Baby bird has left the nest

Well, that's it.

My baby started school today and I feel completely and utterly lost.
For the last 8 years, I've had a little one next to me during the day.
With Hope in Kindergarten, I feel sad and very low.

It's an end of an era, and I wasn't ready for it to happen so fast.

sob, sob

Faith or fashion?

And now for a little rant.

My faith is an integral part of who I am, guides me in raising my daughters and the way I wish to live my daily life.  It is mine - I have never imposed by belief system on anyone and I never will. I respect everyone's choices and, while I do not have to agree with other people's views, I will always listen and will only offer my opinion if asked. I am fortunate I have friends from all creeds and religions. My best friend is an Atheist.

Ok, so I now feel comfortable enough to proceed having stated my views.

Ever since Madonna decided to wear rosary beads as an accessory, fans have emulated this and followed suit. As I grew up in the 80s, I remember the uproar it caused and the media coverage it generated.
As all fads, this one subsided and people soon forgot.

A few years ago, I noticed a resurgence of the rosary bead necklace. At first, I'd see it worn by middle-aged women, like my mum, during and after World Youth Day in Sydney. This seemed acceptable by the general public and most never batted an eye.

As the religious fervour wound down, I then started to notice young guys around 15-25 years-old wearing them with pride and happy to tell you, if you asked (which I did) that they wore these to tell the world they were Catholics.


Soon after, I noticed jewellery shops jump on this trend and stock every kind of rosary bead imaginable - gold, silver, precious stones from baby to adult sizes.
None of this bothered me in the slightest. I loved seeing people proud to display their faith in such a public and beautiful way.

But, and this is where my anger begins to bubble up.

I'm no fashionista, but I clearly remember the night Aussie singer Delta Goodrem - during her battle with cancer - wore a set of rosary beads around her hand when she won an Aria. I saw this as a symbol of her faith or an amulet for protection during her illness.
What soon followed was a flooding of wannabees adoring themselves with rosary beads as fashion items.
Wear it if it MEANS something to you, but as pretty trinket? You really have no right, in my eyes.

Now, for those of you who think I'm just being hyper-sensitive, let me relay a conversation to you. A very close friend of mine lives in the same building as one of Australia's most respected, most popular  designers. His name is synonymous with the latest trend, his clothing is worn by only the rich, and very rich.

Let's call him Bob.

One morning, Bob was leaving his trendy East Sydney apartment wearing a beautiful set of rosary beads around his neck, clearly visible upon his designer shirt. My friend, a photographer, was delighted to see this, but cynical at the same time. He asked Bob,

"Faith or Fashion?"

Incredulously Bob answered, "Fashion, darrrrrrling."

Recently, I had a similar exchange with a well-known and much loved Aussie musician. His answer, when I asked him, was also, "Fashion". 

Why wear a sacred symbol and flaunt it so irreverantly? I would never wear a Hijab as a fashion item or a Yamaka to make a statement. I wouldn't dot my forehead with red dye or wear Buddhist prayer beads as bracelets.

A few years ago, I worked for a Catholic religious Order. Their symbol was a simple wooden Tau - a variation of a crucifix which represents St Francis of Assisi and the Order he founded. I was gifted one and wore it with pride. But, one individual who was associated with the Order, took offence to my wearing it. I stopped wearing it out of respect.

I'll end my rant here, but I'd just like to conclude by saying that symbols are important. Not only do they give one a sense of belonging, but they are sacred and represent something which goes deeper than just an adornment.

What do you all think?

Is it time to hang up my dancing shoes?

