barbie then the dogs'll clean up.
5.6: If I start yawning and stacking the dishwasher, it's time you left. Really. I don't want to play Family Pictionary.
5.7: Any food or drink you brought that I like, I get to keep.
5.8: I picked up dog turds off the lawn this arve so that your sprogs don't stink the car up on the way home, so keep them out of my ensuite. I want to use it later.

So, Happy Bogan Party season. As we in Bogan-ville-ea say, "Cheers, big ears!"

It's beginning to seem a lot like Christmas

As far as months go, December is not my favourite.

I like May. It's autumn, I can buy new ugg boots and make soup. I quite like September too, with flowers everywhere. January's my favourite month of course because we can escape Bogan-ville-ea and go to the beach. Brad the Tradie even calls me 'January Wifey' because he reckons I turn back into a real person for a whole month each year.

Then there's December. Blech. In Bogan-ville-ea, December is crunchy-grumpy-rushy month. The hot winds dry off any semblence of green growth. Everyone is hot, grumpy and trying to get stuff done, be it end of year reports, Christmas shopping, packing, concerts, whatever. December's a big, hot, grumpy rush.

I get Organica to do my Christmas presents each year. She makes them, wraps them, tags them and delivers them to my door. She also does all of Brad the Tradie's corporate cards and gifts. Organica actually knows my Christmas list better than me:
Me (whine, whine...): Organnnnnicaaaaaaa....can you do my Chrissie stuff again this year?
Organica: Yeah darl. What theme are we doing?
Me: ummm... what was last year?
Organica: Chocolate mocha. How about a fruity one this year?
Me: OK. Noice.
Organica: List the same??
Me: Yeah... do I have any new friends?
Organica: What about the tank lady?
Me: Yeah.
Organica: And a few extra things, for people you always forget, like Dr D , you never have enough for the people at work and you should get something for the neighbours that look after the pets when you go to the beach.

Then I just have to buy for Organica, the O.S's (overseas people) and the BHG. And I do that either online or in one trip to Target. Oh and a couple of duck, pig and dung cards from Oxfam. And a box of organic fruit &veg for my mother. And a few giftcards for dad and other people. And.... it fecking well goes ON AND ON doesn't it?

What's the story with shopping centres in December?
It's PAINFUL! From the piped happy music in the carpark about Santa and snow and all things HAPPY to the blow-up Frosty the Snowman at Hot Dollar, it's all a bit too festive for moi. 'Festy' more like it. Each year I wander past the Reject Shop noticing the delightful treats I'll be receiving in a few week's time.

I used to like Christmas.
When you didn't have to have a 'theme' for your tree (purple & silver? red & gold?) and families would just get together and bring either a salad or a dessert (for the record, my specialty is 'salad in a bag' - prepackaged kind) and you could fill your kid's stocking for under fifty bucks (NO, you are not getting an iTunes card, NO you are not getting a laptop, NO you are not getting a plasma tele - it won't fit in the stocking for a start kid!)

When I was a Bush Bogan everyone would save their two litre milk cartons to put a candle in and line the footpath with. I'd sit on the front verandah wearing reindeer ears playing Chrissie toons on my electronic keyboard (yes, like Ross on Friends, I was THAT KID). We'd get a tree from the bush, because that wasn't considered 'killing the planet' back then, and just decorate it with food and the old tinsel from the box in the cupboard. I'd spend the last month of school making daggy presents for my rello's and spend each night looking forward to my stocking on Christmas morning with a packet of textas, a tube of condensed milk ALL for me, new undies, a craft kit and a box of darrell lea soft centres. We'd all have a Barbie lunch, a kilo of prawns and some pav. Then I'd settle in and watch American TV specials and wonder at such Northern Hemisphere treats as eggnog, snow, iceskating with mittens and kissing under mistletoe. Ahhhh, the serenity.

When did Christmas get so out of control?
The only thing worth looking forward to about Christmas now is the Boxing Day Test. When everyone just leaves you alone to drink and watch the cricket. Apparently these days you have to be finished your shopping by about August to avoid the Christmas rush. And what's with all those tragic looking Santas all over the Westfields? The kids are screaming, the parents are fighting and Santa looks like he wants Diazapam for Christmas. There are entire magazines devoted to Christmas feasts (101 ways with calamari... mmmm....). It's no wonder people up sticks and take off to the coast.

Brad the Tradie 'doesn't do Christmas'. I like that about him. He's agnostic too. So we don't have to go to mass or anything. He likes nothing more than a bit of home D.I.Y. on Christmas morning, followed by a kilo of prawns (some traditions never die...), a mango on the back lawn and a Foxtel Marathon with the air-con blasting.

Bah - humbug. Bring on January.

Spewin'!!!

There's been some spewin'  in the Bogan household recently.

It all started with Brad the Tradie's now legendary up-chuck onto his workshirt the other day, followed by him hosing off his uniform on the back lawn (yes, we have dogs...but as he rightly pointed out, you can't exactly hose spew off your clothes on the FRONT lawn!) It's like it only takes one vomit and then everyone's spewin'.


