Why I Hate Santa Claus

Yesterday, my husband and I were walking through town when the local fire brigade/ambulance contingent blasted down the main street, deafening sirens blaring in staccato bursts and a dishevelled Santa Claus waving vaguely on the back of the fire engine. I cringed. While other more friendly, less Santa-phobic members of our community tooted their car horns and waved in response, I walked quickly in the opposite direction and generally tried to avoid having to make eye contact with the parade. They passed swiftly, thank God, but it brought back some very uncomfortable memories of my hate/hate relationship with Father Christmas.


I am not sure if this is just an introvert thing, but I have always disliked anyone using grotesque costumes to hide their true identity, even in a good cause. Admittedly, Father Christmas would hardly seem grotesque to most, but in fact there are very few genuine looking Santas around the place, most looking like they got dressed in a locker with their eyes shut, sporting nylon beards and faces which frankly resemble anything but a jolly old man.

As a very small child, I was once accosted by a Santa Claus whilst sitting in the car-park of our local shopping mall. I was in the back seat of the family car, my little brother beside me, my older sister in the front seat. I watched him weave around the car park poking his heads into car windows with growing dread. Eventually, he came up to us and tried to hand us some lollipops. I panicked. Then I dropped behind the front seat of the car, pretending to look for something under the seat, and trying desperately to avoid eye contact with the guy. My brother seemed less concerned, and my sister tried to explain my 'behaviour' to the Claus pretender. I stayed on the floor of the car until the clone got the message and decided to move on. My sister chastised me afterwards for being so shy, but in my mind, this person was an intruder.

Even as a child, I was unmoved by these characters, designed to delight minors who believed them to be the genuine article. It wasn't that I didn't believe in Santa Claus as a child, I loved the idea, I just didn't like the person pretending to be the real thing. I knew they weren't the real thing, I found the idea of them trying to convince me they were the real thing to be insulting. Not just insulting, but offensive. I was offended, confused, ashamed of my reactions because they didn't meet with the approval of the adults around me who seemed to think I should enjoy this sort of thing.



As I grew so did my litany of characters to avoid. It wasn't just Santa Claus, it was the Easter Bunny, clowns, mime artists, people pretending to be statues in the park, or anyone getting in my face and attempting to sell me something in shopping malls. As a child, as a teen, as an adult, these people have been the bane of my life. Frankly I don't find Christmas characters or even Christmas stuff generally to be that enjoyable. I avoid choirs of small children in shopping malls, people dressed as christmas fairies in shopping malls, huge crowds of people in shopping malls, shopping malls. All of these things are hell at any time, but at Christmas they become hell with muzac.


It's not that I don't like music, or celebrating, I just have a great deal of appreciation for subtelty, and authenticity, and I have a pathological fear of pretenders of any stripe. Put it down to having grown up with a mother who took great delight in behaving like Martha Stewart in front of company, but became the Wicked Witch of the East when there were no witnesses, and perhaps it will explain the way I detest pretence. I guess I just don't enjoy over-the-top performers and that includes circus acts or anything strange and surrealistic.

I discovered some years ago that, pre-Rome, Christmas was originally about some other semi-religious pagan festival, and not about Jesus at all. I think it was Ceasar Augustus who morphed the two celebrations together more for reasons of political convenience than any similarities between the two. Most pagan festivals have some sort of mythological icons which represent the festival itself. Spring festivals focus on gods and goddesses of fertility, winter festivals focus on spirits of death and life and so forth. For us though, the whole Christmas thing has focused on Saint Nicholas/Father Christmas/Santa Claus, the man with the sack of presents, giving to children and the poor and unfortunate. The idea of the cold and stark mid-winter being blessed with a spirit of wealth and generosity is entirely satisfying. For those of us in Australia, its the barbeque and surf angel who is celebrated moreso than the guy with the sack of toys. Santa Claus is merely a token of our Victorian past, as he has become with most western nations. His ubiquitous nature at this time of year is taken for granted. Most people just nod and laugh when they see Santa Claus' helpers sweating in their synthetic garments and stumping around the shopping malls and streets of our major cities. A lot of children think he is wonderful, a lot don't I have noticed. You still get the children who cry instinctively when confronted with a man hidden behind a bushy mound of rayon barbie doll hair. They look grotesque, and to a small child who knows the difference between surreal and real, they are frightening. I was one of those children, and the surreality has not diminished with age. I don't care who thinks I am weird for not liking Santa Claus.

But Santa Claus represents to me all of the repellent aspects of Christmas. It's not just the consumer-driven obsession with making everything 'perfect' for Christmas day. For me the spirit of this season is the spirit of excess not genuine love of our fellow men. That spirit,, benevolence and generosity, is far more visible at other times of the year, despite the loud protestations of tree-hugging politically correct do-gooders who insist that we should all adopt an 'orphan' so they will 'know that it's Christmas'. A genuine do-gooder will be led by their better angels to reach out to others in need at times when it is less popular but far more necessary.

