Marital Status

As my 20^th wedding anniversary approaches, 21 July, I’ve been reflecting on how much of my married life has been spent as a single person.  Many times I’ve filled out a form and come to the Marital Status section.  My pen has hovered over the Single box although I’ve always placed my tick in the little square next to Married.

     Tony and I made a deal as new parents that we’d always share work so one of us could remain at home with the children, a deal Tony admits he broke early on to establish the first Gadin Ninja grass cutting business.

     “I have to work,” he said.  “If you want to work, put the kids in childcare.”

     I understood Tony’s predicament.  He loves working.  I wanted him to be happy.  I had an education, an opportunity he didn’t have.  It was only fair I supported him.  I could return to work anytime.

     I stopped work, became a full-time mother to a baby and toddler and also the admin chick.  I began to paint to combat the frustration of parenting alone for Tony was cutting grass during the week and driving taxis for a mate on the weekends. 

     After two years, we worked out it was better to lease a taxi and buy a licence.  So, Tony became owner of Strait Taxis (Be strait there!) with a brand new Toyota Camry sedan he called Lady Cathrine.  Again, I did the admin.  Tony worked late and left early.  Often, too often, I went to bed alone and woke alone.  The only evidence of Tony slipping in and out of bed was his side of the bedding turned down.  On Sunday night, Tony regaled me with stories of going to parties or catching up with people between midnight and the home rush in the early hours of Saturday and Sunday mornings.  Many people were surprised when he mentioned he had a wife.

     “I didn’t know you were married,” he reckons they said.  I know because some of them told me when I eventually met them.

     I recall the only night we got a babysitter and I went to the Boat Club and met Tony on one of his taxi breaks.  One woman in the throng commented, “so you’re the imaginary wife.” 

     Tony had a dream to establish Torres Strait’s first Islander-owned fishing charter.  It was my job to support him achieve that dream.  We sold the first Gadin Ninja business three weeks before #3 was born to establish Tony’s Island Adventures.  The fishing charter wasn’t as lucrative as the grass cutting so I stopped painting and went back to work just after I learned I was pregnant with #4.  I had a skill and I needed to support my husband to enable him to continue working.

     When I was 35 weeks pregnant, working point eight, doing admin for the fishing charter and the taxi as Tony worked long hours,  I decided something had to give.

     When Tony returned for a meal break, I rushed down the stairs, holding my swollen belly to keep  balance.

     “I’ve had enough,” I said.  “It’s me or the Lady Cathrine.”

     He didn’t say anything for a few moments and I contemplated life as a single mother. 

     “Okay,” he said very quietly, the closest he’s ever been to tears.  “I’ll sell the Lady Cathrine.”

     I went back to work shortly after the birth and Tony looked after the children.  We engaged babysitters on the days Tony had fishing charters.  Within a year, Tony was frustrated and wanted to work longer hours.  I stopped work again.  When the young ones slept, I painted and wrote, worried that if I didn't do something mentally stimulating, I'd lose the ability to think and speak intelligibly. 

     The fishing charter income and my painting wasn’t enough to support a family so we started Gadin Ninja, mark 2.  This time Tony added tree lopping to the service and we built up a nice little operation.  Tony worked long hours on Gadin Ninja and Tony’s Island Adventures.  I managed the businesses and the kids and in spare time (mostly in the dead of night), I painted and wrote.       

     Fast forward to Atherton.  We established a grass cutting business, The Yard Ninja, but things are quiet, competition is tough and we are not bothering to promote it.  After months of job searching, Tony found work on a casual contract basis and is often ‘under-employed.’ Anyway, his contract ends on 30 June.  I have loved that he’s been playing more of a role of house husband as I work, but he’s found a new interest – prospecting.   

     He’s bought a metal detector, has done a few trips and is now obsessive.  Each night he pours over books about prospecting or he’s sitting at the computer, the screen glowing with the patchy green/grey terrain of Google Earth.  He’s wants to become a professional prospector.  He’ll deck out the Prado, hit the road and be gone for weeks, months at a time.

