It’s Fathers’ Day here in Australia, and what better day to write about my dad, PapaK.
There are lots of things I could write about my dad. I could write, for instance, about how he sets the (very high) bar for all the men in my life.
About his limited grasp on pop culture, which, over the years, has lead to dad:
a) searching for Pearl Jam in the Spreads isle of Woolies;
b) summarising the Harry Potter books/films thusly - ‘the bad man put himself in the snake’;
c) asking for an ‘Ub (rhymes with Hub) four-oh’ CD and being told in no uncertain terms by the sales assistant that ‘actually it’s UB40, sir’.
d) responding to my excitement about Beyonce and Jay Z’s pregnancy by suggesting we could throw the baby shower at Chez Papa/MamaK – ‘we can fire up the BBQ and put the big table under the shady tree’ – not realising that Beyonce and Jay Z are: i) not people I actually know in real life, ii) mega famous, and, iii) probably not BBQ-and-a-big-table-under-the-shady-tree people.
(On that last point: I’ll admit my excitement was a little over involved and dad could be forgiven for thinking that Bey and Jay were close personal friends of mine).
About his endless texts, phone calls, and emails from overseas that make you fell like you’re right there with him – down to what he had for breakfast (cereal).
About how he can’t read maps. At all.
About the time in the early 1980s that he king hit Michael Hutchence, of INXS fame (believe).
About being sent to school with his instructions to Learn Three Things and Be Good.
About his complete inability to understand what’s going on in a film, or remember its title (‘it’s the one about the house – YOU KNOW’).
I could write about all of those things, and more. But today, I’m going to write about his excellent taste in massive, oversized, el cheapo sunnies from South East Asia.
My dad, like all good papas, brings home presents whenever he travels overseas. Along with duty free perfume, that special Jurlique hand cream MamaK and I love, undies from Marks and Spencers/Victoria’s Secret, and fancy tea and chocolates, you can bet your bottom dollar that somewhere in his luggage is a sunnies stash.
There’s nothing subtle about PapaK’s taste in sunnies. He’s a Leo: the only subtle Leos do is the meat axe variety. Any yet, he knows me well enough to pick the outlandish, oversized, embellished, ridiculous glasses that will stir something in my shy, retiring Piscean soul. He knows which shades will make me feel instantly fabulous - like Sophia Loren/Madonna/Farrah Fawcett/Dianna Ross/Jackie O - the moment I slip them on my face.
I’ve got a whole stack of shades on my dressing table, all chosen by PapaK. I wear them every day. And whenever the coffee guy, or the girl at the gym, compliments me on my awesome shades, it gives me great pride to say that:
a) they cost a grand total of $2 in a market somewhere in SEA; and
b) my cool dad chose them for me.
I’m one lucky girl to have a dad as cool as PapaK. Happy Father’s Day dad: thanks for the awesome shades, and for everything else.
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Llama.
Dear Brett and Jemaine, of Flight of the Concords fame,
In your song, Hurt Feelings, you ask the audience a number of questions about situations that may have, potentially, caused Hurt Feelings. Questions such as:
Have you ever been told your ass is too big?
Have you ever been asked if your hair is a wig?
Have you ever been told you’re mediocre in bed?
Have you ever been told you’ve got a weird shaped head?
Has your family ever forgotten you and drive away?
Were you ever called ‘homo’ ‘cos in school you took Drama?
Have you ever been told you look like a Llama?
I think you included this last lyric because, a) it rhymes with Drama, and, b) much of its humour derives from the fact that you wouldn’t anticipate many people would be told that they look like a Llama.
Well.
I’m writing to inform you that, actually, yes, I have been told I look like a Llama. And, yes, it did hurt my feelings.
Let me begin.
MamaK offered, generously, to cook me dinner last night. It’s nice to have someone cook you dinner at the end of the week, isn’t it? As we were eating our dinners, shooting the breeze and watching the telly, we started to play The Animal Game with reference to the people being interviewed on ABC’s ACT 7.30.