Charity does not only begin at home, it begins in the heart, and the heart is changed more completely by still small voices, not frightening or shaming ones. Not angels, not spirits of Christmas past or Christmas present (was Dickens making a play on words here?) or Christmas future, not choirs of cherubic children, not big bearded men, not the expectations of others will truly change our lives or the lives of others. Maybe we are too invested in the idea that Christmas is the only truly 'magical' time of the year, a time of miracles and changes of heart. Maybe Scrooge is a far more appropriate icon of the yule tide than the fat red man. Scrooge was a skinny old man who came face to face with the supernatural (albeit in a dream), his own past, and his possible future demise. The threat of hellfire, a common Victorian peril, caused a miserable old man to change his behaviour. I would love to know how old Scrooge was on boxing day and how long his 'change' would have lasted. In my experience, real Scrooges don't turn on a dime and become sweet-natured disabled-children-loving old men overnight and for no other reason than they were visited by the angel of death. Cranky old bastards tend to stay that way, Christmas or no Christmas.

Don't tell that to the religious politically correct types (far more dangerous than just normal politially correct types I am here to tell you), who believe that we can 'make poverty history'. A nice idea, but, like Santa Claus, a little short on the reality stakes. No matter how many fat red guys you distribute around the community the only people who really believe Santa Claus exists are very small and increasingly hard to convince children. There is something inately selfish about wanting the whole poor thing to go away. It's all a bit too convenient for us middle-class consumers to want the under-priveleged to become relegated to tales of the past. Perhaps we really just want them to become another myth. Tell us the one about those people who couldn't celebrate Christmas because they didn't have enough money. It would be far more practicable to take the money we spend on Christmas and make some other celebration the focus of the last half of the year. The celebration of humanity perhaps, rather than the celebration of the existence of myths and magic. Magic thinking never got anyone anywhere, and you can't have both. Santa Claus goes with the whole class structure, have/have-nots thing as intrinsicly as fireplaces go with stockings full of presents. Chimney sweeps and ragged children are inherently part of the whole Victorian Christmas, the predecessor of the modern western Christmas.

I guess the main reason I hate Santa Claus is that my own childhood christmases were fairly dismal. My mother, as I said, was more into what things looked like than what they were. As a child, I longed for genuine love and generosity, moreso than gifts and food, but a gift well given is a symbol of love to me. By that I mean a gift which has been given in consideration of the person you are giving it to, symbolising an intimate knowledge and appreciation for that person.
A Christmas which is filled with symbols of the power of adults over children is hardly a christmas to be remembered, unless you, like Dickens, have a morbid love of tales of hardship and deprivation.

I understand that Christmas and Santa Claus go hand in hand. I understand that consumerism and advertising use Christmas as their flagship, and that poverty becomes both the antithesis and the focus of everything Christmas represents and is therefore spoken of in tones of harsh judgement against those who don't consider the poor, and grandstanding on behalf of those who do. I also understand that it is in the invisible realm of the human spirit and heart that the true nature of character and action is seated, and no amount of 'christmas cheer' is going to make a difference if you are a genuine Ebeneezer Scrooge, rather than a literary one. Overall, I understand that the commercial Santa Claus is an advertising icon rather than a spiritual one, although, I have always enjoyed C.S. Lewis' portrayal of Father Christmas, handing out 'proper' gifts to those Pevensie children in 'The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe'. He seemed both solemn and joyful, benevolent and just, generous and wise, as the real Father Christmas is. My Father Christmas is God himself, who begat his firstborn when Mary gave birth. It is entirely possible that Jesus wasn't born in mid-winter, but in spring, the time of lambing when the shepherds would have been with their flocks in the field all night, sleepless and exhausted, waiting not for magnificent heraldic stars, but shaky ewes whose time had come. A fitting time for Mary to give birth to the Paschal Lamb of God.

Long live the spirit of Christmas, the time of genuine joy and peace on earth, goodwill to men. Santa Claus may well have been born and lived a generous life, and his memory scrounged by light-starved humans, reinvented by advertising executives and shopping mall owners, but I will only ever be moved by the genuine article.

Individu-whoha?

Jung coined a term which for us introverts is a lovely, wonderful, joyful word. Individuation. It means that we become everything it is possible for us to be. Which sounds really new-agey, but is very practical, and very necessary in this day and age. There are too many fakes in the world. We need to become who WE are in order that we can shine our lights and be content.

Becoming yourself requires listening. As an introvert the idea of getting alone with yourself and 'the infinite possibilities of the inside of one's own head' as author Monica Dickens once said, is very inviting. We do it naturally every day anyway, so knowing that this tuning in to our selves is not only a natural but a very helpful task is very beneficial. Introverts tend to tune others out in order to concentrate, and it is easier for us to hear the beat of our own drum, its lending this drumbeat respectability which is the difficult thing for most of us.

I attend a leadlighting class. I am finding that cutting, grinding and fitting small pieces of glass into a jigsaw pattern call up anxieties I didn't know I had. My teacher is also a lady who fears glass. I managed to get a piece in my eye as I was grinding one day, it was quite a large piece, but it came out quite easily, so I say pooh to that. I still flinch every time I have to snap the cut piece of glass out of the pane, and the shards get really tiny if you don't do it correctly. I have the scars to prove it.

