Public Address - Up Front (Home)

Why Does Love Do This to Me? | Jan 27, 2009 11:41

Last week, Mills & Boon announced it was working with England's Rugby Football Union to produce a series of romance novels that would give the game "an air of sexiness, glitz and glamour".

She might have been assistant physio to the renowned All Black team for three months now, but it still sent a shiver down Megan's spine to watch them run out on to the field. There was something magic in the air, in the way the lights gleamed through the falling rain, making the rebuilt Eden Park shine in all its RMA-compliant magnificence.

Much as she'd fought it, much as she'd struggled for professionalism, her obsession showed no signs of sputtering out like a barbeque on the last dregs of the gas bottle. Even in the crowd and the noise, she knew exactly where he was. She could pick out his voice singing the National Anthem below all the others. Even from the sideline, she could make out every detail of the way the rain gathered on his storm-heavy brows and trickled off the end of nose.

Robert. He wasn't the most famous man on the team, or the best looking, but there was something about him that caught at her heart like a fishhook in a seagull's throat. Every time she was around him she found herself flushing and inarticulate, unable to stop herself imagining what it would be like to be crushed against that broadly-muscled chest, lost in his distinctive scent of sweat, liniment and Lynx.

A voice behind her said her name, and she turned to see the coach. He seemed grizzled and gruff, but she'd found he could be surprisingly tender and caring under the surface. Like Robert. Well, not just like Robert: the coach was too old to inspire the feelings Robert did. But she was sure Robert would be tender and caring under the surface if she could just get there…

Wait, he was saying something. "It's nothing personal, Megan, he's just not going to notice. I'm pretty sure he plays for the other team."

She frowned. He must mean Canterbury. "Surely that doesn't matter when he's playing for his country? Once he slithers into that tight black jersey, nobody cares what he does the rest of the time."

"Not in rugby, love. Not ever. It's our national passion. Can't let other feelings get in the way of that."

She just shook her head, distracted by the sight of Robert bringing up the back of the haka, displaying that passion, like his tongue, for everyone to see.

Five minutes into the game and he'd been caught in a ruck. Not his place, but one of the forwards had gone down. Someone had been needed, and he'd valiantly rushed in with no thought to his safety, or the effect of his lack of headgear on possible future underwear contracts.

The main physio had rushed to the aid of the fallen forward, and someone was making some kind of fuss about a stretcher or something, but Megan had eyes only for Robert. He got to his feet, hobbled a couple of steps and then fell, clutching his right leg. There was nobody else. It was down to her, and as she sprinted out onto the field, she could feel the hand of Destiny upon her.

She knelt beside her fallen warrior and passed him the water bottle. He obviously felt the heat between them just as much as she did: he could hardly meet her eyes. "Pulled a hammy, I think. Feels like."

"Let me look," she said softly, her firm strong fingers stroking his thigh, assessing his injury. She was trying so hard to keep it professional, but her heart was thumping like a punk drummer on P, and slow heat was spreading through her loins. She glanced up to see if he'd noticed, but he was spitting water onto the grass beside her. His thigh under her hands was hard and unyielding, like a bundle of pipes wrapped in hairy canvas.

She drew breath with difficulty. "I think it's just a strain. If I give it a bit of a massage…"

She could feel his eyes on her now, even though she was staring at her work. His leg, his lovely firm legs and those beautifully-cut shorts…

His voice claimed her attention. "You look kind of familiar. Do I know you?"

"I'm Megan," she said shakily. Oh god, he'd noticed her. "I've been with the team for a few months now."

"No, I've seen you somewhere else. Wait, weren't you outside my house? And you were there when we went to that club the other night. Your voice is familiar too. Are you the woman who's been ringing my house?"

She didn't know how to answer. He was staring at her, his dark eyes boring through into her soul.

Then they were interrupted, a flick on his shoulder from his captain. "Rob, you planning on joining us? Game's on and everything. Hey Megs."

She looked up, startled, into the bluest eyes she'd ever seen, like the blue squares from a paint-box, and a warm, dimpled smile. "Mark. Hi."

He grinned right at her, lips full and pouting over his mouth-guard, and she felt a fire in her heart. "I need my boy back, Megs, think we can do that?"

