Gangs Of Neutral Bay

I remember a brief period in my life when I ran around like the Artful Dodger (minus the thievery… or the artfulness) firmly believing I had what it took to start a street gang. This was in the same era in which I also firmly believed I was capable of building a fort in a tree all by myself, that my new writing project The Tiger, The Wizard & The Trunk was a work of original genius, and that I was destined to appear on Broadway because my god I could sing. I was 8.


All these beliefs were fostered by a particularly supportive set of parents and an addiction to Enid Blyton. While reality, gravity, copyright and a notably traumatic moment when I was asked to mime (because I was putting the rest of the choir off) brought me back to earth, I still think of that time as the most limitless I ever knew – I could do anything (except watch the Keifer Sutherland version of The Three Musketeers, that terrified me).

And lately I’ve had the chance to re-live that heady mix of grass stains, gravel rash, childhood politics and make believe thanks largely to the Street Gang. The Street Gang is what we call the mob of children who have all suddenly hit The Age of Limited Supervision-based Frolicking that comes when one enters primary school and is thus allowed to hover, recklessly, within yelling distance of a family’s front door.

And so the Street Gang gathers each afternoon without fail. They barter over bamboo sticks, take turns riding skateboards down a tiny incline and give a superb day-by-day audio study of how long it takes for a boy’s voice to break. They also use impeccable logic during imaginary wars, like “I shot you, I used my gun with the biggest range”.


While I’m grateful this means they’ve finally moved on from the lengthy phase in which they used to heckle me from the fence, trying to sell me their crap paintings, I was mildly concerned when an older kid recently introduced them to several rather adult 4 letter words. Vocabulary expansion is vital, but I think their parents might be worried about where they’re picking that shit up from.

Given all the nostalgia this has evoked for me, I’ve had to work over time to appear aloof, rather than creepily invested. I may not be helping myself when I give them gang signs as I drive past, and declare loudly “So that’s where you’re hiding!” if I walk by one using a hedge for cover during a water pistol version of hide-and-seek. Yep, way to play if cool Painefull.

I guess I’m just envious. They’re at that stage when the street you live on seems gigantic, and they don’t have to justify reading Enid Blyton (or Harry Potter, or Hunger Games). Ah well, if nothing else, at least I can comfort myself with the fact that I have ten times more road sense, no enforced bed time, and my worst skin is behind me. And I’m not that rather jolly, well-rounded rednut. He seems lovely, but high school is not going to be kind to him.




Painefull Out

Someone Else’s Art Project

A long, long time ago I had really severe issues with cutting my hair. I had dead straight blonde locks and the very idea of losing them terrified me. That goes some way towards explaining why photos between the ages of 5 and 10 have me looking like I was trying to get cast as Creepy Ghost Girl #4 (the other half of that explanation is that I was, and in fact remain, as pale as a ghost).


My hair was one of the key reasons I dreaded Mother Painefull going away for any length of time. That left Father Painefull and I staring at each other fearfully each morning in the knowledge that he was going to have to plait my hair. Nobody looked forward to that (including the neighbour who would then re-plait my hair as I went past on the way to school). Pity the Housemistress who inherited that problem once I headed off to boarding school.

Mother Painefull once became so exasperated with my refusal to have any significant haircut that she tried to trick me into getting one by lying to me about how big 10 inches was. Luckily she was foiled.

It wasn’t until late high school, sometime after my fellow boarders threw out my beloved overalls and before Mrs Woog frogmarched me to get my ears pierced, that I truly accepted what was clearly an irrefutable truth – it’s just hair. This occurred to me just as I was coming to terms with the fact that Life wasn’t really going to let me sail through it as an Icy Blonde, no Life was intent on making me a Mousy Brown.

Determined to deny the genetic instructions being sent to my follicles I began an era (that still continues) of Open Season on my hair. After some trial and error it became apparent that, wait for it, hairdressers know more about hair than I do. Revelation City: Population 1.

But my ongoing system of pulling out a book, telling the professional with the scissors to do what they want and letting them have at it hasn’t always led to resounding applause. Sometimes I have to agree, yes, the hairdresser has made me look like some weird hybrid Zebra-Cheetah.

Some of my more distinctive outcomes have included…

The ‘Funky’ Asymmetrical Cut
Useful For: playing Two-Face in a community theatre production of The Dark Knight


Verdict
SALON STRANGER: (1st to the woman next to me)Wow, I just want to tell you I love your hair. (turns to me) Yours is… well I’d never have that kind of but… aren’t you… but each to their own, right?