Workplace health and safety issues aside, the group of women I work with are all extroverts. Its fun, its loud, its riotous, its loud, and its very difficult to concentrate, so I have to shut everyone out when I am trying to cut a complicated piece. They call me the 'quiet achiever' because I spend more time working than I do talking, but apparently there is another QA in one of the other classes, so I don't feel so bad. One thing I love while being in this group is watching group dynamics. Often one of the ladies will ask for help picking a colour for a piece, or knowing which pattern to use. I love picking my colours and using my patterns, but I am constantly amazed at how others seem to think that this involves some sort of shamanistic talents. I have done it all my life, but others struggle with things like this. The fact is, everyone can do it, you just need to have the confidence in your own abilities. Individuation can give us that confidence. If we are happy to know we are different to everyone else and rejoice in our uniqueness, then we can make those decisions without fear. There are so many people still though who feel far more comfortable giving somebody else the power to make those decisions for them. They actually prefer to be part of a crowd than they do being themselves and separate.

I guess that's where the real difference between introverts and extroverts can be seen. Its not just where you get your energy, but where you get your identity. We can glory in our still days when nobody else is around, as much as we enjoy the presence of others, and the conversation that we can have. I must admit, I have still noticed that when I speak others are more likely to either ignore me, or not even hear me. I have to yell, I have to use energy I just don't have, to be heard. I would rather go on being a quiet achiever than use the energy I need to concentrate . If the group dynamics change, the numbers drop for example, or a new person comes into the group, then I will attempt to say more. Sometimes that works, but I still tend to feel like a fraud for dominating the conversation with strangers. How dare I do all the talking? I should give others a go. It feels unnatural.

Not so when I am talking to somebody who knows me well. I will talk long and hard about something that I feel strongly about. They know me, so I don't have to excuse my intensity, and they sometimes speak just as intensely about the subject. Its also exhausting, but I don't tend to feel like I am compromising anyone, including myself.

Individuation is a strange thing. For me, it is a personal goal. I have no idea what I will look like when it is finished, perhaps it never will be. I will be on my death bed wondering how I can still improve my shining hour. For me however, heaven is the place of final individuation. Whatever I manage to accomplish on earth, when I die, I will be in the place of absolute perfection, so I guess God will do the rest.

For now though, I will continue to listen, and I will make sure that I will encourage others to be themselves too.

Comedy of Errors

I watched the Oxfam Melbourne Comedy Festival Gala last night. I seriously needed a laugh. Our doggie had to be put down over the weekend since she had injured herself really seriously, then developed an infection whilst staying at the vets overnight when they X-rayed her leg. It was terrible and sad and the whole family was affected. Everyone really except my 15 year old, who is apparently training at the Arnold Schwarzenegger Online School of Manly Reactions. I know he cares, he is just not showing it. This is apparently a common reaction for teenage boys so I needn’t worry that he is going to implode or self-destruct. Every time I ask him if he is OK, he looks at me funny and says ‘Yep, I’m cool’. So I have stopped asking him.

So I needed a laugh last night. I had been really looking forward to this ‘Televisual Feast’, as John Cleese would say. I was severely disappointed. Look, don’t get me wrong. My favourites were there, Flacco, the Umbilical Brothers, Tripod, but nobody else seemed remotely funny. In fact, since I was sitting with my twelve year old daughter, a lot of the time I had to turn over because the humour was just offensive. Had I been sitting there all by me oncey, I would have said the offensive stuff wasn’t funny. So I just turned over to the Andrew Denton interview with Wayne Carey on the ABC, or flicked around to the CSI NYC, or that other fatuous programme on 7 about money laundering, Dirty….something or whatever the hell its called. I actually got more of a laugh watching that one. I had flicked over during an ad break, caught about 5 nano seconds of it, and thought, this has got to be a satire surely? I don’t think it was. The acting was REALLY bad. I mean, REALLY REALLY bad. The scene I saw was of a priest and a girl pseudo-passionately kissing and ripping each other’s clothes off, but it was truly ridiculous. His dog collar looked like it had been made for a Rottweiler, and the actor playing the priest was so badly miscast, that he looked like an extra from the Sydney Mardi Gras. Even Dynasty, which never took itself too seriously, AND had bad acting, AND produced role models for the Sydney Mardi Gras was never as terrible as this.

So I flicked back to Oxfam’s offering and kept wishing it would get better. Fortunately for everyone the acts only lasted a couple of minutes each; Irish comics, American comics, British comics, Australian comics. The women were terrible. Somebody needs to tell Fiona O’Loughlin that Phylis Dyller did her jokes thirty years ago and they are no longer funny. Menopause, children, Pap Smears (?), OK, Phyllis didn’t do Pap Smear Jokes but she would have if they had them back then. Look, Fiona, don’t really want to know about your arse, OR your hormones and I am a woman. There was a woman ventriloquist (no, I ain’t going to give you details I can’t be bothered giving these people free publicity), who was crap awful. I hate ventriloquists anyway. I figure they should stick to amusing six-year-olds, who think the sock puppet is actually real. Again, cringeworthy stuff which makes you wish for the good old days of vaudeville when a well-aimed ripe tomato would speak a thousand words.

There was musical stuff (I exclude the excellent Tripod in this because these guys have actually honed their act) which was just terrible. There was an American couple whose sole claim to fame was singing some line about a dead horse over and over for the whole two minutes they were on the stage. People actually laughed at it, I kept changing channel, and then going back hoping they had finished, and they hadn’t. They even had the bollocks to keep going after an ad break. Folks, when I want a live version of Crazy Frog, I will let you know. This was just an insult to everyone’s intelligence.

