Dad Joke

When talking to my father about Ada's incontinence problem, he said "Well, I guess shit happens."
Long pause while he laughs at his own joke.

I Love You (An Awkward Family Moment)

The first time I recall my father ever saying the words “I love you” to us kids was when I was 14 and my brother was J-Rad 12. We were driving back from a Church on a Sunday night (our family liked to "dabble" in Christianity for curiosity’s sake) and were discussing weather we agreed with tonight’s service or not. After a comfortable silence, Dad glanced back at us and said matter-of-factly: “Kids, I love you.” This segued nicely into a very uncomfortable silence. So he continued - “I know we never say it to each other, but we should be able to, and I’d like to hear you say it back.”

J-Rad and I had frozen - stupefied in the back seat. It’s not that we didn’t know he loved us it’s just, as he said, we had never been in the habit of expressing it this way. Maybe you come from a family like that. Or maybe your family is not very affectionate or has other quirks and rituals. Each to their own really. Love is more about actions than it is about words, so saying them out loud felt unnecessary. Like being hit over the head with a giant fish. 

I remember in that moment feeling a mixture of both pleasant surprise and severe nausea. The same feelings one gets when watching an episode Seventh Heaven. Finally I made the first move, and muttered quickly: “I love you too.” It was weird, and I was relieved to have it over and done with. J-Rad just sat there refusing to say it - likely contemplating a jump and roll from our moving vehicle. “No I’m not saying it!” he said.

In the years that followed that awkward conversation, both my Dad and my Step-Mum continued to say it every now and again. We noticed the ease with which our step-siblings would return the words – even initiating it at the end of their phone conversations. 

Gradually it became a more natural way to articulate the love we felt, without needing to gag. I even tried it out on Mum and her side of the family, who would freeze, not knowing what to say back. “Rito, yes, bye – uh, you too,” Nanny would say - taken by surprise if I used it on the phone.

A few months ago, I received a letter from Nanny in the mail telling me about J-Rad’s new job offer in Sydney:

The last thing J-Rad said to me when he brought his things here from his unit … [he was going traveling]. He kissed me and gave me a hug and said he loved me. How lucky I am to have a grandson like him and a granddaughter like you. We are so blessed.

It made my eyes water reading it. For a family who rarely knew how to verbalize love so freely, we are all doing a grand job of it now. I’m grateful to Dad for his courageousness in opening that door to us as teens, and the persistence it took to change our families habits. We certainly don't over use it. But we can say it when we want to, without feeling too weird.

So there it is dearest fam. I love you.

photo credits:Aurigid meterorite #2 Ice cased Adelie Pengins The future is bright

Poor Harry

My mum’s a vegan. She’s turned my step-dad vegan and more recently his adorable collie-dog, Harry vegan as well.

I remember when she told me over the phone one day “Harry’s a vegan now.” She was thrilled. I thought about this for a moment, and wanted to say - “Well is Harry really a vegan? Or is he being forced into it? Like did you convince him to turn or was it like - eat vegetables and rice, or starve.” The ironic thing is, when I ask mum why she’s a vegan, (apart from the environmental impact) it’s mainly because she doesn’t like to be cruel to animals. 

Sibling Safezone

My younger brother, J-Rad and I may have hated each other during the day growing up, but at night we had a truce. We would sneak into each other’s rooms and wake each other up when we were too scared to go to the bathroom alone.

No matter how hard we hit each other that evening, after ‘lights out’ we were a team, and our parents knew nothing about it.

Thanks to the cup of warm juice that Mum gave us religiously before bed, in the wee hours of the morning, one of us would bolt terrified into the other’s room, and shake them with - ‘Can you come to the toilet with me?’ The other would rise, without complaint, happy to provide this reciprocal service.

J-Rad was afraid of large mountain bears. I was afraid of ghosts. Our job was to stand guard outside the closed toilet door, because we both knew bears and ghosts only preyed on those who peed alone.

Before J-Rad was old enough to escort me to the toilet, I used to pee the bed. (In my defense, we lived in an old farm house, and the toilet was a long way away.)  I remember thinking: I really need to pee, but there’s just no fucking way I’m getting out of bed – or ghosts will get me!

In the mornings when my parents asked what had happened, I’d tell them I must have gone in my sleep. So they implemented a chart with colored stars, and I’d get a gold one if my sheets were dry. When that didn’t work, Dad gave me acupuncture.

Only now does it strike me as odd that a six year old child, would be more afraid of telling her parents her fears, than getting stuck with hundreds of tiny needles three times a week.

J-Rad and I continued our nightly ritual for more years than we’d like to admit. Then gradually we outgrew our monsters, and our need to wake each other up.

When I think about our sibling relationship, this story kind of sums us up... because even thought we knew our fears were completely irrational (there are no bears in Australia and neither had ever seen a ghost), on a deeper level we cared enough to respect each other’s inner demons. 

And we still do.

No Doubt

Years ago I took my parents out to dinner... no, actually it was the other way around,  and I asked them the question I ask all married couples I ever meet:
"How did you know each other was 'the one?'"

Abby smiled at me and said "You know, it's not necessarily thinking they are 'the one' - it's more about having no doubts." Then Dad said "Actually, we've both talked about it before. In our previous marriages, we both had doubts  from the very beginning."
"And this time round," continued Abby "there just wasn't any doubts."