Spending time with the voms and runs this week has helped me reflect upon some key spewin' moments I've experienced. The banana-vom-bomb from the little blonde kid in the third row of my 4th Grade class in the country (on a hot day naturally, and yes, she managed to get splash onto my canvas shoes and well as the hair and uniforms of at least half a dozen kids). The bus excursion to Lightning Ridge with the vommy kids up the front chucking into plastic bag-lined ice-cream containers. The baby at that Christening in Geelong who spewed on my new posh dress in the church (Ok, it was polyester and only $69.95 from Katies, but it was NICE!). Brad the Tradie riding the Porcelain Express the night of the open bar work party at the Hyatt, and of course, my infamous chucka-chucka-chucka whilst driving home from the Baan Baa Book Week Parade of 1994.


Actually, sitting in the doctor's waiting room for an hour and a half gave me even MORE time to reflect, not to mention catch up on some germ-collection with the rest of the ill folk of Bogan-ville-ea:


Me (avoiding eye contact with old guy with fungal toe the size of erupting volcano - shall call him Krakatoa): Excuse me, will it be a long wait today for my appointment with Dr D?
Receptionist: Probably.
Me: (avoiding eye roll): Oh, well that's FINE. Even though I'm on time, I'll just sit over there quietly and try not to vomit on the carpet.
Receptionist: U-huh.
I sit down with my Grazia magazine, which, thoughtfully, I intend to leave on the coffee table so that others can be up-to-date with handbag and shoe fashion (not to mention celebrity gossip).
Krakatoa man: ahhhhhhh luvvvvvv, it's a wait today.
Me: Yes. (Try to look super-engaged in Grazia article on Prada bag)
Krakatoa: Me toe luv. It's no good you know. Me cat keeps lickin' the pus off it in me sleep. Won't heal.
Me: Ohhhhh, how... (what? disgusting? gross? wrong?) terrible for you. You know... i might just go to the toilet...tummy bug... excuse me....here, read my magazine, great Prada bag...


What is it about doctor's waiting rooms that just make you feel grotty? Is it the coughing? The old people clearing their throats of phlegm? The screaming babies? The hobbly people holding their x-rays in a large white envelope? The weird chairs with that plastic coating that can be hosed off?


So, after 90 minutes of reading my Grazia, staring at the wall, browsing brochures on everything from Swine Flu vaccination to vasectomies, trips to the loo, avoiding talking to the old dude with the messy toe, texting anyone I could think of and studying the appalling Bogan footwear trends (MUST people wear Masseur sandals to the doctor??) I got to see Dr D. Who didn't care really that I was spewin':


Dr D: OMG! Saw you there and thought I MUST tell you that I sat behind the Education Minister on the plane back from Adelaide the other day. And I thought of you and asked him if he REALLY knows what it's like to be a teacher. He said he didn't really, but he tried to learn more and more each day, so I told him I'd show him for the rest of the trip, right?
Me: Ummmm, feelin' a bit sick... spewin'...on the loo lots... kind of hurts....
Dr D: AND....so I started knocking the back of his chair for like five minutes, and he didn't do anything, so I started doing it REALLY hard and whining and asking him stupid questions, and he turned around and said he thought teachers were amazing people who deserved a LOT of community respect. I don't know whether he got the message, but I tried. For you.
Me: Did you try spitting on him? Treading on his feet? Getting your mum to yell at him? Wiping playdough in his hair?
Dr D: NO!!!! Good tips!
Me: See? There you go. Now, about my spewin'... Get that damn blood pressure machine out and let's go! And no, you're not taking blood. We've been over this. No needles unless there's Valium.


So, sixty bucks and a sick leave certificate later (and "yes, thanks I'll have another useless fridge magnet with the clinic's phone number... ta..."), I'm off home to 'keep up the fluids', which, Brad the Tradie decides, does NOT include Midori. Pffft. Some caring husband HE turned out to be.


I remember training the BHG how to vomit gracefully.
She was about four years old and we'd just moved into our 'new' house and its 'new' carpet. We'd mastered several other pre-school skills, such as skiddy-free arse wiping and sleeping in our own bed, not to mention only having water to drink near the precious carpet. And then... one day... she was spewin'. EVERYWHERE. Up the walls, through her bed, on the windows, even on the FECKING TELE!!! We cleaned it up, tucked her in and decided that as soon as she was well, we'd teach her to vomit properly. And we did. The rules are:
* Make it to the loo, otherwise put a bucket next to the bed. No one ever died of holding spew in their mouth until they made it the dunny.
* At the very least, spew on the kitchen tiles. Avoid all walls, windows and electrical appliances.


It's seemed to work. We called one particular bucket 'just-in-case' as it was a frequent flyer next to her bed. The only other carpet-related incidents have related to red jelly, cat vomit (damn thing refuses to be trained...) and lipgloss. BHG fell asleep with her head in the toilet bowl once. She thought it best to stay there given the frequency of the voms. Brad the Tradie and I thought about waking her up, but instead we laughed and took a photo. It WAS pretty cute.


