Archive for the ‘Music’ Category

‘I’ve heard people say that
Too much of anything is not good for you, baby…’

What the fock is THAT?” I say pointing at a lump sitting on the dresser in my bedroom.

“It’s the stereo I  found,” my dear hubby says. “You know really I can’t believe that someone’s thrown it in the rubbish like that… all it needed was a friggin’ three cent amp!”

I’m irritated.

He looks very pleased with himself as he twiddles the knobs tenderly and gives it a good spray’n’wipe. 

“Oh no, But I don’t know about that…” 

And I guess he should be…   pleased with himself that is… 

I’ve never known anyone as handy with a screwdriver and soldering iron as he is.

He can open a toaster, a computer or the arse-end-of-the-dolly-that-wees and work out within seconds what’s wrong with it.

Then a minute later the guts are pulled out, tweaked, reinserted and VOILA!  it’s fixed.

It’s amazing.

But there’s a down side.

He’s really attracted to rubbish. 


Hang on!… That doesn’t paint me in a very nice light. I’ll just rephrase that. 


He’s really attracted to the art of “fixing things”.  

Don’t get me wrong…he’s not cheap or nasty…but he does effen-love-a-tight-arse-bargain. 

He is the Aldi to my David Jones.

It’s a constant source of annoyance for me, all that trolling through the cheap and nasty aisles of every freakin’ two dollar shop we come across… but most of all I dread the time of the year when it’s: Hard Waste Collection Week.

That’s when everybody puts their unwantables at the front of their houses- and on a designated day burly-beef-cake-council-men (traditionally in manky stained singlets) come and haul it all away.

That whole week I wait, wide eyed-petrified, wondering what pieces of useless garbage dear hubby, and his mini-me-accomplice-sidekick (aka the son) will haul home… 

This year I beg and I plead…please let’s throw out heaps of stuff and things and bits from our garage (otherwise known as the repository for everything other than the car) and he miraculously agrees!

>cue angels from heaven singing and playing harps

On collection day I walk out all excited…  and see… one single-paint-tin on the front lawn. 


Inside my garage instead of lovely clear spaces is now an even bigger pile of junk.

This year’s collection of unwanted shit treasures seem to have a musical theme, there is:

a guitar,

a karaoke machine,

an electronic disco light ball (I fockin’ kid you not.)

a stereo

and possibly some other crappy-things lurking in the corners.

I tippy-toe sneak in and find him and Master 11 hunched over something, heads close together… tinkering away with their frankenstein creations and enjoying themselves immensely. 

How can I be angry about that? I think… and really… after all, it’s all  in the garage right? … what’s the harm?


But now it has crept into the bedroom…MY bedroom…  

“There’s many times that we’ve loved
We’ve shared love and made love
It doesn’t seem to me like it’s enough
There’s just not enough of it
There’s just not enough
Oh oh, babe…”

He stops fiddling with the stereo when he notices that I’m still standing there, arms crossed, perfectly still.

He looks at me and his eyes grow wide as he realises that I now resemble a character from myth and legend…

I can see him thinking…hmmm, oh yeah…what… was… her… name?  Snakes-for-hair-chick? The one who turns grown men into stone?? Oh shite yeah- MEDUSA

He knows he has some serious damage-control to do.

He leans in close, pulling out the big guns…

“You know,” he whispers, “… I just thought you’d like some… muuusac in the bedroom… mmm…” 

Music? In the bedroom?

Is he fockin’ insane??  We’ve been through this before , I like quiet…silence…a complete lack of digitised-audio in the bedroom. 

“My darling I, can’t get enough of your love babe
Girl, I don’t know, I don’t know why
Can’t get enough of your love babe…”
“What the fock is THAT?” I say, (seemingly-oblivious-to-the-fact-that-my-anger-has-rendered-my-usually-eloquent-speech-useless-and-I-am-repeating-the-same-nasty-sentence-over-and-over.)

“Oh, some things I can’t get used to
No matter how I try”

 Is THAT Barry White?” I say. 

“mmm… maybe…” he looks at me sheepishly. 

FOOOOR-get it!” I say, clutching tightly to my resolve, furious with the junk and bleedin’ rubbish that is invading my bedroom and my house… “Just like the more you give, the more I want And baby, that’s no lie…”oh Barry… my oh my, you do have such a… What kind of love is this that you’re givin’ me? ” deep…throbbing…voice….mmmm…rubbish Carla…don’t forget how much you hate the rubbishhh…. “Is it in your kiss or just because you’re sweet?’” and suddenly I’m all gushy and melty …“Girl, all I know is every time you’re here…”  and maybe even a little wobbly at the knees…

I feel the change, Somethin’ moves…”

and the last thing I remember… as my resolve buckles under that thick-husky-croon…is thinking …okay,well maybe music in the bedroom might not be so…


bad afterall…

“I scream your name…Do whatcha got to do…”  



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Does he wash up?



Driving the kids home from school lately is a chore.