(Aside: The Animal Game is a great game. The basic gist is to look at someone, and work out what animal they most closely resemble, based on physical traits, psychological traits, or, if you’re really good at it, both. It’s spiffingly fun. You might like to consider playing it in the car next time you are on tour. For the record, MamaK is 52, I’m 25, and we were regressing after long and trying weeks)
After establishing that Interviewee A was most definitely a Rhino, and debating whether Interviewee B was a Basset Hound (my opinion), or a Doe (MamaK’s opinion), we began to list off various people in our family and what they would be. Owls, Donkeys, Wombats, Eagles, Emus, Bears and Monkeys were all mentioned.
Brett and Jemaine, I was carried away by the merriment of the situation, and did a really silly thing.
‘Go on’, I asked MamaK, ‘what animal am I?’
‘A Llama’ she replied, with no hesitation WHATSOEVER.
After I’d got over the initial shock of such an obscure and odd suggestion, I sought further clarification on the issue of my resemblance to a Llama. Because, as you suggest in your song, being told that you look like a Llama can, and indeed does, precipitate Hurt Feelings.
MamaK revealed that my resemblance to a Llama is based on the following mutual traits, physical and psychological:
• Intelligence;
• Long legs;
• Long neck;
• Protection of weaker animals;
• Smooth skin (under all that fur…point taken, I’ll book a wax this week); and
• Standing out from the crowd.
And when it’s put in those terms, it’s hard to have hurt feelings because you were told you looked like a Llama. In fact, it turns out MamaK was paying me a compliment.
So, Brett and Jemaine, maybe you should rethink the lyrics of Hurt Feelings, to reflect the fact that, after the initial shock, being told you look like a Llama is actually not that bad. They’re an obscure and hilarious animal, to be sure, but they’re also kind of rad.
Lots of love, platonic (Brett) and non platonic (Jermaine),
Peggy xoxoxox
Ps: I know that you want to know who you are in the animal game, so here it is: Brett, you’re clearly Guinea Pig. Jemaine, a Mountain Goat.
In your song, Hurt Feelings, you ask the audience a number of questions about situations that may have, potentially, caused Hurt Feelings. Questions such as:
Have you ever been told your ass is too big?
Have you ever been asked if your hair is a wig?
Have you ever been told you’re mediocre in bed?
Have you ever been told you’ve got a weird shaped head?
Has your family ever forgotten you and drive away?
Were you ever called ‘homo’ ‘cos in school you took Drama?
Have you ever been told you look like a Llama?
I think you included this last lyric because, a) it rhymes with Drama, and, b) much of its humour derives from the fact that you wouldn’t anticipate many people would be told that they look like a Llama.
Well.
I’m writing to inform you that, actually, yes, I have been told I look like a Llama. And, yes, it did hurt my feelings.
Let me begin.
MamaK offered, generously, to cook me dinner last night. It’s nice to have someone cook you dinner at the end of the week, isn’t it? As we were eating our dinners, shooting the breeze and watching the telly, we started to play The Animal Game with reference to the people being interviewed on ABC’s ACT 7.30.
(Aside: The Animal Game is a great game. The basic gist is to look at someone, and work out what animal they most closely resemble, based on physical traits, psychological traits, or, if you’re really good at it, both. It’s spiffingly fun. You might like to consider playing it in the car next time you are on tour. For the record, MamaK is 52, I’m 25, and we were regressing after long and trying weeks)
After establishing that Interviewee A was most definitely a Rhino, and debating whether Interviewee B was a Basset Hound (my opinion), or a Doe (MamaK’s opinion), we began to list off various people in our family and what they would be. Owls, Donkeys, Wombats, Eagles, Emus, Bears and Monkeys were all mentioned.
Brett and Jemaine, I was carried away by the merriment of the situation, and did a really silly thing.
‘Go on’, I asked MamaK, ‘what animal am I?’
‘A Llama’ she replied, with no hesitation WHATSOEVER.
After I’d got over the initial shock of such an obscure and odd suggestion, I sought further clarification on the issue of my resemblance to a Llama. Because, as you suggest in your song, being told that you look like a Llama can, and indeed does, precipitate Hurt Feelings.