     I’ve been plagued by old fears; will I have to stop work to enable him to pursue his new interest?  Will I ever be able to spend time finishing that book?  Will we have to struggle financially again?  Will Tony ever want to work and support me and my dream to write?  Why can't we have stability in our lives for once?

     I’ve had it.  I wonder if it’s time to tick that box next to Single. 

Why I keep this blog

Lately I’ve begun to wonder why I keep a blog.   It started out as a record of life on a tiny island, Ilan Life, where I was a visitor, albeit a long-term one.  I had a foot in both camps, the Islander one and the European one, not belonging to either.  

     Life was more interesting in the Torres Strait and a hell of a lot more unpredictable, something I relished including the rabid dogs, politics and supermarket debacles.  Everyday occurrences were worthy of recording as anecdotes. And it was great writing practice.

     Life here has routine, something I am not comfortable with.  The kids do tennis on Monday and Thursday.  I work at school on Monday, Wednesday and Thursday.  Tony works on Monday and Tuesday.  The routine is hard to take. Even the checkouts in supermarkets have routinely correct prices!  I have both feet firmly in the white majority camp yet don't feel I fully belong.   Life here is normal.  It's reality.  It’s taking me a long time to adjust, so long I wonder if I ever will.

     Lately I’ve also thought about giving up writing.  I don’t have the time and when I steal a few moments that should be devoted to something like doing the 2011 Payroll Advice for the ATO (that I should be doing write now), I don’t write very well.

     But at the moment, the only writing I do is for the blog and somehow it keeps me sane, partially filling that biological urge to write.  

     Of course, the blog is a visual record of our lives.  Recently, Kibby wanted to find the blog post about camping on Goodes Island two years ago and bow hunting pigs.  Together we trawled through the archives of posts, checking out long-forgotten events that must have happened because I’d recorded them and there were photos as proof.  We laughed and laughed at some of the entries.

     I’d like to change the name of the blog to Big Ilan Life, but I don’t think I can. And I don't have the time to work out how to do it or set up a new blog.

     In the meantime, I’ll keep plugging away at Ilan Life trying to come to terms with life on the big island, reality, and keeping up writing practice for when I finally get to use it.  

The perpetual quest for the perfect job

Looking back over the not too distant past, it seemed I was on the perpetual quest for the perfect job.  I thought I had found it; a proof reader/editor position.  This job was perfect for me for I would be immersed in writing and the English language and I could work from home in my pyjamas. Actually Tony found the advertisement when I away from Cairns.  I told him I’d look at it when I got home.  

     He gave me the torn square of newsprint when I returned at midnight after nine hours of travelling by car, train then plane.  I was exhausted and quickly scanned the ad for the submission-of-applications date, 16^th February.  If tonight was Sunday, 8th February, the 16th was Monday week.  

     This was perfect because I could work all week and not have to think about addressing the selection criteria until the weekend. 

     Saturday arrived and I noticed, in the clear light of a summer’s morning and after a full nine hours of sleep, the submission date was actually Friday, 16^th February. Friday was in fact the 13^th. I panicked.  Was it Friday, 13^th or Monday, 16^th?

     I’d missed the Black Friday deadline so went with the Monday. When my brother dropped in a few hours later I showed him the ad.

     Stephen knows about interviews and applications. I asked him whether it was Friday 13^th or Monday 16^th?’

     He laughed.  ‘Cathy, it’s a trick question.’  I was perplexed.  ‘The job is for a proof reader/editor and you’ve missed the contradiction.  But go for it anyway.’

     So on Monday I emailed my application and within an hour I received a call to attend an interview at 3 pm the next day.  I could barely hear the woman speaking because there was a fire drill and the siren was sounding.

     ‘What time?’ I yelled.  ‘Three?’