I think I should write a parenting book.
The BHG (so named for her addiction to the Better Homes & Gardens TV show and magazine) gives all sleepover guests a tour of chateaux Bogane. Invariably when she points out where the loo is, she adds, "Oh, and if you need to spew, you HAVE to make it to the toilet. Or at least the tiles. That's VERY important." And casually moves on to show the guest the Playstation.


We seem to have a family problem with long-haul plane flight spewin' also. Brad the Tradie spent nearly the whole trip back from Hawaii locked in the dunny. At one point there was an announcement over the system calling for a doctor, so I panicked and demanded the wobbly hostess chick let me in to check if he'd died of the violent voms. Apparently the medical call was for a heart attack in Business Class.


The BHG spewed on the QANTAS flight back from L.A. Probably all those cheesy poofs and Disney crap. Unlike Brad the Tradie, who made a MASSIVE man-fuss about spewin on Hawaiian Airlines', the BHG was quite calm. About two hours in, she put down the Nintendo, turned to me and announced that she was going to spew. Knowing the rules, I merely raised an eyebrow and pointed at the loos. She came back all white and vommy. Unfortunately, I'd already taken two sleepers with the nasty packaged dinner (OK, and three red wines.... oh don't look at me like that! It's a LONG HAUL flight ok? In ECONOMY!!!), so I was well and truly on the way out:


Me: Hon, I'm sorry you're feeling crook. I'll ding the bell for a face washer and some ice, yeah?
BHG: yesssssssssssssssssssssss......pleasssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssseeeee.
Me: Just one thing you should know. I'm probably going to pass out soon for about eight hours.
BHG: Where's dad?
Me: Ohh, he went looking for extra leg room. I think he's up the front somewhere. (dinging bell madly...)
QANTAS chick: Yesssss????? Another WINE madam????
Me: Actually, we've got ourselves a bit of a spewin' situation here. We'll need at least three moist, not wet, face washers, a large cup of ice and, in about two hours, some lemonade and crackers.
QANTAS chick: Right, well you ARE allowed to ding the bell more than once. I can come back with lemonade later.
Me: Actually, I've just taken sleeping pills. Don't spose you could just check on her every know and then? She's very well-trained in vomiting. Shouldn't be too much trouble.
BHG: Oh I am really well-trained. I promise I won't spew on the seats or anything.


About two hours from Sydney, I woke up... BHG's head in my lap, facewasher neatly folded on her forehead and not a spot of spew in sight. See? Parenting book!


Now, if only I could train the CAT.. and the husband...

It's not easy being green.

I've worn bamboo undies for a while now.

I saw them in Target one day whilst browsing. They had a little sticker on them saying 'touch me', which I always find irresistable. I generally walk around touching things in Target anyway, but when there's a little sticker... well... all over, Red Rover.

I love my bamboo undies. They... well... feel good. They come in two colours, black or beige, which means I don't have to spend time on unnecessary decisions (Lord knows, I have ENOUGH decisions to make without the colour of my undies getting in the way!) There's limited VPL, they don't hang out the top of my jeans, there's no stupid bows or lacey bits that itch at the worst possible time (like during assembly when giving out certificates in front of five hundred kids... yes, been there!) they don't crawl up my arse though the day and, most of all, they're absorbent. Sometimes, when travelling, we don't take many clothes. So, you know, you have to get used wearing your undies twice. Bamboo's GREAT for that.

Oh go on. Groan then you silk, satin and polyester undie wearers. I work hard OK? I walk a lot for my job, I sit on vinyl and plastic chairs for long periods of time and I sometimes have to stand in the sun. Absorbency. Important.

I used to love cotton. I grew up loving cotton. Actually, much of the surrounding land back home as a Bush Bogan was cotton farming land. AND, as a result, much of that land will be useless before long. Environmental disaster. Pumping irrigation out of rivers, bores that go down through to China, salt table thingies and farmers with a new Pajero each year (although, must admit... when I taught in that part of the world, the end of year Chrissie gifts were really much posher than in Bogan-ville-ea). BUT, don't love cotton as much anymore.

Now, my love affair is with bamboo.

The other day in the staff kitchen... I forget how it came up... but I found myself hoiking my daks out from the waistband of my jeans to show someone:
Me: Yeah! Bamboo! (show part of undies as evidence... as if it would make a difference)
Gen Y colleague: EWWW! Doesn't it scratch?
Me: Nahh!!! Touch it!!! And it's really ABSORBENT.
Gen Y colleague: EWWW!!!! TMI!!!!!
Me: Fine then, your loss. But then, maybe they don't come in sizes for teensy-weensy arses anyway.

I'm obsessed with bamboo now.

We've got bamboo towels that Brad the Tradie bought on Ebay. They're absorbent! Brad the Tradie and I both bought a bamboo shirt in the U.S. in June. They're.... absorbent. And you know, bamboo grows really fast. And that's good for the environment right? I do wonder though whether not buying anything at all would be a bit better than buying heaps of bamboo stuff. But.... wiping myself after a shower is NECESSARY. So are kitchen wipies and socks, especially absorbent ones.

