Category: travel

That nasty “F” word

5 Comments

MY 12-year-old niece broke it off with her “boyfriend” this week, telling me yesterday: “He acts one way around me, and another around his friends.” “Ah, mixed messages,” I told Miss Twelve, who didn’t quite understand the concept, despite deeply feeling the hurt. “He was shocked,” she added. And who said feminism was dead?

If we needed any convincing that feminism wasn’t dead it was this week’s outstanding performance by Prime Minister Julia Gillard who stood up for herself, and the women of Australia, to Opposition Leader Tony Abbott. In her 15-minute speech in Federal Parliament during which Gillard never once stumbled, she did what was a long-time coming. She told the man who has taunted her with cruel jibes among which have included standing in front of a banner which labelled her a “witch” and a “bitch”, that she would “not be lectured about sexisim by this man”. Regardless of your politics, I implore anyone who hasn’t seen it to go to YouTube and see exactly the kind of mettle of which a woman scorned is made.

The best Abbott could do this week was trot out his wife and three daughters as a poor example of how this somehow made him a feminist. The mere fact he did this was a sexist act in itself. It’s a bit like telling someone “my neighbour is gay/indigenous/disabled”. Worst of all for Abbott, even if this did score him a couple of cheap political points, with possibly another year to run before the Federal Election, he’s potentially pulled out his trump card a little prematurely. So now he has to rely on his character. 

Let me be very clear. This is not a political post. I, like many other Australians, have been deeply disappointed by the argy bargy and broken promises of both sides of the Parliament in recent times. Yet, sometime in the next 12 months, I will have the opportunity (a result of feminism) to choose one side. This is a blog about feminism. It’s a blog about basic human rights.

We live in interesting times. Despite the fact 60% of university undergraduates are women, in 2012, Australian women earn approximately 17.5% less than men. We’ve all been privy to the recent abhorrent behaviour of a certain football club’s end-of-year antics and their lewd comments towards a female television reporter who was simply doing her job. And then there’s a certain male radio announcer who decried Australian women as “destroying the joint.”

Globally, things are far worse. This week in Indonesia, a 14-year-old school girl victim of child trafficking was expelled from her school because she had “tarnished the school’s reputation.” In Pakistan, a 14-year-old girl is fighting for her life after being shot in the head by the Taliban. Her crime? She believed women should be allowed an education.

I’ve always been proud to call myself a feminist and for anyone who wonders what this means to me, it means I think women should be receive the same pay as men for the same work; that they should be able to walk down the street in whatever they choose without fear or favour; and they should be afforded the same opportunities as men. Women should be treated with the same respect as men.

And yet, in recent times, even I’ve been led to believe there is something wrong with me. This week, when a male friend sent me a private email making a lewd comment about my breasts, I was deeply offended. I told him so, and he apologised, yet it didn’t stop me choosing the baggiest blouses to wear all week and slouching my shoulders, something I haven’t done since I was a teenager. Through his comments, I felt that I should somehow be ashamed and embarrassed of my womanhood.

This weekend I’ve found myself waiting for a phone call from a man I’ve never met, who enticed me with the promise of a coffee date. That phone call never came. In the scheme of world events, and how women are treated, it’s nothing. It’s a very First-World problem and possibly even a luxury to have such a light-weight worry. But it still hurts, as did my mate’s comments. As these blokes would never denigrate their male friends like that. And doesn’t it simply come down to that? It’s not whether you are male or female. It’s how you would treat another human being.

This week, through Prime Minister Gillard, and people like my 12-year-old niece who wouldn’t have a clue what a feminist was, we saw a glimmer of hope. A spark.

Maybe feminism isn’t dead after all. Like myself, after 40 odd years fighting the good fight, perhaps she’s just been having a long-deserved beauty sleep. And there is nothing wrong with that.

 

 

 

Surfers Shenanigans

2 Comments

I’VE awoken in a Surfers Paradise hotel room and I have a swollen eye. The Surfers Paradise part I can explain, even to myself who takes a few minutes to remember what I’m doing on Australia’s Gold Coast. But I have no idea how I’ve acquired the swollen eye. I check my hotel bathroom for a baby, a tiger and Bradley Cooper. 

 The last thing I remember was playing Putt Putt golf with some friends before having a few drinks. Unless things have changed in the past 20 years, Putt Putt, from memory, is a pretty tame affair which doesn’t result in swollen organs.