MamaK revealed that my resemblance to a Llama is based on the following mutual traits, physical and psychological:
• Intelligence;
• Long legs;
• Long neck;
• Protection of weaker animals;
• Smooth skin (under all that fur…point taken, I’ll book a wax this week); and
• Standing out from the crowd.
And when it’s put in those terms, it’s hard to have hurt feelings because you were told you looked like a Llama. In fact, it turns out MamaK was paying me a compliment.
So, Brett and Jemaine, maybe you should rethink the lyrics of Hurt Feelings, to reflect the fact that, after the initial shock, being told you look like a Llama is actually not that bad. They’re an obscure and hilarious animal, to be sure, but they’re also kind of rad.
Lots of love, platonic (Brett) and non platonic (Jermaine),
Peggy xoxoxox
Ps: I know that you want to know who you are in the animal game, so here it is: Brett, you’re clearly Guinea Pig. Jemaine, a Mountain Goat.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
A Week Full of Good Things.
Dumplings on Monday at lunchtime. Reminiscing with old colleagues about teaching, realising what I miss and what I don’t (I miss the students. I miss being in the classroom. I don’t miss marking).
Gin and tonics on Tuesday. In my track pants. Living the dream.
Laksa on Wednesday night. Feeling proud of my dear friend as she tackles her honours year with a smile. Glad that I can rely on her to share my all-in enthusiasm for jumbo combination laksa, extra tofu. Finishing an enormous bowl of piping hot broth, noodles, meat and vegetables, and feeling, in the words of my friend, like our tummies are smiling.
Koko Black on Thursday. Realising that my brother and his lovely girlfriend make infinitely better brownies than Koko Black. There must be a special ingredient that Koko is missing. Lapsing into an iced chocolate coma. Picking up some Easter treats and wondering how a chocolate bunny can cost $50, and how at least two people bought them while we waited to pay.
Ravioli on Good Friday. Talking, exchanging news, laughing, drinking cider and wine while eight of us kneaded, rolled, mixed, filled, pressed, cooked, and, eventually, ate, something wonderful we’d made, together.
Plums and figs, most likely the last of this almost-never-happened summer, on Saturday. The plums bought at Coles (still delicious), the figs, fresh from my parent’s garden, birds kept away from the ripening fruit by a netting and wire Taj Mahal my father built around the tree. Having to take breaks from The Hunger Games trilogy (so compelling, so distressing) to do mindless, comforting things, like cleaning my bathroom and hanging out washing. Sharing cup after cup of tea and swapping budget recipes with my lovely friend, and her growing baby bump, in the afternoon. Putting the two halves of my Saturday together late in the evening, keenly feeling the outrage of our luck that, unlike so many, our budget recipes, and my father’s self sufficiency, are about economy and pleasure in growing things ourselves, not survival for ourselves and our families.
This morning, pumpkin, sweet potato, carrot and ginger soup simmers on my stove, and Easter-spiced sourdough fruit loaf bakes in my oven. I stand in my kitchen and typing this as I listen to Kanye and Jay Z and let the smells of good soup and good bread curl through my apartment.
Tomorrow, my big little brother, his girlfriend, and my littlest brother will come over for a belated Easter breakfast and egg hunt. We will eat the bread that’s rising rapidly in my oven as I type this, drink pots of tea and coffee, make ham and cheese croissants with a truly disgusting amount of Jarlesberg, and collect handfuls of cheap chocolate wrapped in colourful foil. We will pool our chocolaty spoils on my dining room table and divide the eggs equally between us, because it’s what we’ve always done. We will Skype our parents to hear about late snow, Scottish breakfasts, and Easter service in my mother’s childhood church. And we will exchange assurances that we are well, safe, and fed, and that our weeks have been filled with good things.
Gin and tonics on Tuesday. In my track pants. Living the dream.
