Bike

‘It’s just like riding a bike’, people say, when they mean that skills, once acquired, are never really lost.

For some, though, riding a bike is NOT ‘just like riding a bike’. Specifically, me.

I rode a lot as a kid: even had the requisite hot pink girls’ bike (with streamers on the handlebars: oh my). I remember coming off my bike many a time, and getting straight back on, grazed shins and all.

This changed when I was eight, and came off my bike so spectacularly that I decided bikes just weren’t for me.

It all started when I was visiting my grandparents, and had been allowed to go riding with a couple of older girls from the neighborhood.

To an eight year old girl in the 90s, twelve year olds were the absolute height of sophistication, glamor and coolness. This was before celebrity culture had really grown claws, so I, and my similarly aged friends, idolised our older neighbors/cousins/sisters like young girls today idolise the Kardashians.

Except, we aspired to our neighbours/cousins/sister’s super sleek high pony tails and scrunch socks (please tell me you remember scrunch socks), rather than Kim, Khloe and Kourtney’s questionable life choices involving videotape and diet pills.

Anyroadup, twelve year old sophisticates didn’t wear helmets, on account of their super high ponytails. So, I wasn’t either, because safety isn’t as important as a high, shiny, swooshy ponytail and being part of the cool peloton.

And, if the twelve year old cool girls were freewheeling down a big hill, I was coming along for the ride - even though the breaks on the bike I’d borrowed didn’t feel like they were working properly.

I think you can guess what happened next: my breaks failed, I crashed into a coppers’ log fence, knocked myself out, gave the twelve year old girls the fright of their lives (I should say here that underneath the cool they were actually really sweet and helped me limp home), and scored a graze on my chin that looked uncannily like a beard.

Looking back on it now, I can see that the universe was trying to teach me a valuable lesson: that suppressing my better judgement for the sake of being cool only leads to disaster (I mean, scrunch socks? Really?).

What I took away from the accident, though, was that Bikes Are Not Fun and I Will Never Ride Again.

But, eighteen years later, under the kindest and most watchful eyes of Zsuzanah Verona, I had another go at riding a bike, helmet firmly on and breaks thoroughly tested. I’ve gotten better at listening to what the universe is trying to teach me as I’ve got older. And what I learned yesterday was that:
• with a bit of help, and some gentle reminders to look ahead rather than down at my feet, that riding a bike actually is…just like riding a bike;
• riding a bike is just about the best fun ever;
• I don’t need to be part of a cool peloton when I’ve got a BFF like Zsuzannah; and, lastly
• a low chignon is really more sophisticated and helmet friendly than a high ponytail.

Road Tripping

Feeling landlocked last week, I decided to hit the open road. Sometimes, some sweet highway miles, good tunes, the morning sun on paddocks, and lots, and lots, of coffee, are just what I need.

Some would say that road tripping is running away, but I say, there are some problems, writer’s block among them, that benefit from eating some dust. A road trip won’t get the writing done, for sure, but it will take me out of myself.

What I love best about road tripping - apart from the opportunity to sing loudly, without fear of reprisal, to Bon Jovi - is that Normal is bent just a little out of shape. Danishes, usually eschewed in favor of rye toast and vegemite, become suitable breakfast foods. I drive bare-faced with the windows down; I wear my hair in a bun and don’t worry about combing kinks out when I let it down. I wear my oldest, comfiest pair of flats. Loose tees and second-wear jeans are de rigueur, along with a thrown-in-the-car-as-an-afterthought cardie for windy truck stops. I take photos of silly things, things that normally aren’t snap worthy, but somehow, when I’m road tripping, are irresistibly Instagrammable.

And while that all sounds pretty hard to beat, it gets better when my destination is somewhere, and someone, lovely: last weekend I was road tripping to meet my friend Clementine Kemp, and her puppy, in Clem’s lovely little town.

Knowing a cup of tea, apple cake, walks along the main drag, glorious thrift shop finds, juicy gossip and inappropriate conversation await at my destination just makes those sweet highway miles all the sweeter.

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.

High Beams

One night earlier this year when I couldn’t sleep, I channel surfed until I came upon Embarrassing Bodies. Have any of you seen it? If you have, you’ll know what I mean when I say that I absolutely can’t unsee some of the things that I saw that night. And I’m told I watched a particularly ‘PG’ episode.

The whole discussion around embarrassing bodies, though, is a fascinating one, as a sociologist and as an owner of a body. A discussion which I’d put to the back of my mind, until my body did something rather embarrassing yesterday.

You see, it’s warming up here in the capital, which means that I am abandoning my favoured cardigans and scarves for a more seasonally appropriate look. I’ve also been dipping back into some summer classics, and reinventing them in some new ways.