It's not easy being green.

Like, this arve, being Friday, I was trawling the Hippodome with Smurfette of the Outlets. I'd forgotten (again...) to take my own bag into the Hippodome (can't they just REMIND you as you lock your car or something??) so the checkout chick at Target had to pack my bamboo undies into a compostable bag (undie emergency this morning... busy time of year, haven't done the laundry in a bit... no, not even the white jeans from the other day...) I felt really bad about having to use a 'plastic bag' (Ahhh!!!! Evil!!!) so as SOON as I got home I composted the bag STRAIGHT away. How long does it take to compost? Was I suppose to tear it into little pieces? Will the worms in the compost mind? Must ask my VGF Kimmy Earth-mother. She'll know. Will tell her that the bag was only accepted because of emergency and will NEVER forget to take my own bag to Target again. Obviously.

Brad the Tradie was going to make some boxes for me soon out of used wooden pallets that bricks and stuff come on, you know, the kind of little boxes that you could put fruit in. He started doing it a few years ago when we were poor (flogged the pallets from the back of the Vinnies store) and people quite liked them so he makes them every now and then and I give them away for Christmas with mangoes and stuff in them. He told me this morning, as he left for work at 6:30am for the millionth day straight, that he quite frankly does NOT have time to do this anymore and could I please figure out an alternative. And this arve, at Tar-zchay, there they were. Bamboo mini-platters. 20% off. Score! AND good for the environment, right? Especially in Vietnam by the looks of the label. Probably heaps of bamboo there, hey?

I also bought some other non-bamboo, non-compostable crap this arve at Target that I really didn't need. Just a couple of DVD's, some Ferrero's, a Grazia mag... but I chose not to think about the impact of those items, because buying the bamboo stuff cancels them out. Obviously. Like the way me using 'green' kitchen spray cancels out having the air-conditioning on all night at the moment.

Smurfette and I made our way down to carbohydrate land for a bun and that reminded me to swing past the shop that's selling the new Wildaid hair products. The ones that make Kate Hudson's hair so nice and probably make her thin and popular and a great actress too! There's a hair mousse that promises to make my hair not look like crap, because it has volcanic ash in it or something. Which, according to the look of the TV ad, means that rare African animals are protected from bad things. Crap! It's over twenty bucks! I could probably BUY a damn cheetah for that! But, it's good for the environment, so what can you do? Let the cheetahs just DIE?

If there's less bad stuff in green products, then why is saving the environment so expensive?



Although, I must admit, being brought up the heart of CWA land as a Bush Bogan means that I can do some seriously good stuff with bicarb soda, vinegar, lemons and used newspaper. I don't do this often of course, but i COULD. Actually, I keep getting these catalogues (printed with soy ink on recycled paper) trying to sell all sorts of crap made of used newspaper and junk mail. Like... handbags. Fruitbowls. Jewellery. Makes me want to drag out my home-made paper kit! I remember when I was in my teens, a recently converted vegetarian non-leather-wearing whale-saver and my parents refused to put a 'no junk mail' sign on the mailbox. So, in protest, I used to make my own paper out of it with mum's bamix and a bucket of water. I actually got a little creative one Christmas and added beetroot juice to make the paper pink. I think that was the year I also tried to make a long-jump pit in the backyard out of wood shavings. I remember one of my aunts saying a few years later that the beetroot paper was still quite pink, but a little mouldy, and was this normal with home-made paper? Oh, and remember when we used to shrink chip packets in the oven and make them into earrings and pendants? Oh, just THINK of the chip packet wastage these days. All those fruit bowls and handbags waiting to be made. One word babe. GOO-CHI!

And why do they bother offering recycled packaging for aeroplane snacks?

All those mega-squillion gobble-litres of fuel and they wrap the breakfast muffin in recycled cardboard box? I have an airline confession actually. Last time I booked a Virgin Blue flight I didn't click on the carbon offset box. I am a bad, BAD person. Don't tell Kimmy the Earth Mother. Our friendship may end immediately. When Brad the Tradie and I were on the trans-pacific cruise last May I had all this time to contemplate the enviro-evils of the travel industry. I went to a lecture (as you do when stuck on a boat in the middle of the ocean) by some enviro-dick whose job was apparently to convince us that our luxury cruise was not harmful to the environment. He showed a generic film, gave out presents and a few brochures. Some of the guests were asleep up the back (or dead... the average age of cruisers WAS 75...) but not I, enviro-gal. I kept asking questions, determined to get him to crack:

Me: Hmmmm, so what about all that food that doesn't get eaten at the buffet? Where does that go?
Enviro-dick: We munch it up and disperse it for sealife to eat.
Me (Hmmm, lucky sealife! Explains all the whale sightings!): Hmmm, then what about all the fuel? The printing? All those wasted photos that stupid photographer keeps taking of the old people dressed up in sequins on formal night? The pool? WHAT ABOUT THAT?
E.D.: Talk is over. Goodbye.
Hmmm, Suspicious.