WHEN I was 17, my two older sisters thought it was time to introduce me to "the nightlife".
As both my sister have very different musical tastes and also very protective, my initiation to this wonderful new world took two very different forms.
My eldest sister took me to watch some live Jazz at the Basement. I clearly remember freaking out that I was going to be asked for ID ( I was still only 17) and we would unceremoniously be rejected at the door despite my horrendously applied make-up. Why did I think bright red lipstick and fucshia eye-shadow would make me look older?
My stressing was for naught as my sister paid the cover, our wrists stamped and we were ushered into the dark club.
Instantly I was transfixed by the sounds, the smells, the clatter at bar, the myterious dark nooks were strangers were intertwined.
I felt as I had been given the key to a secret lair, one that has always been there but hidden and invisible from my young-adult eyes. I felt sophisticated, grown up.
Instantly I was besotted. And so began my love affair with live music.
Vince Jones was the act. I'd never seen the trumpet played live before. My sister had a big crush on him. As he got on stage, people extinguished their cigarettes (n.b back it the 90s, smoking was allowed in clubs. Vince Jones was probably one of the first who demanded a smoke-free environment at his gigs).
I was enthralled, but looking around at the 'cool crowd' I realised I'd have to mask my awe and transformed my 'eyes-ago and wide-open mouthed look' into one of cool indifference and nonchalance.
18 years later I still get a rush when I descend those stairs (although the venue has changed a bit ) and scope out the posters plastering the walls.
While I've seen some awesome acts there - including Sheila E - my biggest regret is not seeing Prince at the Basement. He preformed a 'secret' after show in 2003. I hate that I missed it.

My second intitiation by my slightly wilder sister was at a nightclub on Oxford street called DCMs. It was notorious for drugs and had the best techno music. It attracted people from all walks of life and was THE place to be seen.
Again, I was shit scared (being under-age) and terrified I'd be laughed at. I borrowed my sister's electric blue boob-tube and vinyl black pants. My sister was uber-cool and she just grabbed my hand, shot the beefy bouncers a look of disdain and walked in.
To say this was a culture shock would be an understatement. I was hit with a tidal-wave of bass, strobe lights pierced me tempting me to have a seizure. The concrete ground was sticky and my vision was obstructed by billows of cigarette smoke.
With a cigarette dangling from her mouth, my sister jumped on a podium and dragged me up. I had no idea what to do. So I danced.
Now, growing up in my naive sheltered little world, I thought when you went out to clubs, guys asked you to dance. Here, everyone danced alone. It was so liberating. As I looked around I saw girls with elfin haircuts dancing in circles. I saw Calvin Kline-esq shirtless guys with bleached hair and washboard abs adorned with body paint  dancing with glowsticks. I saw two guys kissing. This was a first for me to witness and I just stared and stared.  There were other firsts for me there including watching people do lines of coke, being offered 'E's' for $20 and dancing till I thought I'd collapse. We never, ever touched drugs, never drank a drop of alcohol, but smoked like chimneys. The water bottle was our best friend and so was the late-night pizza joint we would stop on the way home and inhale a family sized pizza in seconds.

The dichotomy of these two experiences was so vast. And yet, I loved both and loved that I had this special and unique relationships with both of my big sisters. How very fortunate I was - and still am.

Last weekend,  I went to the Basement. The familiarity was comforting and brought back a flood of memories. The fresh faced bouncer asked me if I'd been there before. Doing a quick calculation in my head, I laughed and said I'd been watching gigs there for 18 years. His retort,

"That's how old I am!"

I wanted to be swallowed up by my bar stool. I could feel every one of my 'smile-lines' rise up on my face like a road-map of my life. Had I become that 'old woman' we'd spot at nightclubs, sitting alone and laugh at when we were 18?
For a fleeting moment, I considered not going out to gigs anymore. It lasted but a second and was soon shaken off like the remnants of a bad dream.

However much longer I have on this planet, I'll slap on the make-up, strap on my highest heels and open my ears to the sounds that move my soul.

Real estate agents - the bane of our society

Did you leave school at 15?
Do you want to wear an ill-fitting suit everyday?
Have you got the people skills of a skunk?
Do you have any qualms with being creative with the truth?
Do you want to drive a $150,000 car and feel important?

If your answer was yes, yes, yes, no and yes, then I have the perfect job for you! Why don't you 'study' for 48hours and become a:

REAL ESTATE AGENT!!!

As you've probably gathered, I don't particularly like or hold much respect for these snake-oil salespeople.

I have dealt with my fair share of them to know they would push old women and children out of the way if there was a fire, just like  'George Costanza' (from Seinfeld).

I know it's unfair to paint then ALL with the same brush, but from my experience I find this breed of person to be greedy, dishonest, lacking scruples and slimy. 