In fact, I think the whole night was an insult, not just to the live audience, but the rest of Australia. Hey you, just watch this crap for a couple of hours because we are trying to raise funds for Somalian refugees; a worthy cause. I wouldn’t tell the Somalians that you were using the cast of the Night of The Living Dead to convince Australians to send money. Mostly Australians will send money for anything worthwhile since we are a generous lot, as so ably demonstrated by the willingness of the live audience to not only tolerate but reward comedic failure. My guess is they felt sorry for them, and it was all in a good cause anyway. And they could well have been drunk.

There was one guy who was kind of a mixture of those really terrible British stand-up comedians of the sixties and seventies, and a misogynistic arsehole. Oops, that’s kind of redundant isn’t it. He thought that jokes about his wife being shorter than him, his wife being in labour, or other jokes about his wife were really funny. In fact, and this is a first, he had to stop in the middle of his routine, and reassure his audience that it was ‘just a joke’. THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is a really bad sign. I am guessing that the looks on the faces of the women in the front row probably said it all. Outdated, offensive, chauvinistic, stupid and above all, NOT funny.

So the choice last night was pretty dismal. Watch Wayne Carey lying, watch C grade Hollywood actors not even trying, watch re-runs of CSI, or watch the cringe festival. Wayne Carey is an Australian footballer in the middle of a very big controversy. He is kind of Australia’s answer to O.J…. but without the helicopter coverage. Watching him lying last night was a truly terrifying sight. Even Andrew Denton (the interviewer) was having a hard time hiding his micro-smirk of satisfaction, He was hanging, drawing and quartering this man, and Mr. Carey seemed not to realize how much of a pit he was digging for himself. On one occasion, Denton produced an audio-comment regarding an alleged incident with a food caravan from uber-shock-jock Derryn Hinch. Carey sits there in apparent stunned disbelief, turns to Andrew and says ‘Can he say that?’, then in quick succession ‘Do you believe that?’ to both Denton and the audience.

Wayne, Wayne, Wayne, somebody needs to tell your manager to keep a tight leash on those naughty ABC executives. Or somebody needs to tell Wayne to get new mangement. Either they knew what Denton was going to present at the interview and let him do it, or they didn’t know and that is really just plain stupid. TV interviews are like law courts, don’t let them ask questions you don’t already know the answer to. Politicians and actors lie convincingly as part of their jobs, sportspeople need to get up to speed, especially if your last name is Carey or Warne. Denton looked like the king of the castle when Carey started pleading for mercy. It was painful. I turned back to CSIRO. Sorry, wrong acronym….CSI (CSIRO is our national science researcher). No, that wasn’t funny either. Well, sorry, its catching.

The thing about unfunny comedians is that they are profoundly depressing. Its not enough that they are allowed to get up there and act like annoying six-year-olds who don’t get enough attention at home, but nobody seems to want to recognize their dire lack of talent. At least on an ‘Idol’ type programme you get three judges who are paid to tell you that you suck, and then you get thrown off in a blaze of insults and ignominy. Nothing says failure like an anonymous TV audience texting, as one, their preference for the other guy. Here, there is no crap-o-meter, no voting, no choice. Watch the crap, or watch something else. I guess the one thing that does make it clear to these wannabes is that if nobody buys tickets to their show, then they know they are just a one-night-stand. The problem with these sorts of televised comedy ‘festivals’ is that you are supposed to be watching the cream of the crop. That’s what’s depressing. Is this the best Melbourne has to offer? Who the hell is making these decisions, and are they all drunk?

Maybe I am just getting old. Yep, it must be my fault. I have lived long enough to have heard every joke under the sun, and when you have heard them enough times, they just cease to tickle you. No. Don’t buy that. Classic funny, is still classic funny. Robin Williams is the only man who can do vagina jokes and still retain some class. Take note Fiona and the sleazy sixties re-run guy. Maybe that’s because of his stint as Mrs Doubtfire, but maybe its because the rest of his humour provides enough evidence of his fierce intelligence and his ability to think outside the square. Its not verbal diarrhoea, its social commentary, and true comedians are the only ones which society allows to say what everyone else is thinking without vilification. Say it well, make us laugh, and we will let you tear holes in everyone’s insulated little PC lives and love you for it. Because true comics speak the truth. Truth is painful, but that’s why humans have a sense of humour, it helps us deal with the truth without going insane. You know that saying, ‘you either laugh or you cry’ because something is so painful, well that’s why a brilliant comedian is a joy forever.

As a society, we should never let just anyone get up on stage and talk dirty to us in the effort to make us laugh. We are insulting our own intelligence and not being really honest with ourselves or the guy trying to be funny. If you aren’t a good comedian, you should just cut your losses, and stop trying. Good comedians evolve naturally, they have a gift. They are what they are, they make people laugh because they have worked out human nature, and their observations are based on their own failures and pain. Pain is actually the mother of comedy, it is not supposed to be the illegitimate child.