I decide to take Quasimodo out to breakfast, acutely aware this shall not the morning I will be meeting the man of my dreams. When I head back to the 22nd floor my room key is no longer working. Which would not be such a problem were it not for the strange grumble my stomach has just made. Just when I think my morning can’t get much worse, it does. The cause of my swollen eye suddenly becomes apparent. I’ve overindulged in oysters at the seafood buffet the previous evening, I’m having an allergic reaction, and now my gut is about to explode. In the lift. Full of women attending a beauty conference.

 I break into a cold sweat. By now, I’m frantic. It occurs to me that I’m about to resemble an Australian footballer, and crouch on the carpeted hotel hallway with my swollen eye and do the unspeakable. I telephone my friend whose room number I can’t remember. “Open your door,” I scream down the line, “O-p-e-n. Y-o-u-r. D-o-o-r!”  A door swings open down the hall by which stage, I am crawling like one of the crabs which is causing all the commotion inside me. I burst into what I hope is her hotel room, and not that of some poor Japanese tourist, and dash to the toilet.

 

My retro weekend in Surfers Paradise has begun with a blast. My friend, Corina, has decided our next adventure should be cycling along the beachfront to the Southport Spit. It’s going to be so simple, bikes are even delivered to our hotel room. Corina is wearing her trademark high heels, tighty whitey pants, and a koala backpack we’ve nicknamed “fluffy”. I am having visions of my own loveliness, dressed in a long white skirt, hair blowing in the sea breeze, riding along the oceanfront like something out of a feminine hygiene ad. Dame Alison, our other friend, has wisely decided to take a limo transfer to meet us for lunch. I take off and make it to the first corner when my skirt becomes entangled in the bike chain. Corina falls off her bike. We are covered in grease when we limp in to lunch at the old Southport Bathing Pavilion which is now a café. A bloke called Chico offers us a Chicko roll. Things are looking up.

 

That evening, Corina has planned a special surprise. A trip to the Wax Museum. The operators resemble the Adams family which is more than we can say for the actual wax exhibits. Barack Obama is white. Michael Jackson is black. Whitney Houston looks like Bobby Brown. The whole display is creepy and just little bit scary. We leave abruptly. We need a drink.

 We decide our trip to the glitter strip isn’t complete without a Chinese banquet and head to the Focus Chinese Seafood Restaurant with our new-found friends, Cade, Caitlin, Shae, Grant and Maggie. Full of Peking duck, we decide to eschew a trip to the old haunts – Melba’s and Cocktails and Dreams – in favour of an early night. I go to sleep smug in the knowledge we’ve had a pretty tame night. Even my eye has almost returned to normal.

On Sunday morning I awake to find a game of Two-Up in last night’s handbag, a Meter Maid’s business card and bum muscles I didn’t know I had, courtesy of our bike ride. I ponder this as we board the Aquaduck for an amphibious adventure on the Broadwater. There’s no suspension on the vehicle and we bounce along the Esplanade, as do our boobs. Corina tells me to “get ducked”. I tell her to “duck off”. Back at Ripley’s Believe It or Not, Dame Alison sits near a farting man exhibit while the museum owner catches me stroking a male fertility statue. “Be careful, you’ll get pregnant,” he warns, before adding, “but of course you have to have sex to do that.” Just my luck to be the second woman in history to conceive by immaculate conception.  

 By the end of the weekend, I realise something I’d long forgotten. Surfers Paradise is tawdry, tacky and terrific, just like my friends. It will pick you up, twist you around, dance with you and gently put you back down. But dull? Never, ever.

 The Global Goddess travelled as a guest of The Outrigger, Surfers Paradise, whose carpet, she is pleased to report, remains intact and whose bathrooms are to be commended, in whichever room you may find yourself in a panic. To experience your own retro weekend, go to www.outrigger.com.au

 

Women and their Lovers

3 Comments

 

IT’S a Goldilocks afternoon in the Queensland capital. Not too hot, not too cold. Ferries glide across the Brisbane River like ballerinas, traffic crawls along the Riverside Expressway as an army of ants, and Spring is being one, gigantic flirt.