"What, Robert? Yeah, sure, okay, he'll be fine."

"That's your magic fingers. Keep 'em warm for me will you Megs? I'll see you after the game."

And as she ran back to the sideline across the rain-soaked grass, Megan just knew this was going to be the best night of her life.

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The Missus | Jan 20, 2009 14:47

I like me a good philosophical debate, I do. Somehow I've managed to pick up some odd ideas, and I only discover how odd they are when I say something I think is obvious and everyone just stares at me. At other times, I'm completely bamboozled by something other people find so straight-forward they don't need to explain it.

Recently, one of my favourite blog-reads, Make Tea Not War, linked to a discussion at a Mom-blog site where women were debating a thorny issue: which is the harder job, being a mother, or being a wife. Even reading their comments, I was conscious of a hole in my knowledge that made me unable to even consider the issue.

I don't know what the 'job of a wife' is.

I know what it used to be. I know there are strong ideas about a married woman's role in other cultures – cultures that aren't mine. Here and now, though, what the hell is the job of a wife?

Whatever the job of a wife is, it must somehow be different from the job of a husband, and different from the 'job' of a single woman. It has to be different from the job of being a mother, because that's apparently what it's in conflict with.

I know what the job of a parent is, and I can work out how 'mother' is different from 'father', as far as expectations go. I'm supposed to be more nurturing, possibly even a bit smothering. Dads are supposed to be more authoritarian, and also more fun. It doesn't quite work out that way in our house. I'm the disciplinarian, and also the person who says 'okay, off you go, let me know if you need an ambulance'.

Lately I've even become conscious of having a role as a daughter that's different from the role of a son. Last year our family took a trip to Hanmer to celebrate my mother's eightieth birthday. My job consisted of spending hours looking at holiday homes on line, then relaying information to my mother and brother (who live in the same city, not mine), then taking their feedback and starting all over again. It was a while before I realised why I was doing this, and not my brother, which would have shortened the process. In my family, things are always organised by women. That's determined by a simple, and hugely sexist, underlying assumption: men are a bit shit. A man couldn't organise a lay on a poultry farm. If you want something done properly, you get a woman to do it. First it's the mother's job, then as the family ages it becomes the daughter's.

Being aware of that, I started to get alarmed. The job of a wife is tough enough for some women to say that it's harder than being a mother, and I don't even know what it is. If I don't know what it is, I can't be doing it right. It's probably not 'providing obscenity-laden commentary to the evening news'. Perhaps my partner is secretly thinking, 'well, she's okay, but man I wish I had a proper wife'. What to do?

I asked the internet. Google knows everything; you just have to work out how to get it to tell you. I learned that it used to be the job of a wife to get water from the well in the morning. I found people talking about it without defining it, like this:

The job of a wife and mother is to be a wife and mother.  Anything in addition to that must also be subservient to it.  There is no higher calling.  Moreover, I believe Paul's admonition should lead us to reject any notion of a wife and mother taking on the level of responsibility that Mrs. Palin is seeking. 

So it's obviously very important, and precludes becoming vice-president in a way that being corrupt and bat-fuck crazy seemingly doesn't. Not hugely helpful, though.

Hunter S. Thompson's widow Anita feels that "the job of a wife is to protect your husband when there are dark forces around, or when he is feeling dark and depressed". I'm not entirely sure what that means either, though it could indicate a use for my lightsabre and thigh-boots.

A woman discussing Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary's Home-Making Major was more explicit:

Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary is a school founded on biblical principles, not the latest bunch of feminist hoo-ha. Titus 2:3-5 says, "Older women likewise are to…train the young women to love their husbands and children, to be self controlled, pure, working at home, kind, and submissive to their own husbands, that the word of God may not be reviled"

I'd never heard of the Book of Titus, but I'm betting it's one of Paul's. While I do work at home, I think the kind submissive self-controlled pure ship has sailed.

It did remind me of a friend of mine who went on a Women's Retreat with her church a couple of years ago. There she was taught that all conflict in a marriage is due to women being too uppity. The model of wifedom preached there was what I like to summarise in terms of Once Were Warriors: you keep your legs open and your mouth shut.