So …. Melbourne Comedy Festival is getting trite and needs to take a good hard look at itself. CSI, well, they just keep churning out the same old same old. We know what we get and that’s why we watch it, like Mcdonalds, or Days of Our Lives. Dirty Sexy Money, unintentional humour and truly appalling acting. Bad actors, bad comedians, bad sportsmen, some can get away with it, others just plummet like a sock full of ball bearings down a stairwell. I guess it ends up being about personality, but for me, its all about authenticity. If you are a comedian because you have wit, energy, honesty, and people genuinely like you then go for it you will succeed. If you are just testing the waters and keep finding that you are the only one in the pool, then head for the hills. Nobody will judge you for recognizing your own weaknesses. There is nothing more blenchable, wincemaking and cringeworthy than somebody who has no clue that they are bombing dismally and just keeps going anyway. Just ask Wayne Carey.

Ten Things I hate about Soap Operas

The first in a series of 'Ten Things I Hate', and I thought I would start with the thing which has plagued me for probably the last thirty years. I watch soap operas, with a fair amount of self-loathing. In fact, when I was younger, and cared about what the neighbours thought, I used to turn down the TV when the theme music for Days of Our Lives started lest anyone recognise it and realise I watched.

Most of these points are self-evident, but I thought I would put them down for posterity. So here's my list of why I hate soap operas. P.S. The grammatical construction of these is not parallel. I have started with participles, but just decided 'bugger that' after they got boring. So for those grammar gurus, an example of poor blog writing.

Ten Things I Hate About Soap Operas

1. Admitting I watch soap operas.

2. Getting hooked on the plot development and HAVING to watch it the next day.

3. If a soap opera character coughs they will die from an incurable disease, if a soap opera character faints, they are pregnant. This one works every time, and has been transferred fairly successfully to TV movies. Same thing really.

4. One dimensional characters who suddenly develop a secondary personality, or another physical likeness altogether, for one or more of the following reasons.-

being an evil twin
possession by the devil
suffering an incurable disease (brain tumour)
mind control by evil genius
replacement by a surgically altered lookalike henchman of evil genius
replacement by another actor

5. The way that characters seem to think it entirely natural to converse with one another’s backs.

6. A happy marriage on a soap opera is just a blank cheque for the following –

Adultery
An incurable disease
The return of a previous lover long thought deceased
The emergence of a previous life of debauchery and shame heretofore hidden in suppressed memory
The emergence of a marriage wrecker in the form of an old boy/girlfriend

7. A death on a soap opera is never the end of the character. The character will inevitably turn up after a reasonable time lapse (i.e. three to six months in real time) or a turnover in scriptwriters as :-

a) a ghost
b) themselves – the death was a trick devised by themselves or,
– the death was a trick devised by an evil genius or,
– the death was a mistake by the authorities who strangely never investigated why there was no body accompanying the burned out car/ plane wreck/ suicide note.

8. A divorce on a soap opera is never the end of the marriage – there is always room for a reconciliation no matter how traumatic or drawn out the initial break-up.

9. The genealogical complexity of any given character is in direct proportion to their popularity.

10. Natural ageing of actors/charactors is not tolerated. All physical appearances by actors in a soap opera should be heavily augmented by make-up, padding, plastic surgery, ornate jewellery, wigs, high heels. Studio lighting should be subdued to the point of inciting a thorough and ultimately fruitless examination of the contrast and brightness controls of t.v. by the viewer.

The Getting of Irritation

I spent this week traveling hundreds of kilometres a day, taking my kids to their new school. No, we haven’t moved yet. GAAAHHHHHH!!!!

You know, you would think an introvert would enjoy being on their own all day. I have had to stay in the vicinity of the new school, because it hasn’t been worth driving all the way back home just for the few hours I would be at home. So, I have been checking out the area, sitting in parks with the dog, sitting by myself in the car. We don’t know anyone in the area, so I can’t really visit people even if I wanted to. I have spent some time down at the new very cool school helping out in admin. The admin ladies are a hoot. I have enjoyed talking to people with a sense of humour. They show a great deal of compassion for our situation. This school is SO much better than the last one. Last one was run by Stepford wives and Control freaks.
But that’s all gone away now.

Its funny when you are in your own home, you are able to appreciate your own space. When you are in a public space, and nowhere is your comfort zone, you go a little crazy. I found it an incredibly emotional time. I have only rung my husband sobbing hysterically once I think. I found myself thinking of street people who have nowhere to call home permanently. I couldn’t imagine being on my own all the time and having no comfortable space of my own in a private home. I know their issues are much more complex, more to do with mere survival, but for me survival is very much dependent on being in a comfort zone.

Speaking of comfort zones, we also checked out a potential home yesterday, along with about a dozen other people. I had been trying to kid myself that the realtor was joking, or playing some sort of real estate mind game, when she said that a lot of other people were interested in this house. We got there, and so did a half dozen other cars at the same time. It was incredibly depressing. Only one of us would get the house. Our odds of competing and winning are frustratingly low. My husband still sends in the bottle caps of his favourite iced coffee every summer to win that new utility. He is undaunted by odds. As an introvert, I am overwhelmed by them.

So, we shuffled through the house with the others. One very overweight couple, the guy chainsmoking and laughing loudly seemed to be making their presence felt fairly obviously. Were they trying to intimidate the others? They kept talking to the realtor, and making expansive gestures. Others were talking about the last house they looked at, others again were talking about how they were ‘just looking’ at the house and not sure if they were interested. I felt like screaming at the top of my lungs ‘If you don’t have the same desperate interest in this house as we do, get the hell out now!!!’. I was pretty darn sure nobody else had been driving hundreds of kilometers all week to get their kids to school.