It’s perfect then, that I’ve gathered in the Queensland Library’s ‘Red Box’ for a Brisbane Writers’ Festival talk about ‘women and their lovers’. Like a passionate paramour itself, the title of the session is too irresistible to pass up. My first fear, however, is that they will ask the gathering of women (and a few good men) to confess, Alcoholics Anonymous style, how long it has been since their last lover and how many they’ve had. Does one need to have experienced a recent lover to be admitted to this saucy session, I wonder amid a moment of pure panic.

Our convivial host, a bloke, announces it’s a ‘clothing optional’ session, as the two guest authors dive headfirst into the subject at hand. What transpires on this wouldn’t-be-dead-for-quids type of afternoon, is an interesting conversation about whether humans are, in fact, meant to be monogamous. Are you always married to the one you love? Is it possible to have a marriage, and a lover, and for all three parties to be sated in every sense of the word?

At this point of the conversation my mind starts to wander, as it is prone to do. The prospect of finding one fella at the moment is hard enough, let alone two. But heck, I’d give it a go if it was on offer. As one of the authors muses “love is an individual thing”.

The host confesses about his own individual experience of first-time love. He was 15 and wanted to take a girl to the movies for the first time. His father’s advice was this: “You’ve got a penis, women have a vagina, don’t play with yourself too much as it’s not good for you, now let’s go back to the car.”

One of the authors muses that in the English language, we possess a ‘shrunken’ vocabulary when it comes to the topics of physical pain and love. There are not enough words to express the many kinds of human love possible. It’s a bit like death. We’re hopeless at articulating it. To say that someone has ‘passed on or away’ sounds ridiculous, like they’ve taken a holiday to Myanmar or something; ‘passed’ raises its own set of silly questions: “passed where, exactly?”; and to come flat out and say someone ‘died’ is a bit blunt. But it’s true. Real. Honest.

Death and love, it emerges during this lusty afternoon, have much in common. One of the authors reveals research in which it is claimed it takes exactly 2 years, 6 months and 25 days into a marriage for romance between a couple to die.

So is there such a thing as living happily ever after? Does the fairytale, like my Goldilocks afternoon, really exist?

Outside, pondering this in the late afternoon spring sunshine which is still being such a fabulous flirt, I stumble across a lone musician, dressed all in red.

Love, as we understand it, may not exist after all, but I think I’ve just stumbled across Little Red Riding Hood. And for now, that’s fairytale enough for me.

The sex goddess returns

4 Comments

I ARRIVED late, in the midst of a ferocious tropical storm. I was the only person on the bus which was carrying me deeper into the jungle. My friendly Malaysian driver dropped me off in the dark, the torrential rain soaking me to the skin, with the warning: “watch out for snakes, as they are always watching you.” Great, I thought, he could have said “men” instead of “snakes” but it was not to be on this particular evening.

I took my first tentative steps towards the dim light somewhere in the distance…and promptly broke my sandals. Now I was drenched, barefoot, and in the midst of a potential snake pit in a tropical thunderstorm in the dark and rather alone.

Sliding on the slippery path, I eventually made my way to the light which turned out to be a cafe where I grabbed a beer, and sat out the storm. Upon leaving, I saw what looked like a lovely little green tree snake. “Don’t move,” one of the Malaysian cafe owners called out. “It’s a deadly viper, and it can kill you in seconds.”

I was reminded today of my trip to Kuching last November when I found the first evidence of Spring on my back deck. A snake skin. Now, I have a bit of an Indiana Jones relationship with snakes. They scare me, and always have. It goes right back to when we were kids in country Queensland and come summer, our backyard was full of poisonous king browns. My parents, being tough-love 1970s types, offered us little comfort: “If you see a snake, you freeze like a statute and you call out ‘mum’ and then you keep watching it so we know where it’s gone.” And then dad, who is a bit of a Steve Irwin, would march up to the deadly serpent, grab it, bag it and dump it on the farm to eat the rats. Lizards, on the other hand, I love. They’ve got legs.

So, it came as quite a shock one night a few years back when I was having a barbecue on my beloved back deck to feel all the hackles on my neck rise, in that really creepy fashion jsut before something bad’s about to happen. I turned around and there she was, slithering down the railings. I decided it was time to conquer my fear and named my snake Anastascia, deciding she was my sex goddess, meaning whenever she made an appearance, things would improve in my bedroom, so to speak. And, miraculously they did.

