Stop whinging and get on with it!

There’s a saying, Evil exists when good men do nothing.  The evil of gender inequality was fought by women of the sixties and seventies during the second wave of feminism.  I have always considered myself a feminist because I believe women should enjoy the same rights and opportunities as men.  However Julie Bishop’s claim recently she is not a feminist and telling women to ‘stop whingeing, get on with it and prove them wrong’ confused me and brought back some unsavoury memories.

     I began my articles in 1990 and was surprised the legal profession was more male oriented than I had anticipated despite many female professionals.  The discrimination presented as an entrenched practice, but maybe it was just a small group of cocky males in one firm, desperate to stroke their egos. I recall bloke-only drinks and male staff being given premium desks and offices over female staff of the same experience.  I left them to it and got on with working.

     However, I wasn't comfortable with boss regularly whistling to get my attention and that of the other female staff members.  It was the same single sharp whistle one uses to call a dog to its master.  Ironically, an Articled Clerk is articled to his or her Master!. 

     Countless times I was working at my desk and I was jerked to attention by the whistle then, ‘Oi, Catherine, get in here.’

     He didn’t whistle for male solicitors or clerks.  He called out for them by name in a respectful tone. 

     Nor did he yell at the male clerks and solicitors with enough force to turn his face radish-red.  He spoke to them in a calm or terse voice, depending on the circumstances.

     We females banded together to support each other, a sort of sisterhood.  There was only one rule; DON”T CRY IN FRONT OF THE BOSS. 

     We suffered the screaming, the flying spittle, the gouged comments on our draft letters and court documents - BULLCRAP! - with subservient politeness, and if necessary, explained his misunderstanding in which case he’d mutter, ‘Okay then’ and shove the document to us indicating we should leave.  And if we were feeling emotional and verbally assaulted, we hurried to the toilets in such fashion that members of the sisterhood followed.  Only when we stood at the sink on the other side of two doors did we allow ourselves to weep.

     ‘He’s such an arsehole.’

     ‘He got it wrong.’

     ‘He just jumped to another fucking conclusion without reading the whole document.’

     ‘There, there,’ our sisters cooed, ‘it’s all right.’

     At no point did any of us (and those before us) think to challenge the man and demand equal respect, that was, he speak in a calm and rational voice.

     One day, a female staff member burst into tears when he was berating her loud enough for the entire floor to hear.  She rushed, hysterical from his office to the toilets and as the terms of the sisterhood decreed, we followed her.

     Instead of listening to her sob out her humiliation, we stood over her in disbelief.

     ‘You’re not supposed to cry.’

     ‘For God’s sake, couldn’t you hold it in?’

     Afterwards I was disgusted with myself for promoting repulsive behaviour.

     I wearied of my boss's manner and of the roving hands of a male colleague (I was told, ‘oh, he just does that to some of the new female clerks’).  Eventually I'd had enough. I had cried torrents in the privacy of the toilets and my home, never once breaching the oath of the sisterhood.  I had got on with my job, but it was humiliating and dispiriting.  I hated my work environment and the law and I saw no capacity for change.  There was one solution.

     I went to a male solicitor, kind and wise and announced I was resigning.  When he asked why, I said what I’d said before to this effect; I was sick of the discrimination, others could tolerate things if they chose, but I wasn’t interested and if discrimination was condoned in the legal profession, well, there wasn’t hope for the rest of the working world.  Of course I never mentioned the man who had groped me because I wasn't a victim.  Ms Bishop also advised women, 'Please do not let it get to you and do not become a victim because it is only a downward spiral once you have cast yourself as a victim.' 

     I expected the man to say, ‘Good on you!’  However, he leaned back in his chair and said, ‘As a woman, anything you do, you have to do it twice as well as a man.’

     I remembered studying Animal Farm in year 12 (still one of my favourite books). Napoleon the pig and comrades rewrite the seven commandments to their benefit, ‘All animals are equal except some animals are more equal than others.’