Sixteen years - Abby and Dad have now been married. They live together, work together and play together - they don't seem to need time alone. Did I mention they live on a boat? I still catch the affectionate looks they bestow on each other and it makes me want to high five the universe. What fate and luck brought these two together!

(I snapped this last trip home)

This post goes out to you Ali! - and the joy that is spreading through the blog-sphere right now! And, as a reminder to myself, inspired by your post, here's to doubts and acknowledging their existence. It takes courage to listen to those tiny whispers in our mind. I look forward to the day that I meet someone, and they fall silent.

Crazy-eyed Reader

"Your father came to bed last night in a lather of sweat. He couldn't breath, he was having heart palpitations," my step mum Abbie chimed excitedly.

"Really? And all from-"

"Yes. His book. He's really into it."

For as long as I've known my father, he had never sat down to read a book in his life. An instructional manual? Yes (millions). The odd aviation magazine - yes. But never a novel... until now, because now he has time - and has discovered a world of movies, television and glorious books.

I got to witness this one afternoon on the boat when he opted to finish his book while the rest of the family played poker.

It was easy to photograph him in this state without him noticing.
We all watched his facial expressions and laughed continuously - especially when his eyes bulged out of his head.

"Sometimes he's so excited he can't turn the page quick enough and nearly tears it off its binding," laughed Abby doing a crazy-eyed impression of Dad.

The whole time we laughed, he remained oblivious, wrapped up in the world of his novel.
How utterly delightful it was to see.

Speeding down Memory Lane

I didn’t mind getting in the car with Dad (Herby) those crisp Toowomba mornings, with socks up to my knees, a brand new pale blue pinafore swimming over my adolescent frame and a navy ribbon tied under my white collar. Only as soon as I sat down, panic would hit, and my stomach would churn with dread.  I couldn’t possibly face another day of grade 8 at my new school… where I knew no one - and had absolutely no friends.

“Please don’t make me go today.” I whispered, turning to Dad, my flat chest heaving hysterically as tears poured down my face. A normal person would have felt sorry for me – guilty for making me go… like they were leading a lamb to it’s slaughter. But Herb just furrowed his brow, and stepped on the gas. After all, we were running late. As usual.

‘It will get better once you’re there,’ he said in a stern but kind voice as we hurtled down the street, towards the bus stop. I could see the bus pulling away in the distance and continuing up the leafy road. Toowoomba roads were lined by dense bush or large evergreen trees, giving it the lush feel of a quaint village, rather than the large country town that it really was.

“Just give it some more time,” Herb re-assured me, patting me on the knee before switching gears and breaking the speed limit by at least $240 in order to chase the bus down. The fear I had felt about having to go to school momentarily gave way to the g-forced induced thrill of accelerating into the wrong lane, as we passing cars that were already speeding, before cutting off the bus at the next stop.

“Have a good day,” he said, like everything was fine. The mix of adrenalin, exhilaration and embarrassment I now felt had jolted me out of my teary state. I wonder if he had done that on purpose. I kissed him on the cheek, and ran out of the car, red-faced - onto the bus. Everyone was staring and my heart was pounding out my ears. I felt incredibly self-conscious making a grand entrance so regularly, and I also felt incredibly self conscious about Herb's car.

It always drew attention - which I would have secretly loved, but in conservative Toowoomba Australia, one must be wary of being a tall poppy.  The car was a Jaguar E-type sports car - red, and it's engine sounded like three Harley Davidson's lived under the bonnet. A classic mid-life crisis car – just imagine, a giant penis, painted shiney red, on wheels. That was the exact shape of his car.

Herb had bought it the minute Mum (Janet) had hesitantly walked out the door. She had barely passed the mailbox before it was in our driveway. It had a V12 engine (that’s gutsy for all the non bogans reading this) and when it opened up on the highway, you felt like you were flying.  It was Dad’s way of reclaiming his life and inadvertently sending Janet a clear message. 

Poor Janet. I wish she’d had the guts to go buy a big vagina on wheels. But what does that even look like. Perhaps one of these:

or these:

I sat in the front seat of the bus, and waited for the boys at the back of the bus to start teasing their little brother about liking me. “Matty likes Ally,” they’d chant. Matty would always turn an even deeper shade of red than me. I tried very hard never to look at him, incase they thought that I liked him back.

In front of me, Herb’s car sped away like lightening as our bus slowly lumbered forward. I had a feeling that my new life living with him was going to be an adventure. Also - it wasn’t going to be easy. He was going make me go to school, when my tears alone would have been enough to for mum to homeschool me for the rest of my life. (Mum would always reward me for crying.) Now it was up to Herb to toughen me up, and deep down, I knew he was doing what was best for me. Just like when Mum would put alphalpha sprouts on our whole wheat pizzas. Both parents were just trying to do their best. And that's all one can ever ask for.

Here, on a Boat

Here where the sky meets the ocean between the untouched islands on the Great Barrier Reef, we cruise because we can.

Here, where butterflies are seen flying so far from land, you can only imagine they are travelling from island to island, and may not even make it during their short 1-2 day lifespan.