Let me put this into perspective. This house had everything we were looking for, was the right price, and in the right location. In fact it was so much the right location I had recently discovered the only school bus route which had places left was the one which drove right past the end of the street. We were bloody desperate. We still don’t know if they will ring us to tell us we won’t get it.

I have been trying to go with the idea that convincing yourself you won’t get it and then being pleasantly surprised is infinitely better than kidding yourself that the house is yours and then discovering it isn’t. I just have no threshold for further distress at this point in my life. I will still have to drive the kids to school even if we do get this house because we can’t move in for another couple of weeks yet.

What’s worse is visiting the real estate office with your application and trying to maintain a devil-may-care attitude about whether you get the house, when all you really want to do is lean over the counter, grab the receptionist by the collar haul her over the desk until you are looking at her nose to nose and demand that she recommend you to the owners because you are really nice people.

Property management agents are a strange group. Alot of the ones I have met are pretty rude, awful and detestable people. They work for the owners, not you and they seem to have alot of trouble hiding their derision of you, the mere peasant who pays the land owners mortgage. They seem to forget that they are actually servants of the land owners and are being paid to do their jobs. Since few property owners take the trouble to check on how their managers are doing their jobs, they are allowed to have their head. Like anyone who usurps power, they have perfected the art of not giving a shit. Some of them enjoy messing with your head. Like the one I had once who used to enjoy looking in all your cupboards whenever she inspected the property. She was just supposed to be checking the general state of the house, not poking through our personal stuff. I remember hearing a story once of a manager who told a tennant that she should 'clean up the sink, you still have dishes to do'. The tenant had only just had her breakfast. The kitchen was spotless otherwise, but the agent had chosen that opportunity to intimidate and harass the tenant, simply because she could.

Fortunately, most of the agents we have dealt with since moving to Melbourne have been really considerate and pleasant people. They have been in small country towns and they have been sweet natured and relaxed. The agents for this house yesterday are leaning towards the nazi sympathizer type. You can always tell. It’s the steely gaze coupled with the pretense of familiarity. In other words, they are going to make you bend over for it. Take no prisoners, you are the tenant, I am the agent, you do as I tell you and no complaints because I will make you sorry you tangled with me. You really have no recourse with these sorts of people other than putting aside all your human traits and squaring off with your best Rottweiler expression, and quietly intimidating voice. We are the tenants and actually we do have rights and if you think you are dealing with some kind of pushovers you are completely wrong.

Its all so unnecessary.

Of course you still have to get the damn house. That involves a certain use of what may be called tact, but I call pretending. Pretending that you don't want the house, but are just applying for it because you like to give the agents something to do. Pretending that you believe they will tell you if you don't get the house. Pretending that you care even if you do get the house. Other types of pretend I won't do. That involves smiling indulgently every time you are addressed, and engaging in peppy small talk. While we were handing over our application yesterday, the agent asked whether we liked the house, as she hadn't seen it yet. I stood there looking at her like she had just come down in the last shower of rain. Hell. No lady. We didn't like the house a'tall. The fact that we just handed you an application should tell you that! Then she wanted to know what had brought us to the area. Gee....lets see....you mean, OTHER than inspecting a rental property? I was really, really tired by that point, and NOT into stupidity of any description. In fact, by that point, I was willing to walk away from the house altogether. I would rather continue driving my kids to school every day than put up with this woman as an agent. But then we kind of had no choice on account of everything else I have just told you.

So she witnessed the agreement which says that you have to allow to the owners of the house and the agents using your personal information (involving an incredible degree of intrusion – copies of bank statements, copies of birth certificates, copies of every other private piece of information you have ever had) in whatever manner they deem necessary or they won’t process your application. Its actually blackmail. If we don’t get the house I am going to go the agents and personally make sure they shred every copy of every piece of information they have of ours.
As we left the office, the agent said breezily "We'll let you know shortly". Chuh, yeah! Shortly. What does that mean. The owners can take as long as they like and keep you hanging for days. The agents on the other hand may enjoy just keeping us hanging. That's a real good game that one. Its called, 'he who makes the first phone call about the house loses'. If you call first, it means you really DID want the house. It also usually means that they didn't call you so you probably DIDN'T get the house. So, you not only lose the house, you lose your dignity. On the other hand if you DID get the house, they ring you and tell you to come in and sign the lease, which essentially can be passed off as 'just doing their job', no skin off their nose. Sometimes, they're all charming and generous until the point where you actually sign the lease, and then its back to Nazi sympathiser. I have actually witnessed the cold chill passing through the office seconds after your pen lifts off the paper from your last signature.

I have this fantasy where the agent rings and tell us our application has been accepted. I say to her "Well, I need to just consult with my husband, you know, we have a few other houses we have been accepted for, I'll get back to you shortly". Then you hang up and put your feet up and have a cup of coffee. You do some errands or something else for a couple of hours, and then ring them back at around 5 pm to tell them you'll accept.

It would be a sheer indulgence. The agent could always just pass you over and ring the next person on the list whenever they feel like it. That's the hell of the current rental market. They will never be without applications, you on the other hand are at the mercy of the owners and agents. Bugger!

Being Australian AND an Introvert aren't Mutually Exclusive

G'day.

I hate that word. (actually phrase...it's short for Good Day).

Today is Australia Day.