Back Of Head EXPLOSION Cut
Useful For: being the body double for Kate Gosselin during her own hair EXPLOSION era


Verdict
DAME DEADPAN (former boss): Well now the back of your head is better to look at than the front of your head.

Top Deck Colour
Useful For: paying tribute to a superb block of chocolate


Verdict
MRS WOOG: I didn’t like your hair last year.
ME: Which look?
MRS WOOG: All of it – 2009 was a bad hair year for you.

Plum-tacular
Useful For: looking like the unemployed, oddly red-tinged student I currently am
Verdict
LIVINIA: Don’t take this badly but the word that comes to mind is... ‘Newtown’. Then paired with your glasses, you know thick rimmed and square, it’s kind of like… Newtown times Newtown*.

And so my quest to avoid the Mousy Destiny fate intends for my hair continues. And every time I look up to discover what some overly-chatty hairdresser has done in the process, I can reassure myself that at least hair (like my dignity) will always grow back.


Painefull Out

* = Newtown, for the unfamiliar, is where the Sydney student-art crowd typically can be found sipping lattes while wearing brightly coloured, mismatched footwear, berets, skinny black jeans and statement shirts, paired with the ironic gaze of someone who knows exactly how soy products are made. When Livinia likens a person’s hair to Newtown (as she did this Saturday), she's just searching for a polite, euphemistic way to say she’s not a fan.

The Leap Year*

There’s something utterly brilliant about the concept of a Leap Year. It’s the answer humanity created to overcome the fact that the natural world is perfectly imperfect. We measure, and weigh and quantify every minute of every day, but just like when I used to try and do maths, there always seems to be a strange number left over we can’t quite account for. I love that no one questions the solution of simply compiling all those leftovers into an extra day every 4 years. It’s like AFL, and Lost, and Lady Gaga lyrics – it doesn’t really make sense, but we’re okay with it.

A fresh revelation about Leap Year that amuses me is that because it’s never considered when drawing up contracts, most people don’t actually get paid for that day of work. And you know why I can allow myself to be amused? Because I no longer work.

I’m currently unemployed… on purpose. I know, great time to be embracing the end of an income, right? Next thing you know I’ll be moving to Greece – apparently that’s where it’s at. I wasn’t born on the 29th of February, but 2012 is kind of my Leap Year. In what often feels like a rather irrational act, I’ve returned to the hallowed halls of education all in the name of furthering my attempt to be a Real Writer (much like being a Real Girl, I suspect all it takes is commitment and an acceptance of extreme discomfort).

I’ll be spending my days at film school. Dawson Leery, you fictional, shining forehead you, I hope you’re proud.

After 2012 I will return to pretending to be a Grown Up. Aspirations are good. Goals are necessary. Sometimes dreams are better. Eventually reality will become so loud it’ll drown them out, but until then… once more into the breach (it’s brimming with company).


Painefull Out

* = I was going to call this ‘How I Learnt To Stop Worrying & Start Making Immature Life Choices’ but that title was a little epic, even for me, a lover of lengthy turns of phrase.

A Very Painefull Christmas

For the first time in several years the entire Family Painefull has converged upon the parental home for Christmas. That’s 5 couples, 7 children and me (failing to bring in fresh blood by either love or reproduction, I continue to let the team down).


The festive season is a time of year packed with traditions, and my family is no different. Some, such as dancing on tables, public waxing and streaking may have gone by the wayside, but new ones have sprung up in their place. With that in mind, before driving out to the Dor I put together a list of things that I predicted must occur for it to be a proper Painefull Christmas family gathering. I am happy to report I had 100% accuracy. The Family Painefull is made up of two different but equally important branches, the people who had a mattress to sleep on this Christmas and those that slept on the floor, these are their stories (*ding ding* [Law & Order noise]).

1. Whatever I am wearing will be wrong, but in the spirit of Christmas several people will try not to mention this fact until they can’t contain it anymore.Correct: It took Mrs Woog quite a while to ask me if I was wearing a pair of old school pants (I wasn’t).

2. The kids will receive 5 million gifts. Responses may vary from those who are teenagers and thus too cool, those who get excited every time someone hands them something to unwrap and those who aren’t interested in anything that isn’t covered in glitter. Correct: There were the usual double-ups (like the time Harry received 4 microscopes, this year’s microscope was the water pistol… and apparently water pistols now require batteries) and Jack looked ready to cry. Meanwhile the youngest nephew relished every gift as if it was his first.