Here, where tiny fish, get so scared, they are able to skip along the surface, like a well thrown stone, using their tails to stand up and run like lizards above water when they get tired of skipping.

It is here, with the wind in your hair, on a boat, cutting through the glassy waters, the sun reflecting up at you from the liquid turquoise, that you feel a freedom like no other. Just you, the sea and the great unknown.

What creatures lie beneath?

What lands lie unexplored?

I dare you NOT to live in the moment

It’s impossible to even remember any nagging thoughts and worries. The sky has untangled them and the breeze has plucked them away. Like an echesketch for your mind. Now all that’s left is for the ocean to fill up your senses and soothe your grateful soul.

Damn you irikanji jelly fish! Damn my irrational fear of sharks. If it weren’t for you two, I’d seize this precious moment and dive into the water fully clothed, like the impulsive, spirited girl I know I can be!

***

It is here, on the boat that Bernard and Abby make their life; stepping around each other in the kitchen in a well-rehearsed routine. I watched from the landing as Abby made toast with avocado and vintage cheddar while Bernard ground coffee beans and brewed tea.

Watching Bernard make coffee is a fascinating experience. He worked diligently in a relaxed methodical manner, with precision that bordered obsessive.  (The same way he does everything in his life.) With beans ground, he set an alarm timer. Seconds later - beep beep beep! He flicked a switch on the coffee machine, then reset the timer… beep beep beep! He poured the coffee, beep beep beep! Inserted the thermometer into the milk jug for frothing. I imagined he was following one of his laminated check lists in his head.

Leaning back I took in the smells of the clean Whitsunday air, mixing with fresh coffee and toast. Behind me the island greenery towers high from the water’s edge. Can I please stay in this moment for ever, I pray.

Abby was now cutting fresh fruit onto a clean white plate, while Bernard was using a spoon to make an unusual coffee-art design in the top of the cappuccinos. If only he turned the spoon upside down, he’d get a better design, the perfectionist in me thought. WHO CARES, yelled my voice of reason.

Nothing broke the stillness and calmness of the water surrounding us, except the occasional breath from a surfacing sea turtle, leaving a small trail of bubbles as it disappeared silently, on it’s way to it’s next breathing destination. Ah the serenity.

“Here we go!” Bernard said, grinning proudly as he handed me a cappuccino. “How’s this hey? Good coffee on a boat.”

I loved it here. Wrapped up in the safe bubble that is my parent’s love. Surrounded by sunshine and nature, and jelly fish and sharks. I wondered if I would ever be able to provide such a wonderful fun and loving environment for my future hypothetical family. I doubt it will be quite as lavish. But then it’s never been about the setting. I’d happily live in a toilet if Abby and Bernard were there. It has always been and always will be more about who they are as people. 

Passionate Post

My brother J-Rad is a passionate guy. He detests people who cough on planes, the song 'We Are One', cheese cake and many things too un-pc to put in writing. So when he loves, he also loves passionately:

"Something has been on my mind recently. It holds me captive day and night in an inescapable cell: I am Andy Dufrene, but I don’t have a rock hammer or a poster of Rita Hayworth. I am Lincoln Burrows but Michael Schofield is not my brother.

…And to what do I owe this ongoing, esoteric, cerebral enslavement? The humble Japanese Curry, as prepared by the master chefs at Hanaichi."

Read the rest of his post  here.

The Life - Alternative

When you have a parent to who is passionate about a cause, it makes you happy. No matter how much they clog your inbox with petitions to stop whaling, mulesing lambs, or wearing fur, you still respect their passion.

I’m referring of course to my mother – animal activist, environmentalist, naturalist, and extreme new-age-ist. Luckily her antics often make me feel like I’m trapped in a Wes Anderson movie, and I've taken to playing the soundtrack to “The Life Aquatic” when ever I read her emails.

Somehow this helps me enjoy the following statements she has written me:

“I was given a message from "upstairs" by someone who is quite psychic regarding your contact with Ada.”

“I've been 'cyber-campaigning' for years regarding halting the horrible seal slaughter. finally it's on the down-turn!”

“It seems Americans can't have a feed of meat without slavering it with melted cheese! If they truly knew the full environmental, socio-economic and humanitarian implications of such a diet - not to mention the overall effect on their health(!) they'd be rethinking their eating habits in a more enlightened way.”

"I attended an end of year dinner at Fitzy's for the Brisbane group of Hypnotherapists last Wednesday."

“I recently attended a one day course in ‘organic facials’….”

“Ally - thought you may be interested in this info for yourself which is based on a numerological analysis of your birth date…”

“Just a quick email re the Swine Fu…There is a lot of unfounded and irresponsible information which is being generated to persuade the masses to get the Swine Flu shot. Whatever you do,  DO NOT get it….Obama has been misinformed.”

"Yesterday, I was up at 4:20am to get ready to go to the Million Paws Walk"

Or my personal favorite, when alluding to the fact that she had joined a nudist colony while on holidays in Croatia:

"We have just had our second day at a Naturist camp… So when we get up in the mornings, we have to get undressed for the day! It does feel quite natural after a while - and very freeing.”

And this is just the tip of the ice-berg. Peace.

Silent Screaming

Ada Halpern didn’t sleep last night.  Instead she haluscinated solidly for 10 straight hours and for most of the next day. Sometimes in English. Sometimes in Polish. There was nothing we could do. Sleeping pills had no effect.