Laksa on Wednesday night. Feeling proud of my dear friend as she tackles her honours year with a smile. Glad that I can rely on her to share my all-in enthusiasm for jumbo combination laksa, extra tofu. Finishing an enormous bowl of piping hot broth, noodles, meat and vegetables, and feeling, in the words of my friend, like our tummies are smiling.
Koko Black on Thursday. Realising that my brother and his lovely girlfriend make infinitely better brownies than Koko Black. There must be a special ingredient that Koko is missing. Lapsing into an iced chocolate coma. Picking up some Easter treats and wondering how a chocolate bunny can cost $50, and how at least two people bought them while we waited to pay.
Ravioli on Good Friday. Talking, exchanging news, laughing, drinking cider and wine while eight of us kneaded, rolled, mixed, filled, pressed, cooked, and, eventually, ate, something wonderful we’d made, together.
Plums and figs, most likely the last of this almost-never-happened summer, on Saturday. The plums bought at Coles (still delicious), the figs, fresh from my parent’s garden, birds kept away from the ripening fruit by a netting and wire Taj Mahal my father built around the tree. Having to take breaks from The Hunger Games trilogy (so compelling, so distressing) to do mindless, comforting things, like cleaning my bathroom and hanging out washing. Sharing cup after cup of tea and swapping budget recipes with my lovely friend, and her growing baby bump, in the afternoon. Putting the two halves of my Saturday together late in the evening, keenly feeling the outrage of our luck that, unlike so many, our budget recipes, and my father’s self sufficiency, are about economy and pleasure in growing things ourselves, not survival for ourselves and our families.
This morning, pumpkin, sweet potato, carrot and ginger soup simmers on my stove, and Easter-spiced sourdough fruit loaf bakes in my oven. I stand in my kitchen and typing this as I listen to Kanye and Jay Z and let the smells of good soup and good bread curl through my apartment.
Tomorrow, my big little brother, his girlfriend, and my littlest brother will come over for a belated Easter breakfast and egg hunt. We will eat the bread that’s rising rapidly in my oven as I type this, drink pots of tea and coffee, make ham and cheese croissants with a truly disgusting amount of Jarlesberg, and collect handfuls of cheap chocolate wrapped in colourful foil. We will pool our chocolaty spoils on my dining room table and divide the eggs equally between us, because it’s what we’ve always done. We will Skype our parents to hear about late snow, Scottish breakfasts, and Easter service in my mother’s childhood church. And we will exchange assurances that we are well, safe, and fed, and that our weeks have been filled with good things.
Monday, November 28, 2011
The Nativity Story
Last Christmas (I gave you my heart, but the very next day, you gave it away…)
Excuse me, Wham! and I share a profound spiritual connection. Anyway, last Christmas, I wrote about how much I love the silly season here on this blog. This year (to save me from tears, I’ll give it to someone special…) I would like to share with you again my yuletide yearnings.
Christmas, in my family, is the big kahuna of celebrations. And in a family that celebrate exceptionally well and regularly - we end every week with a Sunday night feast - the big celebration really is...big! Maxtreme is probably a closer definition.
To give you an idea, MamaK’s list of Christmas baking (this is just for us, not Christmas gift baking, or Christmas deserts, or Christmas main meals, or Christmas snacks…), consists of the following items:
Shortbread
Cranberry Macarons
Pistachio Macarons
Amaretto Macarons
Almond Pears
Rum balls
Biscotti
Marmalade and Macadamia Cookies
Nigella’s spiced nuts
(This list has been revised downwards from previous years. Believe.)
It has been ever thus in our household, and here begins our nativity story. From my earliest memories of Christmas, we’ve had this nativity set. I don’t know where MamaK got it from, although I believe she’s had it since before she married PapaK, which makes it pretty old.
Anyway, the ceramic figures of Mary and Joseph, the wise men, the shepherds, the angel (my favorite) and Baby Jesus, whose face had been lovingly glued back on after a minor face-separating-from-body mishap, were the most special part of decorating our house at Christmas time. After all the other decorations had been placed carefully, after all the cards were hung on strings around our house, after I’d draped myself in itchy tinsel and admired the effect, the nativity was taken from its special bag at the bottom of the suitcase of Christmas decorations. Carefully, we would unwrap the pastel tissue protecting each piece, tissue as soft and filmy as silk from careful folding and refolding, year after year.
