Confessions of a Bondi Blonde

Hitting middle youth has been accompanied by a series of explosions.

The first was a champagne cork as it exploded from the bottle, heralding my 40^th birthday, at midnight on New Year’s Eve 2006. The creamy fizz cascaded happily over the rim of the too-shallow glass, hitting the floor in a stream of bubbles and sugary alcohol. The luscious, precious liquid raced away in rivulets, like the days and sometimes gloriously action packed nights of my youth, fizzing away its potential sweetness into other, less satisfying destinations.

The second, bigger bang was when my marriage disintegrated soon after, its gossamer threads of promise which had cocooned me from the unknown unravelling into dross; unfurling a complete family unit into two, single parent families. As the ties that had bound unravelled, I was whiplashed for a while in a nightmarish landscape of fear and confusion. But time has healed the majority of the wounds and the scars continue to fade as I travel forward.  I have a different future. One that is exciting, still a bit scary and painful, but much, much brighter.  My happiness and the laughter of new people caress my children in a new web of love and support. Each day brings the gift of new experiences and people whose kisses and kindness have helped rebuild a better brighter, softer Bondi blonde.

The third explosion has really been more a series of happy little fireworks. I have reclaimed my right to be foolish.

With the midnight arrival of my 41^st, then 42^nd birthdays I kept waiting for the wisdom that was meant to accompany the added years, softer tummy and new, fine lines around my eyes.  Alas, as silly as ever, I squinted into the looking glass, asking it nicely if I could still enter the competition to be the fairest manufactured maiden in Sydney’s Eastern suburbs.  The silence that greeted me told its own story. So although I felt as post-adolescent as ever and though I have always said that I’d rather be young and foolish than old and wise any day, it looked like I’d have to compromise and settle for older and foolish.

So stuff, it.  I’ll embrace my inner child and luxuriate in not having to try so hard. While youth may be wasted on the young I’m not wasting my middle youth. A new, softer femininity is blossoming, not withering and I am going to have fun growing older just a little bit disgracefully.

The joys which I have embraced in my middle youth include the following.

Investing in matching lingerie.

There’s nothing more sensual than the feel of sliding a set of matching bra and panties on after a candle lit warm bath or an invigorating icy shower. Exercise has been a kind of drug for me in my recovery of self and my body is the best it has been since having my first squalling squid nine years ago. Even if it’s only for a dinner out with my book club mavens, or a drink with a friend, I feel more a woman knowing that I have a sexy suspender belt and stockings or just a simple matching set of pale pink lingerie hidden beneath my prim frock or tight jeans.  No one gets to see it but me, but it’s a treat that I like to invest my non-food, non-mortgage dollars in. And, maybe you know, there’s always the chance that someone else might get to appreciate it, one day soon….

I’m far from alone in my hidden la Perla luxury. There is an Amazon tribe of successful, powerful middle youth women spending up big for whispers of lace in stores across Sydney. In Paddington alone there are eight specialist lingerie stores, offering items that range from sexy through to sensual then on to downright damned whore. And though I won’t and don’t name names, you’d be surprised at some of the faces I have seen surreptiously exiting the shops, carrying a little, expensive bag of whimsy and a secret smile.

Car Dancing

I hate nightclubs but I love dancing. I love Sing Star. I love Britney, Pink, Cold Play, and Kanye West. I love driving fast in my family wagon. Why not combine all together!

I have embraced my inner Bogan. So when So What by Pink hit the airwaves, I hit the volume hard, wind down the windows and speed off (not in the school zones – I have three points left) in a shower of dust and petrol.  And though I am not now or have never been a rock star (sing along, loud):

“So what!
I’ve got my rock moves
And I don’t need you.
 And guess what?
 I’m having more fun
And now that we’re done,
I’m gonna show you tonight
 I’m alright.
 I’m just fine.
 And you’re a tool.
So,
So what, I’m not a rock star.
I’ve got my rock moves.
And I don’t want you tonight!”

Ahhh what fun!  Though my kids locked down in the back seat usually suffer from the wonderful combination of deafness and excruciating embarrassment when I play air guitar while waiting at the traffic lights with the school Principal in his car alongside, looking at me in shock and awe. Still, they do join in with the drum solos. The car is definitely rocking most afternoons on our journey home.

Sydney is the perfect place for car dancing; we are stuck in endless traffic for so long that you can perfect your moves on the way to work, to the shops or on the school run. So I urge you to Bogan along with me, preferably with the windows down to shock the neighbours. And it’s so much better than any nightclub. No lines, no need for an expensive new frock and always a comfy seat.