“Polsk polki polski Bastards” she yelled.

I was vaguely aware that I drifted in and out of sleep, but at 4am I couldn’t take it any more. I thought about strapping my ipod to her head and playing soothing music, to calm her down, and then it dawned on me: Why don’t I put my headphones in my ears to calm me down?

My glands were swollen and I already had a mild fever. As soon as I pumped up Pacabell’s Cannon, to over-ride Ada and the nurses screams, I was gripped by a very clear memory… Of lying in bed at the age of 12 one night, when my parents were still together. Spiritual music was coming from the living room, and being turned up so incredibly loud, that I couldn’t hear myself think let alone sleep. And it just kept going, it didn’t stop, for hours.

I was furious! How inconsiderate of my parents! How dare they! They would have never let me listen to my music this loud this late at night. But instead of confronting them, I just lay there angrily getting night-sweats.

It never occurred to me why they had played their music so loud, nor why it happened more frequently in the months to come. But later I realized it would have been to cover their screams. In their entire 14 years of marriage, my brother and I never saw them fight once.  Not once. 5 months later, they announced their divorce.

You're The Voice ...

… of hypocracy?

Ever said one thing, then turned around and done another?

At a recent family wedding in Oz (after a couple of Mojitos) I found myself linking arms in a large circle of extended family and strangers, while singing You’re the Voice by John Farnham.

My brother J-Rad watched on in amusement.

Afterwards he said to me: “Wow. You must experience a lot of cognitive dissonance* in your life.”

He’s not wrong.

I experience as much cognitive dissonance as Julian McMahon and Dannii Minogue would have after making this delightful video:

(They divorced shortly after its release.)

It is true. A few years ago I would have glassed myself before pretending to enjoy Johnny Farnham’s music for the kabillionth time in my life. (Sorry to all you loyal fans out there.)

Why? Because he represents everything I loaaaath about the Australian Culture:

(John Farnham. 'Farnzy')

• His 80’s mullet that he refuses to part with,
  
• His constant reoccurring airplay in every Aussie bar,
  
• His rather moronic nick-name “Farnzy” which rhymes with “Barnzy,” who I actually like.

But there’s more to it than that! To me - he epitomizes the Aussie Cultural Cringe!!! I get the same expression listening to him, that one gets when listening to our politicians speak. Or that one used to get watching the crocodile hunter, before he died and we all realized how much we actually loved him.

(Steve Irwin. RIP Steve)

And that’s the thing about cultural cringing.  It’s rather hypocritical. Like faults that bug you about a friend or family member; at the end of the day - you can’t help having some kind of good sentiment for them, because they make up a part of a whole.

The fact that Farnzy is rather cringe worthy, makes our Australian culture very unique, and there’s something to be said about having a little pride in that.

Alcohol also helps.

If reaching a point in my life where I can openly sing Farnzy without wanting to hurt myself, makes me a hypocrite, then so be it. Just like my father and Kirsty Alley; opinionated people can and do change their minds.

After all, we’re only human.

(Kirsty Alley Makes a vow to shed extra pounds on Oprah)

Mark my words, J-Rad. One day you’ll be far away from the place you are today. Perhaps you’ve had a mojito too many, and Johnny Farnham will start playing. Then Somewhere, deep within the recesses of your pickled little brain, a sense of joy will find a crack and seep into your sole.

After all, we are only Australian.

*Cognitive dissonance is an uncomfortable feeling caused by holding two contradictory ideas simultaneously.

 

Books and Television

If I knew growing up, what I know now, about books, I may have been a different person. I may not have bothered with having a childhood. I may have learned how to spell, I may have thought in words, rather than vague feelings, and I may not have felt so alone.

But I was never a reader. My first love was television! As restricted and rubbished as it was by my parents, I viewed it as forbidden fruit. (Sneaking up to it and switching it from Sesame Street to some raunchy day-time soap, on the rare occasion, that my mother left the room.)


We lived on a ten acre hobby farm on the outskirts of Clifton, which is on the outskirts of Toowoomba, which is on the outskirts of Brisbane, which is on the outskirts of Sydney, which is on the outskirts of Australia, witch frankly feels like it’s on the outskirts of the rest of the world.

At the tender age of seven, my window into the rest of the world, was our small, black and white TV. No, I’m not secretly 54 years old, and my parents weren’t poor. They were just conservative hippies! Who hated everything commercial television stood for:

The sexualization of women, the consumer inspiring ads, the over simplistic morals that predictably emerged at the end of each sit-com. It was all rubbish.

“Turn the idiot box off” was the only discussion we ever had about what was on tv. I would lie awake at night crying tears of frustration in bed, because I could hear the television’s feint murmurs, yet was not allowed to watch.

At eight years of age, we moved briefly to Brisbane, and got a color television for the first time. My brother J-Rad and I flicked it on, catching Sesame Street, and were TOTALLY BLOWN AWAY to discover Elmo was red, and not blue like the rest of the monsters.

Television had such a mesmerising power over me. I still have the taboo images of Collette’s “Ring My Bell” music video (below) burned into my retinas.