For at least a month there have been road works at a busy intersection I need to cross. At peak times it takes five or six turns of the traffic lights to get through. Annoying. Much.

So this afternoon instead of watching the snails slime by I flicked on the radio in an effort to keep the kids amused. There was a song playing that sounded snappy so I turned the volume up- nice and loud.

“Why’d ya do that?” my son (11) said.

“Because it’s catchy.” I replied.

“That song is sexist.” he stated.

I paid a bit more attention to the lyrics. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong.

“Why?” I asked him “Is the film clip rude?”

“No mum” he said mildly annoyed at my dumbness “it makes boys look bad.”

 Oh. Sexist.

Against men.

 Does he wash up? Never wash up
Does he clean up? No, he never cleans up
Does he brush up? Never brushed up
He does nothing the boy does nothing

He was right. Although I suspect the song is more about dancing moves than heavy-handed-man-bashing. But nevertheless it’s true- it does mambo-tunefully paint the ‘boy’ in a not so grand a light.

That got me thinking about the world I’m bringing my son up in.

As a woman it’s important to stand up for what is right and perhaps even more so for what is wrong. But does that mean we need to swing the power all the way to one side before it lands in a sensible middle?

It’s okay to teach our girls that they deserve equal wages and equal rights and equal consideration when paying for a dinner bill, but have we have also taught them that it’s not okay to put down women but it is okay to put down men?

Isn’t that a strange hypocrisy?

I don’t want my son living in a world where he is discriminated against because he is a male just as much as I don’t want my daughter growing up in a world where she is discriminated against because she is a female.

“Why do you think it’s sexist?” I asked him

“Well,” he pondered for a second “she’s singing how useless ‘the boy’ is.” And then like most conversations with eleven year old boys we were suddenly off on a tangent, albeit a related one- “And you know what everyone thinks-‘ he said “men want a wife that can cook.”

“And what do you think of that?” I asked him.

“It’s true you know [and he listed of several men in our family who actually do act that way] I don’t know why- it’s just the way they think.”

“No,” I repeated “ I asked you what you thought about that?”

“Oh” he said “Well I’ll cook when I get married.” he looked me and then added “I’ll cook sometimes…Okay I’ll cook a lot, no…I’ll cook always. Errr,’ he grumbled “I’ll cook whenever she wants me too.”

 The traffic lights were still red. I turned off the radio.

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Miss 8 just told me that my way of doing subtraction was ‘old fashioned.” On a piece of paper she jots down a two figure sum and proceeds to demonstrate the modern way of doing math.

 “See Mummy’ she said, ‘makes more sense.” I need a cup of tea.

  “Now can we practice my song for choir?”

  “Sure.” I say with confidence. Singing. I can do that.

She pulls out the lyrics. It’s an ABBA medley. She starts singing Money, Money, Money.


   When I was a kid you were either a Kiss fan or an Abba chick. Abba was the wholesome choice for a teacher’s pet such as my self. I sat at the front of the classroom and my arm went up lolly-pop-stick straight when I knew the answer. I couldn’t fathom all that heavy rock, men in makeup and skin tight, ball breaking stretchy fabrics. They were all sexed-up, jagged black and white and blood red tongues.

   My sister and I, along with a gazillion other little girls, pretended to be the Abba lead singers whenever we could. My Dad bought us the album where they were all sitting in the bubble helicopter. That black vinyl swirled more times on our record player than any other disc we owned. With each song play I grew more mad for the blonde, with her smooth straight, yellow hair and whispy centre part. I dreamt of owning a white jumpsuit that zippered up the front- with sequined flare pants and maybe a braided white and gold belt hung low on the hips. I wrote in my diary that I wanted to marry a man who plays the piano.

   When Kiss played at V.F.L park in Melbourne’s south eastern suburbs I climbed onto the top rung of our back yard fence and listened to the low thrum of their rocked-out bass-beat float over my neighborhood. As night filtered through the dusk I slipped down off the fence and ended up with a wood splinter in my finger. Mum picked it out with a burnt needle (oh the agony) and then painted a smiley Mercurochrome face on it. In bed I pulled my pillow over my ears and hummed Abba songs until I fell asleep.

   My daughter has an ipod that she likes to fall asleep with.  Her teenage cousin loaded it with songs from High School Musical and Pink and Demi Lovato. She doesn’t  know what the sleeve of the artist’s albums look like, but she knows how to Twitter with Miley Cyrus. I wonder what I would have said to Agnetha if Twitter had been around when I was a little girl?

   Miss 8 has started singing the Waterloo segment of the medley. I stop to correct her melody and then look closely at the words,

…..The history book on the shelf is always repeating itself…

She’s singing with her sweet high pitchy voice, swaying in time to the beat.


I go get us two hairbrushes (after all- it’s the only honest way to sing Abba) and join in.


Wa, wa, wa, wa,


Finally facing my Waterloo

Ohhh Oh Oh Oh


Finally facing my Waterloo

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