     ‘Yes.  Three o’clock.’

     ‘Please email a confirmation and address,’ I said over the din.  ‘I can’t hear properly.’

     When I checked my emails that night, sure enough there was a confirmation for an interview at 2 pm on Tuesday.  Naturally I assumed I had heard the time incorrectly.

     I was excited.  I wanted this job and I arrived for the interview 20 minutes early at 1.40 pm.

     I met the two directors, friendly women and we chatted about writing and the Torres Strait for a few minutes.  They led me to a conference room and I sat opposite them at a large, polished wooden table. Each woman held two sheets of paper unfamiliar to me.  Interview questions, I assumed.

     ‘So I bet it’s cooler on the Tablelands?’ said the dark haired one.

     I wondered if this was another trick question.  ‘Apparently it is a few degrees cooler up there.  Five or six.’  

     ‘Aren’t you from Millaa Millaa?’ said the blonde with tense brows.

     ‘No, Cairns. Smithfield, actually.’

     ‘Aren’t you Jennifer?’ said the brunette.  Her chin had dropped a little.

     ‘No, Catherine.’

     They both gasped to me then turned to each other and gasped again.  They stood and rushed from the room.  Muffled conversation wafted from the adjoining office then silence.

     They appeared at the door.

     ‘Let’s start again,’ said the brunette.

     ‘Hi, I’m Catherine.’  I stood and extended my hand.

     They sat down and I noticed they were each holding a copy of my resume.  They talked about their company, their vision, my role and responsibility.  They asked some questions and I asked some questions.  The brunette's words became rushed as she advised the hours and the rate of pay.  The blonde, running her words together, asked if I could start on Friday.

     ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I am working-‘ 

     ‘Monday?’ said the brunette.

     ‘Possibly, but-‘

     ‘We’lltalkaboutthatlater,’ said the blonde.

     ‘Doyouhaveanymorequestions?’ said the brunette.

     ‘Um.’

     ‘Okay,’ said the blonde as they both stood and thanked me for coming in.  

     The brunette gestured towards the door the blonde had opened.  At the door, the brunette began to steer me with one arm, the other raised and holding the sheets of my resume, as if she was shielding me from something unpleasant.  The blonde appeared to be a human shield from whatever I wasn’t supposed to see. 

     I was pushed through the reception area to the exit … but not before I saw a woman seated next to the magazine table with a folder on her lap.  This must have been Jennifer from Millaa Millaa, probably wondering why her 2pm interview was fifteen minutes late.

     I laughed quietly to myself on the way home thinking about the comedy of errors; the application date confusion, the altered interview time, the wrong resume, the wrong town, the wrong woman.  I had more than enough chaos from my family. I didn't need more in my working life.

     I waited the appropriate few hours and then sent a polite email asking for my application (for the perfect job, dammit!) to be withdrawn.

     I would re-embark on the perpetual quest for the perfect job. 

Everyone's a winner ...

... when Cate comes home from the Salvo's on Friday!

A gorgeous crocheted rug for in front of the TV (on the rare occasions I allow it to be turned on!).
Kibby's Ugg boots, his motorbike pants, pyjama shirt and text, How to Write and Speak Better.  We've had a few issues with his language. 
Seffy's top and quality literature (they are current issues!).
And, of course, the beanies.

Something unexpected!

A few weeks back I was heading off to the Salvos where I work on Friday.

     “Don’t come home without beanies,” called Tony as I left.  “We need them for camping.”

     Tony and Kibby were heading to Koombooloomba Dam for the weekend and it was going to be cold, very cold.

     As soon as I walked in, I grabbed the only two beanies in the hat section.  One was chocolate brown, the other British racing green except neither one had the richness of their true colours.  They were severely pilled as if they had acute dandruff and they'd stretched so much I wasn't sure they'd stay on.

     Then something happened, something that could have featured in a not-so-sinister episode of Tales of the Unexpected.