I won’t go into details but suffice to say, we both had a wonderful summer. For the record, I’m not alone in my thinking. Just this week, a Townsville couple went to the media with their story about two pythons copulating in their ceiling. According to Ron Degenhart: “You and your missus could be going hammer and tongs in the bedroom, while the snakes are going at it upstairs as well.”

Yes, things were going great guns for me, until the night Anastascia died. It was a scorching February night and I was laying in bed, clad only in undies and a singlet, drinking wine (yes, I know how to party).  I heard what I thought were two possums fighting right outside my bedroom window. And then “boom!”, my neighbour Dave – a bit of a bogan – burst through my front gates and leapt down in front on my bedroom windows, grabbing a massive python which was in the process of eating his cat. I stood there, a little tipsy if I have to admit it, in my undies and singlet, glass of wine still firmly in hand, watching in slow-motion as Dave wrestled the cat from the snake’s mouth. It was Anastascia having dinner. Dave screamed “it bit me, it bit me”, the cat went flying into the night, and Dave stood before me, snake dangling from his hands. For the record the cat, not the snake, had bitten Dave.

The only words I could mutter were “you’re not leaving that snake here” and thus, Anastascia met an untimely death. (Which, for the record, is a great shame as Anastascia was the Indigenous species in this scenario, not the cat, but circumstances had already spiralled beyond my control).

Around the same time, my summer of sex abruptly stopped. So, it was with pure delight that I found my new snake skin this week. I’ve called her Sylvia. I haven’t see her yet, and Dave and his cat have since moved on. But I’m certainly looking forward to a long, hot, summer.

  

 

A few good men

6 Comments

AMONG all the dud dates and absolute disasters, it’s prudent every now and then to focus on the good things, and given tomorrow is Father’s Day in Australia, I’m reminded of all the good men in my life. Those who have shaped and supported me (a little like a wonder bra), who tell me when I’m talking rubbish (which is often) and who love me regardless.

And so, I present my Top Ten Men (in no particular order):

1. Nelluloid- my second oldest male friend, we met in Year 9 maths where we shared with each other what little we knew about sex. Which was nothing. I knew even less about maths. Nelluloid is frustrating, always late, and a shocking communicator once he leaves your sight. He is also the first person I’d call if I were ever locked in a prison and needed bail, if someone close to me died, or a relationship ends. He would give me the shirt off his back and has been known to wear one or two items of my clothing in public on occasion.

2. Mr Man – another of my oldest male friends, we met while working as journalists in a newsroom. We share a love of travel, although we’ve never travelled together, and an intense dislike to working for a living. We communicate daily on several pressing points, such as whether green is the new black. We share a dream of marrying an incredibly older rich man who promptly dies and leaves us his fortune. Mr Man says he will sleep with anyone for $1 million, so Rupert Murdoch, if you are reading this, I can arrange a meeting. My price tag is slightly higher.

3. Thorn – we met at work 10 years ago, firmly became great mates and even better mates the day they sacked our entire team. We share a love of dodgy pubs, cheap pub grub and bad boys. In his spare time Thorn is a show girl, and I am a show off. We share a love of words and a common dream to one day write a best-selling novel that doesn’t involve wizards or whips.

 

4. Tacky – Twas Tacky who suggested I write this piece, so I figure he should make it into the Top Ten. Tacky and I met only a few years back and clicked. Unlike most Americans, Tacky is softly-spoken and doesn’t think the United States is the centre of the universe. He is, however, likely to tell me when I’m being a fool, which is often, and appreciated. Anyone married to Mrs Tacker can’t be all that bad.

5. Howie – my first love and oldest male friend. We met in Grade One at our country Queensland primary school. Howie was the first, and still one of the few men, who had the courage to ask me to dance. He was blond and shy and cute. We lost touch over the years but recently caught up again. He hasn’t changed. Howie says I talk much more than he remembers from back in the 1970s.

6. Honourable mentions: Surfie; Dan; Chris; Herde; Jimmy; Jimmy; Denny; RyanAir; Jamie; Brenton; Bruce; Ash; Jake; Franzipani; Gerry; Tommy; Mr May; Dicky; Larder, Timmy, Bryan (and apologies to anyone I’ve forgotten)

7. The man of my dreams (or Hugh Jackman)- according to Michael Buble, I just haven’t met you yet. When I do, I’m sure you will make the Top Ten.