     Of course! Men were more equal.  We were half as equal and so had to try twice as hard.  It had mathematical certainty.  I got it.  Then I got on with it, I didn’t whinge and I proved them wrong.  At my farewell, one of the men said, ‘At first we thought you were a bit of a wild child, but you turned out to be a good kid.’

     I reckon I did Julie Bishop proud.  I just got on with my job, but I also perpetuated gender discrimination the women of the sixties and seventies had fought so hard to abolish.  I was a good man who did nothing.  

That dress

I found the most beautiful dress at the Atherton Salvation Army store, a discreet, Jersey  frock in jade green.  It was four dollars.  I saw it on the rack and I thought, That dress was made for me.  I’ve always preferred singlets and shorts, but now I am a mainlander, I am trying to pick up my appearance act.

      At 46, I am conscious of the need to dress more sensitively than 20 years ago.  There are wrinkles and dimples and an unavoidable softness to my body that I want to conceal.

     That dress crossed all the middle-aged hurdles; Knee length, low waist, loose skirt, a cross-over and fitting top, but not tight and cap sleeves.

     What better dress to wear when heading to the big smoke,Cairns!  I let my long hair out and dabbed on a bit of lipstick.

     ‘What do you think?’ I asked Tony as I twirled for him.

     ‘S’all right,’ he muttered with a lingering grimace and turned back to the breakfast dish washing.

     ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

     He repeated ‘s’all right’ and actually thought I would let the matter rest.

     ‘Please explain,’ I said unable to avoid my voice whining.

     ‘Well,’ he paused as if trying to work out how long and painful his death was going to be,’ ‘it makes you look old.’

     I decided to let the matter rest and drove to Cairns  with Seffy for Pippa Jane to be desexed. TK and girlfriend Brittney followed in her car. Brittney is 19, from Melbourne and has that capital city chic; bit of makeup, attention to hair, clothes that need ironing and shoes that aren't slip-on. Today she wore a tight sleeveless striped number that was short, as in very short.  She looked stunning.

     When I got to Bubu’s house, she was making coffee. We all piled in, desperate for a feed and coffee.

     ‘Where did you get that dress?’ said Bubu, not with a lingering grimace, but a full-on one.

     ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

     ‘Dad reckons she looks old,’ said TK eagerly awaiting a McKenna ‘discussion,' the kind with raised voices.

     ‘You do.  It’s awful,’ said Bubu.  ‘It’s what a young girl would wear.’

     ‘Mum,’ I said, that whine creeping in again, ‘young girls don’t wear this stuff.  They wear that.’  I pointed to Brittney.’

     Mum carried her coffee to the lounge and sat down. ‘Save it for wearing at home. That’s what I do with my most unflattering dresses.’  

     Before I could hiss something acerbic and throw in a justified criticism of her stupid dogs, Bubu turned to TK.   'And make sure you burn that dress.'

Never give up

I spend a disproportionate part of my day keeping in touch with friends by email.

     Why?  I have spent the last 20 years on an island accessible only by air.  I've not been able to afford the fares to see them so email has become an important part of my life.  It's a cheap and timely way of maintaining contact with old friends (pre-TI life) and then my departed TI friends.  Even though I am on the mainland now, I’ve kept up the practice.

     Facebook has been an option, but there’s something about the public nature of the pages and profile, the layout and the limited space for text that unsettles me.

     I love written words and I love the personal nature of individual emails.

     When My Island Homicide was short-listed in the Courier Mail People’s Choice Awards, my first thought was, ‘Shit, I should have got Facebook years ago.’

     If I had been a Facebooker, I’d have a trillion friends and been able to reach them all in an instant.

     So I hacked Tony’s rarely used Facebook profile/account/page (?) and after three days, worked out how to upload a photo and the link to the voting page for the awards.  I reached a few of his and my friends.

     Then another hurdle emerged.  I realised I have some serious competition; real writers.  They are the other short-listed authors whose works (plural) have been read by thousands, no, hundreds of thousands of people. I shared my dismay with a friend who berated me for the use of the term, ‘real writers’.

     “And stop comparing yourself to ‘real writers.’ You are just as real as they are.”

