Is It Just Me? (7 page)

Rick Springfield was in Australia. My friend Tim sent me a link to an article that stated the “Jessie's Girl” singer had done an impromptu show at a suburban restaurant. One surprised diner said, “I was having lunch with a couple of friends, then the band changed and a few older blokes sang three songs. It wasn't until he was singing ‘Jessie's Girl' that we realised one of them was, in fact, Rick Springfield.”

This is deeply un-Australian. I would have lost my tiny mind. In fact, if I was enjoying a parma at the Cove Steakhouse and Rick goddamn Springfield turned up, someone would probably have had to call triple 0.

I can't tell you exactly why I love him so much. It could be his dreaminess, but it's probably the fact he wrote these genius lyrics: “I wanna tell her that I love her, but the point is probably moot.”

I don't live too far from the restaurant in question, so I could've staked out the place. But I've recently learnt that you have to be careful when you meet your hero. Tread carefully. Very carefully.

You see, my first love was Simon Le Bon from Duran Duran. My sisters and I dreamed of the band every night. When they toured Australia in the early '80s, my sisters even saved their pennies and caught a TAA flight to Sydney to stalk them. Our sorority owns every vinyl album they have ever released, even
Night Versions
– essentially laborious 45-minute versions of the radio edits we loved on
Countdown
. We were hardcore. And it's a love that has not waned.

So you can imagine my boundless joy when, earlier this year, I was given an opportunity to interview the band, then meet them backstage before their stadium show. When I told my sister she'd better organise a babysitter as she was finally going to see them face to face, she cried. We both did.

First came the interview. I sat down with two members, John Taylor and Roger Taylor. I bored them senseless. I told them how much they meant to me. They had no interest whatsoever. Then I tried to get all cerebral and ask serious questions about their influences, but I'd lost them at hello. Within two minutes, they had lost the will to live. When I'm nervous and humiliated, my voice goes high and tight, as if I'm choking on sourdough, so all the interview yielded was a few minutes of me asking inane questions. I couldn't even listen to the edited audio. Such shame.

This didn't bode well for the meet-and-greet planned for later that night. I didn't tell my sister of my horror. Instead, I cleared the bread from my throat and soldiered on.

We met outside the arena squealing. We had lipstick on and fully charged iPhones.

My sister warned me that I was about to see a side of her I might not like. “I'm going to be kind of gross and excited, you know?” I told her it was okay. I'd love her anyway. We were ushered backstage, where we waited. And waited.

Eventually, we were corralled into a long hallway and asked to wait against the wall, firing-squad-style. There was a kerfuffle and then they appeared, all five members, including the lead singer, Simon Le Bon. A few other fans carried bits and pieces to have signed, but my sister and I just wanted the photo. Finally. A photo. After thirty years of admiration, we wanted three minutes of their time … and they treated us like something they'd stepped in during an outdoor Pilates class. Then it was over. They walked on stage; we went to our seats. We couldn't even look at each other, the humiliation was so great.

It took us a few weeks to admit how horrible it was. How bad we felt about ourselves and the disappointment that our fandom was misguided. It is hard for your feelings not to be hurt when your idols make you feel stupid for liking them.

As I said, you have to be careful what you wish for. I'd heard that meeting someone you greatly admire often ends in tears and now I've learnt about it firsthand.

So, Rick Springfield, if it's all the same to you, I'll hide my love for you under a bushel. I'll keep the feelings of adoration pure. And I'll be watching you with my eyeeeesss and I'll be lovin' you with my body, you just know it … and I'll be holdin' you in my arms late, late at night …

Because it's probably better to keep some mystery about what it'd be like to be Jessie's Girl than to find out for sure.

 

26th August 2012

I was recently visiting my newfound love, the online bookstore, and something caught my eye just as I was about to hand over my credit-card details. Admittedly, I do know them off by heart, so there is not a lot of time between punching in the numbers, hitting confirm and high-fiving myself for organising the speedy (and free!) delivery of yet another selection of books I do not have the time to read.

But there it was, causing a rare pause in my Pavlovian book-purchase response – a hardcover called
Crap Dates
. Just like the Summer Roll impulse buy at the checkout, I knew this baby had to be mine. And so it was.

A few days later, it arrived and I found myself stirring my chicken soup while chuckling over succinct recollections of the worst dates in history. Succinct because they come from an idea from Twitter to convey the most appalling date stories in history in just 140 characters. Irresistible. Here's what I would have contributed. (All names have been changed to protect the unhinged.)

He thought saying he killed a robber with his own boot would impress me. So I agreed to another date because my friends begged me.