In the Disney version of family:
We’d then gather around, hushed and reverent, as MamaK retold the journey of Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem, and the birth of the baby in the manger. My two brothers and I would be filled with wonder at the birth of the Christ child, and proceed to sing Silent Night in perfect harmony, as we gazed upon the serene faces of Baby Jesus and Friends.
What actually happened in the real life version of our family:
We’d have an epic, EPIC battle about who got to arrange the nativity. Which would inevitably end in a truly un-Christ-like morass of hair pulling, sulking, screaming and pouting. I don’t know why arranging the nativity, of all things, was the pinnacle of Christmas decorating (see my earlier comments about my tinsel love), but the chief nativitiser was a bitterly sought after position in our pecking order. The losers would inevitably profess that life was so unfair and that they never ever got to do anything they wanted to do, EVER. Poor MamaK’s please for sharing and being nice would fall on six deaf little ears.
Things simmered down a bit as we passed into our teens, although the nativity always occupied pride of place in our Christmas display, and everyone freely expressed their opinions on where it would be best placed. So, it was with much surprise that MamaK and PapaK, over ciders and schnitzels at the Durham (again, celebrating – the cause this time? Because it was Wednesday), announced that their new nativity set had arrived.
What? New Nativity? But what about the old one?? We all cried in perfect harmony.
Well, we don’t need two…the parental sheepishly said.
The thought of Mary and Joseph, wonky Baby Jesus, the shepherds and the wise men and the angel, sitting in the bottom of the Christmas decoration suitcase, ensconced in their silky tissue, unloved and un fought over, was clearly too much for my brothers and I to bear.
Before I could open my mouth with a suggestion, my BigLittleBrother suggested that perhaps, now we were all living in our own places, we could have a shared care arrangement of the nativity set, each of us having custody on a rotating basis. And in refutation of our lifetime-long nativity rivalry, my brothers both suggested that I should have the nativity in this, the first year of its rotation, as I am the eldest.
So, this year, I’m looking forward to having Baby Jesus and the whole motley crew in my apartment, watching over my Christmas. But more importantly, I’m looking forward to wrapping them in their crumpled, soft tissue, and passing them on to my brother and Tessy Halberton next Christmas, to watch over them in their turn. After all, Christmas is all about sharing and being nice. We know this now.
Excuse me, Wham! and I share a profound spiritual connection. Anyway, last Christmas, I wrote about how much I love the silly season here on this blog. This year (to save me from tears, I’ll give it to someone special…) I would like to share with you again my yuletide yearnings.
Christmas, in my family, is the big kahuna of celebrations. And in a family that celebrate exceptionally well and regularly - we end every week with a Sunday night feast - the big celebration really is...big! Maxtreme is probably a closer definition.
To give you an idea, MamaK’s list of Christmas baking (this is just for us, not Christmas gift baking, or Christmas deserts, or Christmas main meals, or Christmas snacks…), consists of the following items:
Shortbread
Cranberry Macarons
Pistachio Macarons
Amaretto Macarons
Almond Pears
Rum balls
Biscotti
Marmalade and Macadamia Cookies
Nigella’s spiced nuts
(This list has been revised downwards from previous years. Believe.)
It has been ever thus in our household, and here begins our nativity story. From my earliest memories of Christmas, we’ve had this nativity set. I don’t know where MamaK got it from, although I believe she’s had it since before she married PapaK, which makes it pretty old.
Anyway, the ceramic figures of Mary and Joseph, the wise men, the shepherds, the angel (my favorite) and Baby Jesus, whose face had been lovingly glued back on after a minor face-separating-from-body mishap, were the most special part of decorating our house at Christmas time. After all the other decorations had been placed carefully, after all the cards were hung on strings around our house, after I’d draped myself in itchy tinsel and admired the effect, the nativity was taken from its special bag at the bottom of the suitcase of Christmas decorations. Carefully, we would unwrap the pastel tissue protecting each piece, tissue as soft and filmy as silk from careful folding and refolding, year after year.
