Tradies
You may have heard that our ceiling fell in last Thursday night. On Friday we made contact with our landlady (may heaven rain odours on her*), and she immediately made several rapid calls. By 4:30pm, the first tradie arrived: a blond and genial plumber (someone somewhere had assumed that “water damage” meant “a burst pipe”), around six feet eight inches tall. He immediately climbed up onto our roof and tramped about in his tradie boots.
It’s a tin roof. A single sparrow landing on the roof makes a noise – noises that are carefully monitored by our self-appointed cat guardians.
Ana (who despite her cuteness is a cold-blooded killer) crouched on my desk. Her pupils narrowed to terrified slits and I could see her thinking, “It’s finally happened. The Great Bird has come to wreak a horrible revenge.”
Meanwhile I lay, swathed in my ever-present doona on the couch. My Mum sat on one of our many shoved-aside couches, doing her embroidery. We couldn’t have been happier with our afternoon’s entertainment.
The giant returned and announced our roof was A-okay. This was good news, since the alternative was having him land in Mum’s lap. He stood on our oven and poked his head through the ceiling vent, shining a torch into the flat roof. “Can’t see water. Can’t see much though,” he declared.
He exited scene left, replaced instantly by a builder who asked all the same questions and declared the ceiling past redemption. Two more men in orange tramped in, and they decided to nail some battens (temporary beams) up for us. The boss left and the other two climbed all over a ladder and our windowsill with the confidence of monkeys. They found the structural supporting beams through the ceiling by swearing profusely and bashing holes in the plaster with a screwdriver. Mum and I watched in delight.
As they stabilised the ceiling, they took apart CJ and his Dad’s (rather artsy-looking) pillars, admiring the standard of the work (“Is he a chippy then?” “He done a good job”) as they went.
The “before” shot:
The “after” shot:
As you can see above, I wasted no time getting my furniture back where it belongs (all the tools were gone by Saturday morning). The insurance assessor did his clipboard thing mere moments ago, and said the ceiling tear-down and rebuild will be covered by the Body Corporate insurance. From where I’m sitting, there’s no hurry.
I was also cunning enough (with visions of a month-long stay at a parents’ house) to ask how long it would take to fix when the time came. The tradies said that if it was just the quarter that was obviously broken, it would take a day. Good to know!
*I THINK that’s a good thing. Anyone recognise the misquote?
Oh, THAT invasion
The Sydney city council recently voted to re-word the official city literature so that the arrival of British settlers in Australia is now called a “European invasion” rather than the “European arrival”.
Here’s a Daily Mail article.
Some argued against the change of wording, either because the word “invasion” is rather unpleasant, or (more openly) on the basis that the change was merely semantic.
Despite the obvious devastation of the original Aboriginal population, and the fact that all Australians are taught about the horror of the Stolen Generation, it only really occurred to me in a meaningful way recently that my beautiful Australia would not exist except that it was built on a foundation of breathtakingly matter-of-fact racism. The phrase “Terra nullius” (empty land) really says it all.
So why didn’t I realise the truth of my own history (and the REASON for so many of the divisions between the first and third world) sooner, given that I knew the facts? Mostly because history is taught by the winners, and in Australia that is most certainly the Europeans. All my life in school I’ve been taught to see Captain Cook as a hero – a brave, brilliant, compassionate man (compassionate because he actually made an effort to ensure his entire crew didn’t die of scurvy). He probably was all of those things. But he was also the man who doomed hundreds of nations of one of the oldest, most interesting, most environmentally conscious, and most mysterious group of cultures on Earth.
It’s an uncomfortable truth that I am wealthy and safe and will (probably) live a long and healthy life because my ancestors committed horrible crimes against innocent people on a huge scale.
Advice to Victorian Ladies
This is taken from a mid-book compilation by author Liza Picard, in Victorian London. Enjoy!
Advice to Ladies:
Most wind instruments are decidedly inelegant, they should be left to the gentlemen. Playing the violin-cello is of course out of the question, while the violin, while not so openly obscene, necessitates an awkward position of the head and neck which is not recommended. The piano-forte is an elegant woman’s best friend. There is room on a properly designed piano stool for two, in delightful proximity, when attempting pieces for four hands. Remember that if your companion stands up you may be deposited on the floor unless you stand at the same time. Pages need turning, by someone standing close behind you. This will be present to your mind when adjusting the neckline of your dress before a musical evening. Do not spare the application of perfume.
Never be in the company of an unmarried man alone, unless considerations such as the imminence of an acceptable proposal of marriage outweigh the normal rules. If about to faint with emotion, make sure there is a convenient sopha on which to subside. Not all gentlemen can be relied upon to catch a falling female in time.
When other peoples’ children are presented to you, express delight and admiration, no matter how unprepossessing the infants. Resist any temptation to call attention to their running noses, wet pantaloons, or digital nasal explorations. One can only hope that all these matters will be taken care of by some third party such as the nursemaid. Mothers are often blind to any imperfection in their offspring. Meanwhile try your utmost to avoid physical contact with them, combining an adroit management of your skirts with uninterrupted paeans of praise. Much the same applies to other peoples’ pets, with obvious amendments.