I'd met Kade through a friend and he seemed okay. A bit ruddy and greasy-looking, which I liked at the time because it indicated he had a fondness for wine, and in my late twenties this was as important as an ability to breathe. He was kind of annoying but his compulsive lying was so entertaining and I had no one else on the radar, so I saw him three or four times. Dates would start at a restaurant and usually end up at my place so he could lie to me uninterrupted while I frantically tried to remember all the ridiculous things he'd say. My friends would religiously call me the next morning for a debrief.

The lies were fairly standard: he was the adopted son of the Ansell condom king; he was dropped on their doorstep with a $10 note attached to his romper suit. You know, Fibs 101. He had also been an SAS soldier, which came in really handy, as it turned out, when he had to pin down a robber at his local milk bar with his army-issue boot until the thief expired. I'm sure it would have been spooky if it wasn't so darn HILARIOUS.

What he didn't count on, though, was that I was really listening. He mentioned the milk bar where this heinous (and strangely unreported crime) was committed and, to his horror, I knew the place. I get my milk and Helga's from Dave, the owner, every day. “What are the odds!?” I said. “I'll bring it up next time I see him!”

At this, Pinocchio got twitchy. He quickly suggested I shouldn't mention it because it was so traumatic that Dave's memory would have deleted any recollection of it for his own good. Really, Kade? Or here's another theory, Kade. Maybe Dave wouldn't recall the fact that someone had died in front of his mixed-lollies cabinet from a boot to the throat because, I don't know … it didn't happen.

That was the last time I saw him, much to my friends' great sadness. The best news about this “relationship” ending, though, was that it put the next one into perspective.

Knowing I was vegetarian, he took me to a meat-pie shop. But not before visiting a bank to apply for a loan for a motorbike. While I waited.

This one was a ripper! Jimmy looked like Tim Finn, a look I'd long admired. He had a nervous habit of twirling his curly fringe into something resembling the hair that plumbers have to extract in one long piece from shower drainpipes. He picked me up and said he just had to pop in to the bank. “Score!” I thought. “We're not going Dutch!” I waited, fixing my hair and readjusting the pale-blue Wayfarer knock-offs I'd bought from Target.

After an hour, I started to empathise with those dogs you sometimes see tied to trolley barriers while their owners do the supermarket shopping. Will he ever come back? Why are all these people patting my head? Where is my water bowl?

After ninety full minutes, he returned to the car thrilled to the back teeth because he'd been approved for a motorbike loan. By that stage, I was too busy snapping at my itchy bits like a flea-ridden dog to care.

It's easy to pass these off as what they undeniably are: crap dates. They stink of disrespect and deceit. But are bad dates a waste of time? Not at all. I'd go on them all again (and, dear reader, there are MANY more stories where these come from). They're funny. I love that the world is full of people not like me. And sometimes we have them in our living room and, yes, even in our bed.

My gran always used to say, “Every pot has its lid,” and it's true. And as pots, we have to enjoy trying on as many lids as we can, even if sometimes they're square and we're round, or we're teapots and they're, well … crackpots. I have no doubt that both Kade and Jimmy have found the loves of their lives now. Though I suspect Jimmy may have to register his one true love with the council.

 

2nd September 2012

I've been doing a few interviews lately because I've started a new job as the host of
Can of Worms
. It's the usual roster of radio and press commitments and, frankly, the usual roster of questions. The first one I am asked, without exception, is: “How does it feel to have it all?” Of course, what the journos and broadcasters are referring to is the fact that I have two small children and I hold down a breakfast-radio job as well as the once-a-week hosting duties for the TV show.

I'm not sure why, but every time I'm asked that question I have the overwhelming desire to poke someone in the eye. Because what is the answer? Am I supposed to take a swig of Krug and bleat, “Graysh, thanks! It feels ahmahzing to have it all, thanks so much for noticing.” The fact is, though, that from the inside, from where I stand, “having it all” just feels kind of like having a job and having kids. Nothing more and nothing less.

I read a great quote this week: “The reason we struggle with insecurity is we compare our behind-the-scenes with every­one's highlight reel.”

Well, to answer the question, “How does it feel to have it all?” I offer the following insights into my own behind-the-scenes …

 

1. My alarm goes off at 4.45am. I sneak out of the marital bed and get dressed in the kitchen because everyone is still asleep. I lay my clothes out the night before and sometimes forget my shoes or undergarments, so at least once a week I turn up to the studio with no shoes/a floppy maternity bra/no undies.
   
2. I could probably get up a bit earlier and run a straightener over my hair, but I opt for the extra fifteen minutes of sleep. The drawback of this is that I spend the majority of my day looking like an escapee from an asylum.
   
3. I always forget to make sure there are enough bananas. We run out of them – often. And they're the only fruit my one-year-old will eat.
   
4. Last week, I put my three-year-old to bed and quickly read him a story. I confess I skipped every second page and invented The End when I felt like it.
   
