Hipsters

Hipsters aren’t all good-looking stylish superior trustafarian talented lazy party-addled self-doubting snobby multi-sexual artistes.   www.elephantjournal.com

I’m going to get myself one of those hipsters.   They are so adorable with their smooth hair, neat beards, tidy tattoos, and earnest eyes.  I love their retro clothes – all pressed and buttoned correctly.  The dedication to arts and crafts is so cute, even if their desire to become financially independent from their hobbies is unrealistic.  Using old fashioned bikes to get around, eating bio-organic museli, drinking green grass juice – mindfulness without the need to conform to the rules of Buddhism.   Yes, they do seem to be a serious bunch, but this is just part of being super cool.  Hipsters actually love unstated fun.  They  often treat themselves with  European cigarettes and old man beers, especially after working a shift at a busy café.    Their music sounds like something my parents enjoyed,  -  spinning records and sipping ginger wine with the disapproval of their own parents.  Most of all I love that they pretend to live in an alternate world, rejecting the mainstream to develop their own self-identity wearing op-shop clothing treasures and rehashing the 1960s lifestyle, minus the offensive political doctrines on issues like gender or race or sexuality. 

I hope that when I get myself a hipster it will be like living with my Dad before I was born.  A time when he wore a beard and side-part; listened to his own cool music; knew how to make pizza dough by hand; rode a bike or took the bus as was fitting to his (financial) means; smoked Camel cigarettes; drank German wine from funny shaped green bottles; and dated a woman with smoky eyes, feminine clothing and cat-eyed sunglasses. 

Anyway, I think getting a hipster would be fun.  A 20-something guy with a top-knot or a brill-creamed ‘do and matching beard, with plaid shirt, skinny pants and decent shoes – to help out with the cooking, gardening, morning expresso – and maybe a touch of knitting if needed.   Hmmm, that could be a fun addition to the house.

This one looks like he knows his way around an ironing board....

                                                   Photo by Christian Rodriguez via Pinterest

Asbestos Awareness Week

            1-7 April 2014:  Asbestos Awareness Week 

Growing up in old Australian houses, with asbestos in the roofing - means that we were all at risk of developing mesothelioma.  Spend a minute thinking about the people who were not so lucky, and then resend the link.  Make the people you know aware of the dangers of asbestos.

http://www.mesothelioma.com/heather/awareness/#.U1FSZVGSw00

Patience

I don’t have any. This is a problem for me. Daily. I start the day impatient with the coffee machine. I end the day impatient that I can’t fall asleep instantly. Yes, I know. I am not a Zen person.

In retrospect, I have always been short on patience. My childhood memory of waiting for my parents to collect me from school or some other activity still cause me angst, especially as my parents are a little lax with time. Hence, my preference was to do things solo and in my own prompt pace. Obviously parts of my personality could be labeled type A.

Relief from impatience arrived during my university days. Maintaining impatience when everyone around you is chilling out, hanging with friends, listening to music and drinking beer – is really difficult. This cure stayed with me for years.

Post graduation I became more focused and with some lucky breaks, was able to attain a satisfying, albeit short-lived, career in mental health. My newly acquired patience enabled me to work with clients slow on telling their stories and understanding their reality. Better still, having patience meant that I could sit through innumerable, mind-paralyzing meetings without pulling off my fingernails or stabbing colleagues with a pen.

Time moved on, and these wage-earning days were terminated by marriage and subsequent relocation to an unfamiliar country. Just as my suitcase was finally ready to be stored, I discovered I was pregnant. Undoubtedly, having the luxury to experience pregnancy and motherhood unencumbered by the necessity to go to work each day – is not something to complain about. Yet as my former self transformed into wife and mother, my patience began to dwindle. Long days at home without mental or social stimulation, had me longing for something to reignite my intellect and rediscover my former self before becoming a parent and spouse.

Five years on, I returned to my home country with my husband and our brood of three young children. Being desperate that like my breasts, my brain would never return to its former glory (working capacity) state, I located suitable childcare and a part-time job. The focus (and stress) of reestablishing myself within the workforce and catching up on new developments provided the mental stimulation needed to calm my anxiety levels. My patience returned. Again I could work effectively with my clients; survive the drudgery of meetings; and return home with a renewed appreciation and love for my family. My sense of life satisfaction was comfortably hanging in the black.

It is time for my second confession. I am addicted to change. I especially love the challenge that comes with larger changes – like moving to countries foreign in both culture and language.

Yes, the opportunity to deconstruct our familiar, satisfying life and to jump feet first into the unknown arose. We grabbed it. I figured that now I had the experience necessary to allow me to maintain my own sense of satisfaction in this new life. My first focus was to ensure that each member of the family was ‘sorted and settled’, and then I would move onto myself. So what happened? The obvious: another baby, a beautiful little girl that we adopted. Again my life became hectic with just the commitments of being a parent to four kids. I squeezed in a Masters degree, charity and committee membership, and a small teaching job. And then we were transferred to another country for twelve months. And then transferred to a new continent…

It has been 15 years of changes. Everyday I still feel the impatience of not reaching a potential that I crave, yet can’t clearly identify. My lack of patience could be interpreted by a lack of acceptance of the traditional role of wife and mother. I agree with this, but it does sting. I prefer to think of it as the expat partner phenomena. Expat partners tend to be well-educated, professional people – who join their partners on an adventure to live internationally, but who are not able to realize their professional potential in this new life due to various factors, including responsibility to raise children. For most women, becoming a stay-at-home mother did not make it into the top ten of personal goals we set ourselves.