Death of “Traditional” publishing?
A whole lot of people point to success stories like the self-published Amanda Hocking and say, “Hah! Those cold-hearted publisher types are dying, and we laugh at them and stomp on their graves!”
These people are stupid.
I often wish publishers were more cold-hearted. They’d get through submissions way faster if that were the case. But if publishers were less in love with books, they would not be publishers. Small publishers are dying – they always have been, and they always will be. It is an extremely financially shaky business in which MOST BOOKS ARE BOUGHT AND SOLD AT AN OVERALL LOSS TO THE COMPANY. Sometimes, large publishers are unlucky and they die too. Most large publishers survive on the occasional how-did-that-happen-exactly? bestseller. In short, they survive by picking the best books they can, and then crossing their fingers and praying that THIS book is the one that keeps the company afloat for another month.
People think publishers are cold-hearted because over 90% of books are rejected, usually without stated reasons. People are constitutionally incapable of believing that THEIR sweet precious manuscript that took five years to write is, in fact, terrible. (“But my mum LOVED it!”) These people are especially offended that “bad” books are published. Having read unpublished manuscripts, I assure you that publishers set a standard that is largely consistent and has saved the reading public from worse pain than you can imagine. Self-publishing often lowers those standards to, “Do you have a few thousand dollars? Then you’re a published writer, yay!”
Personally, I don’t see rich idiots as a threat to the publishing industry. I know enough to be grateful for the gatekeepers – and secretly or otherwise, so does the entire reading public.
*personal rant over*
I like the Behler blog, and especially this article, which inspired today’s post.
Rescued by Firemen
You’d think that lolling about being ill at home wouldn’t lend itself to thrilling awesomeness. You’d be wrong.
The night was last night*. The time: 7:15pm. The taste: sustagen and milk for dinner (again). The flavour: vanilla.
I was watching yet another Spicks and Specks re-run when it was interrupted by a bang above me. Was it a giant bird with a serious lack of direction? Was it a poopsicle (frozen faeces dropped from a plane)? Was it superman having a REALLY bad day?
“Meh,” I thought.
And that was when I glanced back towards the TV and asked myself the question, “Didn’t the ceiling used to be parallel to the floor?”
I called out for CJ.
“What is it?” he called back.
“The roof is falling in!”
“What?!” He hurried up the stairs and assessed the damage in about 0.2 of a second. The ceiling was making that crinkling sound glass makes when it hasn’t finished breaking. There was a clear crack between the kitchen and living room areas, marking the boundary where one-quarter of our ceiling was 30cm lower than usual. “Get out,” he said.
CJ placed the larger fish tank on the floor and moved the smaller one downstairs. I forced the cats outside and then mangled my laptop trying to unplug it from the monitor too quickly as the roof fell another 10cm. We had to carry laptop and monitor downstairs still joined together. At the last moment I grabbed our camera and took these two pictures:
CJ turned off the power and we grabbed torches. Our bedroom lies directly below the collapsed section so I took our doona out and huddled up on the hallway floor, near the open front door. We called CJ’s Macgyver-like Dad and our electrician friend (who knows people). Our mirror-image neighbours also had an ominous ceiling, but not as dramatic. CJ’s Dad brought a bootload of wood to prop up the ceiling, and turned the power back on (but we left all the heaters off). CJ called the SES and they put him through to the fire brigade, who came at once with their sirens screaming.
It’s eerie to hear sirens coming and think, “Ah. That’ll be for us.”
Firemen poured forth from the giant truck in all their flourescent finery (are they ALL so broad-shouldered?) and all the menfolk talked in grave tones and prodded things in a knowledgable fashion (I’m assuming that part; I was downstairs). They concluded that the damage was caused by a pool of water sitting inside the roof, gradually weakening the ceiling until it collapsed. The damage was declared non-structural, which meant CJ and I didn’t have to immediately wander the streets begging for shelter**
On the down side, the ceiling (gyprock) may still fall down at any moment. Perhaps I should wear a helmet to breakfast.
CJ says the collapsed section is now safer than any other part of the ceiling. Here’s what he and his Dad did last night:
And how was YOUR Thursday night, my peeps?
*technically a few hours ago, since I’m writing this on Thursday night.
**also, we had three solid offers of beds from friends and relations.
Aquarium
Back in the Summertime, CJ and I visited the Wharf Restaurant and Aquarium in Merimbula. The restaurant is excellent (great food, great service, and a stunning location right on the water), and so is the aquarium.
We first visited the Wharf Restaurant and Aquarium on our honeymoon, and when we were about to pay we realised we hadn’t brought any money whatsoever. While CJ went home to fetch his wallet, the staff suggested I amuse myself by wandering around the aquarium (for free, which was very sweet of them). I fell in love with the giant cuttlefish – the same one that’s giving me the finger with its tentacle at the end of this video.
We knew then that we’d have to go back – and this year, we did.
