With the new Sex and the City movie coming out about now, lots of women my age are looking forward to catching up with their old friends Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda. And I am starting to feel a little lost again.

Despite having watched a handful of episodes over the years, I have never caught the SATC bug. Although I enjoyed it when I did watch it, the show just didn’t resonate with me as it did with so many women, and it never became appointment TV.

It’s not because I can’t relate to the premise of the show. Yes, I’m a largely fashionless, married mother on a budget in suburbia, but so are many SATC fans. I think my point of disconnection is the four main characters. Not as individuals, but rather as a collective. You see, I don’t often spend time with women in the plural. I don’t have a group of like-minded gal pals that I organise morning teas, play dates, girls’ nights out or in with.

That’s not to say that I don’t have wonderful friendships with other women. I have several beautiful close friends that I love to catch up with on an individual basis, with and without our families. I’m just not part of a particular group of women friends, who all know each other and socialise together. I do have acquaintances that revel in regular get-togethers “with the girls” . When I am invited along to such occasions, I often feel out of place. I’m not sure why. I have never been made to feel unwelcome. The topics of conversation are not that dissimilar to what I would cover with my closer friends. But it feels so very different to one-on-one.

Maybe it is because the chat moves faster. More people equals more ideas and opinions. Perhaps I am not as assertive in expressing myself in front of  a crowd, although when the company is mixed I don’t seem to have a problem. Maybe, just maybe, it’s because somehow when women are presented as a group, I feel like I don’t measure up. I’ve always been a little less fashionable, more geek less chic, less feminine.  When women are together in a large group, I feel like my unwomanliness becomes more apparent and  I am on the outside of my gender looking in. Which is ridiculous when I think about it, because women aren’t some kind of hive mind, and to pass us all off as the same goes against my every belief. Maybe I feel more comfortable being myself in a group of two, because there is better chance for the other person to discover who I really am, and I in turn can better see who they really are.

So my female readers, what about you? Do you have a group of women friends that you love spending time with? How do you all know eachother? Or are you more comfortable with your friends one-on-one?

My son is not your average lad. When people talk about boys being more assertive, more physical or just generally more boisterous than girls, I know they haven’t met Davo, whose boofy family nickname belies his gentle personality. He’s an enigma at times. Incredibly bright, but not particularly enamoured with academic success. Awards and certificates don’t inspire him. He just gets in and does the job. He’d rather sit quietly in the back corner, and yet I’m told he speaks confidently when called on in class. He plays soccer the same way, watching mostly from the side, but running in and having a go when he feels confident.

Davo  seems happiest being a bystander, an observer. He’d make a great writer, except he hates to actually write. His  face sums up his personality so well – big limpid blue eyes, massive eyes, hiding behind a mop of sandy brown hair that is begging for a cut, but he prefers unkempt. (He’s not much into appearances.) Mouth curved into a small smile. He doesn’t say much.

Oh but when Davo does speak – everyone should sit up and listen. For underneath the quiet exterior is a funny and thoughtful young man. He measures his thoughts and his words carefully, and often sees details that go unnoticed by the rest of us. He is not completely averse to silliness of course, he’s still a kid. And there is nobody better at pushing his sister’s buttons – the one time he uses his superpowers for evil rather than good. But the rest of the time there is a stillness about him, that is incredibly soothing and highly uncommon in nearly ten year old boys. Davo and I can sit together for ages, just reading or watching TV and talking to each other about everything and nothing. I hope we can continue this for as long as possible as I watch my gentle boy grow up into a gentle man and a gentleman.

Related Post: About a Girl

There has been a lot of talk about Jessica Watson around the traps (a phrase which here means that I am too lazy to direct you to all the articles discussing her, but I’m sure you’ve seen some.). She has been described as an attention-seeker, as a risk-taker, as too young, as a record-breaker, as a hero. It is this last word – hero – that seems to stir people up the most.

T he dictionary.com definition of hero: a man of distinguished courage or ability, admired for his brave deeds and noble qualities.

OK – so apart from the “man” part that applies, I guess.

We live in a country that encourages “hero faxes” to its Olympic athletes, so it is hardly surprising that the word ‘hero’ is being used about a 16 year old who performed such an amazing feat of endurance and strength of character. In this context it seems entirely apt.

No she didn’t save lives, and there are many teens and adults quietly doing amazing things every day that are just as worthy of media attention. But I think that nitpicking what she did detracts from the fact that she is inspirational to any young person who has a dream and dares to follow it.