8. My great, great grandfather Christian – you left Europe on a three-month boat journey (yes, I’m a boat person), with your wife back in the 1860s to avoid religious persecution and to build a better life for your family. Five generations later here I am, living in the Lucky Country. Thank you for imbuing in me a sense of adventure and wonderment at the world.

9. My grandfather, James – You may have died 20 years ago, but I love that you introduced me to the great Australian poets. How you would recite Lawson and Paterson to our young ears, with a twinkle in your Irish eyes. How you used to line up seven glasses of softdrink for your seven grandchildren and ensure we each received an equal amount of the fizzy stuff.

And…

10. My father – We have a complex relationship which I have never quite mastered. You are a strong disciplinarian, a perfectionist and a critic. You are also the man who sent his family on holidays to the beach every Christmas while you worked to keep us going. We never went without food or shelter. Happy Father’s Day.

Live, love, learn

3 Comments

SHE’S 92, as fit as a fiddle and as smart as a whip snake. She’s funny, sassy, and on the ball. Except for one thing. She’s blind from macular degeneration and she sports a broken heart. Not much she can do about either. Except carry on.

I met Mrs D this week during the course of my job. Sometimes as journalist, when you wade through the quagmire of crap that’s delivered to your lap, and peer beyond the press releases and pitches, you find a gem. Mrs D was pure gold.

We weren’t meant to meet. Or maybe we were. It was a simple phone interview to talk about her school reunion, draping herself in the old school tie, or ties as they may be, after 75 years. But once it became apparent she could not see, was not internet savvy, and had no way of sending me photos of herself, I was given the privilege of visiting her at her home.

She greeted me with a python-like hug. “I’m so glad to meet you,” she said, not quite looking at me, as she couldn’t see me, just perhaps maybe my form. She looked 62, not 92. And she sported a wicked wit. She spoke with great pride of her grandchildren, one in Paris, another in Antarctica. The one in Antarctica has a girlfriend, Jessica, working as surveyor on a mine in Queensland’s Cloncurry. Mrs D wasn’t quite sure what to make of Jessica at first. “I wondered what kind of girl she would be, but then she turned up and she was tinier than me. I fell in love with her.” So much so, that Mrs D declined to comment on the fact her grandson and Jessica were “living in sin” in case “they didn’t talk to me anymore”. I couldn’t imagine that ever happening with this pocket rocket. Mrs D so loves Jessica, she ensures that each time she’s in Brisbane, even without the grandson who is still in Antarctica, she plans a family dinner. “She’s such a lovely girl, we want to keep her in our family,” Mrs D said.

I told Mrs D that she looked superb for 92. “That’s the good thing about not being able to see,” she said, “you can’t see all your wrinkles,” she smiled, nimble fingers stroking her face.

But among the bunches of lavender on her table and the crocheted doilies, this wasn’t what struck me the most. It was the love she still held for her husband, Nick, who died in 1994. “I never imagined I could live this long without him,” she had told me earlier in the day. It was the first time during the interview I detected a change in her voice. On the other end of the line, salty, pesky tears stung my eyes.

You see, Mrs D once worked in a bank. That’s where she met Nick. They became engaged and married during World War II and went on to live in Townsville where she worked with Qantas, as a clerk, until “peace was declared and the boys came home from the war.”

She still lunches a few times a year, at Brisbane’s Sofitel Hotel, with three of the surviving staff members from her bank days. “There were eight of us, but most of them are gone,” she said.

Her older sister and younger brother have also died. “It’s a terrible thing. You miss that link with your family,” she said.

But most of all, she misses Nick.

“Every night I have a glass of champagne, and I raise that glass to the empty seat beside me to keep his memory alive,” she said.

Love. It’s a many splendoured thing. Mrs D knows it. And I think we all do, too.

 

 

 

Good Vibrations

2 Comments

HAVING just finished the Fifty Shades trilogy and looking for my next buzz, I’ve just been to the movies to watch Hysteria. For those who haven’t seen it yet, it’s a delightful British romantic comedy set in the 19th century, which focuses on female orgasms and the ultimate arrival of the vibrator’s place in history. Based on a true story, women who suffered from an array of “symptoms” from being too outspoken to being sexually frustrated, were relieved of their condition or “hysteria” by manual stimulation to their genitals to the point of climax. When Doctor Mortimer Granville found his hand was cramping due to the huge spurt (if you’ll excuse the pun) in demand for his services, he stumbled across what would become the first vibrator.