Next move? For me, there are no more babies or planned international relocations on the horizon. The kids are settled and I have learnt enough of the local language to do what I need to do without looking too foolish. Returning to my previous career is not an option. The local system doesn’t have a place for me, and I don’t have enough enthusiasm to hassle the system to make me a place. Mental stimulation comes via observing and writing. Luckily I don’t need to support myself – or this would not be an option. Impatience is now triggered by a lack of time to sit and type, uninterrupted. It comes from internal struggle I have to create a new self-identity. With perseverance, hopefully my patience will return and I will be satisfied with my life, wherever it is based.

Insults

Last month there was a story in Dutch newspapers about a local punter charged with insulting the policeman who confiscated his can of beer. For his insult of choice: “mierenneuker” or “ant-fucker”, the man was fined 250euros. Seriously. Even in this passionless country, throwing "ant-fucker" as an insult is ridiculously lame. I suspect the judge gave the fine to punish the guy for being pathetic.

The art of swearing, cursing and verbally insulting someone is culturally dictated. For example, Italians are masters in the field – due to the color, sound and dramatics incurred in their verbal assaults. To understand the true translation of an Italian insult, the recipient needs to comprehend both the Italian language and deaf sign language.

Actually in most cultures there exists common themes in verbal abuse. Generally these themes aim to demean a person by claiming sexual relations with the wife, sister or mother of the individual. Accusing someone of being in a sexual relationship with the family pet, is another repeated theme of abuse found in many cultures.

While these common themes are also espoused by emotional individuals found in football stadiums, bars and on the streets of Amsterdam and other Dutch cities, Dutch verbal abuse tends to focus more on inflicting cancer or some other illness on someone. So, be offended if during your next trip to the Netherlands, someone yells at you “val dood vuile kankerhoer” (translation: drop dead stupid cancer hooker). Similarly, “Ik laat een scheet in jouw richting” (translation: I fart in your direction) – although you should probably put some distance between you and your abuser in this instance. Taking offence should be short-lived though – as translating the assault should remove all sting intended, and identify the abuser as a pathetic fool.

Spinning

Saturday morning and I am back home after my regular spin class at the gym. For the uninitiated, a spin class is basically a group workout on stationary bikes accompanied by pumping music and screeching instructor. Spin classes are also called RPM - if the gym has purchased the license to use the internationally registered and recognized Les Mills program. My gym is stingy. No water fountains and no Les Mills. Instead each Saturday, the quality of the class is dependent on the Friday evening activities of the instructor. Truthfully I have witnessed this particular instructor coming into the gym drinking a can of Red Bull and smoking a cigarette. Yet being the Netherlands, the crowd is tolerant of mediocrity. I also don’t mind. Not only do I generally get a little sweat happening, my brain is stretched trying to translate the Dutch instructions, and I have my own personal challenge to not look at the clock in less than five minute intervals.

I too like to keep the tension tight in my exercise schedule. That is why I exercise Saturday morning. Niggling headache and dry mouth always disappear when my body takes over the pain. I am generally good as long as I keep my eyes diverted from the floor-and-wall length mirrors, and nobody requests the dvd of the Grand Canyon route that induces nausea with all the sudden turns and sharp dips. The secret to survival, as it is for many occasions, is correct caffeine dosage beforehand.

My spin class colleagues don’t really know what to make of me. My dedication is questioned because I refuse to buy either cycling shoes or cycling pants. My reason being that, without a car, I spend hours each day on my ‘real’ bike - without lycra padded pants or cycling shoes. Why would I buy the gear to sit on a stationary bike in a gym for an hour a week? Just like I pretend to ride up a mountain, I can also pretend that I am wearing sponsored Tour de France cycling gear.

In my warm house, after a short cycle in the cold rain back from the gym, I acknowledge that this surreal, physical activity is something that my kids will one day make fun of, – like I made fun of Olivia Newtown John and the roller-skating fitness craze that followed her film, Xanadu. It obviously made sense at the time, and like spinning classes, the release of endorphins makes the body feel good while the brain takes a little break from making sense of what we are doing and how foolish we are doing it.

Watching

There is a strange old man sitting at the table opposite me.  He seems to be chewing his cud, making his sparse moustache rhythmically bounce up to conceal wide nostrils.  The loose skin below his eyes sits in overlapping layers that continue down his face and neck into his grey sweater.  He was wearing an Andy Capp hat, now removed to expose a shiny pate fringed by the remaining vestiges of a former hairstyle.

We are both in the hospital cafeteria.  It is a dull place with fluorescent lighting and an uninspiring menu.  I am typing on my laptop and he is waiting for the coffee and sausage rolls that his female companion is bringing to share with him. 

He watches me.  His expression gives away almost nothing, although I guess that he is either concerned or fascinated by my activity.  The strange noise he emits as he eats is distracting.  We continually sneak glances at one another, seeking more information or more evidence about the other.

His female companion, most likely a long-term spouse based on the lack of conversation between them, cuts his sausage roll in half.  She looks like a man.  Now finished with her own sausage roll, she has started on his.  He goes with it, without complaint. Finishing what remains on his plate, he takes out a large handkerchief, honks his nose and wipes his forehead. They continue to sit without speaking, although the space between them is not quiet.

Now ready to leave, she busses their tray while he redresses in his coat and hat.  Looking my way, he offers a farewell squint in my direction before exiting.

12 November 2013

Writing....

Sitting in front of my computer inside a warm house, watching the rain continue to pelt the outside world - is an ideal time to pull thoughts from my head and translate them into words on a page.  It is also a perfect setting to just lie on the couch and read already created literary projects.  Darn the dilemma of rainy days.