Daggy Soccer Mum

There is no way I am going to meet the next Mr half Right at 8:00 a.m. on some godforsaken rain soaked soccer pitch or Nipper beach on the weekends that I have the kids. And if I did run into a potential future partner, the chance for meaningful conversation would be nil-all as during these mornings I am consumed at keeping my kids alive, well behaved and away from the Slushie Machines and ice-cream vans that lurk, waiting for their opportunity to inject a sugar rush or saturated fat hit into my always greedy children.

So I luxuriate in the craggy side of my mid-youth mountain on these mornings. Track suit? Yep – OK it’s a velour Country Road one, but it’s very big around the butt – I look a little like the Saggy Baggy Elephant from my youngest child’s favourite book. Make up? Only the indelible lipstick that wouldn’t come off the previous night. Hair? Bed-head par excellence. Conscious thought and a capacity to string a sentence together? Sometimes, just. Insulated coffee mug? Oh, yes.

In fact, buying an insulated coffee mug has arguably been my finest adult investment ever, including the $7 frock I got from the Salvos and which has seen me through many a first date, almost guaranteeing a second. At first I resisted the idea of the mug. I saw myself as a hip cafe society woman – latte and macchiato savvy, not an instant coffee kind of girl. But at three bucks a pop and a need for the speed of caffeine at 6:30 a.m., 7:00 a.m., 7:30 a.m. and so on, I realised that a little bit of hot home brew was the only way I could afford to get the party started on the weekend. So now I am hooked on my generic brand red plastic insulated mug. So much so, that I have shamelessly bastardised one of Shakespeare’s most beautiful sonnets to show my appreciation of all things temperature controlled, as follows.

Ode to an Insulated Mug

Shall I compare thee to a china cup?
Thy art more plastic and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the coffee cups of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometimes too hot the chai in the mug does burn,
And often is the Gold Blend strong,
And from fair to fete sometimes I recline
By chance forgetting to add the sweet,
But thy eternal heat shall not fade
Nor I lose possession with label say I owest;
Nor shall cappuccino van brag I am fully in his shade,
Where his eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see
 So long lives this insulated mug and this gives life to me.

So, as I bravely saunter forward in heels just a little too high into my middle youth, I await the next little explosions that may greet me. Maybe the pop of New Year’s Eve crackers as I approach my next year? Maybe the explosion of fireworks as I find new love? Wherever the road goes, I’ll take my insulated mug, just in case the journey is longer or more exciting than I can guess.

 

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Is this the end of the world, as we know it?

The trains don’t work; our Premier reportedly is a jerk. Our financial future seems calamitous, economic uncertainty is now part of us.

But.

 Look up and see the deep violet jacaranda flowers against the crackling azure of another perfect Sydney day. Walk our beautiful tree lined streets at the near dawn or dusk and be bewitched by the heady perfume of star jasmine, hanging fat and heavy from a neighbour’s fence.

I love reading The Herald with my first coffee of the day, being informed as the synapses snap together. But at the moment it is like immersing yourself in the shrouds of obituary columns as consumer confidence dies, leeching optimism from the economy and from our society. Apart from the nascent promise from President-elect Obama, it seems from the news that although it’s not as bad as it can get, that’s only because it is only going to get worse.  The planet is very sick and we are killing each other ruthlessly and effectively in many places on it. Our previous safe harbours of certainty, including the seemingly strong and regulated financial systems, seem as precarious as if we had ignored the wise men all along, building our houses on the sand rather than the rock. Is it all coming tumbling down?  With foreboding and foreclosures, we wish we had been forewarned so we could have been forearmed.

It’s November and it is not at all beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Small businesses are holding on, extending their trading terms and waiting for their clients to get paid, so they can get paid. Big businesses and business leaders are admitting “mea culpa”, crossing their fingers, scratching their heads and planning on the hop. Politicians are as inspiring and reassuring as a Bundaberg Base Hospital doctor.

But it is still a beautiful day. At 8:00 a.m. I was with my children at Bronte beach. We frolicked among the waves and acted like banshees, chasing seagulls and throwing wet sand. We then moved to a local cafe, quickly hoovering down crunchy Turkish toast laden with butter, Vegemite and thick fruit jam. I was rich with the wonder of family life. My kids go to their dad every second weekend and this before-school ritual has become part of our family folklore to carry forward. 

And although it is true that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, surely gloom can be as much as a personal decision too? So if you are waiting for a train that will be late, crowded, old and tired to go home to a house that’s hard to pay for, try to think of the nice smile you got from the ticket man or the prettiness of the balloon being held by the little girl, coming home from a birthday party or a visit to her grandparents house.