Hysteria as a diagnosis was eventually put to bed, so to speak, in the 1950s, which in my opinion is a bit of a shame, given I have been known to suffer from being both outspoken and sexually frustrated often at the same time and on a number of occasions and would happily have a good-looking doctor relieve me of my condition.

 

While not hysterical, it’s a fun movie, made even more joyful by some of the one-liners including Rupert Everett’s character who succinctly states: “All a woman wants is a good laugh and a hard p***k”. You can’t argue with that logic. Meanwhile, the good-looking Hugh Dancy’s character is told the “procedure” is “like rubbing your tummy and your head at the same time”. I knew I was doing something wrong. Certainly, the elderly gentleman sitting near me during this flick was also giving this some consideration, as I could not be certain from his heavy breathing whether he was over stimulated or had simply fallen asleep.

Make sure you stay while the credits roll for a true history lesson on the evolution of the vibrator. It’s enough to make your eyes water. Suffice to say, should I ever drop dead suddenly, you might want to clear out the top drawer in my bedroom, lest my parents try to figure out what that thing that looks like a rabbit and glows in the dark is doing in my underwear draw.

 

At the risk of sounding like I’ve acquired an addiction to porn (I did wake up the other morning unable to hear, which I later realised was more to do with my big night out rather than indulging in too much porn) it is probably worth giving my two cents worth on Fifty Shades of Grey now that I’ve finally finished the third book. While a rollicking romp on one hand, (and some less kinder souls say poor writing on the other), what interests me most is not the main character Christian Grey, but his girlfriend, Anastasia Steele. While I can understand how Grey’s neglect as a child, and sexual education/abuse by an older woman while he was in his teens could lead to his need for carnal control, I fail to see how Steele could be such a submissive soul. It’s not even about the sex, though at times even she admits she’s not happy about certain acts. It’s more the fact she no longer sees her friends, changes her surname to Grey despite not wanting to, and is promoted beyond her ability and experience at work thanks to her wealthy partner. If this is the post-feminist woman with an education, then we have cause for concern.

On one or two occasions in the past, male friends have quizzed me on what, exactly, I’m looking for in a man. Apart from a pulse and the fact he can spell as I’ve mentioned in previous posts, to quote the feisty Maggie Gyllenhaal’s character in Hysteria: “I don’t want a husband, I want an equal.”

 In the meantime, I’m off to buy new batteries.

 

Life is a Cabaret

10 Comments

THE invitation stipulated dress code should be “fabulous” and given I think I should be awarded a Purple Heart for stepping out of my jarmies and into a cold winter’s night, I seriously underestimated what fabulous meant. Luckily, just as I was about to leave the house in what would have been another of my many fashion faux pas, I decided to call my best friend, who was involved in the function. “No, no, no!” he laughed, when I told him what I was wearing. “Wear one of those dresses you have.” And with that, he hung up. Now, any woman can tell you that being told to wear “one of those dresses” is not altogether helpful, so running late, I clutched at my old faithful Little Black Dress and dashed out the door.

Last night was the launch of Synapse’s 2012 campaign to highlight awareness of Acquired Brain Injury. Synapse works to rehabilitate those affected by Acquired Brain Injury and to educate the public about how serious, and common, this issue is. Among a population of 22.6 million, 1.6 million Australians have an Acquired Brain Injury. And last night, guests at a Brisbane function were invited to Synapse’s annual “Bang on a Beanie” or in this case “Bang on a Boa” launch.

 

There was Cabaret, champagne and canapés. And necklaces, naughtiness and nipples. I have it on good advice that one or two people may have been offended by the nipples. Not me! Given that I have been known to get mine out on one or two festive occasions, I was in complete awe of the Burlesque dancers who have found a way to entertain a group of people with their nipples AND get paid for it. I even made a mental note to sign up for a class or two. What those women could do with tassels was truly terrific and to say I’ll be practicing that sometime this weekend in the privacy of my bedroom is somewhat of an understatement.