3. There will be a remarkable amount of conversation about how everything would be better if the parentals owned a pool. There will then be a lot of conversation about whether we should turn the air conditioning on already. After it’s been turned on, someone will keep mysteriously turning it off. This person will be Father Painefull. The air conditioning will have little to no effect anyway because everyone else will leave all the doors open.Correct: The Australian summer made its first real cameo of the season. As a result a great deal of the afternoon was spent trialling different detergents on a slip-and-slide and the Brothers Grimm (aka the brothers-in-law) ‘testing’ the water pistols on everybody.

4. Elspeth will make delicious salads, I will wash up like a mo-fo (I’m a washing up specialist – it’s important to play to your strengths).Correct: While we joined Mother Painefull in the kitchen the rest of the family was busy with equally challenging tasks. Mrs Woog was responsible for ‘the look of the table’, the older kids were in charge of ‘child management’ and several people took turns making sure the couches didn’t get up and walk away.

5. Mother Painefull will put on the ULTIMATE feast – many species will be featured.Correct: Beef, pork, chicken, salmon and the Beloved Leg of Ham. The Vegetarian (aka Mrs Ryan, the only vegetarian to own a meat business) was also sorted, thanks to the 4 different types of salad.

6. The children will do a concert (as their parents did before them, for example the traditional sisterly rendition of Miss Otis Regrets followed by No More Tears/Enough Is Enough).Correct: There was a highly competitive dance-off between the nephews and niece. Highly. Competitive. I expect them to draw blood next year. Twas followed by trumpet and guitar solos.

7. Mrs Woog and Mrs Ryan will end the night by entering a smoking, drinking, dancing spiral that culminates with me crying from laughing too hard.Correct: Death Sticks + white wine = my 2 oldest siblings re-enacting their favoured seduction techniques (in such a way that probably should have ended in injury, but didn’t).

There were a couple of other features I failed to predict, but really should have. These included a therapy inducing task for one nephew who had to apply fake tan to his mother, the presence of an Ark full of pets, and the Brothers Grimm disappearing on an ‘errand’ and inexplicably take beer with them (returning 2 hours later).

As usual the operation was a big success. Seeing as this Christmas fad doesn’t seem to be disappearing anytime soon, we’ve decided to do it all again in 364 days. By then we all swear someone will definitely have a pool.


Painefull Out

Is That What You Look Like?

Getting an ID photo taken was never meant to be thrilling, but remember when you were allowed to look decent? Even if you hadn’t bothered to brush your hair, apply any make-up or put on clothing that didn’t make your mother wince on sight (guilty as charged), you could cover all that with a winning smile and the demand to re-take the shot until you got one to your liking. Those were the days. Now the smile, like useable cutlery on airplanes and the reputation of every single code of football, is gone. All we’re left with is a glorified mug shot, like Nick Nolte on a good day.


My passport photo makes me look like a highly qualified, well sought-after drug courier. Aside from the fact that I hate humidity and direct sunlight, my passport is yet another reason I should never visit Bali – it’s like a first class ticket to their finest jail cell. I’ve made a study of how much longer customs officials in foreign countries take to look at my passport compared to friends, and the official stat is 240% longer. My head shot worries them that much.

With this track record in mind I went to renew my drivers’ license last week. Paperwork and money exchange done, I took my seat at the RTA photo booth (SIDE NOTE: I don’t believe in auras – ever since a psychic told me mine was black – but if I did I’d say the RTA office has a fairly ugly one. The building seethed with resentment and frustration as people waited their turn, clutching a ticket, a child and the remainder of their sanity). The woman instructed me to remove my glasses, scrape my fringe out of my eyes and remain expressionless.

When I hopped up and returned to her desk she seemed puzzled. She stared at her computer, then looked at me, then back to the computer. Finally she mumbled, mostly to herself, utterly mystified:

RTA WOMAN: Is that what you look like?

I replied with the hesitant, somewhat defensive ‘Yes’ that ended on a high note to allow for the possibility that it might not be.

RTA WOMAN: Let’s try again.

I obediently went through the photo taking again and returned to the woman. She seemed unsure and looked at me accusingly, as if I was somehow pulling a trick.

RTA WOMAN: Show me your face. Do your photo face.