Being Christmas season and all, I am trying to be enviromentally conscious. There's the Target Vietnamese bamboo mini-platters obviously, but also 'cards that give'. You know, those ones from places like Oxfam that have ducks and stuff on the front. You buy a card, they give a duck to a worthy Sri-Lankan family. Last year I got my mum an Oxfam card with a pile of dung pictured on the front. Apparently in some part of Africa it's important to get donated dung. And mum DID say not to get her any more crap. So I got some for an unfortunate African family instead. The year before we got Brad the Tradie's parents a card with a pig on it. I think the pig went to Bangladesh or similar. Looked quite a cute, healthy pig. Brad the Tradie's parents, Merv & Maureen, quite took to Piggie. They wondered if Piggie would send progress reports like the World Vision sponsor children do. They apparently haven't received one yet, which could a) mean Piggie has been eaten, b) Piggie can't write or c) Piggie is too happy in Bangladesh to fit in the writing of an update to his Aussie foster parents. Either way... socially responsible right?


So, I've been wondering if maybe someone (like Kimmy Earth-Mother or Peter Garrett) should implement a green points system, whereby bamboo-wearing undie people like me are rewarded for being sufficiently green. Kind of like the no-claim bonus on my car insurance. Maybe I could get a free carbon-offset on my next Virgin flight or a can of volcanic ash amplifying mousse. Or chook poo.


Right. Enough blogging. Must go recharge my solar energy pack, turn on the rainwater tank system to quench the thirst of my organic veggie patch and hook up the grey water hose to the washing machine. Then take a nice.... long.... shower.

Feelin' Hot, Hot, Hot!

I wore white cropped jeans to work because it's hot.

There. I said it. My name is Blossy Bogan and I wear white jeans. I figure that if it was illegal to wear white summer-weight cropped jeans then they simply wouldn't sell them at Target. I read a magazine last week that indicated QUITE clearly that white jeans are for people like Elizabeth Hurley. In fact, she was pictured in white jeans. I'm not a bloody giraffe, but I reckon I should be allowed to wear white jeans too, especially when it's hot and EVEN to work. White's a cooling colour. And really, the fashion police have been quite slack in Bogan-ville-ea lately. It would seem to me that if patterned leggings with jelly sandals are OK, then bugger it, so are white jeans.

It's been hot, hot, hot in Bogan-ville-ea. Yes, yes, yes, not sub-saharan African-type hot, but HOT nonetheless. I did a quick survey at work yesterday to check if it was hot:

Me: Hey, is it hot do you reckon Floydie?

Floydie of the Cosmos (spraying own face with squirter thing filled with water): Yeah, it's hot. I was just on the oval. It's hot.
Me: Geez Fitzzle, it's bloody hot in your office.
Fitz: Yeah, it's hot. Can't think. Might go down the shops and get a lahhhh-tay.
Me: Good - oh. Not early onset menopause. It's hot.


See, when it's really hot or really cold the rules change. When it's really cold it's OK to wear uggies to the Hippodome to get the paper and a bottle of milk. No one cares because it's cold. So... when it's hot I get to wear white jeans. Or even... shock horror... a white denim skirt! (Although, quite frankly the jeans are a better option because they nullify the chafing factor on that nasty spot where my thighs, no matter how much exercise, will always rub together when I walk). I should explain that I have actually been known to wear winter-weight full length white jeans also, especially in Alaska whilst on a cruise in May. BUT, in my defence I was trying to look like a polar ice queen and had a matching parka and faux-fur hiking boots in case of emergency glacier shore excursions. So it really doesn't count.


Smurfette of the Outlets wore HER summer-weight cropped white jeans from Target to work on the same day as me this week (She wore the white denim skirt the day before... and... yes... shhhh... chafing issues!) I think Smurfette's jeans survived the work day a bit better though. Here's what happened to mine:

7:30 am - looked at self in mirror at home. (Babe, you look fab. YOU. LOOK. HOT. Great jeans! Yeah, wear the beaded wedges. Very Elizabeth Hurley with that extra four inches, yet can still walk fast if necessary)

8:15am - Enter staff kitchen. Jesus! Smurf wore her summer-weight cropped white jeans from Target today too! Now everyone thinks we text each other before work to make we look match-matchy! Arrghhh!!! Although....Smurfette not wearing beaded wedges. Situation may be salvaged. Mental note: no standing or sitting next to Smurfette today unless absolutely necessary.

8:30am: Fitz wants to know if she missed the text regarding White Jean Day or if we're just deliberately excluding her. Crap. Note to self: text Smurfette tomorrow to check what's she wearing... just in case.

9:10am - Crap. Just walked quickly down the hallway whilst carrying cup of coffee. Slurped over the edge. Dodged quickly (excellent reflexes Blossy!) but five... no... six large coffee-coloured blobs are now on white jeans. Bugger. Thank goodness the regulation issue hallway carpet is a) dark blue and b) already filthy.

9:12 am - Staff toilets surprisingly cool today. Must be the tiles. Dabbing white jeans to remove coffee blobs unsuccessful. Turns into scrubbing and now looks like my right leg went for swim in the dunnies. Damn. Now my coffee's cold. Go nuke coffee and decide to drink it in situ (Note to self: no walking with coffee when wearing white jeans).

