The castle playground
In Canberra there are a few truly awesome playgrounds that are spoken of by those who’ve grown up here with a happy sigh and a faraway gaze. This one may be my favourite. We call it the castle.
The rest of this entry is at weekend notes.
The things women do
I was in Indonesia, staying with an Indonesian friend and his Mum in their two-room house. There was a smell of slightly-charred meat in the air. I lay down on the bed for a nap.
“Here, have some of this,” my friend said, and sliced me off a piece of meat.
I looked down at the piece of meat on my plate, and couldn’t help noticing that the meat had been taken from my leg, which was still steaming gently with heat.
Something was definitely wrong, and I paused before eating. Now what was it that was bothering me?
My friend and his mother savoured a mouthful, and motioned for me to do the same.
NO! I suddenly realised. I’M NOT FOR EATING!!
The shock of it woke me up.
That was the day I realised I needed to stop going along with every single aspect of Indonesian culture. (My friends weren’t unreasonable; they were just different to me.)
Not everyone goes from middle-class Australia to stay in the home of relatively poor Indonesians, but we all adjust to different mini-cultures throughout our lives and throughout a day. One family walks around naked, even when they have guests; another family shrugs when their birds defecate on the couch. One school will turn a blind eye to certain weapons; another will put a child on detention for trying out a new swear word.
Women sometimes live their whole lives to please others, completely erasing their own personal culture in the process. Some men do, too, but it’s less common (due to socialising – women are taught to appear nice, men to appear confident).
On the first day of Year Eight, one of my friends called me “Lou” instead of Louise, and dissolved into giggles (“loo” in Australia means “toilet”). I protested at first, but several other people joined in. By the end of the day it was well established, and I’ve been introducing myself as “Lou” ever since. Why would I embrace a stupid nickname like that? I’m not even a passive person, but I still have that deep-seated urge to please other people at almost any extent.
Dear women of the world:
You get to choose what people call you (new people, anyway).
You can say no – even if someone gets mad at you.
Your children can wait while you take a shower/talk on the phone/finish cleaning the kitchen.
You are not for eating.
Fully preserved Victorian Kitchen
A British couple found an entire Victorian kitchen in their basement the other day. It probably dates from the 1830s, although it was used briefly as a shelter during World War 2.
It includes jelly moulds, a spit for roasting pigs, and an antique fire extinguisher. Also, bells for the servants.
For those who want a steam engine in your Steampunk Sunday, here’s a steam-powered bicycle. All I know about the source is that the maker is Finnish:
Do independent authors sell?
Generally, no.
For one thing, bookshops will refuse to stock them. This is not because bookshops are mean and cynical; it’s because there are insane numbers of self-published books out there, and many of them are self-published because authors were either not good enough or not marketable enough for major publishers.
If you owned a bookshop (one of the ones that hasn’t already financially collapsed), wouldn’t you want to pick the best written, best edited, most marketable books?
On the other hand, here is an article about some independent books that mostly did quite well. This presumably involved a LOT of promotion work over time by the authors.
For those who want comparison numbers, the average book published by a large Australian company gets an advance of $3000-$5000 for children or young adult books, or $5000-$10,000 for other novels. Unless the book is a success (sadly, that just doesn’t happen often – a “success” would be selling over a thousand books), this is the only money the author gets.
But it’s almost guaranteed to be more than a self-published or POD author gets. So be wise with your work.
A little bit post-apocalyptic, a little bit rock and roll
The perfect place to be when disaster strikes is just close enough to feel a thrill, but far enough away to be in absolutely no danger. I’m in precisely that place today. Also, no-one has actually been hurt.
The North side of my little city is ablaze with toxic fumes and chemical explosions. Apparently flames are shooting 200 feet in the air. Buses, schools, and childcare centres have been shut down, and residents advised to stay inside with the doors and windows closed (which reminds me slightly of a “duck and cover” propaganda video from the Cold War, but oh well). It’s still burning.
I live way down on the South side. Outside, the sky is blue. Having offered my home as a toxin-free shelter for a couple of Northside friends, my job here is done.
Not much happens in Canberra. We find our thrills where we can.
Blossoms
In late August, Canberra turns to a fuzzily blossom-filled town in pink and white. It’s a great time of year.
*resisting the urge to tag this “cthulhu pics”*
Crouching broccoli, hidden zucchini
Due to a combination of skipping one zofran pill and eating some steamed broccoli and zucchini-containing lasagna, I was hideously ill this time last week. I was so sick it kept me awake (I moved a chair into the bathroom), and then was feeling marginally better in the morning so I had a few sips of water – then lost them. For the rest of the day I had basically nothing. Yurk.