Yesterday, I wore my favourite tangerine Country Road cap sleeved blouse, tucked into my amazing look-a-size-smaller Veronica Maine pencil skirt (not that people need to look a size smaller – although sometimes a little flattery gets you everywhere). Because my favourite top is getting into its third year of wear, and starting to lose opacity, I layered it over a nude slip, so as not to unintentionally expose my appalling lack of planning in the lingerie department (summer is almost upon us and I have no nude coloured bras). I checked my look in the mirror, and decided that not a thing needed changing.

Wardrobe win, right? WRONG.

My body decided that yesterday was the day to do something embarrassing. As mentioned on this blog before in the context of bra shopping, I have a large bust. Favourable comparisons to Christina Hendrix have been made (thank you Jordan Hawthorne, Kitty Gilfeather, Amity Merryweather et al). Sometimes, they get in the way of functional daily life, but mostly, my boobs and I get along. I say mostly, because sometimes by boobs get together and decide to completely sabotage my life. I’d imagine the conversation going something like this:

Left Boob: Hey babe, I’m bored. Let’s stir this thing up.

Right Boob: SNAP! It’s like we share a brain. What did you have in mind?

Left Boob: Hows about we deploy a chronic attack of the high beams, ALL DAY LONG, for no good reason? That’ll show her Upstairs.

Right Boob: Right on! We could make this even more difficult for The Boss if we each pointed our beams in completely opposite directions – what a laugh!

Left Boob: We are so clever and entertaining for inanimate body parts. You take the high road and I’ll take the low road...

Right Boob: And I’ll embarrass Peggy before ye! Ignite super erect high beam nipples…NOW.

I think they would take over the world if they weren’t securely attached.

Anyway, back to yesterday. There I was, minding my own business, grabbing lunch with a colleague, sitting out in the sun before December drives me indoors in the name of UV avoidance. Walking through the corridor, I cheerfully greeted a number of vastly senior figures in my school, chatting away animatedly about the weather. Until I walked past the mirror in my office: The Horror, or, my particular version of the Horror - Beam Me Up (and Down) Scotty. Quickly, I established that, no, it wasn’t cold, and, no, Dwigh K Schrute was not awaiting me in my office with the sole purpose of making all my Christmases come at once.

It was a clear case of mammary mutiny.

Normally, when this occurs, I foil the cunning plans of my misbehaving breasts with artful draping of cardigans, scarves, and coats. Yesterday, though, I had no such option, and the bright orange colour of my ‘I’m ready for summer’ blouse only served to magnify the extreme beams.

The only solution available was to grin and bear it, and spend ten minutes in the university toilets with my blouse ruched up around my neck, manipulating my naughty norks and adjusting my bra so my headlights were at least even. This procedure meant I was ten minutes late for my much anticipated catch up with Amity Merryweather, who, fortunately, could see the funny side of my embarrassing body. We agreed that the reason why these sorts of things don’t happen to Christina Hendrix is because she pays someone to be her professional high beam monitor, sort of like one of those people at airports waving coloured paddles around to let the planes known when it’s safe to take off.

I’m considering advertising a similar position. Serious applicants only.

People Watching

People watching. One of my favorite things, and one of the greatest activities being a sociologist legitimates. It’s fortunate that my office has a window that overlooks one of the main campus thoroughfares, so all I have to do is turn my head to the right to get my people watching fix as I sit at my computer. Otherwise, I’d have to invent excuses to go downstairs multiple times a day (perhaps in the lead up to swimsuit season, this might not be a bad thing…)

There are certain groups and types of people I find particularly fascinating to watch. People alone in crowds or cafes, and whether they are comfortable being alone, or if they have props like phones or books or laptops to make themselves look less isolated. Parents and children, too, are always good to watch, especially how different people talk to their children. Lovers, of course, are people watching Mecca, although lately I’ve felt increasing urges to drive pencils through the eyes of those engaging in all-too-public displays of affection. I think that says more about me than about the lovers.

My favorite group of people to watch, though, is friends. There’s nothing as heartening on a cold winter’s day as watching a pair of friends chatting and gesturing wildly on the grassy common in Union Court. Or having serious consipirital chats in cafes, looking over each other’s shoulders to catch eavesdroppers like myself with a glare.

Better yet are the friends who unintentionally mimic each other. Case in point, Amity Merryweather and Beatrice Spencer, when I caught up for coffee with them yesterday, were wearing sartorial variations on a theme – pink tops with a black animal print graphics and jeans. They both looked fierce, and didn’t realize that they were unintentional wardrobe twins until I pointed it out. And then they laughed, in unison, as true friends do.

It’s so lovely watching these pairs of friends because it’s a pleasant reminder that I’ve been blessed with so many of my own. I see mirrored in the people I watch my own crazy hand movements, code languages, and meaningful looks exchanged with my nearest and dearest. A pleasant reminder of all that is shared, spoken and unspoken, with those we love.

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.