11 am - Small child has just noticed icky reddish-brown mark on left knee of white jeans. ("Errr!!!! What's that? Is that blood? Did you fall over? What happened to you? Ewww!!!!") Crap. Bugger. Damn. What the heck IS THAT mark? Sit down and examine left knee. Bloody crayon. That'll need Sard Wonderspray for sure. Stupid white jeans. Bet Elizabeth Hurley doesn't get coffee slop and crayon on HER white jeans.

1pm - Choose today to eat half-decently healthy lunch instead of nuked vegemite sandwich flogged from the communal freezer. Cherries. Another note to self: learn to spit cherry seeds into hand gracefully instead of doing target practice into plastic cherry punnet. Sigh at the 'oversplash' now on right thigh of white jeans, but congratulate self on not having brought a pomegranate for lunch. Could have been MUCH worse.

2:20 pm - Why are Smurfette's jeans clean? What's wrong with me? Am I disabled?

3:10pm - Am hot. Look at dishevelled self in mirror of staff loos. May as well swim in dunnies now. Will at least be cool there. Turn and check arse of jeans in mirror (am very flexible). Yep. Am now renaming self Grotty Bogan.

5:00pm - Brad the Tradie rings to tell me he feels crook and has just spewed all over his work uniform. Final note to self (this time on a post-it note so I don't forget): duck into Woolies on way home for extra Sard supply. Then hire a maid.

Stupid white jeans.

Market Mania

I sometimes help Organica sell her wares at 'the Markets'.

I love markets. Wherever Brad the Tradie and I travel, I seem to be able to sniff out the markets. Naturally I love food markets (except that nasty one in the Japanese city of Hakodate that had sea urchin brekkie specials and live crabs everywhere...) but I especially love seeing what people make with their bare hands.

Organica is one of those chicks who makes stuff with her bare hands. Her house is full of tools that cut stuff up and make fancy holes, little pieces of ribbon and cardboard, groovy labels, stinky oils and hand cream base. I'm actually not sure how her three year old son hasn't choked on some of it...

I think the Bogan in me loves markets because I grew up quite deprived of shopping experiences. No, I wasn't locked in the attic, I simply grew up in a small Aussie country town. 'The Markets' in my Bush Bogan town meant the local stockyards, where truckloads of cattle and sheep were regularly sold and shipped off to the abbatoir. Being disinterested in the purchase of livestock, I tended not to shop at the local markets. A shopping experience for me, besides the weekly groceries and milkshake, involved a trip to the big smoke twice a year. with the fam. Yes... we'd all pile into the HQ Holden stationwagon and drive to Tamworth, where such treats as Big W, K-Mart and Suzanne Grae offered countless hours of oo-ing and ahh-ing. I'd swoon over the treat of a counter-lunch at the Royal and sleep all the way home, happy with my new ugg boots, Darrell Lea chockies or hand-held electronic game (remember Donkey Kong?)

So, the upshot of seventeen years of shopping deprivation is that I am now addicted to it. And rather than just going to the markets, I now get to HELP SELL STUFF! It's like being a shopkeeper right? Being 'on the other side'. It's really fascinating too. They should offer degrees in consumer behaviour at markets. I actually take notes on the intricacies of it all (yes... really...) and I have developed quite a few theories that I am happy to share in a journal article if ever invited.

I've helped Organica at school fetes (cupcake madam?) the country fair-type arrangement (llama anyone???) and my new super-dooper favourite... the baby fair.

I'm not really into babies.

The truth be known, they annoy me a bit. Children are OK, you know, when they can talk, walk, eat real food and wipe their own arse, but all that baby-stuff just isn't me at all.

So, here we were this weekend. Organica and I, market queens, prepared and ready for action at the pre-Christmas posh baby market. This market was a bit different in that Organica (just for a thrill) let me sell some of MY stuff too! Puppets that no mid-thirties woman should own and some of my knitted blankies. Let me explain so you don't get the wrong idea... I'm not 'one of those knitting circle people' who makes Aran jumpers over endless cups of tea with the neighbours. Again, having grown up in a small country town, I am quite unusually adept at girlie handicrafts. Being raised in a highly gender-stereotypical household, my older brother learned to fix engines and ride a dirtbike. I learned to cook, undertake craft projects with cheap yarn and ... wash dirty, greasy man clothes. No wonder I have issues.

The Baby Fair wasn't held in Bogan-ville-ea, but in the posh part of the city where churches have bells and people don't shop for their kids' stuff at the local Target or Trash 'n' Treasure. Where children have names like Persephone and Nate and, by the looks of this Baby Fair stuff, have a LOT of flowery crap in their bedroom.

We arrived early, not being familiar with the posh part of town and its air-conditioned function rooms. Ok, we were three hours early, but it pays to be organised. Mind you, we still had to fight for the elevator with a couple of Wagga chicks, who we named Trinny and Susannah. They had matchy-matchy boxes and crates, banners and hangy racks to die for. Organica and I did feel a little out of place near these Baby Fair Experts. Compared to their floral wedge shoes and matchy-matchy blouses, Organica and I had our bestest denim shorts and Dr Feelgood thongs on. Hey, I brushed my hair speshly! AND ON A WEEKEND!