In full disclosure, I was a nay-sayer as Jessica left. I thought it was foolish for a young girl to be risking her life to chase a record. I thought her parents were mad to let her go. But as she has faced the challenges along her journey, I have been turned around to cheering her on. I don’t care if she broke a world record or not, or if she gets money from appearances afterwards.  At 16, I didn’t know my arse from my elbow. I was working a crappy McJob, goofing off in class, swooning over boys who barely acknowledged my existence and wasting a fair bit of my potential. If I knew then what I know now, I would have been running at life with both arms outstretched. Good on Jessica for having the guts to do that.

Updated to add: here is  a list I found of heroic characters. http://changingminds.org/disciplines/storytelling/characters/heroic_characters.htm I think we can all agree that Jessica fits the “bold adventurer” category.

My severe arachnophobia is well-known. I blame the Dr Who Planet of the Spiders episode. My research showed that this first aired in 1974, so assuming it came to Australia not long afterwards, I must have been around 3 or 4 years old when I saw it. Even looking back at the hokey 70s prop spiders gives me the heebeejeebees.

OK – posting that for you is killing me.

I’m getting a little better. As an adult, I have managed to let go of my daddy-long-legs fears. That’s a good thing, because my house is full of them. But it wasn’t until my late teens that I managed to cope with them.  Growing up with an outside loo was torture. Tarantulas and bird-eating spiders are exotic and not likely to be crawling into my bed at night, so I can cope with their existence as long as I can’t see them. The black housespiders that nest in the eaves are creepy, but keep their distance. Redbacks are nasty, but teeny tiny and easily identified. These days my real anxiety really only shows itself with two kinds of spiders. Unfortunately they are kind of rife around here.

Despite knowing that huntsman spiders are benign and safe, I can’t cope with them being in the house. Fair call too, because they are HUGE. Like the size of my hand. And they sit on the wall and ceiling with their legs all spread out. It’s unnerving. Once when my daughter was a newborn, I noticed one above the doorway to our bedroom. Thank goodness I had moved the bassinet into the sunroom before I saw it, because I honestly cannot say if I would have been able to walk under the spider to go to her. And if I had, I doubt I would have been able to walk back out. I checked on it for hours to make sure it didn’t disappear, because if there is one thing worse than a spider you can see, it’s a spider you can’t see but you know is there.

My arch-nemesis is of course the funnel-web spider. A much more sensible fear, because of the whole Most Fucking Venomous Spider in the World thing. They are in my nightmares. Just thinking about them makes my hands shake. Until three years ago, I had little exposure to them, despite always living in their territory. And then we moved here – to this nice house backing on to a tad of bushland, with a pool. How many “funney buggers” have I seen since? We are in double digits! Never near the house, always in the pool after heavy rain. I understand they can survive underwater for days, and when you pull them out they might look dead, but they can come back to life. Here is one we pulled out back when we first moved in. Now they are so commonplace we don’t bother taking pics. Gah.

But my favourite (and by favourite, I mean most nightmarish) spider story is this:

One day when I was a new young mum, I was doing a load of laundry. I was whistling as I worked, because there is nothing more cheery than washing a pile of wee baby onesies on a sunny Spring day. As I loaded up the washing machine, I noticed a teeny tiny spider just inside the rim. About the size of my little fingernail. A ‘pidey. So I squashed it with my thumb and closed the lid of the machine. Strange. There it was again. A teeny tiny ‘pidey on the lid. So I squashed it again. With my thumb. Not before noticing that it looked like a miniature cute widdle huntsman.

And then I looked up…

The ceiling of the laundry was covered in hundreds of teeny tiny huntsmen. Crawling with them. And one big mothership huntsman in the corner, glowering at me. It was like the end of Charlotte’s Web, when her egg sac hatches and the air is full of tiny spiders. If Charlotte’s Web were written by Stephen King.  I shut the door and walked away. I may have curled up and sobbed for a while, I can’t recall. Then I did what any right-minded, environmentally aware person would do – I had my husband napalm all up in that joint until  the little bastards were dead, dead, dead.

So now you know what’s in my Room101. What’s your worst phobia?

A big high five to Jodie at Mummy Mayhem – this is snowballing. Fab idea too. Everyday women with normal lighting looking beautiful. No makeup, no airbrushing, no fancy photography lighting and no soft focus. Love it.

To be honest, going makeup free wasn’t too much of a chore for me, as I don’t tend to wear any unless I am going out somewhere. So no makeup at home, or to pick up at school or duck down to the shops. Makeup is for work out of the home, weddings, nights out and clothes shopping. (What is it about those shop mirrors?)