In the Disney version of family:
We’d then gather around, hushed and reverent, as MamaK retold the journey of Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem, and the birth of the baby in the manger. My two brothers and I would be filled with wonder at the birth of the Christ child, and proceed to sing Silent Night in perfect harmony, as we gazed upon the serene faces of Baby Jesus and Friends.
What actually happened in the real life version of our family:
We’d have an epic, EPIC battle about who got to arrange the nativity. Which would inevitably end in a truly un-Christ-like morass of hair pulling, sulking, screaming and pouting. I don’t know why arranging the nativity, of all things, was the pinnacle of Christmas decorating (see my earlier comments about my tinsel love), but the chief nativitiser was a bitterly sought after position in our pecking order. The losers would inevitably profess that life was so unfair and that they never ever got to do anything they wanted to do, EVER. Poor MamaK’s please for sharing and being nice would fall on six deaf little ears.
Things simmered down a bit as we passed into our teens, although the nativity always occupied pride of place in our Christmas display, and everyone freely expressed their opinions on where it would be best placed. So, it was with much surprise that MamaK and PapaK, over ciders and schnitzels at the Durham (again, celebrating – the cause this time? Because it was Wednesday), announced that their new nativity set had arrived.
What? New Nativity? But what about the old one?? We all cried in perfect harmony.
Well, we don’t need two…the parental sheepishly said.
The thought of Mary and Joseph, wonky Baby Jesus, the shepherds and the wise men and the angel, sitting in the bottom of the Christmas decoration suitcase, ensconced in their silky tissue, unloved and un fought over, was clearly too much for my brothers and I to bear.
Before I could open my mouth with a suggestion, my BigLittleBrother suggested that perhaps, now we were all living in our own places, we could have a shared care arrangement of the nativity set, each of us having custody on a rotating basis. And in refutation of our lifetime-long nativity rivalry, my brothers both suggested that I should have the nativity in this, the first year of its rotation, as I am the eldest.
So, this year, I’m looking forward to having Baby Jesus and the whole motley crew in my apartment, watching over my Christmas. But more importantly, I’m looking forward to wrapping them in their crumpled, soft tissue, and passing them on to my brother and Tessy Halberton next Christmas, to watch over them in their turn. After all, Christmas is all about sharing and being nice. We know this now.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Macarons!
I’m attempting something difficult. Something challenging. Something that often results in failure and existential crisis. Something that, should it succeed, will be worth the angst.
PhD?
No (or, rather, yes, but not what I’m writing about today).
MACARONS!
These babies have become the latest in culinary cool. And, like so many cool things (Glee, leggings, chai), I resisted Le Mac for quite a long time. Of course, they were nice to eat, but only if someone else made them, for they appeared to be far too much hassle to make on my own – besides which, ageing egg whites seems positively disgusting.
But I’ve now RSVP’d (fashionably late) to the macaron party, after a weekend workshop with MamaK and Tessy Halberton. Although our demonstrator made no bones about the fact the macarons just sometimes do not work, Tessy, MamaK and I were buoyed by enthusiasm, and no small amount of sugar from the macarons we nibbled throughout the workshop. We’ve booked in a macaron-making date in MamaK’s well equipped kitchen this Sunday – wish us luck!
However, this morning, thinking of the special birthdays for special people I have coming up, I thought I would being initial preparations for my own batch of macarons…
Including ageing the egg whites, which, thankfully, can be done in the refrigerator. As this photo illustrates, I have also weighed the egg whites. I NEVER NORMALLY DO THIS, but the demonstrator, in our weekend workshop, was most emphatic about liquid to dry ratios. Frankly, quite a lot of fuss and bother before the sun’s properly risen - but a perfect macaron will be worth the effort.
After all, you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet – sorry, a macaron.
PhD?
No (or, rather, yes, but not what I’m writing about today).
MACARONS!