It was a night for the bold and beautiful. Like Julian Saavedra. Julian, 20, from Colombia, was ran over by a taxi two years ago and landed on his head. He spent 20 days in a coma and several months learning to walk and talk again. After leaving hospital, he suffered from depression, which still plagues him some days. But he’s a survivor. “I was at home, bored. I got a book by Synapse on surviving Acquired Brain Injury. I started to translate that into Spanish. Then I translated magazines and campaign brochures.”  These days Julian works part-time with Synapse and studies French and Russian.

Then there’s Donna Sanderson, 39, a former hard-core heroin user who “scored” one night, hit her head on her bed, vomited and passed out. The vomit which blocked her airways sent her into a coma, interrupted the brain’s message to her legs, and now she’s in a wheel chair. But this Synapse board member lives independently: “Having an Acquired Brain Injury is not the end of the world.” She also sports two tattoos, the first reads: “If it’s meant to be, it’s up to me” and the second are symbols for strength and courage. She aims to add wisdom to her arm sometime soon.

Lisa Cox, 32, was a healthy 24 year old when she suffered a brain hemorrhage out of the blue which left her 25% blind. She also lost 9 fingers, her left leg and her right toes and is also in a wheelchair. Lisa, who loves to write, is a motivational speaker at schools and a national ambassador for Synapse, has this message: “Brain injury can happen to anyone at any time.”

The function ended and I walked out into the crisp night air, delighted and inspired, and no longer worried about my dress or the fact it was cold. Before heading home, I decided to dance at my favourite 80s club, as a bit of a celebration for the fact I am happy and healthy. The club was teeming with gorgeous young men, all flirty, fabulous and full of life. In the course of the evening, I may have accidently touched one or two. I danced till my feet were sore and went home in the wee hours of this morning. As is often the case with me after a good night out, I’ve awoken with an inexplicable bruise on one foot, someone else’s red necklace, and without my winter coat. But I’ve still got my health. And yes, those nipples.

To find out more about Acquired Brain Injury or to donate to this incredible cause, go to www.synapse.org.au or www.bangonabeanie.com.au

Man, oh Man

Leave a comment

 

TIRED and a tad emotional from visiting Cambodia’s torture centre and killing fields, I arrived back in Brisbane this week to find a swag of men waiting for me…well on my dating site at least.

First there was Marek, a 38-year-old Slovakian whose photo has him hugging a big dog. He ticked the first box – an unusual name (and he appeared to like big dogs). And possibly the second – that he came from an unusual country. His English was a bit broken (he said he wanted to meet the “women” of his life) but I could forgive him that, given it does appear to be his second language, and let’s face it, my Slovakian isn’t all that crash hot either. So I replied to Marek in the positive. I haven’t heard back from Marek since and am a little concerned he does actually think I AM Secret Agent Natascha from Minsk, as my profile jokes, and not plain old Miss Chris from Brisbane. Upon reflection, Marek did also mention in his profile that he wanted to “stay in Australia”, so he may also be struggling with the fact that Natascha from Minsk may not have a permanent visa either.

Next victim was a good looking man who called himself Slow and Steady. Slow and Steady, 37, seemed to be the Captain to my Tenille. He seemed sensible, measured and did I mention, good looking? He may have been a tad too sensible, as he said the only risks he takes are when he tries a new beer. I had hoped he was joking, so again, I replied in the positive. Now, if Slow and Steady was any more slower in his reply, I’d be checking for a pulse. Put it this way, it’s been almost a week and several countries later in my world, and still no sign of this slow poke. Maybe he’s still trying to decide on which risky beer he’s trying next?

While waiting for Slow and Steady to respond, I took some initiative and contacted Leo, 37, who describes himself as a “very energetic father of one who likes chick flicks”. Could he be the perfect man? The one, I wondered? Unfortunately, Leo didn’t think I was as smashing, and replied in the negative. I’m trying to tell myself it’s because he lives on the Gold Coast, and not because he doesn’t think I’m utterly lovely.

I also contacted Single Fit Guy, 41, who said he doesn’t “have a beer gut”. Although, in retrospect, he’s probably too sporty spice for me, so I’m not altogether crushed that he hasn’t responded.

And then there was today. A man who calls himself the Merchant of Venice (really?) contacted me. Given he lives on the SunshineCoast, I reckon he’s stretching the truth a bit there. Apart from calling himself an “optamist” his profile reads like this: “I ain’t looking to block you up, shock you up, analise you, catagorise you, finalise you, all I really want do is, baby be friends with you.” He also states he can “sometimes be a bone head who can sleep with the light off”. Merchant of Venice is 49, so one would hope he can sleep with the light off. But I can’t date a bad speller. Even if he is an “optamist”.