This isn't the tradition I was raised in, though. It's about as relevant to me as traditional Jewish or Muslim ideas of wifedom. It's like getting the water from the well: not something I've ever been expected to do.

I'm a bit dodgy on 'home-making' too. It's not construction, I know that. It sounds like housework. I did housework when I was single. I'm pretty sure the house would still need dusting if I lived alone.

The job of a wife must be something I have to do because I have a partner, that I wouldn't be expected to do if I didn't. I'm about all out of ideas, I just have one more lingering suspicion. And if it is sex? If the job of a wife is to put out? Shucky darn, that's terrible. Now, what's the job of a husband again?

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Will Work for Foo | Jan 12, 2009 12:00

It's that time of year again, where after a blissful interlude of cricket, swimming, Wii and general lounging in the sun, it's time to go back to work. I've always had trouble defining work, because I'm aware that pretty much all the things I've put the most effort into I've done for free. Also I work in the same chair I play in. So as a work-from-home contractor, perhaps I mean going back to taking jobs. It's just a tiny bit depressing.

Most of the people I work for are wonderful. Perfectly reasonable. I like my job, and I'm certainly not in it for the money. Every now and then, though, I deal with someone who rubs me up the wrong way. I think it's because they're stubborn idiots who won't listen to reason, but it's possible I could be biased. In any case, the huge padded wrist-rest in front of my keyboard is to protect my forehead, not my wrists.

I'm a calm, reasonable, polite person – anybody who knows me well would certainly be too scared to tell you anything else – but sometimes I do wish I could be just a little more direct. Think of this as an exercise in blowing off steam so I can suppress another year's worth of screaming 'are you freaking kidding me?'. (All 'client-side' interaction is quoted almost verbatim.)

Client: And I'd like all the articles to be seven hundred words long.
Me: Are you sure? Because I'm pretty sure I can cover the topic in about four hundred words.
Client: Why would you do that?
Me: Well, basically the shorter it is, the more people who'll read it. And the fewer pad words, the higher the concentration of your keywords.
Client: I'm paying for seven hundred words and I'll damn well get seven hundred words. Don't you try to back out of doing the work.
Me: You're the boss. Three hundred words of cabbage-level verbiage coming right up.

Client: And I want a 5% keyword density.
Me: That will make your copy read like gibbering idiocy, are you sure?
Client: Of course I'm sure. That's what I want.
Me: Well, it's just that human beings won't read it. Five percent means your two three-word keyword phrases have to be one 'word' in twenty. And if you only want googlebots to read it, I'd suggest just typing your keywords out over and over again 'no TV and no beer make Homer something something' -style.
Client: I said five percent.
Me: You're the boss. I assume you want to purchase full copyright as well?
Client: Of course.
Me: Yes. Let's just leave my name right out of it.

Client: So, we want the whole manual laid out like this sample page.
Me: No you don't.
Client: Pardon?
Me: That sample page has text which is centre-justified. And orange. There are huge paragraphs of waste-words, and from here I can see about twenty unnecessary commas. There's not one list or bullet point. And did I mention it was orange? On black?
Client: But I'm quite good at technical writing myself, I just don't have the time to do this. And I did all the CSS myself.
Me: Yes, I can see that.
Client: …
Me: You're the boss. One unreadable Hallowe'en monstrosity coming right up. Let me just remove a large portion of my brain…

Client: I paid for 400 word articles. That one is only 398. I'm not paying until you get it up to the correct word length.
Me: Is there something wrong with the content?
Client: No, it reads fine. But it's short. I want what I asked for.
Me: You're the boss. Cabbage cabbage.
Client: What?
Me: You wanted two words. There they are. And here's my paypal account.

Frequently-Questioned Answers

Yes, yes I am. What was your first clue: the girl's name, the boobies, or the linguistic competency?

No, I'm sure I am. What about the lyrical description of Lara Croft's breasts I just gave you made you think I was male?

No, it's nothing personal. I'm from New Zealand, we all swear like that.

Yes thank you, I have found Jesus. He was behind the couch. Now it's my turn to hide.

I'm sorry, if you want to buy my integrity, you'll have to pay me a lot more than that.