And if the news today is getting you down, throw aside your paper. Take the hand or the arm of your lover, your child, your parent, your friend and walk our perfumed streets. Count your own blessings and those we all share: being alive, living in a lovely place no matter how bad the transport or silly our cockatoo pollies, being free to walk free of persecution or segregation. And no matter how gloomy the outlook in our news, remember we’ve got it so much better than almost everyone else.

It is a beautiful day. Isn’t that enough – just for now?

 

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I’ve heard that there is this great movie on at the moment.

It’s called Tim Tam or something and it’s about the real Australia. You know the one where we ride horses and survive being bombed by the Japanese. Cause I so hate it when you’re out at Westfield and you have to hit the ground when crossing from Target to Coles because you’re being strafed again by enemy fire. So inconvenient.

I heard it cost 200 million dollars to make and there’s this big marketing campaign around it to make visitors really think that Australia is just like in the film. I heard they test marketed it in Japan. Not to worry, I’ll think they’ll just add dubbing and say that we were actually being attacked by North Korea, so come on down your honeymooners and international students from the land of the midnight sun.

Hugh Jackman is so hot. He’s the hero and says Gidday all the time. I reckon that’s what they say in the bush though I wouldn’t know ‘cause I’ve never been there. I had a chance once to go for schoolies week; two weeks travelling through Australia by campervan. I went to Bali instead. Half the price and got massages on the beach everyday. Hugh is meant to be a great guy, fantastic father and an amazing husband. A good cook, apparently too. Not sure about the acting skills, but he did a divine turn as Peter Allen in The Boy from Oz, so maybe there’s a musical number or two in Tim Tam. Gee, that actually makes sense. “Our Baz” Luhrmann is known for his musical ditties, from Strictly Ballroom to Moulin Rouge. Maybe our Hugh and our Nicole have a little sing along by the camp fire. That would be classy. And so believeable, like a cross between Australian Idol and The Farmer Wants a Wife.

Still, I’m a bit confused about our Nic (she used to be Tom’s Nic and an almost American, but we reclaimed her when she hit 40) being in it. Apparently she’s a Brit in Tim Tam. No one would believe that, despite her amazing acting skills (she’s got an Oscar to prove it – remember she played a walking dead woman really convincingly in The Others.) She’s as Aussie as oi, oi, oi.

She’s got more ice on her than Mawson’s Hut, that’s true, but if anyone can stoke her into a slow and steady melt, well it would have to be our Hugh, surely. He’s taller than Keith, a better singer than Keith, and doesn’t hail from Caboolture (famous for cheese) like Keith, which is just three reasons why the film might have some real heat (apart from being set in the Northern Territory).

So I urge you to do your bit to support the economy and spend your $15 on seeing a movie that defines what it means to be Australian, just in case you were wondering.

 

 

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What is a perfect moment?

For me, it may be:

• A baby’s hand curling around your finger.
• A hot cup of milky tea warming your hands as you watch the sun rise and your family sleeps on the first full day of your holiday.
• The birth of a wanted child.
• The warmth of a lover’s hand on the small of your back, protecting you, imparting safety and love while propelling you forward to an occasion of shared intimacies and soft laughter.
• A sleep-in on a rainy day after you’ve worked hard and when there is absolutely nothing that needs doing until lunch-time. You can roll over, stretch and sink back into soft, white clean pillows while the world hurries past to its deadline.
• An unexpected kiss from your beloved, on your shoulder, your neck, the top of your head.

 I have had all of the above at different times of my life. But being a busy, bossy, brittle, Bondi blonde has meant that, as these buds of joy flower in my life, I have often acknowledged them briefly with a distracted air; usually registering their beauty and filing it away, to be pulled from its chrysalis of memories and hopefully enjoyed at some later, more convenient time.

On Saturday I had a series of perfect moments  that I will carry in my heart to examine when the going gets tougher, as it does.  

I was up at the near dawn, awoken by my pre-schooler who decided to re-enact Batman Lego Playstation moves in my bed. I bore the brunt of his wee-filled night-time nappy landing on my head as he killed the bad guys with his shoot-gun and I accepted my fate, regretfully saying adieu to the sleep which had been my companion for the previous six hours. Arising from tousled sheets, I stood alone on my balcony, the war continuing on my mattress. Soft light filled the hollows of the valley with pastel colours. In the next five minutes the light hardened, a cockatoo screeched a morning greeting on his way to Centennial Park and I viewed the birthday party burdened, travel itinerary planned day with trepidation.