But I improved day by day and yesterday was simply fabulous. I cleaned the bathroom, hung out washing, brought in washing, emptied out a bookshelf so it could be moved from one room to another, and went to a baby shop for – believe it or not – the first time.
Of course the baby shop was a thrill. I carefully psyched myself up to avoid buying anything, even though the shop was having a sale. We’re big fans of Choice magazine Australia, which does a lot of product testing (often focusing on safety, which is want you want in baby stuff), so there were specific brands I was looking for. None of them were there, but I did see pretty things, like these cots:
A lady at the shop seemed very knowledgeable and told me that, because of the time taken to test brands, Choice-recommended products are often unavailable soon after the time the tests are printed. So I put an equivalent brand on hold and went home.
Then I turned to Mama Google for further advice.
I immediately found the precise cot I was looking for, and for less than the price quoted by Choice. But I like the lighter-coloured wood (that the lady in the shop told me was almost impossible to get), and curved ends. So I surfed here and I surfed there, and I discovered that another one of Choice’s top four happened to have a curved top and to be available in light-coloured wood – and for a similar price to my first option (which was my first option of the four because it was drastically cheaper). I discovered the only existing one in Canberra, and further negotiated the price over the phone (to the tune of a $200 mattress free).
I totally win.
Now, concerned citizens may be thinking, “But why is Louise shopping for new things, when she has sworn on a pile of catalogues not to buy a single baby item?”
The answer is simple: parents.
Also, I have a baby shower coming up. I have spent literally hours scouring magazines and online stock lists figuring out want we want, what we need, and what we’d really like – and often where is the best place to buy them (many of our friends are single and childless, and have literally asked me, “What do I buy you?” I’m so lucky in my friends and in the straightforward nature of Aussie friendships.)
One of my super powers is getting the maximum benefit out of present-generating events (such as Christmas). For example, I’ve found the perfect stroller on sale and will pay for it, then let people know that if they give me cash, that cash is going towards the stroller. If there is change, I will secretly spend it on boring things like safety gates (that no-one will want to buy). Also, I’ve asked that people don’t buy me clothes, books, or toys – because I already know I’m getting huge amounts of those items secondhand. See? Cunning. Cunning like a slightly tactless and grasping fox.
Presents are AWESOME. Not only do I feel like I’m achieving some progress financially (a happy illusion), but I also get shiny things. Shiny things are the best distraction for the four months of nausea still lurking in my immediate future. In some ways, shiny things are more exciting than a new baby.
Don’t get me wrong, a baby is the point of the exercise (and entirely worth it). But right now the baby is a long, long way away – and presents are happening week by week. Also, a baby is a complicated and messy blessing (phrases like “Your life is over” and “You’ll never sleep again” are especially difficult when I’m already in physical difficulty) – whereas presents are a very simple and straightforward blessing. They’re pretty much guaranteed not to throw up on you.
So I’ll say it loud and proud: until the baby actually emerges, presents are the best thing about pregnancy.
But in the meantime, here’s Louisette sucking her thumb:
I wish she was already here. She’ll be even cuter in colour, 3D, and surround sound.
Watch him cook
It never, ever gets old for me.
I find it bizarre that any adult would be unable to at least follow a recipe. Fortunately I married someone who is perfectly competent at any household task.
*pause to applaud my flawless taste*
Pick a Name
Looking back at the “place your bets” entry where readers guessed Mini-Me’s gender, there were two votes for “boy”, several votes for “indeterminate/neither/cthulhu” and one vote for “girl”.
Which says a great deal about my readers.
It also means there is a clear winner.
STEFFI, you may collect your prize of Personal Satisfaction from the downtown office at your earliest convenience. Congratulations.
In the meantime, I need a name. No you mad fools – not a REAL name! CJ and I will work that one out ourselves. But since our daughter will one day be a hot 16-year old, we won’t ever be using her real name online.
So what I need is a name that says “daughter” to the casual reader. Sort of like “Junior” instantly tells you that a man is so-and-so’s son.
Or just a handy name to use online. Throw your suggestions in the hat!
Astonishing Real Life Clockpunk
One of the things steampunks love is the sense of amazingly intricate (and highly improbable) technology combined with craftsmanship. Victorian times deliver time and time again with real inventions that are hardly believable (like the steam man of last Sunday’s entry).
Not to be outdone, pre-Victorian times brim with inventions that are, if anything, even more beautiful and even less plausible.
Like this doll – that has been described as the first computer because it could write ANY MESSAGE you gave it. And I do mean “write” – with its hands. Not bad for a watchmaker’s promotional tool dating from 1774!
It had over 6,000 moving pieces. . . and it still works.
Read more – and watch the video – in a robot article on cracked. Believe me when I say this is just the beginning.
Felicity Banks 