Seeing a grown woman dance around in a sexy bra on television was so incredibly entertaining, and freeing for me – that I just knew - THAT was what I wanted to do when I grew up!

Our parents tried to get us kids to read, by forcing some of the most boring books in the world on us. But I couldn’t relate to them. Nothing until The Magic Faraway Tree, that I discovered while at a friend's house, ever came close to stirring my imagination.

In grade seven, after reading Playing Beatie Bow (the first novel I ever enjoyed) I got inspired. We had to write a 30 page fiction story for a class assignment, and I based mine loosely on elements from this book, and of course, The Magic Faraway Tree.

The part I borrowed from Playing Beaty Bow, was the main character’s struggle with news of her parent’s divorce. I remember thinking, how would I feel if my parents got divorced? So I wrote that.


My parents read my story with hidden apprehension. Unbeknownst to me, they had secretly decided to separate in six months time, after I’d settled into high school the following year.

So, six months later, after they had announced their divorce, they both told me that I must have known about it, when I was writing my story. But the truth is, I had absolutely no idea, and I was too ashamed to admit I had borrowed the idea from another book. Which led me to the odd belief, that perhaps, because I had written it down, and it had come true!… I had accidentally predicted the future.

Even now, I’m held hostage by this superstition. I tried writing about dealing with the imaginary death of a parent, and just couldn’t. In case I curse my self again. Even writing about it here makes me nervous!

The odd thing is, how I had imagined reacting to my parent’s divorce, and how I actually did react, was completely different. In my book, I was furious and hurt, and real life, I was just sad, then rather accepting.

***

My grade seven story, ended up winning first prize, and ten dollars, in our class competition. I thought the runner up, my best friend Franny, should really have won. She was a much better writer than me, and was the one who gave me Playing Beatie Bow in the first place.

This year, I’m mostly without a television, and so have become a belated bookworm. And these books are having the most extraordinary effect on me. I keep thinking each author knows me, and is speaking from voices within my own mind. (Narcissist much?) They inspire me, just like Collette did. And they are also helping me write more betterer.

Which, apart from dancing around in a bra and tights, is exactly what I’d like to do with my life… write stories for television! Then hopefully, one day, a curious little kid from the country, who’s wondering "What else does this life have to offer?" will open up their tv or internet connection, see something, and get inspired!… or at least be wildly entertained!

Feet Fetish

The people on my mother’s side of the family have a thing about feet. They hate dirty feet, and place them on their list of evil, along with Hitler and pedophilia.

“I just can’t stand to feel grit under my feet!” my grandma will say, as she dustpans the kitchen frantically for the tenth time that day. These words rings so true, she actually vacuums her house every day. Every…single…day. Obsessive… Compulsive… Behavior.

When visiting Grandma, before we come in from outside – wearing flip flops, we have to stop at the laundry sink and wash our feet, like people wash their hands before dinner.

This feet phobia has unfortunately filtered down through the generations. I often clean my feet with baby-wipes before bed, and my poor little aspergers cousin, can’t even walk down the driveway bare foot, because he feels so dirty.

Of course, when it comes to ‘feet loathing’, my brother, J-Rad, truly takes the cake. “They are fucking disgusting!” he’ll say, as he stuffs whole cup-cakes into his mouth, spitting out the chewed up paper in little pellets to show me.

One afternoon, our family (Dad’s side), was sitting on the living room floor, for our weekly cheese-eating ceremony, when J-Rad was going on about how much he hates feet.

My step-mum, Abby, got a glint in her eyes. “Even girls feet?” she enquired.
“All feet,” replied J-Rad. “They are just wrong, I don’t let them near me.”

This made Abby chuckle. “Your father, doesn’t mind feet at all!”

J-Rad, along with my then-boyfriend, Ralph, and I all cringed. It was no secret that Abby and Dad had a healthy sex life. They were almost a little smug about it, and why not? In their 50’s, married for thirteen years, and still lusting after one another? Unheard of!!

Once on an email up-date to friends and family about their cruising adventures, Dad signed off with the sentence “With plenty of time to make love and read, we leave you to the next update.” (None of the children replied to that one.)

“Are you saying you’d never suck on your girlfriends toes?” Abby continued.
A repulsed look from J-Rad, “Nope!”
“Well… your father likes to suck on toes," she grinned, "and let me tell you, girls like to have their toes sucked!”

This hit a nerve. At 22 years, J-Rad was always keen to find out what girls liked, and she was stirring him. (Like she does to all us kids, in a fun and affectionate manner.)

“That’s fucking disgusting!” barked J-Rad. “If my girlfriend asked me to lick her toes I’d punch her in the ovaries.”

Ha! We all knew that he would probably lick them if she was hot.

Then J-Rad asked Ralph “Would you lick someone’s dirty feet?”
“Sure,” he shrugged.
What!? I never recall having my toes licked by Ralph. That would have involved having actual foreplay… a sore topic for both of us.

I was sure J-Rad would cave for money.
“We’ll all put in cash, and give you $100 if you lick vegemite off Ralph’s feet right now” I said, daring J-Rad.
“Get fucked! Would you lick vegemite off his dirty feet?”

I looked at Ralph’s blackened foot, with his thong hanging from it.
“How much will you give me?”
“Ten bucks.”
(Tight ass!) “Alright then.” I said, like it was nothing.