After feeding my savagely hungry children a quick breakfast we were off to the 8:00 am cricket at the local park where my children frolicked, playing like Australia in India; unfortunately. I was knocking back the first latte of the day when I ran into a friend with whom I had shared laughter, champagne and secrets with a few times. She runs a successful company to which I had pitched my rusty writing and PR skills, part of my strategy to keep my kids fed and sheltered without having to sell a vital organ. Our welcome hug got a little bit tighter when she told me I had won the job ahead of a slicker competitor, because I could do the job better. Imagine. Bringing home the bacon while being there for the children. So many women have to sacrifice the intimacies of parenting to fulfil employer expectations, commuting and diluting their lives into manageable chunks. Other women accept family friendly hours in McJobs, burning their brain cells on the pyre of family need. Now I am one of the lucky few who can be clever while working from home, being there for the children as well as having the extra money to feed them too. As an added benefit, I now have the perfect excuse to buy the cream patent leather shoes that have been tempting me at David Jones for far too long.

I surveyed a brighter 2009 as the sun got hotter and the children returned for hugs, kisses, water and a journey to our second destination of the day, a birthday party on Dangar Island, a 90 minute drive away.

It was a new thing for me being the long-distance driver. Childhood holidays always had my father at the wheel and the tradition had continued into my own family life. Being a single mum put me firmly behind the wheel and although it felt a little strange for a while to be the head of the family outside as well as inside the house, we all survived the journey, no matter how out of tune the singing was or how tired the kids got of playing “who can spot the red car, blue car, black car, first” game. A  nine year old’s birthday party, the reason for our trip, may have been the nicest time I have had this year. It was simple and relaxing and a joy to see my children playing as part of an extended group of almost-family while I shared laughter and champagne with their parents;  we splashed into the long afternoon in water phosphorescent with sunshine and sunscreen.

On the ferry back to Brooklyn we sang 10 green bottles and other silly songs, the children’s words slurred from fatigue and from mouths half-filled with lollies from the party treat bags. During the car journey back home, my precious cargo quickly fell asleep, their faces innocent and flushed with sunburn and youth. Surveying them through the rear view mirror, I felt a long lost peace descend. Nobody had told me that there would be wonderful days like these.

The moments of perfection in life are rare and fleeting. We should store them safely, like shells we find on the beach; memories of other, happier times and examine them when we need a little reminder that things do get better. Day follows night just as much as night follows day.

So as other little jigsaw pieces of life slide into my heart, some making me melancholy, others contemplative, others hopeful, I am getting better at avoiding the sharper fragments. Just to up the sugar content to “dangerous to diabetics”, I’ll end with another perfect moment of mine, a favourite poem by e e cummings.

‘i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
                                                            i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you’

‘here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or the mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart’

‘I carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)’

So, know that when you are being buffeted about in a perfect storm, a perfect moment or a perfect calm or will arrive in time, just hold on.

 

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Being the Bondi Blonde has been a fun thing for a while. I’ve had lots of laughs making stuff up and almost as much fun living implausibly true life. For example, recently while I was at a local cafe I was invited out on a “date” by a young, attractive male (YAM) junior enough to be carded at a pub. I know that some guys are into cougars, but really, I felt kind of uncomfortable with the whole thing.

So, in the interest of my readers, I went on the date.

First, YAM could text like Dostoyevsky could write. His mum probably text messaged her friends upon his birth, so though his spelling was questionable, he bombarded me with lots of sweet nothings way before the date, so I felt obliged to show up at the pub meeting place where the music was too loud and not a comfy seat could be found.  He was late so I bought myself a drink and settled in to watch the NRL on the big screen. I was just getting into the game when Prince Charming arrived. The bouncers let him pass without requesting his ID, but they did give him a second glance.

His fashion sense was on the money. Way too young to be classed a metro sexual, he had the black T-shirt, black jacket, dark blue jeans thing down pat. When I said that he looked like a mafia version of Don Johnson in Miami Vice, I was rewarded with a blank stare. “Don who? Miami Ice – isn’t he a rap artist like Flo Rida?”

OK then, I thought. Conversation may be tricky, just how old is this guy? I didn’t want to show my low cool quota by just coming out and asking. And I definitely didn’t want to be asked back because I wasn’t ready for a lie at this early in proceedings, so I bit my filler-plumped lips and waited for the urge to pass. We had a general chat about school. YAM was doing a Masters in Business at Uni. My kids go to one. That lasted till the second drink ended (luckily he drank alcohol – and didn’t partake in the Red Bull and Ecstasy combination that apparently is all the rage for post-teens, according to a recent article I had read in Madison magazine while waiting recently at the supermarket checkout.).