Days Off (Sort of…)

Looking at the calendars on the fridge this morning (thanks Gai Brodtman and The Sydney Morning Herald!), I realised it’s getting to that time of year where the year actually begins. We should scrap the idea of January One as the beginning of the year, for, in my town at least, the year doesn’t really kick off until after the last Australia/Hottest100/Invasion Day party on the 26th hurrahs its last hurrah. Most Canberrans, as I write, have either just got back, or are slowly making their way back, from the coast, from visiting the relations elsewhere, or from lazing in patches of cool with a good book… In shot, only now is the return to real life taking place.



Both fortunately and unfortunately, I’m not one of those people. The sweet, relentless tide of real life has continued to pull me along this summer. I had this idea that instead of taking a break in summer 2010/11, I’d do my PhD fieldwork. This would mean being able to continue to teach through 2011 without having to do the triple-juggling-act of PhD writing, teaching and time in the field. A time efficient decision, which will put me firmly on track with my thesis (theoretically at least). However, it effectively means, no holidays – by which I mean a stretch of time greater than 10 days in a row off, with no emails, no liaising with key stakeholders, no marking, and no talking or thinking about work – until June 2011.

Coupled with my fieldwork schedule, which requires me to suspend all premise of weekly and daily routine in order to gain a more comprehensive data set, and a batch of contract work marking first year essays, I think you can begin to understand why my regular Monday posting did not occur yesterday. I am discombobulated without my normal sense of the weekly rhythms.

So, whilst you’ve heard the disadvantages of a working summer in the last two paragraphs, I feel I must also tell you, and depict photographically, the advantages of an erratic and unpredictable schedule, and a lack of time off. Chiefly, that Tuesday mornings spent making jam, and writing out beloved recipes for beloved friends feels just like bliss. That is, before I get back in the saddle for some more fieldwork tonight!

Visiting Friends

Like old friends, stories are always there for us when we need them. Like friends and friendships, the stories grow and change. We read and relate to different parts of them at different times, but I believe our favourite stories and our favourite friends, those that tell us the most about ourselves, often in ways we otherwise can’t express, are always carried in our hearts.

One of my stories that feels more like a friend is Sex And The City. Like many of you out there, no doubt, I encountered SATC for the first time after one of those confusing First Grown Up Break Ups. I walked down to my local DVD store, and rented the first couple of discs of the first season, mainly as a way to pass the time. Within the first five minutes, I was smiling, and within the first ten minutes, I’d laughed for the first time in what felt like an age. By the end of the first episode, I’d completely forgotten about whatsisname, and was irrevocably in love with Mr Big. It also lead me to wear some ridiculously oversized floral corsages, in the style of Carrie. Whether or not this was a good idea, only time will tell…




As any anthropologist worth their salt will tell you, the stories that we tell ourselves, as individuals and as a society, reveal a lot about ourselves. Take fairy tales, for instance. They’re a fusion of patriarchal and Christian values, folk traditions, and useful advice – scatter stones if you’re lost in the forest, don’t take lollies from strangers, don’t eat the porridge of strangers – actually, just avoid strangers and their foodstuffs altogether. Good advice.

Just like fairy tales, SATC isn’t at all realistic – no-one, in real life, could live life like the gals do. But the SATC story had a germ of reality that meant that I, and my close friends, kept returning to those stories. SATC became a guidebook to the confusing world of dating and men we found ourselves faced with, a terrain which our loving, well intentioned mothers didn’t know or understand. Particular episodes are like well thumbed pages of books that I watched – watch - when the need was – is - especially pressing. 2008, for me, will be the year of that episode from season one where Carrie throws a Fillet O’ Fish at Big, after he announces he’s leaving her, and their relationship, for Paris. Watching that episode evokes that year like nothing else.

The two films that were spinoffs from SATC met a mixed reception. I saw the first one with a dear friend of mine, who, not being a fan, sat patiently through the film with me while I ooohed and aaaaahed and had the time of my life, for I loved that first film to tiny smithereens. All of it. Every last bit (that poor friend of mine deserves a medal for their stellar performance in the friendship Olympics, then and always).Yes, I could see that it had changed from the first series – perhaps it was slightly more materialistic now than it was, a little louder and brasher – but I could see through all the shiny new clothes and the make up and see my old friend – that SATC story.

It was only last night that I decided it was time to drop in on my old friend’s latest incantation – SATC 2. I’d heard lots of horrible things about my story-slash-friend. I’d heard they’d sold out. I’d heard the years hadn’t been kind. I’d heard I would hate it.

I loved it from the opening bars of the theme tune.

I think what made SATC 2 and I fall right back into high-heeled step was that although the costumes have changed (for the worse), the story is the same. The story revealed myself and my culture, consoled me with its familiarity, and made me feel like I could make sense of my world. Really, it was like afternoon tea with an old friend. Yes, SATC was a different woman to who she was when we first met 6 (oh my word!) years ago. But deep down, her story’s the same - that good friends matter, that they’re worth time and effort, and that they are as extraordinary and precious as black diamonds (as an aside, I am completely in love with Carrie’s ring – amazing).

Yes, Sex And The City is (pun alert) Carrie-d in my heart. And what esteemed company it keeps there.