5. Weet-Bix and blueberries can double as dinner.
   
6. I just measured a hair on my leg and it came in at an impressive 1.2 centimetres. Clearly, I need a Post-it note in the bathroom that says “shave”.
   
7. Last week, my gas was nearly cut off because I forgot to pay the bill. I had to call them and beg for an extension, spurred on by visions of my children in layers of clothing huddled around the cat for warmth.
   
8. I made a terrible waldorf salad and chicken spare ribs for dinner and I couldn't even talk about how foul it was. Later that night, I heard my partner stirring up a glass of Fybogel to make up for the distinct lack of edible anything in the meal department.
   
9. The “service me NOW” light has been on in my car for about four months – but, seriously, how can I survive without the car for two days? I will probably drive it until it explodes. And work it out then.
   
10. My three-year-old knows fifteen types of dinosaur and I have no idea who taught him. Where have I been?
    

 

So there you have it. That's what “having it all” feels like. If it sounds familiar, that's because it is. It's life. It is what living feels like. It's busy and disappointing and being spread too thin. It's also joyful and crazy and rewarding and funny. It's the same as your life. Every time I read an article on women “having it all”, it is accompanied by a picture of a model in a crisp black suit, looking exasperated and juggling a smart phone and a teddy bear. What a load of rubbish.

Actually, maybe I just found that elusive thing that deserves that poke in the eye?

 

9th September 2012

Yesterday I laughed so hard I sprayed coffee out of my nose. In truth, this sort of thing happens to me often because I rate having a guffaw very highly on my daily to-do list – along with breathing, nuzzling my sons in that area between their shoulder and neck and singing Adele songs loudly. All good things.

I also really love it when something embarrassing happens to me. It gives me a thrill. Even as the humiliating event is unfolding, with me at the centre of it, I am at the very same time delighting in the thought of the imminent retelling of the excruciating details of the story to an appreciative audience of friends/sisters/colleagues. When you have a group of like-minded people to enjoy your mortification, everything is funny.

Last week I stopped by a cut-price department store to pick up some baby onesies and some undies. I was mooching around with my three-year-old in the trolley when a tiny woman approached me in the baby department and breathed a whispery warning in my ear. “You have a hole in your pantssss,” she said. Then immediately she vanished. Not unlike Snape from
Harry Potter
. Or Slugworth, the creepy guy who approaches each golden ticket winner in
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
.

I immediately reached my hand around to feel for the hole and all I felt was bottom. A hole indeed. I tried to pull down my jumper to cover my exposed rump. When that failed I thought, “Imagine you don't know your bum is hanging out and finish your shopping with a cheeky nonchalance.”

And so I did. Albeit with apologetic eyes to anyone who had the misfortune of waiting behind me at the cash registers.

When I told my friend this story, she screamed and threw herself back in her chair. We laughed breathlessly for ten minutes straight. Delightful.

And it seems I'm not alone in my compulsion to share embarrassing stories.

The next day on my radio show, we opened the phone lines on mortifying moments and Kay called in with a cracker that left us speechless.

She had been to the dentist and had a tooth removed. One of the back ones, the ones that leave you open to the glamorous affliction called “dry socket”. Hot.

Anyway, Kay had the procedure and was feeling pretty fine, actually. Not one to waste a day off from work, she decided on a spot of retail therapy at her local shopping centre. You know, sashay through some shops, grab a muffin … ordinary stuff made exhilarating by getting to do it during work hours on an unexpected day off. It's heaven, actually.

So Kay parked her car and checked her appearance: looking good, given something the size of a stock cube had been extracted from the bones of her face just an hour earlier. Feeling brave, she removed the wad of gauze, locked the car and off she went.

About an hour later, and after browsing several thousand racks of discounted pastel jeans, she blew her nose and saw a spot of blood on the tissue. Problem.

She made her way to the conveniences and within seconds realised something had gone seriously wrong with the whole stock-cube extraction situation. The lower part of her face was covered in blood. She'd been walking the shopping centre aisles, asking “Do you have this in a size 12?” and “What's the muffin of the day?” with a face that resembled something from a documentary about lions, impalas and feeding frenzies.

When she told us this story she could barely get it out. And my on-air partner Jane and I had moments of not even being able to hear what she was saying because we were howling like malamutes.

Some people call this “oversharing” but to me there's no such thing. If Kay and I are telling stories that make some people put up the palms and squeal “Too much information!” then so be it. Even Rodney, who followed Kay on air, was not guilty of oversharing by my standards … even though his embarrassing moment involved the car park at a place called Tropical Fruit World, a funny tummy and mincing back to the car with his wife yelling after him, “Rodney! I can see something! What have you DONE?”

And in the interests of those who are vehemently anti-overshare, I'll leave it there.

Enjoy your coffee.

 

16th September 2012