I got up and smeared some vegemite across the ball of Ralph’s foot. Then took a deep breath, bent down, and licked it in front of my whole family.

J-Rad gagged, while Dad and Abby clapped and cheered.

The things I do to prove my toughness to them.

“Easiest $10 I ever made!” I said, licking my lips.

My parents were extremely proud. They knew that it took a lot of guts for me to do, and I basked in the honor and status that it immediately earned me. Plus, who doesn’t like to make their brother feel like there’s something wrong with them?

I'm also pretty sure Ralph thoroughly enjoyed the experience. Sadly, we never took that move to the bedroom. But I’m thinking vegemite on toes would be a great foreplay article to write for Cosmo magazine, if they were to ever hire me.

First Kiss (part 2)

This is a continuation of the story of my First Kiss

The next morning, I awoke to a bright purple lump, the size of a golf ball protruding from my neck. It hurt to touch, and was so swollen, that I could barely turn my head. What the hell? A hickey?!!!
That Bastard!!

The previous night's thrill and excitement, from experiencing French-kissing for the first time, was suddenly replaced with a terrifying fear... If Dad sees this, I'm dead!

At the tender age of sixteen, this was the first all-schools dance he had ever let me go to. A hickey the size of everest on my neck, would be a complete breach of his trust, punishable only with death by firing squad.

I had to hide it. But how? I had a whole weekend at home with the family! Fuuuuck!!! I threw a scarf on, which looked completely ridiculous with my T-shirt and shorts. Then I remembered one of the few (medical tips) my Dad has ever passes on… “Ice is effective up to 48hrs after injury.” It reduces swelling and bruising, and the sooner you apply it, the better! With my scarf on, I bolted to the kitchen to get an ice pack.

I was leaning down into the open freezer door, when Dad walked in.

I froze, one hand in the freezer, and the other hand touching my scarf.

“How was the dance,” He said accusingly. (He says everything accusingly. Regardless of how much he loves his family, he will never trust any of them.) This was it. I was done for. I knew there was no way I would be able to hide my neck from him all weekend. I already looked incredibly suspicious wearing a scarf and raiding the freezer.

So I made a decision. I swallowed hard, and slowly stood up to face my Dad.
“I got this.” I said, unwrapping my scarf defiantly, to reveal the gruesome hickey.

Now it was Dad’s turn to freeze.

After what felt like a year of standing there in silence, he said to me “Well. We should talk about this.”
My stomach leapt into my mouth as he motioned for me to sit. We sat at our breakfast bench on bar stools, unable to look each other in the eyes. I was very silent. My dad, even more so. After another eternity, he said, “I’m not mad."

I exhaled. I couldn't believe he wasn't mad. Maybe he understood how much I just wanted to be like everyone else, and have finally kissed someone. Could he perhaps see that this experience was just one step away from me getting a boyfriend and finally being cool? Then he said the worst thing a parent can ever say to a child – especially one that has only ever wanted to please him. “I’m just very disappointed in you.”

The words hurt a thousand times more than my throbbing hickey. A second lump now formed in my throat, filling my eyes to the brim, before silently spilling over my newly exfoliated cheeks.

He then continued. “How far did you go?”
“What?” I managed through tears. “We just kissed,” I sobbed, feeling like I was admitting to first degree murder.
“Well, how far would you have let him go?”
“What?!” I said again. This was too much for my innocent mind. That there was anything more than just kissing at a school dance, was beyond me.

Dad, being a straight shooter, never beats around the bush.
“Would you have let him finger you?”
(!!!!) I now started crying in repulsion, that my dad had said the word “finger” in a sentence to me. I’d barely broached the topic with my friends, let alone my family. Plus… WTF? Had he even been to a school dance? Fingering would have been totally out of the question!

“No!” I screamed.
“Well,” he said, relieved that he had scared me. “It’s just something to think about. You have to know ahead of time, how far you are willing to go. Boys have a one track mind and will always try and persuade you to go further.”

This did nothing but fuel my distrust in guys. He was right. Boys were evil. I cried and told Dad I was sorry, over and over. I was deeply upset that my first real French-kiss had lead me into this agonizing conversation.

I spent the rest of the weekend cradling an ice-pack to my neck in shame. Come Monday morning, the hickey had gone down considerably, but I still needed two band-aids to cover it.

At school, I was convinced people would ask me what had happened. In English class, I hid from my teacher, Mrs Wheatley - A delightfully old fashioned soul who had accidentally stepped out of a Jane Austin novel and into our classroom. I feared and respected her so much, that I knew she could see straight through my bandaids to the little whore that I was.


It had dawned on me, that this first kiss was becoming deeply regrettable. When the school bell finally rang for lunch, I headed for the only two girls that could made sense of my world.

Suze and Connie laughed and laughed when I showed them the hickey, and recounted my tortured weekend at home. They were proud of my battle wound, and even nicknamed the boy I kissed “Vacuum Cleaner.” They decided to learn from my experience, and vowed never to let a guy suck on anything for prolonged periods of time, that could be seen outside of our uniforms. Then we spent the rest of the afternoon trying to find Vacuum Cleanter’s photo in a Toowoomba Grammar Year Book.

Thank god for friends. Right?

First Kiss

This is the story of my first real kiss.