These babies have become the latest in culinary cool. And, like so many cool things (Glee, leggings, chai), I resisted Le Mac for quite a long time. Of course, they were nice to eat, but only if someone else made them, for they appeared to be far too much hassle to make on my own – besides which, ageing egg whites seems positively disgusting.
But I’ve now RSVP’d (fashionably late) to the macaron party, after a weekend workshop with MamaK and Tessy Halberton. Although our demonstrator made no bones about the fact the macarons just sometimes do not work, Tessy, MamaK and I were buoyed by enthusiasm, and no small amount of sugar from the macarons we nibbled throughout the workshop. We’ve booked in a macaron-making date in MamaK’s well equipped kitchen this Sunday – wish us luck!
However, this morning, thinking of the special birthdays for special people I have coming up, I thought I would being initial preparations for my own batch of macarons…
Including ageing the egg whites, which, thankfully, can be done in the refrigerator. As this photo illustrates, I have also weighed the egg whites. I NEVER NORMALLY DO THIS, but the demonstrator, in our weekend workshop, was most emphatic about liquid to dry ratios. Frankly, quite a lot of fuss and bother before the sun’s properly risen - but a perfect macaron will be worth the effort.
After all, you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet – sorry, a macaron.
Friday, March 18, 2011
My Parents (And Godparents) Are, In All Likelihood, Cooler Than Yours.
This weekend just gone my Fairy Godmother and Fairy Godfather came to stay with MamaK and PapaK. As with most friendships as old as the one between my parents and godparents, hilarity ensued - perhaps because enough time has passed that small talk and propriety are irrelevant, and you can get on with the business of being very, very silly indeed. So silly, that my BigLittleBrother and I had to be separated, least we set off another giggle loop (it didn’t work, I could hear him from the lounge room, and snorted cabbage salad through my nose. I couldn’t help it, PapaK and the Fairy Godfather were still talking about probes).
My parents got so silly, sometime while the meat was being probed on the BBQ, they decided to crack open their wedding album. Judging by the dust, it hasn’t been looked at since they got married, in 1985.
Take note of the year, readers. MamaK and PapaK got married. In 1985. If you share my passionate interest in Brideality, you will know that 1985 was the pinnacle of the 80s, and, thus, the pinnacle of 80s weddings. Think taffeta. Think carnations. Think ruffles – for the blokes. Think Lady Di (may she rest in peace). In short, think BIG. REALLY REALLY BIG. THINK THE BIGGEST YOU CAN AND THEN TIMES THIS BY THE POWER OF TEN. And you may be getting close to how BIG everything Wedding was in the 80s.
As we leafed though the photos of the big day more than 25 years ago, a startling realisation dawned. My parents were cool. Really cool. In fact, so cool, and so anti-trend, were they, that I think they may just have been hipsters.
Take note, ye the jury, of exhibit a. My mother’s dress. Note how it has a vintage aesthetic, is demure yet charming, and is exactly the opposite of the 80s silhouette we know and love? As a good hipster girl, my mother knew that there’s nothing worse than conventionality, a fact reflected in her dress.
And exhibit b. My father’s moustache. Like all good hipster men, PapaK has a ‘tache, and, in this instance, can legitimately claim that he had one ‘before everyone else, and before they were cool’. Because he had one before present day hipsters were even born.
Exhibit c, ladies and gentlemen, is the bridesmaids’ dresses. Note how charming my Fairy Godmother and her fellow maids look, in simple dresses, which, in true hipster spirit, my mother made for them. Note, also, this particularly gorgeous shot of MamaK and the Fairy Godmother. They look like they’ve been caught doing something naughty and sharing a giggle. For the record, they still looked EXACTLY LIKE THIS at many points on the weekend.