And, almost all of them fit into these categories:

THE SLEAZY PERV

Usually fat, middle-aged and balding. Often he has bad breath (you unfortunately know this because the offender finds every opportunity to encroach on your personal space) and has bathed in cologne. He'll warmly greet you, squish both your hand together in a disgustingly moist handshake - which you have to wrench yourself from - and lead you around the property hovering at your side and often place his (or her) hand nonchalantly on the small of your back. He (or she) will ignore your partner and shower you with idiotic compliments, such as, " I find women have better taste, they know what they want" while wiggling their eyebrows and sneaking in a wink.
This creature insists on getting your work number, mobile number, home number, email, birthday, address and making sure you have his (or hers) and repeatedly tells you to "call me anytime." He (or (she) also calls you within minutes of leaving the inspection to see how you liked it, then send you a friend request on Facebook. He (or she) will then continue to harass you at least twice a day.
The only way you will ever be free of this slimeball is by changing your number or moving to another country.

THE ARROGANT YOUNG THING

He or she will be at least  20 minutes late and arrive in the latest sport model car. They'll be yabbering on the phone, very loudly, and have the customary reflective aviator sun glasses on. Impeccably dressed - women in designer two piece suits, stilletos, Louis Vuitton brief case, hair coiffed, make-up expertly done and men in a smart grey sport suit, metrosexualed to the nines, pointy shoes, Louis Vuitton man-bag and hair glued into shape with a tub of product.
They'll ignore you, throw a brochure in your face turn around and jet off in their (leased) sports car. All while talking on the phone.
You'll never hear from them again and they won't ever answer their phones.

My husband punched one of these species in his fake-tanned face once.

THE JUNIOR

Flushed in the face and carrying a pile of paperwork, the Junior has just 'graduated' from being a property manager (i.e they collect rent and deposit it). Super keen, annoying with poor English they are wearing a suit which is shiny from too many pressings. At first, you feel sorry for them and humour them as they mispronounce words such as 'bidet' and explain to you that termites can't eat weatherboard. The problem with these young ones is they don't know anything. You can ask the most basic question and their answer will invariably be "Let me just check", "I'm not sure" "I'm not the agent, I'm just showing it for them." This experience will be an utter waste of time and will only result in having to meet with with either the above mentioned SLEAZE or ARROGANT excuse for a human.

Oh dear, my phone's ringing. Another agent returning my call. Another Saturday to look forward to of disappointing house inspections.

HELP ME!!!

Just call me "Mama Bird"

I'm feeling a little clucky.

In less than four weeks, my littlest monkey will be starting big school.  When I tell people this, most rejoice and exclaim, "Oh, lucky you, all three at school." But I have mixed feelings.
No more will I have a little hand in tow on "Mummy and Hope days"  to hold onto through the car park, buy a happy meal for so I can steal the chips and listen to endless hours of ABC Kids program in the background as I cook up more yellow playdough.

My sister has even suggested I hold her back a year. I toyed with this for a few seconds, but mummy guilt barreled over those thoughts with one fell swoop.

She'll start school, love it, terrorise the kids, charm the teachers and learn very quickly which ice-blocks she likes most at the canteen.

For all those who think I'll have ALL this spare time now to have mini-facials and laser hair removal, think again. Mummy will have more uniforms to wash, shoes to polish, sight-words to run through EVERY night, a Deb Ball to prepare for, a zillion kids birthday parties to attend, more parents names to learn and which kid belongs to them, sports carnivals, fundraisers,  and umpteenth "dates to remember".

If you have kids at home, relish this time. You don't have a certain time to get dressed by, have breakfast gobbled up, hair brushed, bags packed or the the inevitable splitting apart of little, squabbling girls who insist their sister has hidden their library books. When you have school-aged children, by the time 8.45am rolls round and you kick your kids out of the (sometimes still moving car) just in time for the bell, you're already exhausted.

Oh, and by the way, while doing all of this - choosing whichever outfit is least crumpled, taming the fraggle hair and trying to apply mascara without poking out an eye.

And once this mean feat is complete, arrive at work by 9am and to do an 8 hour shift.

Actually, please ignore the first few pars of this post, I take it all back. I do not feel clucky or sad, I am now having an anxiety attack over how the beepity-beep I'm gonna manage all this!!!

OK, someone hand me a brown paper bag and tell me to breath deeply .....