     I didn’t feel as real.

     Below her signature panel was a William Blake poem, Eternity.

  He who binds to himself a joy

  Doth the winged life destroy,

  But he who kisses joy as it flies,

  Lives in eternity’s sunrise.

     I shot back a reply:

  To writing’s joy I hath bound
  No harder pursuit to be found.
  Bugger the kissing of things a’flying
  I must write or I’ll die trying.

     I’ll die trying.  I remembered a poster affixed to the window of a Mossman fish and chip shop in 1993.  

     Not giving up meant attempting to reach, without Facebook or any social media app/device/program (?), people who might vote for my book. 

     And I’d have to do it by individual email.  Perish the thought of group emails.  They are impersonal and rude unless advising the change of venue for a sausage sizzle or the date for a book club meeting.  Or an emergency.  I’d feel dreadful contacting someone after years with a request to vote for my book and no other news.  

     Nope! I don’t do group emails.

     Then I realised I have something my competitors don’t have.  

     I have time.
     I don’t have a real writing job or a regular job for that matter. 
     I have time; time to email friends and interesting people and kindred spirits Tony and I had met over the years.  I'd been in email contact with them for a while until, with the increasing chaos of my life and probably their's, the emails dried up.

     What a delight these last few days have been.  Re-establishing contact with wonderful people who have touched our lives.  I shared not just news of the Courier Mail awards, but Titasey titbits from the past few years.

     And the best part has been receiving their news. 

     I have spent a disproportionate part of these days emailing old friends and reading emails from them.
     I don't have the professional or social contacts to win these awards, but I’ve had a bloody good time trying!

ADSL anxiety

I’ve been mulling over making a commitment to an internet service provider, colloquially known as an ISP. It’s the biggest decision I’ve ever had to make and I have already spent the equivalent of days contemplating bundles and bytes, plans and ports, credits and contracts, downloads and data.  I have ADSL anxiety. I didn’t spend any time contemplating my marriage.

     One of the problems is this; I am paralysed by the choice, even in regional Atherton which has limited ‘ports’. 

     ‘Catherine,’ said John in his heavy Indian accent, ‘can I call you Catherine? There are a limited number of ports available in your exchange.  I can sign you up now, but I cannot guarantee they’ll be available this afternoon.’

     Said Maddy, in her Indian accent, ‘once the ports are taken there is no possibility of accessing the network. I can take a few details now …’

     Nadine and Mike, coincidentally with Indian accents, said the same.

     The ports were still available over a week later.

     Distinguishing between the products is difficult, except for what Telstra has on offer.  How is it the corporation owning the hardware cannot offer a product competitive with what is offered by companies leasing its hardware; iprimus, Dodo, Optus, Westnet and iiNet (the same companies, different products), TPG and internode?

     Another problem I am facing is the inadequacy I feel when John or Nadine are pushing me to buy the Unlimited Download plan.

    What on earth can the average person do with unlimited downloads.  On TI we never reached out monthly allowance of 20 GB. 

     BTW, it’s not pronounced gigabytes, but geebee if you want to sound like you have a vague idea of the issue!

     For the non-IT worker, unlimited downloads or even 50 geebee a month is surely the way to an exceptionally sedentary and unhealthy life. 

     ‘But I just want broadband,’ I’ve said, my voice squeaky with confusion.

     Despite not knowing what a gamer is I told them I am not one of those.  And please stop telling me unlimited, high-speed internet is the way of the future.  I am in the present.  I don't care NBN is coming to my region and I can upgrade.

     Do you know what I want broadband for?  So my kids can learn on Mathletics.       

     Unfortunately, mobile phone internet cannot support the graphics of the program (flash technical term, not my own).

      The over-arching conundrum was asphyxiating me; I couldn’t find a program just right for us. There were either too many downloads, the ISP won’t quantify the connection fee BEFORE I enter the 24 month contract or the 1.5 embee per second (a cheaper plan) might be too slow and this will only be revealed after I have entered a 24 month contract. Or there were no calls included in the landline facility or the plan was simply too bloody expensive.