Exhibit d refers to the style in which the photographs were taken – spontaneous, candid, and overexposed. Apparently, this was to do with the photographer botching up at the last minute, then overcharging my parents. So my folks instead relied instead upon the happy snaps of guests to fill their album. Something which the more hipster bridal magazines I hide in my desk at work (for scary moments when only Brideality will do) advocate as a way of creating ‘charming’ photo moments. Except, in my parent’s case, these charming moments were in the stead of an overpriced photographer, so there’s an added authenticity to these shots that makes them deeply, deeply cool.I particularly like the shot of the priest with a ciggy (look closely, it's there), and the groomsman picking out an eye crustie. My Fairy Godfather, a last minute guest (he’d only just met my Godmother), even pioneered some early photobombing, but sadly it didn’t scan well so I haven’t included it below – sorry, Fairy Godfather!
But I think, what gives the day more hipster cred than anything else mentioned above, is that my parents were true to themselves, and their style, in an era when the trend was not in step with them. The fact that, twenty six years down the track, their wedding photos look as fresh and lovely as they did all those years ago, is testament to how very cool, and how very true to themselves – in short, how very hipster – my parents were, and, in many ways, sill are.
So, yeah, I mean, it’s not like it’s a competition or anything, but my mum and dad, were, in all likelyhood, way cooler than yours.
My parents got so silly, sometime while the meat was being probed on the BBQ, they decided to crack open their wedding album. Judging by the dust, it hasn’t been looked at since they got married, in 1985.
Take note of the year, readers. MamaK and PapaK got married. In 1985. If you share my passionate interest in Brideality, you will know that 1985 was the pinnacle of the 80s, and, thus, the pinnacle of 80s weddings. Think taffeta. Think carnations. Think ruffles – for the blokes. Think Lady Di (may she rest in peace). In short, think BIG. REALLY REALLY BIG. THINK THE BIGGEST YOU CAN AND THEN TIMES THIS BY THE POWER OF TEN. And you may be getting close to how BIG everything Wedding was in the 80s.
As we leafed though the photos of the big day more than 25 years ago, a startling realisation dawned. My parents were cool. Really cool. In fact, so cool, and so anti-trend, were they, that I think they may just have been hipsters.
Take note, ye the jury, of exhibit a. My mother’s dress. Note how it has a vintage aesthetic, is demure yet charming, and is exactly the opposite of the 80s silhouette we know and love? As a good hipster girl, my mother knew that there’s nothing worse than conventionality, a fact reflected in her dress.
And exhibit b. My father’s moustache. Like all good hipster men, PapaK has a ‘tache, and, in this instance, can legitimately claim that he had one ‘before everyone else, and before they were cool’. Because he had one before present day hipsters were even born.
Exhibit c, ladies and gentlemen, is the bridesmaids’ dresses. Note how charming my Fairy Godmother and her fellow maids look, in simple dresses, which, in true hipster spirit, my mother made for them. Note, also, this particularly gorgeous shot of MamaK and the Fairy Godmother. They look like they’ve been caught doing something naughty and sharing a giggle. For the record, they still looked EXACTLY LIKE THIS at many points on the weekend.
Exhibit d refers to the style in which the photographs were taken – spontaneous, candid, and overexposed. Apparently, this was to do with the photographer botching up at the last minute, then overcharging my parents. So my folks instead relied instead upon the happy snaps of guests to fill their album. Something which the more hipster bridal magazines I hide in my desk at work (for scary moments when only Brideality will do) advocate as a way of creating ‘charming’ photo moments. Except, in my parent’s case, these charming moments were in the stead of an overpriced photographer, so there’s an added authenticity to these shots that makes them deeply, deeply cool.I particularly like the shot of the priest with a ciggy (look closely, it's there), and the groomsman picking out an eye crustie. My Fairy Godfather, a last minute guest (he’d only just met my Godmother), even pioneered some early photobombing, but sadly it didn’t scan well so I haven’t included it below – sorry, Fairy Godfather!
But I think, what gives the day more hipster cred than anything else mentioned above, is that my parents were true to themselves, and their style, in an era when the trend was not in step with them. The fact that, twenty six years down the track, their wedding photos look as fresh and lovely as they did all those years ago, is testament to how very cool, and how very true to themselves – in short, how very hipster – my parents were, and, in many ways, sill are.
So, yeah, I mean, it’s not like it’s a competition or anything, but my mum and dad, were, in all likelyhood, way cooler than yours.
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