Not until watching Baz Lurman’s Romeo and Juliette, did I imagine using my lips for anything more divine than eating ice-cream on a cone. (I always look like I’m trying to french my ice-cream cones… don’t you?) I’d built up kissing in my head the same way I would build up loosing my virginity. I just knew it was going to be mind-blowinglly amazing!!


Being a superstitious teen, I tried to believe my first kiss was never going to happen. That way, if it did, I would be surprised – and if it didn’t, then I would be right! But this pessimistic thinking became a self-fulfilling prophecy, and at “sweet sixteen”, I had still never been kissed. (Which made it more like sour sixteen if you ask me.)

School dances at Downlands College came and went, and no one asked me to dance. I figured it was because I was such an awesome dancer, and they were intimidated by my moves! (I really am an awesome dancer.) Over the years, I toned down my dancing to a mere two-step shuffle in the hopes of attracting the kind of boys that went to my school.

The Downlands College School Social dance floor was made up of three concentric circles of people. The outer perimeter contained mainly boys, stalking around, refusing to dance, but eager to look macho as they too, pined for a chance at a pash. The middle layer consisted of girls dancing in groups, mercilessly comparing them selves to one another - as it was rare to see each other out of uniform. And the inner core was made up of couples being watched like hawks by teachers, and sent outside the minute they stood too close, or went in for a pash.

Twice a year I would beg my Dad to let me go to an “All-Schools” Dance-social, where there was no 30cm rule, and french kissing was ramped!

“Absolutely not!” would be his answer. “That is completely out of the question.” This was coming from a dad who would throw a pen on the ground and make me pick it up if he thought my skirt looked too short. To say he was over protective was an understatement. He was convinced that all boys were out to get my virginity, which I wanted to believe, yet I knew was not the case. Otherwise they would have at least payed me some attention at school, surely!! Even still, he managed to instil in me, a fear of trusting men, that has lasted to this day.

At sixteen and a half, I told Dad that it was VITAL I get to attend at least one all-schools dance before I die from being a loser. I must have caught him at a good time, because he said yes! On the proviso of a curfew, and making sure I had a buddy (like when you go skuba diving) to look out for you.

The budy-diver system on a dance floor is actually not such a bad idea. What better situation to use your hand signals “I’m OK” or “go back to the boat, I’m going to use someone’s face as a breathing apparatus!”

The evening arrived, and I was getting ready with my two best friends, Suze and Connie. Suze was gangly tall, with braces and crazy bangs. She was a constant ray of energy and the sole reason I could bare high school. Connie was more stocky and from Dalas, Texis in the USA. This made her an instant celebrity to me. I would constantly ask her to tell me a stories, just so I could hear her accent.

We were interested in one thing only. Toowoomba Gramma Boys. They were rumoured to be much more gentlemanly that the oxygen deprived foot-ball jerks that plagued Downlands. I kept thinking “Oh My God. What if it happens tonight!” then I would quickly force myself to think the opposite to un-jinx it. Suze and Connie tried to ease my anxiety, but what would they know about anxiety! They had already had the pleasure of feeling someone else’s tongue in their mouths. I was still waiting for my chace!

We arrived and went straight to the dance floor. I cracked open my subdued two-step shuffle to woe the boys. It wasn’t long before a bunch of cute Toowoomba Grammer guys joined our circle with their versions of the two-step shuffle. I had my eye on a short, cute, dark haired, energetic guy with braces. But he never made eye contact with me.

…Then suddenly a tall, ruggedly handsome looking guy, with dreamy dimples walked right up to me and said “Would you like to dance with me?”

I stared at him in utter shock and disbelief. I even stopped my left-right shuffle. Then I realised what was happening. He was asking the girl behind me to dance, and I was interrupting his eye line. How embarrassing! But when I turned to see who the lucky girl was, there was no one there. Still unable to comprehend this, I pointed to myself and said “Me?”, then “You (pointing to him), want to dance with me? (pointing back at me).”

I rolled my eyes to let him know I was in on the joke, and I knew he’d been dared to ask me. But he just stood there and nodded. Then he took my shaky, pathetic, disbelieving hands and led me to the smooching section of the dance floor.

Immediately my diving buddies started giving me the hand signals for ‘good one!’ and ‘pash him!’ We danced for a couple of seconds, knocking knees awkwardly, then he pulled me closer, and suddenly we were breaking the 30 cm rule, by 30cms.

We were dirty dancing. I was Baby, and he was Patrick Swayze. My inner monologue was screaming “Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god! I don’t know how to do this!” I had watched Baily kiss Jennifer Love Hewitt on Party of Five that week, and figured we’d have to start staring into each others eyes before we entered into a perfect camera-ready kiss.

But before I could get a look at him, he moved in, putting his mouth over mine, and proceeded to rape the back of my throat with his tongue.

My inner monologue went from “OMG! I’m going to have my first kiss!!” to “WTF.!? Is this kissing? Is this what kissing is?... Wow… it’s kind of over rated… it looked so much better on tv... it must just look good, but feel like this. Well there you go! I’m sure sex will be as good as it looks in the movies, surely they wouldn’t lie about that.”

Having resigned to the fact that this was indeed, kissing, I decided to rape his throat, back.