     I needed broadband benzos to keep going.  

     Until today.  The only plausible commitment came to me as an epiphany. Bugger high-speed broadband.  Slow and stingy mobile phone internet rules.  The ISPs can shove my business up their collective cloacas. I’m gonna keep doing things the old fashioned way.  I’ll teach my kids maths and they can read books instead of watch movies. And we’ll all spend time together, in the garden, around the dinner table or out adventuring.

     Now I know why I didn’t spend time contemplating marriage to Tony.  There was no choice.  He was the only one. Awww. And I get to spend more time with him while we stay off the broadband bandwagon. 
     It's a bit like the old days with Telecom.  There was only one communication provider, we made it work and were satisfied most of the time. 

Eggs on toast for dinner?

I can't wait for Tony to return.  I'm sick of having to make dinner.
     The problem is I've become so used to him doing all the shopping and cooking, I've not only forgotten I need to do it, I can't be bothered.  In the pantry, there are still quite a few cans of baked beans, red kidney beans and chick peas, at least a month worth of dinners.  We have greens in the garden and a steady supply of chook and duck eggs.  
     Food doesn't interest me except insofar as the kids need a healthy diet ... or a tantalising Italian experience!
     In Tony's absence, dinner had mostly been eggs on toast for the kids, preceded by some chick peas or carrot sticks or frozen peas (courtesy of the ducks).  Add a glass of milk and choc-hazelnut spread on rice thins for dessert and I've created a delicious meal of all five food groups.
     My culinary short-cuts have been wearing thin with the children.  Friday night was eggs on toast.  Saturday night's gnocchi was a disaster, granted.  I then saved the day with eggs on toast.  Sunday night, more eggs on toast.  Monday night. 
     Well, I forgot dinner on Monday night.  I remembered at nine when I was making the kids' lunches and was light-headed and shaky (hypoglycaemic?).  Kibby had been home sick and we'd had lunch, eggs on toast, just before Seffy came home. She'd had nothing since lunch.
     I rushed into Seffy's dark room and asked if she wanted some eggs on toast.
     'It's okay, Mum,' she said, her voice thick with sleep, 'I had a carrot.'
     I was relieved, She had eaten something since lunch.
     The following morning Seffy and I were making a cup of tea.
     'I like it when Dad's here,' she said.
     'Why?' 
     'He makes us dinner.'

Lost: Parenting manual

If anyone has borrowed my parenting manual, please return it.  I actually don’t remember what it looks like, but I must have had one because I use all the right instructions and for the most part, issue them in a calm and controlled voice. 

     Things are spiralling out of control without Tony here and last night’s episode reminded me I need some help.  It was like this:

     Seffy was sitting on the floor reading a greeting card.  An altercation broke out between her and Kibby, nothing unusual, but Kibby kicked at the card, knocking it from Seffy’s hands.

     “That’s not okay,” I said in my stern parenting-manual voice.  “Go to your room.”    Sage advice also from the parenting manual; time-out diffuses emotionally charged situations.

     Kibby pursed his lips and delivered another kick to Seffy’s card.

     “Right, that means no Minecraft tomorrow.”  An immediate and relevant consequence according to the manual.

     Kibby sneered, not unlike those gangsters on movie ads and bellowed.  

     “I DON'T GIVE A SHIT, MOTHER FUCKER.” 

     I waited for the pistol.  Instead Kibby marched to his room and slammed the door, the crack of splintering wood echoing off the plaster walls.

     “Mum," said Seffy when all was silent.  "He’s got anger management issues. He needs to see someone.”

     So if anyone has my parenting manual or a spare copy, I’d really appreciate it.

Through the stomach to the heart

Seffy and Kibby have weathered a few changes lately and it’s showed in their behaviour. Seffy has been extra short-tempered with Kibbim and me. Kibbim has been full of anger which is what happens when his father is away for too long. Tony was visiting Grandma a fair bit before she passed.  He is now in Townsville supporting TK, who is devastated about Grandma, through his exams. 