Good thing I bought the Sunday paper and a bottle of fizzy water at the servo on the way out of Bogan-ville-ea at 7am because Organica and I had all our crap set up ready to go before some stallholders even arrived. You'd think we'd've gotten a free extra-hot skim lahhh-tay for setting up first (and VERY neatly!), but no. Apparently first prize is a visit from Baby Fair-zilla the organiser ordering us to move our cars from the entrance. Geez love! We're having a bloody lahh-tay!!

We didn't really know many other stallholders (all called 'dahhhhhhling' apparently). So after entertaining ourselves with collecting fancy business cards, filling our drink bottles and posting status updates on Facebook via Brad the Tradie's iPhone that I was allowed to take in case of emergency, the doors opened on Baby Fair. Hmmm. Shame more people didn't take advantage of the free stroller parking really. Actually, if I'd organised this kind of thing there'd be a refreshment PARLOUR, not a nook, where people could kennel their offspring whilst shopping. The strollers in this part of town look more like Land Rovers!

It became obvious quite early that I'm not the only person with a penchance for puppets.
Clearly, they had pricetags.
Clearly, they were for sale.
CLEARLY.
The puppet selling was fun for a bit, before I got cross:
Hour 1: "Oooooo (hello small child), is Daddy playing with the Mammoth puppet! Ooo.... look out! Here comes the big wooly mammoth!!! Would you like to PLAY with the fluffly mammoth??? OOoo look! Mammoth's attacking Daddy!!! Look the mammoth has a new hairstyle just like Elvis!"
Hour 2: "Yes, it's a mammoth. Isn't it lovely? It's thirty dollars. Yes, you can touch it if you like."
Hour 3: It's twenty bucks. On special. Do you want to buy it?"
Hour 4: Oh for CHRIST'S SAKE. If you don't want to buy the damn mammoth, PUT. IT. DOWN!!!!"

Amidst my frustration, Organica kept her cool beautifully. A serene queen of sulfate and paraben-free liquids and lotions. Granted, mothers in this part of town possibly don't buy baby cream labelled as 'monkey fart scented', even if it comes with a face washer. But she persevered:
"Feel free to try it dahhhhl. It's ORGANIC you know!"
She even sold my crap while I went for endless amounts of breaks. Actually, I was a bit taken with the bonbonniere at the front entrance and kept going back for more. I'd forgotten to pick up a muffin at the servo, so ended up having bonbonniere sugared-almonds for morno's and subsequent snacks. Oh ALRIGHT! I also took quite a few home. They were FREE! Don't you go around at weddings picking up the unwanted bonbonniere? Geez!

Anyway, the early Baby Fair crowd avoided us altogether. Clearly, they were headed for the painted wooden signs with kid's names custom carved. The sponge-cake grannies stopped to say hello (read: use all the lotions in the testing tubs), and we had a few highly preggers couples swan over to sniff massage oil and rub it on each other's tummies. Fortunately we had scored a spot next to the 'get your kid's name on a ceramic bowl or cake plate' stall, so traffic was quite high. Mainly people entertaining their 'I don't like shopping kids' by playing with my puppets though.

A few 'glasses down the nose' women touched my blankies with that 'i can make a better craft product than YOU' look. In fact, one snot who was interested touched my FAVOURITE blankie without even acknowledging me (MY blankie! The one I wanted to keep for the end of OUR bed!) By the time she sniffed dismissively and decided not to buy it, I didn't want to sell it to her anyway. I felt like saying "rack off, I didn't spend fifteen squillion hours knitting in front of Law & Order so that YOU could have that blankie you snotty cow!" But I didn't say that. I smiled politely as she moved next door to touch the cake plates, and then I returned to reading the TV Guide. And NO, I don't take fecking credit cards.

Organica deals quite well with being polite and pacing herself throughout the day. I'm built more for intense bursts of selling I think. I'm used to sausage sizzles with five hundred hungry kids. Where people only touch what you're selling as it's going into their mouth. Where all I have to say is "You want sauce? Barbecue or tomato?" Where aprons protect your clothes from sausage fat, sauce and provide a place to wipe your hands. None of these poofy Baby Fair aprons that matchy-matchy Trinny & Susannah from Wagga wear whilst selling miniature striped overalls.

We didn't really expect to retire on our takings from the Baby Fair. Obviously. It's the thrill of people buying stuff that we made all by ourselves that keeps us going back. And the lack of other things to do in Bogan-ville-ea on weekends...

So by the end of the day, Organica & Blossy from Bogan-ville-ea packed up the Kia and the Commodore with leftover lotions, potions and blankies (and free little bags of sugared almonds wrapped in tulle) and headed home. We were satisfied that we'd done our bit to rid the world of parabens and sulfates as well as introducing non-Bogan babies to the pleasures of owning a blankie made of cheap yarn. Mission successful.