No, I am not going to tell you what that is. You will have to google it like I did.

Today is Australia Day, and I am not 'having a barbie' or sunbaking, or other typical 'Australian things'. Today, I am packing. Yes....we are still packing. We THINK we have found a house, but we have to go through the inevitable 'selection process', which involves sitting chewing your nails wondering whose application is going to be 'the chosen one'. Its up to the owners of the house of course. The whole process is particularly soul destroying for an introvert. I am not into competition of any kind, but I especially hate the sort of competition which involves this amount of pain.

My kids are packing stuff in their bedrooms. Here is a snatch from an overheard conversation between my two teenagers, my son having chastised my daughter for the amount of 'stuff' she has in her room. Imagine this being said with all the haughty disdain a young teenage girl can muster...

"I''m a girl Alexander, you wanna know how much stuff I got in that room? I got four boxes already....last year I had eight!!!. This will be the smallest amount of boxes yet. Except for when I was a little kid".

So we aren't exactly 'celebrating'. Usually Australia Day involves a holiday of some sort, this year its a long weekend. Australia has been touted on occasion as the 'land of the long weekend', which is better than being the 'land of the long white cloud'. I'm sorry, I had to throw that in, I have relatives in New Zealand.

I read an interesting editorial in 'The Age' last weekend by Rachel Hills, who is also the associate editor of newmatilda.com. Here is an excerpt from her article on Australia Day...

"You've probably guessed that I'm not the most enthusiastic patriot around. And you'd be right. I can't remember the last time I watched a football game. Ive been to the cricket once - seven years ago, when I was 18. I took a magazine and asked why the players took so long to "pitch" (yes, I now know the correct term is 'bowl'). Possessing the pale skin of my Irish heritage, I go to the beach about once each year and leave with dry, pink shoulders no matter how much sun-screen I put on. (Amen to that...Meg)

I prefer cities to the bush. I only drink beer when there's nothing else available. Lest it sound as though I've wholeheartedly and elitistly rejected the core tenets of Australian culture, I should point out that those particular tenets of Australian culture rejected me first.

I was a child too short-sighted to catch a ball, who spent her weekends borrowing the maximum allowed number of books from the local library. Sporty, bronzed, anti-intellectualist Australia and I just didn't mesh. Which isn't to say that I was ever particularly bothered by it. I learned early, as most people do, to find people who were 'like me' and to block out the noise of everyone else. If the beer-bottle-chucking, bus-seat-pissing, flag-waving folks wanted to claim the mantle of "Australian" for themselves, they could go right ahead. I'd just sit over here and be unAustralian then, thankyou very much.

But, as you're probably thinking, that's kind of stupid. Because while the people who wear the Australian flag as a cape at music festivals - or who cheer "Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, oi, oi, oi" at the cricket - might be the showiest about their nationality, they don't have a monopoly on what being Australian is. And nor should they."

Rachel says nothing about being an introvert, but bless her little cotton keyboard, she is one right enough. All of us out there in blogdom will recognise the signs. As many of my readers are from the U.S., I am sure you will understand the dichotomy involved in being an introvert in a largely extrovert culture. I think Australians and Americans have similar ideas about the great outdoors, competitive sports (are there any other kind?), and alcohol.

Personally I, like Rachel Hills, have found myself a niche. Hopefully, I will find myself another one in this new house we are looking at, it has 5 bedrooms, that's 5...count 'em....1, 2, 3, 4.....OK....you've got the picture. What that means for me is that I get to have a room to myself, if I can beat my husband to it. It means I can put my laptop in there along with all the other accoutrement that accompany it, and I will have a door to shut and a sign to put on that door which warns others of my availability. Yes.......Please God....we NEED that house.

Now, sorry, I digress, I am actually talking about a psychological niche, not a physical one. I am talking about preferring to sit inside, not outside, to watch sports from my peripheral vision rather than giving it my undivided attention, and to not drink alcohol at all, unless its a very cheeky sweet little Rose with a wonderful bouquet and no bitey tendencies. I am talking about being the intellectual, anti-sport, arty-farty type of Australian (of which Melbourne has its fair share I am delighted to tell you). The sporty bronzed types usually give us arty pale types a wide berth, and we do them the same courtesy. Its a wonderful life.

No, Australians are not all the same. Just like all humans aren't the same. Its just irritating when people, especially other nationalities, expect you to do and say things which are supposedly typical of your nationality. I am sure Americans from states other than Texas would be highly irritated if other nationalities expected them all to respond enthusiastically to "Howdy y'all". I had a friend from Texas once. She drank from jam (jelly) jars (I asked her about the rims once and didn't she find them annoying, she said she didn't even notice them), she said 'y'all' alot, and had little maps of the state of Texas up on her walls around the house. She was very tall, and very patriotic. She was also the only Texan I knew at the time. That has since changed. No, they don't all act like that. But she did. So, obviously stereotypes fit some of the people some of the time, but not all of the people all of the time. That's life.

In the same manner, many Australians, myself included get a little peeved when other nationalities expect you to laugh and pat others enthusiastically on the back when greeted by "G'day mate". It doesn't wash. I met my English cousins for the first time some years back. They are from the posh part of London. When we were introduced, they put out a hand and said 'G'day mate' ....with an attempt at an Australian accent. We laughed self-consciously, but I am sure our expressions said it all. They looked a little sheepish after that, and abandoned the accent and attempts at bon-homie. But really. I mean....my own family. We were tempted to think of them as snobby Brits, but in fact they aren't. They just sound like that.