     At morning tea time, Patricia Evans walked in with a box of beanies.

Patricia Evans and some of her beautiful beanies.

     “You can have them," she said, "and sell them.”

     Then she left to fetch more boxes and boxes of beanies she was donating to the Salvos.

     “Would you like a cup of tea,” I asked her when she’d lugged the tenth box up the stairs.

     “Oh, yes.” She dropped into a chair, breathless.  "And could I bother you for a glass of water?"

     How unexpected, I thought, eyeing the beanies I was going to buy for Tony and Kibby and everyone I knew who had a birthday in the year (except friends on TI).  But first, Patricia seemed too interesting to be true, to walk in, unannounced with hundreds of beanies on the very day I needed to buy two.  And there was something exotic about her looks.  I had half a cup of coffee to finish and a bit of time to yarn.

     Till she was ten, she grew up in the Amazonian jungle where her father worked with the UN.

     “You don’t call it jungle, anymore,” she said, “it’s rainforest now, apparently.”

     I asked if she had South American ancestors for her exotic looks.

     “Oh, no.  I’m a hundred percent Australian.”

     When she was ten her father moved the family back to Darwin so the kids could get an education.  Patricia now lives in Mossman and knits beanies in her spare time.

     “It’s a dying art,” I said, “knitting.  Young women just don’t learn those good old skills women handed down.”

     “Oh, I never knew how to knit anything,” she said.  “My daughter-in-law taught me.  And beanies are the only thing I can knit.”

     More of the unexpected! 

The real costs of owning a dog (and duck)

Anyone thinking about buying a pet needs to consider the financial responsibility involved.  It's not hard.  Any idiot can Google the cost of owning a dog or cat (there's nothing about the long-term costs of owning a duck).  I did and was shocked by the result.  However, I've learned there are other costs and financial ones are the least of one’s worries.

     I wasn't worried when I forked out $300 to save Gina's life after she ingested cane toad venom.  The stress of concealing the expense from Tony was much worse.

     I was happy to pay $400 to buy Seffy’s puppy, Pippa Jane.  It was a small price to pay for a life time of happiness, companionship and responsibility for my daughter.  Things changed when this happened ... Pippa ate Rat Sac. 

The vet had never seen a dog vomit so much rat poison.

     Pippa’s life was saved by several hundred dollars, but I was faced with the reality of dealing with a daughter’s grief should anything 'permanent' happen to Pippa.  It made me realise I may one day be faced with the angst of having to decide between expensive and painful surgery (sometimes with a mediocre prognosis) or euthanising an animal.  The cost of the surgery is quantifiable; the pain and suffering for an animal who can’t understand, is not. 

     Pippa can't understand her desire to chew so many things, mostly footwear and backpack straps and plastic containers.  Oh, and the legs and arms of wooden furniture like my antique Burmese Teak lounge suite and the PNG Mahogany wood table (from a large trunk that washed ashore at Port Lihou in 1998).

     Providing Pippa paces her appetite, the cost is bearable.  I can easily conceal the damage of backpack-sized items by tossing the chewed item into someone else’s wheelie bin so Tony doesn’t notice.  It’s the constant deception that I find difficult.  Is it just and reasonable for a wife to lie to her husband to keep the peace?

    This happened next.

Pippa has a taste for good literature. She also nibbled on Alex Miller's Journey to the Stone Country.

     I was furious about the destruction of another good book, but wait, there was more.  I had to pay $30 to the Tableland Regional Council library for the damage and to restore my suspended borrowing rights.  The worst was suffering the humiliation of explaining, at the head of a long queue, the kids and I didn't eat the book and a naughty puppy was responsible.  I now have a black mark against my name.

     I can live with the financial burden of owning a dog, the inconvenience of wearing mismatched thongs, never finding a lid for a plastic container, suffering the stigma of failing to discipline my dog and having to sit on plastic chairs since the lounge suite is in the garage waiting for repairs which I am saving for.  But things have got worse.  The other night Tony asked me if I had seen his “other black thong.”