So, it’s back to the drawing board I go. As they say in the classics, there’s plenty more fish in the sea. Or should that be Merchants in Venice?

 

Wham Bam Thank You Nam

2 Comments

IT’S 4am and already 28 degrees when I check into the dodgiest airport hotel I have ever encountered. I’m in Kuala Lumpur enroute to Saigon and my hotel is a cross between an Australian outback motor inn and a detention centre. In a bid to make the place sound more exciting, they’ve named the cell blocks “terminals”. “You’re in Terminal 4,” the receptionist tells me upon check-in. I have about 13 hours here to kill and tell myself things will look brighter when the sun rises.

Later that morning I stumble across Susan from Sabah, and her massage parlour. Susan speaks in a gravelly voice, sports a cackly laugh, and wears a long red silk outfit that looks like pajamas. Her masseuse guides me into the room and asks me whether I’d like a sauna. I’m so tired from my overnight flight from the Gold Coast I am unsure whether it is a question or an invite. At this point I should also mention I have been reading Fifty Shades of Grey. I decline and lay on the table. My masseuse smooths out a few knots in my back and then rolls me over, picks both my legs, and holds them together like one would to tie chicken drumsticks before baking. I am buck naked and my legs and buttocks are being held high in the air. Me and my modesty are about to profusely protest when I realise it’s Ramadan. The poor lady hasn’t eaten all day and IS probably dreaming about a chicken drumstick. No funny business here. I make a mental note to stop reading Fifty Shades of Grey.

The next night I arrive in Saigon and head out for a Vietnamese omelette stuffed full of prawns, pork and spices. I take my first bite when an old lady who looks at least 100 walks into the restaurant carrying a pile of books as high as her head. She points to Fifty Shades of Grey. “You want to read?” she asks, a twinkle in her eye. “I’m already reading it,” I confess as she punches her first in the air. “Boom, Boom!” she laughs and disappears into the night.

 I head on to the beach resort town of Nha Trang. I’ve asked for a Vietnamese massage, unsure of what it exactly entails. My masseuse slathers me in oil and starts to rub my naked body.  Then, without warning she slaps me, hard on the buttocks. I think it must be a mistake as she resumes her gentle rhythmic rubbing. Whack! She slaps me again. This continues for the next hour. Is every woman in south-east Asia reading THAT book, I wonder as I lay on the torture table. Have I entered the red room of pain? I finish my bondage session and head for a late-night skinny dip in my private plunge pool overlooking the South China Sea. The lights of the fishing boats out of the horizon wink back at me.

The next day, out on a boat tour where the sea lice bite as much as Christian Grey himself forcing me out of the water with welts on my thighs, I ask Trong, my tour guide, about how to find a man in Vietnam.

 “You put on some perfume, and some nice makeup on your face, then we march into the bar and look for a hot, young, horny boy. And then you have a happy ending,” he says, matter-of-factly.

 “If they are tall and skinny, then they have big dong.”

 I’m unsure whether by dong, Trong means the local Vietnamese currency or something else but there are no happy endings in Nha Trang and I head on to the mountainside of Dalat which is believed to be the City of Love.

 Here, on two separate occasions, I’m stalked by guys on motorbikes. “I have been following you all day,” they say without any irony. I wave them off and wander into a local restaurant for some Pho. Twenty sets of chopsticks stop chattering and 20 pairs of eyes fix firmly on me as I slurp on a bowl of chicken soup. For the princely sum of $4.50 I am their dinner and their show.

Back in Saigon, a 9-year-old Vietnamese girl befriends me in a museum. Her name is Thanh. She runs away and returns with a small doll as a gift. My mind frantically scans my handbag for a return present. All I can think of is a half eaten packet of chewing gum and a box of tampons. Where, oh, where are those skanky little clip-on koalas when you need them?

I apologise to Thanh that I don’t have a gift for her, and thank her profusely for hers.

“My aunt thinks you are beautiful,” she says before skipping off.

I stand there and smile to myself. Just my luck to pick up an ageing Vietnamese woman who may or may not have read Fifty Shades of Grey.