The bigger step for me is posting a pic of myself, because I don’t tend to. So here is me, about 10 minutes ago. Resplendent in my Oscar the Grouch pyjamas. Yeah, PJs at 9am. I am livin’ the high life.

So, I don’t drive.

I can hear you gasping from here. It’s the response I usually get when people discover this fact about me. Followed by “You don’t drive?!” , possibly in case I had said I don’t jive. Which I don’t really either, but you know, not so gasp-worthy.

Since I’ve been not-driving for 38 years, I am used to facing this incredulity, although it has really only hotted up over the last fifteen years or so. People were less concerned when I was in nappies.  I understand that I am a licenseless anomaly in a world of cars, and that to some people this is incomprehensible. When people wonder how I get around, I usually reply honestly about using local facilities and public transport, saving car-necessary travel for weekends and evenings when my husband is home. I occasionally get a little annoyed by obvious scorn, but I’m a fairly affable lass, so I try not to bite back. Sometimes, just for kicks, I channel my inner-Blanche Dubois and breathily coo “I have always relied on the kindness of strangers” and bat my eyelids and try to draw attention to my bosom. This usually ceases the line of questioning, and indeed the conversation altogether most of the time.

Some curious folks want to know my reason for not driving. Truth be told, there isn’t really a reason. Not a single one anyway. The reason for not learning when I was 17 was different to the reason for not learning when I was 23 which is again different to why I still don’t drive now.  It is more complex than just lack of interest, although that has become a major factor, but there is no deep, dark underlying story behind it either. I just don’t.

One thing I have found is that not driving has its benefits. My life is slower than most. My children’s lives by extension are also slower. They have never had to spend afternoons ferrying between activities or appointments, because I try to keep as much as possible in our local area. In doing so, I have felt a real connection with our neighbourhood and our suburb. Our local school, local sports clubs and local small shopping centre have provided us with a community that we really feel a part of.

My children walk more than they would if I drove. They walk to sport and music lessons and school. Sometimes with me, often without. They have been able to learn independence. And road sense. And an awareness of nature. And again, a sense of community.They have never had to miss out on a social opportunity due to my lack of a drivers license. Their friends’ parents are always willing to offer a lift to parties and days out, and I return the favour by being available for last-minute before and after-school care when they need it.

People often dwell on the worst case scenarios of not driving. I have a plan of course. My husband is rarely more than a phone call away. I have good friends and neighbours who would help me out if an occasion should arise.  Taxis are available in emergencies. Ambulances in real emergencies.

I’m not a rabid anti-car warrior. Top Gear is one of my favourite shows. I salivate over the Mercedes SLK in the picture above. I love watching the Grand Prix. I admit that often things would be easier if I had a license. But things aren’t as hard as you might think when you can’t drive.

Why don’t you try it one week? Look at all the things you do in your car, and work out which could still be accomplished without it. Put the kids (even the little ones) on the school bus or make them walk to school. Budget for only one big supermarket trip in a week. Use only one car, if you usually use two. Not everything will be feasible, because obviously not everybody has set their life up the way I have. But we can all slow down a little sometimes, because in the words of the great philosopher Ferris Bueller:  “Life moves pretty fast. You don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

Mia Freedman’s blog yesterday on the ad for UK department store John Lewis, had commenters remembering the ads and films that made them cry. I simply had to dig up this Just Humour Us post from 2006, if only to make fun of Susan again:

On the weekend I watched the Susan Sarandon/Winona Ryder version of Little Women with my daughter. As damning with faint praise as the word is, all I can describe it as is ‘nice’. You see, I thought I would cry more. You know, especially in the scene where - 

S: Wait a minute. You’d better not say too much in case you spoil it.
M: Everyone knows, don’t they?
S: Better safe, than sorry.

OK – especially in the scene where the whole y’know thing happens with the sist-

S: Careful, there.

Anyway I thought I would cry more, but I didn’t. So it was nice, and that’s that.

The whole thing did however get me thinking about the big tearjerker scenes in movies and television. So here they are: Our Favourite Bring Out the Tissues Moments

Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey – I read this book as a kid, and just knew that the movie was going to be the end of me. The little boy, waiting so patiently for his dog, and the other dog and cat come running home, and he’s happy to see him, but still waits for his old dog. He (and the viewers) thinks all is lost, and then – finally – the faithful old dog comes limping across the yard to him. Waaaaaaaah!