Our tongues were ferocious anacondas, twisting in saliva, attacking tonsils and darting up sinus cavities by mistake. This continued for three hours. The whole time, I was thinking “So this is kissing. Well. I hope I’m doing a good job of it.”

Sometime during the last hour, he made his way over my raw pash-rash, and down my neck, where he proceeded to behave like a vampire, sucking for a good ten minutes. It felt good, so I let him do it.

The last song played, and ended. We both came up for breath and said “See ya.” I went back to my friends, who gave me the female equivalent of a high five... which is grabbing each other’s arms and saying stuff like “you did it girl!” and “He was sooo cute!” and “How was your first kiss!”

I floated out of there with Suze and Connie on cloud 9! I was a legend! And I’d finally done it! Even if kissing was totally gross. I could now officially cross if off the list and move onto trying Escargot. Surely that was less disgusting.

As the three of us strolled out arm in arm, sharing details of the dance, The burn of my pash rash became apparent. My face had been sandpapered within an inch of it’s life, and I was vaguely aware of a pulsing pain growing on the side of my neck.

TBC…….

J-Rad does NY

I stood at the airport arrivals holding up a makeshift sign with my little brother, J-Rad’s name on it. It read “Loser.” And for once, I spelt it right! He was only slightly amused by this. My humor is like a bad dad-joke compared to his crazy-f*edup mind.

J-Rad and I never say “I love you.” We don’t have to. It runs deeply and loyally through our veins.


This means no matter how irritated we get with each other, we are bonded together by something much stronger than our love / hate of one another, and that’s our love / hate for our parents and extended family. (But more on that some other time.)

J-Rad and I have spent the past 11 days: eating and touring New York on an epic scale. If blisters on feet, dark circles under eyes, and protruding gunts don’t convince you, here are some photos:







A typical conversation during our trip went as follows:

J-Rad: "Stop fucking apologizing to people, when they are the ones running into you."
Ally: "Stop being such a cunt."
(silence)
J-Rad: "Man, how weird were our parents when we were young."
Ally: "At least they didn’t beat us."
J-Rad: "I could go some food. Buffalo wings?"
Ally: "Yeah, and some mozzarella sticks."
(We also have food in common.)



Travelling around with a sibling of the opposite sex can be a problem. Everyone assumes you are a couple. At bars, we planned to be each other’s ‘wing-men’, but ended up cock / box blocking each other instead. People would say incredibly inappropriate things, like: “You two on your honeymoon?”

This would cause us to pause, and choke on the vomits in our mouths.



One guy on the street said “you never know, she [pointing to me] might get pregnant, you’ll have a family to look after” as he thrust a designer furniture catalogue in J-Rad’s hand. We kept walking past him…
J-Rad: "WTF! Why would he say that to anyone?"
Ally: "You should have yelled 'she’s my sister you sick-fuck!' ”
J-Rad: "Yeah…. 'We use protection!' "
Ally/J-rad: "Ewwe! Fucking wrong."
J-Rad: "I’m hungry. Turkey burger?"
Ally: "Yep."



The thing you have to love about J-Rad, is he loves to cross the line of human decency. Especially around family. What comes out of his mouth could send him to jail / hell / a mental institute, yet to friends and family it is highly amusing. This is precisely why we went and saw Bruno together, and laughed so hard, we nearly puked up our milkshakes, when recalling it on the subway home.

He also knows I’m a feminist, and prays on it every chance he gets. “I’d smash her,” he’ll say, pointing to every girl we pass. I point out guys I’d smash, but it just never sounds as wrong.

Speaking of wrong, on J-Rad’s first night, he ditched my comedy plans for a hostel piss-up, where along with a random Sweed and a Belgian backpacker, committed to a house party the next night. I went because I was dead certain the address didn’t exist and I wanted to prove my NY street-smarts. Astonishingly, we found the party.

It was a small flat, with disco lights, and a host in the middle of the room playing DJ on his macbook. Passing the kitchen, we saw a girl throwing up in the sink. Then two people passed out in the living room.

This seemed to amuse J-Rad no end. He came back from the flat tour exclaiming – “There are four people passed out in the bedroom.” As he said this, the girl who had been spewing in kitchen, crawled underneath a large table at the entrance, and passed out on a pile of shoes.



As it was only 10pm, I came to the conclusion that
1. These guys have had their drinks spiked with date-rape drugs, or;
2. Even worse, they were all teenagers, unable to gauge their body tolerance to alcohol.

The later was confirmed when a cute young guy started chatting to me. After a while, I asking what he was doing in NY.

“Oh, I’m still in high-school,” he said, then “Why? How old are you?”

I looked at his baby little face and thought about how gross it would be, to be honest at a time like this. The thought of being at a party with people over a decade younger than me, made me feel alarmingly aware that I needed to leave.

However, my weakness for watching uncomfortable situations, plus my inability lie to someone’s face, took over.

“I’m 28.” I said.
“Oh.” He said. Silence.

I quickly swapped my [root] beer for a Budweiser, and proceeded to join in a game of Kings. We left shortly after, mainly because everyone else had also passed out.

I ended up getting J-Rad back, by taking him shopping in the gay district, where he got hit on by an endless stream of male store assistants. For some reason, they must have known I was his sister. Yay!