And as Blossy Bogan exited the posh part of town, I even took the liberty of spitting my well-chewed gum out the window. Ha! :)

Dollar Shop Crap

You can tell heaps about a country's culture by the crap they sell in their Dollar Shops.

Now, I wouldn't say I'm 'well travelled' or anything, but I've got a few passport stamps here and there (albeit not lined up neatly on the pages... what's with that haphazard attitude towards stamping one's passport?). And I, Blossy Bogan, love dollar shop crap.

In Japan you can practically set up your house on stuff from the '100 Yen store'. There's amazingly cute and useless shit all stacked in little rows. Got a great chopstick lunch box set. And the stuff actually IS a hundred Yen. At the register they just count your items and multiply it by 100. It was great practise for my limited Japanese language skills (ichi, ni, san, shi, go, roku... ummm......) Fantastic for getting a cheap lunch too. You can buy a bottle of cold catnip cordial and a bag of seaweed sheets for 200 Yen. Bargain.

In Canada the dollar stores were stuffed with maple leaves. Red and white Canadian flag land. Great for tourists:
"Hey babe, whatcha reckon we get the oldies next door some maple leaf lollipops, notepads and a flag to thank them for feeding the cat?"
"Ohhhhhh, they'd love that. And one of those Winter Olympics pins. Noice..."

But ahhhhh, the excitement of hitting Dollar Tree in California when the 4th of July stock was in! Oh. My. Those massive barrels of Cheesy Poofs are worth the Qantas airfare alone. Let alone all the Obama-rama merchandise. I mean, doesn't everyone want a picture of the U.S. President on their socks? There's lots of food at Dollar Tree. I ended up with... well... it's a little embarrassing... TEN bags of Tootsie Rolls to take back to Australia. THEY WERE A DOLLAR! (plus tax, so technically about $1.11 or something, U.S. of course, so probably about $1.30 AUD at the time... but totally worth it...) And a U.S. flag to hang in my office at work. Yeah, it did seem like a good idea at the time. I was feeling quite patriotic with all those stars and stripes around me. And Bananarama was playing over the loudspeaker. Enough said.

Then there's the Aussie dollar shops. A Bogan bastion. Filled to the brim with shit that doesn't work. The funny thing about them is that nothing's really a dollar. So the word 'dollar' is gradually disappearing from store names in favour of such enticing words as 'reject' and 'hot'. Not that we Bogans actually think that you could get a pair of thongs for a dollar anymore. I mean, I'd expect to pay at least two or three.

A good Valley Bogan trawls the dollar shops at least each month, more often towards Christmas. I reckon Santa might've have had a say in setting these kind of shops up. There's the Chrissy stockings in a variety of colours and designs (and when did they get so damned HUGE!??!) and then you grab a basket (or trolley... yes, really) and get heaps of crap to stuff into the stocking. Poor BHG (Better Homes & Gardens Girl) just about dies of excitement every Christmas morning when she tips the stocking shit out onto the rumpus room floor:
"OH MY GOD! How awesomeness! Glittery lipbalm! Oh WOW! 150 gel pens in a Hannah Montana packet! Bath foam! Undies with lovehearts! A bubble blower!"
What did Santa used to bring kids before dollar shop crap?

My VGF (Very Good Friend) Organica and I often trawl the dollar shops. We have a 'lah-tay' first to catch up on biz of course. Organica is quite talented. She makes stuff. And dollar shops have GREAT packages. Boxes. Bags. Bottles. Containers. Baskets. Packs of twenty miniature Asian food boxes that are just perfect for putting soaps into as gifts. Those little cellophane and organza bags that kids give me stuffed with nasty candy canes and compound chocolate at the end of each school year (don't worry, I don't eat that stuff. I wrap it up and put it under the K-Mart Wishing Tree.)

She takes a list sometimes. On our treks, Organica looks in nooks and crannies and gets the NESA (Non-English Speaking Assistant) to take down those stacks of a squillion boxes all shoved into each other that are on the top shelf. Going dollar shopping with Organica is kind of like I imagine one of those posh 'walk through a Vietnamese food market' Asian tours would be. You know, the type of trip where only those in the know can find the good shit and everyone else goes home with sloppy noodles and sweaty pants. My favourite thing at the dollar shop is the cheap hair conditioner. I gravitate there sneakily, whilst Organica is busily annoying the NESA. I love only paying two dollars for a tub of hair treatment that costs ten bucks at Woolies. Needless to say, Organica catches me swooning over the Pantene, rolls her eyes and lectures me about parabens, sulfates and Thai slave labour. So I put it back and promise to be good (...and go back later and stock up... I mean, REALLY. It's TWO BUCKS a tub!)

Sometimes I wonder if our Bogan consumerist generation will be remembered in history for our love of dollar shop crap. Whether time capsules will be opened in hundred of years time to find fluffy bed socks, pocket sized address books, plastic slinkies and a solar powered calculator. I hope someone remembers to chuck in the rubber thongs with the Aussie flag on them. Otherwise it'd be a real waste, don't cha reckon?