No, see, I'm in a different time-zone. It's Wednesday night for you, but it's Thursday for me, so… No, you're right. The reason you commission work, go to sleep, and find it there when you wake up in the morning is that I'm an elf. Should you fail to leave me my gold, your cow will stop giving milk. Also I'll cut your brakes.

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The Home Straight | Jan 03, 2009 22:11

The stretch of State Highway One between Christchurch and Timaru is the back-bone of my childhood. Canterbury is my land, it's how a landscape should be. That's where I feel I stand strong, with the sun on my face, the sea on my right hand, and the mountains on my left. It's where my mother was born, and her father. In the hundred and fifty years my family have been living on these plains, they've somehow seeped into our ancestral bones.

Theres even a road named after our family. Rather metaphorically, it heads arrow-straight for the Temuka river, but can never quite be arsed getting there. My grandfather was somewhere up that road, about the same age as my son is now, the day Richard Pearse flew. He missed it, of course, but he might have been there, had everyone not thought the guy was crazy.

Of course it's boring country. It's dead flat, and that stretch of SH1 is so straight the biggest hazard is falling asleep and ploughing into an irrigation ditch. At this time of year, a scattering of flower- and tinsel-bedecked crosses is a better reminder of that than the brief stretch of rumble strip south of Dunsandel. Every year we play Cops vs Morons. The Morons usually win.

We've driven it several times a year since I was four, and yet when I picture it in my head, it's always summer. There's heat haze on the road, sere umber paddocks full of panting sheep, and indigo mountains velvet with distance. All the memories are of summer: family picnics at Peel Forest, night skinny-dipping behind the Pareora dam, picking strawberries in my good black dress after my uncle's funeral.

Many years ago, I took a trip with my then-mother-in-law from Invercargill to Queenstown. We'd driven for about an hour before I worked out why I felt so horribly claustrophobic. Everywhere was green: there were too many hills and way too many sheep in those paddocks. I had no line of sight, no obvious escape route. No sea on my right, no mountains on my left. I couldn't breathe.

Driving that backbone road through Canterbury this Christmas has made me melancholy. It's as if someone has photoshopped my land; colour-replaced my EE9A49 with 228B22, then cut and pasted cows all over my childhood. It doesn't look like home any more, and it smells different – obviously, given all the cows. There does seem to be more water in those braided rivers, but we won't be swimming in it.

My grandparents' old house at Orari is still standing. The big macrocarpa tree is still there, though the swing is long gone. My Nanna's famous hyacinth garden now grows the mouldering corpses of unloved cars. They've changed the Orari bridge since I was a kid, so the view of the spot where my great-uncle shot himself is different now.

Some things do stay the same. Those poplars north of the first Rangitata bridge are still there, the ones my Nanna told me Grandad planted. I still can't hold my breath all the way across the Rakaia bridge. (This is an astonishingly simple way to get twenty seconds blessed peace when travelling with children. It might also have explained my once-excellent lung capacity.)

We took the kids to swim at Maori Park Pool, where I used to swim as a teenager. It's an open-air pool where parents can lounge on the grass while, say, their daughter does lap-circuits of the hydro-slide and diving pool. It hadn't changed at all. I mentioned this to my brother, who said it's been declared uneconomic. It'll be roofed over, paved, and the pool at the other end of town (already closed in and paved) is being done away with.

My brother and his wife hosted Christmas dinner in excellent spirits. Their new neighbours are much quieter to live with than the old one, who moved on shortly after stabbing his girlfriend in the leg with a screwdriver. From their front porch you can see the looming bulk of the house we lived in when we first moved to Timaru. Looking at it still makes me sick. I know it's not a widely-held view, but Christchurch makes me feel safe.

Those cousins we used to Sunday-drive all over the plains to visit are all gone now. My mother is the last of her generation. This Christmas, I sat down with her and we went through old photos. So many faded black and white stories, tinged with sadness and old memory. A ridiculous number of our stories involve pointless moral cruelty, which might explain some things.

My daughter will remember this road just like I do, driven every summer of her life. But she'll never have to write a letter to her brother apologising for having sex, and she'll never be disowned by her family for marrying one of those damned Catholics. I can live with a little change.

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