     “No,” I said quite honestly.  I didn’t mention I’d seen pieces of his black thong which I’d quickly swept up and deposited into a plastic bag at the bottom of the kitchen bin.

     This was quite literally the thong that broke the camel’s back.  Pippa is not allowed to set foot inside even though the thong vanished from the back deck (Duh!  Don't leave your thongs on the floor!). Tony now refers to Pippa as “the bloody dog” and he’s on at Seffy continually to keep the back deck tidy and “the bloody dog” outside, all with the diplomacy of a fascist leader.

     Now Seffy and I have to reprimand Pippa each time she comes inside and draconian discipline is not our style.   If Pippa comes inside when Tony’s not around, I have to reprimand Seffy and remind her “Dad really wants Pippa outside.”

     Worse, I have to broker peace between father and daughter when I have no conflict resolution training.  I’ve listened to Seffy refer to her father as “a bloody idiot” because he treats Pippa like a dog.

     This happened at the same time Tony said I had to stop buying frozen peas for my ducks.  Now I am harbouring murderous intentions.

     How come that Google search I did on the cost of owning a pet never mentioned the real costs?

Read it!

As requested, Green Bazzaar!

BTW:  Author Purpose is one of 12 comprehension strategies we use to help kids understand what they are reading.  The DEEP acronym reminds the kids of the four reasons authors write.  
After reading it, there were a list of questions (based on the lyrics) that targeted spelling, grammar and other comprehension strategies.  No textbook or downloaded sheet work for my students!
I had so much fun writing (and singing) this one.

Read it - A song about Author Purpose – Think D.E.E.P. 

(to the tune of Michael Jackson's Beat it)

You’re always textin’ on your mobile phone
You’re like a dog who’s found himself a tasty bone
Well, here’s a book to read.  I don’t wanna hear you moan.
So read it.  Just read it.

You reckon there’s nothing that you like to read
Think DEEP, there’ll be something, it’s surely guaranteed
Don’t bother trying to argue cos there’s no way I’ll concede
Just read it.  Don’t care you haven’t peed.

Just read it, read it, read it, read it
Open the book and be seated.
Read about fossils, read about snow
I don’t care if you read fast or read slow
Just read.  Just read it.  Just Read it.  Just read it.  Just read it

Describing texts tell about a person, place or thing
Biographies, earth worms, The History of Beijing
Reading makes you dream like Martin Luther King
So read it.  Just read it.

Entertaining texts are enjoyable to read
They make you laugh, they make you cry
You get through them at speed
Turn the page, right now.  I’ll get on my knees and plead.
So read it.  Don’t care you need a feed.

Just read it, read it, read it, read it
Don’t you make me repeat it.
Read about Narnia, read for an hour
Don’t care if you read in the loo or the shower.

Just read it.  Read it. Read it.  Read it.
Don’t care you’re vitamin depleted
Read about bananas, they grow in a bunch
Read about growing them, eat them for lunch.
Just read it.  Read it.  Read it.  Read it.  Read it.

Explaining texts tell how to do like fixing antique doors
Cooking perfect soufflés, treating puss-filled sores
Maybe you can learn how polish wooden floors
So read it.  Just read it.

Persuading texts convince you how to think or act

Sponsor a child, use less fuel, carefully read a contract
Recycle so the earth isn’t harmed by your impact
So read it.  I don’t care if I’ve cracked.

Just read it, read it, read it, read it
Don’t you stop ‘til it’s completed
Read about zits, read about bread
You can read on your feet or stand on your head
Just read.  Read it.  Read it. Read it.
Don’t wanna hear you’re mistreated.
Read about sewerage.  Don’t be a sook.
I’ll make sure you read, by hook or by crook.
So read it.  Read it. Read it.  Read it.  Read it. Read it.  Read it.  (Guitar instrumental)