Breakfast at Tiffanys – towards the end, a distraught Holly Golightly tosses Cat out into an alley in the rain. And he’s sitting there in the rain. And he’s getting all wet. And then she goes back for him, and can’t find him. And did I mention it’s raining? And finally with Paul’s help, she finds the Cat, and they hug him and each other. Waaaaah!

Toy Story 2: When Jessie the cowgirl doll sings “When Somebody Loved Me”. The little girl grows up and stops playing with her. Then one day she takes her out again, and Jessie is all happy, thinking she has her friend back, but she’s really just taking her away to be dumped. Waaaaaah!

S: That’s your top three, and they’re about animals and a doll? What about real people?
M: I like animals. You give me some then, smartypants. Sophie’s Choice? The Shawshank Redemption? “Your girl is lovely, Hubbel?”
S: Uh – I was going to say Cool Runnings.
M: Not the movie with John Candy and the Jamaican Bobsled Team?
S: That’s the one.
M: Oh this should be good.

Cool Runnings – The Jamaican bobsled team have overcome all obstacles (not the least of which being they come from a small Caribbean Island and this is a sport involving ice) and are competing in the Winter Olympics. They have a run-down second hand bobsled. After a humiliating first run, they pull themselves together and start their second run perfectly. The crowd is cheering, they are making record time and it looks like they will make the finals. Then their bobsled starts to fall apart and they crash. The medical team rushes in and just when you think that the athletes have all been killed they crawl out from underneath the bobsled, pick it up and carry it, limping over the line to finish . The teams who were ridiculing them only minutes before lead the applause. It’s a beautiful moment… (sigh) Look I was 8 months pregnant, okay?! All those hormones.

M: Fair enough. And now on to the biggest tearjerker I’ve ever seen. Do you remember the old Kleenex tissues ads with the little boy and the duckling? I’m talking the early 1980s here.
S: Not to forget the ads for Kleenex, Hallmark, Huggies nappies. The emotional manipulations of the advertising agencies know no bounds.
M: Ah yes – never underestimate the buying power of weepy women .

Yep – Cool Runnings is Susan’s most memorable tearjerker moment. I will never let her live it down. But in the interests of full disclosure, I get a lump in my throat and well up every time the Rohirrim come riding over the hill at Helm’s Deep at the end of the second Lord of the Rings movie. I am a sook and a geek.

Come on – ‘fess up – which ridiculous ads and movie moments have made you cry?

My girl is so beautiful that I swell with pride when I look at her.  I suppose it is entirely possible that she is quite ordinary-looking, but I only see beauty. Perhaps it is because of what I see.

When I see her legs, long and colt-like, I picture her running onto a netball court on wintry Saturdays. She is always bubbling with enthusiasm – not because of a particular love of the game, but because she is surrounded by friends. She is part of a team. With this group of girls she has experienced highs and lows.  This team, that suffered humiliating defeat after defeat followed by a season that surely could only belong in a clichéd feel-good sports movie, could teach many adults about sportsmanship and friendship.

When I see her hands, long fingers and large knuckles like her father, I hear a flute playing. First the piercing squeaks of the early learner, followed by the monotony of major and minor scales and finally the soaring notes as the pieces become more polished.  I marvel that her hands, with their dirty, gnawed nails and ink-marked fingers, can produce such beautiful music.

When I see her hair, no longer the blonde of her infancy, I see the tangles and knots that I have smoothed over the years. Knots gained from tree branches and bike helmets. Tangles from expeditions to the creek, from hanging upside down while watching TV. Every morning I tease them out (not always carefully) and arrange her mane into a tidy ponytail or plait. Every afternoon she comes home, looking like she has been “dragged through a hedge backwards”.  Always beaming with the adventures of her day.

When I see her eyes, long-lashed and shining blue, I see her brow furrow as she sees some unfairness in the world.  From an unkind word from a classmate, to stories of animal cruelty, to the larger social injustices she sees on the news. She doesn’t understand hate, and cannot bear intolerance. She is still learning about speaking up for others, about standing up for her beliefs, but she is trying. I know she will when it counts.

When I see her smile, I hear her laughing. From the hearty belly laughs of her baby-self to the secretive giggles of a pre-teen with her friends. The squeals of delight as she wrestles with her beloved ginger cat and the wry chuckles as she sits beside us and watches Fawlty Towers or Seinfeld, finally old enough to share the jokes.

My girl is beautiful.

Related Post: About a Boy