So, happy Australia Day y'all. For us its today, for others its tomorrow, either way its January the 26th, get used to it. As for why we celebrate, the origins of our great National Holiday have (for some of us) been lost in the mists of time, despite the attempts of the Education Department to instill a sense of patriotism into our school curriculum. Yes, I did learn about Australia Day at school, no, I can't remember whether it was federation or something to do with Captain Cook. Yes, that is pathetic. Sorry, I don't feel bad about it.

Australia sometimes chastises itself over it's general apathy regarding our history, but then we have not had to fight a war of Independence to get to this point. We will not have to fight a war of independence ever, all we will have to do is mobilise ourselves as a nation to say yes to becoming a republic. We nearly did it some years ago, the vote was something like 49% to 51% against. Maybe next time. Either way, if you ever meet an Australian down your street, whether its London, Rome, Vancouver or Minneapolis, pleeeeeeeese just smile and say hello in your normal voice.

Snackfood - an obituary

Audacious, pushy, insolent and domineering. Thankyou Thesaurus.com. I was trying to think of words to describe the potato chip (or crisp if you are from the UK). I was going to start by calling them humble. The humble chip. But they aren't. They are... In Your Face. Full of, lets see....SALT which is one of the strongest flavours known to mankind. That's just the plain ones. Then you have Salt and Vinegar (Vinegar, another Very Strong flavour), Cheese and Onion (can anyone say indigestion), Barbeque (whatever that means), and now all those poncy flavours like Honey Soy (Soy Sauce - main ingredient salt), and Sweet Chilli and Sour Cream (Chilli - yes I think we have the idea).

When I was a kid we used to eat chips occasionally. They were 'treat' foods. Only birthday parties and christmas feasts involved the use of chips. When I became a teenager, chips were my delight. I loved strong flavours and crunch. I was an extreme food-aholic. Now its a different story. I have tried including snack foods as a 'sometimes' part of my kids diet, so that they don't think of them as being 'special' as I did. I figured this way, they wouldn't crave them as I did as a kid. No special emotional pull. I was wrong. The more they eat, the more they want. Well that's no good is it.

I recently decided that I no longer like chips. And that's a big discovery I need to tell you. Not just because of their cocky and obviously extrovert tendencies (always at parties, you can't stop at one you have to keep going etc), but because the flavour just doesn't do it for me anymore. All I taste now is oil and too much salt. I actually like oil. My favourite is avocado oil infused with lime. Yes it sounds pretentious, I don't care, it tastes wonderful. I mean, the taste is so good you don't want too much. A little is alot etc. Its the food for introverts. I have even been experimenting with other types of oils. There is a new one on the market (10AUD - alot for a bottle of oil), called Carotino Oil which, surprisingly isn't made from carrots, its made from Palm Fruit. Its a beautiful colour, orangey-red, and doesn't really taste that strong, but I am into experimentation at this point in my life. Suffice it to say that chips are not cooked in exotic tasting quality oils. I don't want to think beyond this point. Whenever I think of vats of cooking oil, all I keep coming up with is the local fish and chippery "Micks" when I was a kid and his vats of well-used vegetable oil in which he used to cook his hot chips (same word, made from potato, cut differently...people from the UK know what I am talking about, people from anywhere else may like to know these are sort of like fries except thicker). The hot chips tasted great, just don't tell Health and Safety about the oil.

But back to potato chips....So when you eat the pushy chip, you are getting a big smack in the mouth. Too much salt, too much of everything really, no actual nutrition and alot of noise. Great when you are a kid, OK when you are a teenager, really depressing when you are a Forty something like me. Finally my mature taste buds are developing though. I am actually quite pleased about that. I get cravings for really fresh bread, or a very small piece of excellent and medium rare lamb. Local cheeses (Victoria is well known for their its local produce like wine, cheese and fruit) and other different tastes also feature on my menu. I am discovering, finally, that small exquisite taste experiences trump large scale assaults on my culinary senses.

One day my children will appreciate this. At the moment, they are working hard in their chosen profession as food critics. Nothing I cook meets with universal approval anymore. Although as I recently realised after cleaning out the cupboards (we are moving remember - no we still haven't found a house, dang!!!!!!!!!!!), our menu is pretty much the same as what it was ten years ago. I shouldn't blame my children. One of my teenage sons is very impressed with Jamie Wassname the TV cook.....you know....what's his name....thankyou...Jamie Oliver. He is very keen to try the meringue recipe Jamie did on the TV the other day. The fact that it requires the use of a whole packet of sugar may have something to do with it. The fact that my son LOVES cooking is a great comfort to me though. .

At this point I would like to give you a quote from one of Melbourne's greatest comics ...

"Why would you want to claim pavlova as your national dish? What self respecting country would whip up half a dozen egg whites and a kilo of sugar and then feed it to adults?"

Rod Quantock

I don't know how Rod feels about chips, but I think the common thread here is that at some point you graduate from extreme taste sensations and settle instead for delicate, definable culinary experiences. So..

Here lies Potato Chips

Much lamented

Not forgotten soon

Don't try digging it up, they were cremated.