     I wanted to do something special for the kids on the weekend and everyone knows reaching someone’s heart is best done through their stomach.  What better way to say ‘I love you’ than cooking them a delicious meal, pesto gnocchi, made from scratch.  I can do foodie food.  I went through a foodie stage in the early 2000s.  In fact I own original editions of Stephanie Alexander’s, A Cook’s Companion and Madhur Jaffrey’s, Indian Cookery.  

      I should confess that Steph and Maddie’s tomes spent more supporting my pastel painting boards than being used for recipes, but I did put them to their proper use for a while.  In fact, I made my first and only batch of gnocchi from Steph’s recipe back in 2001.  A Cook’s Companion is still downstairs, with Indian Cookery amongst five cubic metres of boxed-up stuff and I had no intention of finding them.  This time round I Googled ‘gnocchi’ and scribbled the first recipe that flashed on the screen.

     In the glare of the early afternoon sun, I scrubbed (no time for peeling) and steamed the potato.  I used a bit more potato than the kilo the recipe advised, but I wasn’t sure how many kilos more.  I wanted more than just one meal, maybe two. 

     I was ready to spend the next hour with my darlings and I called the kids in.  However, Kibby was riding with his friend, Leroy from down the street and Seffy was reading on the back deck.  I have dreamed for years about my kids reading without being threatened so I wasn’t going to disturb her ...  unless there was an emergency. 

     While I waited for the spuds to steam, I made the pesto from memory of Stephanie Alexander's recipe.  It wasn’t ideal, but I’d run out of Home Brand parmesan and it was a bit heavy on the cashews so I had to make do with the resulting green substance.  Apparently, pesto is Italian for paste and I had a paste.

     Next I blended the locally grown potato and fresh duck eggs (what an earth mother, am I!) and sifted in flour ... a lot more than the one and a half cups the recipe called for, but again, I was making a couple of meals.  I know I used a one kilogram packet plus more than half of a three kilo packet which wasn’t really enough to make a kneadable dough, but I’d run out of flour.

     Still, I had something that resembled dough.  I started rolling it into sausages then cut and squashed the pieces with a fork.

Gnocchi snags.

     I don’t know how many hours I had spent getting to the point where the gnocchi could be boiled, but there wasn’t much natural light left in the day.

     After I boiled a few loads (and yes, they first sank then rose to the surface as the recipe proclaimed), I called for Seffy.  This was an emergency.  My lower back and legs were aching.  And there was a lot of dough left to be sausaged.

     I rolled and chopped and squashed, Seffy boiled and scooped.  This went on like a bad dream.  She kept disappearing to paint her nails (???), play with Pippa, check Pepper’s new baby.  I kept screaming at her to come back and help.  From the front deck I hollered a few times for Kibby, but he must have been at Leroy’s.  He knows when to vanish.

Enough for a month's meals!

     Kibby and Leroy and his sister came in after dark just as Seffy scooped the last batch of gnocchi from the bubbling boil.  Kibby and co settled in front of the computer and played Minecraft.  Seffy abandoned her kitchen duties, fitted the earphones and switched on the flat screen for New Tricks.  All was quiet on the home front.

     I proudly presented everyone with a piece of gnocchi and offered them dinner.

     “Yuck!”  Kibby spat into his hand and hurled the sticky lump out the window.

     “It’s nice,” Leroy’s sister said in a monotone.  “But no thank you, I’m not hungry.”

     “I’m not hungry either, thank you,” said Leroy.

      Seffy kindly accepted my offer.

The green paste is not unlike Pepper's waste after her nightly bowl of peas.

     As I was serving Seffy’s pesto gnocchi, Kibby started laughing.

     “Mum, Leroy started eating and then spat it in his hand and chucked it out the window.”

     It turns out his sister did the same.  I offered Kibby and his friends eggs on toast which they wolfed down.  Dessert was Home Brand choc hazelnut paste on four day old bread.  Later, I found Seffy's bowl on the bench, my labour of love untouched, cold and congealed.  All four children were content before the two screens.

     The way to my children’s hearts is through their screens.