A lot of couples have a “babymoon” when they get pregnant – one last holiday without children. It’s a good thing CJ and I had our babymoon well before we made Mini-Me. Apart from anything else, we ate a lot of seafood and drank a lot of wine.
Dreams of Mediocrity
Week 11.
Mini-Me is now larger than any of our fish, and most of the complicated bits are largely finished (eyelashes, ears, kidneys). This has indeed resulted in a marked improvement in my health. Yaaaaaaaayyy! I’m still eating almost nothing, and still moving cautiously, but I only feel properly (“imminently”, if you like) ill about 30% of the time – as opposed to 100% of every waking minute.
So I’m pretty chipper, despite not quite being able to take on students at home this week (I can sit up for half an hour most afternoons, but a full hour upright + mild brain activity is beyond me). On Sunday, I brushed my teeth for the first time in weeks. I didn’t use toothpaste and brushed section by section (“front top”, “back bottom” and so on), taking breaks in between. It took two hours altogether. On Monday it took forty minutes. Yesterday I was able to use toothpaste again for the first time.
*insert grateful ad for Extra sugarfree gum here*
I have only two weeks left of my first trimester (the 12/13 week barrier marks the time when normal folks START spreading the good news), which means I should have gained a little over a kilo – precisely the amount that I lost in weight just this week. On the up side, that means I’ve lost all the stress weight I put on as CJ and I were trying to conceive (which has its perks, but frankly I’d rather be as sick as I am than go through that don’t-know-if-we’ll-ever conceive-and-it’s-all-a-bit-weird experience ever again).
Also, I was given Mini-Me’s first mobile – which caused me to flip out both delightedly and immoderately. I particularly enjoy the disturbed expressions on the faces.
That mobile is the highlight of my week. I’ve hung it prominently in the living room, so I glance at it hundreds of times each day. My baby is on its way and all’s well with the world.
And so we move on to today’s actual topic: jobs I don’t want my future children to have.
Traditionally, parents like to be able to say, “My kid’s a doctor/lawyer/businessman/stock trader/prime minister/police officer” or similar. Who doesn’t want their kid to be fabulously important or wealthy or both?
Well – me. I think most of the rich professions come with too high a cost to the person’s home life, personal integrity, or ability to show compassion to people who need it. I’m a huge fan of a work-life balance.
And then there’s the other side of the “great” careers – writers, musicians, dancers, artists, and athletes. I definitely don’t want my kid attempting any of those. Those are the jobs with the least causal link between how much work you put in and how much pay you get out, which is really psychologically unhealthy. The entire writing community flinched when Snooki’s book was a New York Times bestseller (Snooki is a reality star who isn’t intellectually gifted enough to wear undies while doing cartwheels). My parents did a great job on encouraging my writing as a side job rather than full-time work. (The only reason I spend more time writing than doing paid work is that I developed an anxiety disorder that prevents me doing normal work.) I’ll be following their lead as I raise my own kids.
Finally, there are the caring professions – teachers, nurses, volunteers, aid workers, social workers, and counselors. I don’t want my kid doing those jobs either. They’re jobs that invade your home life and leave you poor.
So what kind of job do I want for my kids?
I want the kind that’s moderately interesting (but stays at work), that pays fairly (with regular raises in pay, good health and insurance benefits, and annual paid holidays), and that is common enough that if a bad boss comes along my kid can transfer to another section rather than enduring abuse.
In short, the public service is the best. There are literally hundreds of available jobs ranging from IT to training to legal to political work – and 99% are here in my home town. You can switch careers completely without switching departments (in fact, they’ll often pay you to go back to uni).
I certainly won’t prevent my kid from chasing whatever dream takes their fancy – but if they can follow in their father’s footsteps (CJ is a public servant and he really enjoys his workmates and job), I will be very, very pleased for them and their future family.
What is your perfect job? What is the perfect job for your children (imaginary or otherwise)?
Second-hand shops. . .
. . . are the awesomest.
All the couches CJ and I own are from op shops, including a sofa bed similar to this one:
I love this table:
And, if luck is with you (as it was with me several years ago), you can buy a wedding dress for a few hundred dollars:
When did you last visit a charity second-hand shop (to buy, not donate)? What did you buy? Did you play dress-ups while you were there?
PS Congratulations to Neil Patrick Harris on his upcoming wedding.
Sunsets
For today’s miscellaneous Monday, from author and blogger John Scalzi, a bunch of 2010 sunsets.
See the rest (including one taken in Melbourne, and one sunrise).
Needlessly Terrifying Machines
We visited cracked.com yesterday, so may as well visit them again today.
As I mentioned yesterday, this article is PG for swearing/crudity, but the site is MA.
The 7 Most Needlessly Terrifying Pieces of Heavy Machinery
If you never dreamed of driving a huge tank fitted with a giant chainsaw while growing up, then congratulations on having been a well-adjusted kid. As for the rest of us? Well, people like us grew up and built these machines for real. That’s why right this moment, somebody somewhere is behind the wheel of …
Read the rest (and see the pictures and videos) here.
Felicity Banks 