YAM was a sweetheart and very polite and so we decided to go home and have sex. Well, not really. I was thinking about cutting to the chase, considering the conversation was so boring and reminded me of the chat I had had with my eight year old kid’s friend that afternoon during a play date. Less a focus on Star Wars Lego, granted, but still a lot about the Roosters chances next year. I care because?

YAM was a sweetheart and very polite so we decided to have dinner. I wasn’t up to considering sex until he was drunk enough and it was dark enough for him to miss my mummy jelly belly and my caesarean scars rudely unveiled in that afternoon’s Brazilian waxing encounter. We decided on a cheap and cheerful Italian Restaurant, with lighting soft enough for me to hide in and a wine list big enough for us to drown in.

Finally I couldn’t control myself. After one bottle of Chianti, the main course, two conversations about Snoop Dog versus Grand Master Flash and me not talking about school fees, kids, property prices or female gynaecological issues (that constituted me ditching 97% of my usual conversational repertoire), I asked, “So, YAM, you’ve a younger brother who lives with you. How old is he again?”

“27”

AAAAAAARGH!

“How much younger is he, did you say?”

“Three years, I’m 30 and am having a party soon, do you want to come?”

“Why, to babysit?” I didn’t say it, biting again on my lips to stop the words dead in their middle-aged tracks.

Then it came. I felt like I was defenceless on a beach, watching as the tsunami relentlessly descended.

“How old are you, Blondie?”

I gasped for air, searched frantically for a distraction to hang on too or escape with. Nothing doing.

“Me? 39,” I lied, retreating further away from the harsh flickering candlelight.

“Neat. That’s only really not much, considering I’m almost 31. Thirty and one-half, really.”

“Hmmm, yes indeed, more wine?” I asked, pouring the second bottle freely into our glasses.

 I’d been 39 for three years and was glad for the lie. But, eeew, I know it’s not fair that it is considered OK for men to date someone a dozen or so years younger while considered a bit carnivorous for women to do so, but still I felt a little bit yuck for keeping this kid up so late and away from the PlayStation.

Dinner was over. We went Dutch and headed to Crown Street for another drink. My old feet hurt in their new shoes and I wanted to go home. I couldn’t decide however if I wanted it to be a solitary journey, back to late night chocolate encounters on the sofa, or a journey to the brave new world of YAM love.

Certainly this darling man didn’t seem at all phased by the age difference. He was kind, polite, Canadian. We had a wonderful conversation at dinner about things that mattered, not involving house prices; more to do with truth, justice and the Canadian way. He was sweet as fairy floss and handsome to boot. No-one would call me “slut” or throw rotten fruit at me if we did what came naturally. It was a wonderful thing to be fancied again by a fanciable man. I had suffered recently numerous close encounters of the RSVP kind with dysfunctionals of all kinds; men old enough to have more hang ups than the David Jones menswear section. Oldies who drooled, not necessarily over me, just generally drooled.

So, I went back to his Alexandria apartment. Freedom sofa, flat screen TV, IKEA everything else. Soft bed.

And then.

Yee-ha! It was a like an all day pass at Dream World, Wet and Wild and Movie World all at the same time. Granted, some of the positions were a bit like riding the roller coaster three times in succession, making me a bit up-chucky, but overall I lasted the distance, kept my end up (a little bit tired, but I bravely struggled on), he kept his end up (no problems there) and it was zipless fun (button tab jeans). I got a cramp with my legs over my head while trying to hold my tummy muscles in, but YAM was understanding and gave me a very nice massage.

It was a lovely, happy encounter. Great sex with a yummy YAM. No consideration of him step-fathering  my kids or me having his. We met a few more times and each encounter was simply enjoyable.

So, dear readers. Yes, I am a cougar. But a harmless one and my prey ran to me, so I don’t feel guilty.

Still, we did end it around a month ago. For me, generally if it doesn’t happen between the ears, the between the sheets part won’t last for long. My YAM was a sweet heart, just very different from me. I like books, words, stuff like that. He likes balls, sport, business. We just ran out of things to talk about.

He was great about it, kind and sweet and I think we both enjoyed all of it. I ran into my YAM yesterday at the coffee shop where we met. He was with his younger brother, talking football and university. I was with my pre-schooler, talking Star Wars and eating cookies.YAM and I kissed hello, introduced our family members, smiled gently into each other’s eyes and said goodbye.

No-one was hurt, no one had their heart broken. It was all quite lovely. Purrrrr.

 

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