I gave her me, expressionless and without glasses or Feature Fringe.

RTA WOMAN: Wow. That’s really what you look like.

To allow me to join in her wonder she pivoted her computer screen to give me a glimpse of what I look like (because, you know, how was I, the owner of the face, to truly know?). As I suspected, I looked like a dead-eyed drug runner. It’s what my face does when it relaxes. It’s why people often approach me and ask me what’s wrong and I have to reply “Nothing, it’s just my face”.

What a relief to know I’ve still got it.

Lucky I chose to renew my license for the longest possible period of time. I’ll have another 5 years to remind myself that that really is what I look like.


Painefull Out

The Painefull Buddhist

So Mother Painefull has declared herself a Buddhist. She does this roughly once a month whenever someone mentions killing bugs, or she needs to talk herself down from committing acts of violence against Z-grade idiots who get in her way. Or if she wants get a bible basher all riled up. Or if she needs an excuse to wear tie-dyed clothing. Or is looking for a natural segue into how she saw the Dalai Lama speak once.


Needless to say, after relaying my Life and Death struggle with the BIGGEST spider I have ever come across (he went by the name Nemesis), she was appalled that the battle ended fatally for the combatant that wasn’t her daughter. I tried to explain, it was a Death Match. Obviously.

But mum pulled her classic “I’m a Buddhist” card and got stuck in about living creatures etc. Nothing seemed to make up for the death of Nemesis (Death. Match.).

Instead I was forced to comfort Mother Painefull with the confirmation that I did indeed give Nemesis a proper burial (Pagan rites) in a shoe box.

The problem is… I lied to Mother Painefull, Nemesis did not receive a 21 gun salute and his final resting place was not quite as glamorous as I implied.

And now I’m positively racked with guilt, not so much for the lie, but for the demise of the GIANT spider. It seems when it comes to a Death Match there really is no such thing as winning.


Thanks for nothing Buddha.


Painefull Out

P.S. Dear Nemesis, missing you already. So sorry about the hiking boot incident.

Painefull vs The Animal Kingdom

If it’s true that animals sense evil, then perhaps I should be more concerned about their aversion to me. It might help explain why a giant, hand-sized spider chased me up the stairs the other night.


I’m the kind of person who always imagines extreme scenarios and then comes up with legitimate plans on how to deal with them (I have already alerted Isla that her home will become my safe house in the event of a zombie apocalypse, and I keep a hammer in my car in case I accidentally drive off a bridge into a body of water one day… so, you know, just the essential, realistic stuff), but I can honestly say being chased by a spider never occurred to me as something worth preparing for.

I was wandering through the house, minding my own business when, standing at the top of the staircase, I spotted the BIGGEST* spider I have ever seen (in real life) waiting for me at the bottom. I’ve seen Arachnophobia**, I knew how this story could go. I armed myself with bug spray and prepared to scare the beast away enough that I would have time to find something, ANYTHING big enough to finish it off.

My personal Charge of the Light Brigade was even less successful – the spider (let’s call him Nemesis) literally starting running up the stairs after me, sending me back up shrieking in retreat. The neighbours mustn’t have been in because otherwise my volume and sheer terror would have convinced them I was undergoing a home invasion and the cops might have been called (SIDE NOTE: I probably would have handled a home invasion slightly better – I have a plan in place for that).

I threw several books at the thing, but I swear to god they simply bounced off Nemesis, who continued towards me. He was the spider version of Terminator. When I went to reload with more weapons and came back… he had disappeared. You know that moment when you’re swimming at the beach and something brushes against your leg, and suddenly you’re turning about manically, desperately looking for a potential shark? That was me, frantically searching for Nemesis.

While my back had turned he had secretly scaled the banister beside where I was standing. Only the belated discovery of a pair of hiking boots saved me from certain doom. I used my Horror Movie 101 knowledge and really made sure he was dead.

Sitting there in a heap beside the fallen Nemesis, I was clammy-handed and couldn’t shake the feeling I had just cheated death. Then a terrifying thought came – what if Nemesis had children?


They wouldn’t be the first species to take a disliking to me, and I suspect they won’t be the last.


Painefull Out

* = this spider was so big that if I had let it bite me there was actually a chance I'd gain some sort of super powers... so potentially a bit of a missed opportunity.

** = actually I haven’t really seen Arachnophobia, I watched the first 10 minutes, freaked out and hastily exited the boarding school common room claiming I had homework to do.