Delicious Ambiguity. I Get It.
Someone You Wanted To Make Proud
It’s been over two months since my Aunty and Godmother, Julie, passed away.
She was an incredible woman.
Strong.
Honest.
Proud.
Hard working.
Clever.
Stubborn.
Generous.
Headstrong.
Selfless.
Vivacious.
She had a presence about her; you always knew when she was in the room.
She was someone you wanted to make proud.
My Aunty was the eldest of eight children and she was every bit the boss and ringleader that you could imagine the eldest of eight would be. She was a big sister to her only one, my mother, and six brothers. She always had her finger on the family pulse, and she never forgot a thing – not a birthday or a special occasion.
I remember when I was young, I would lovingly joke with my sister and cousins and call her the Queen. Not because she acted like one, but because she was honestly so noble and so well put together – in everything from her appearance to demeanour – that she really seemed like one to me.
Since my Aunty’s passing, a few things have surprised me, like; how much you can miss someone that you didn’t even speak to every day or see every week.
Like; how much of a gaping hole and aching silence can be left by one person removed from a large and boisterous family.
And how things, material objects, mean more than the matter they’re made of when they were given to you by someone you loved.
I can’t turn my head in my home without seeing something my Aunty gave me. Teacups, of which I have hundreds. Literally. Gorgeous trinkets and collectable antiques. The garter I wore on my wedding day, which I’m so glad I chose to keep. A fly squatter, of all things. None of them are boring or generic, and she wasn’t either.
I learnt so many things from her, including;
That tea always tastes nicer out of a real china cup; wine and champagne always taste better out of a crystal glass.
To be generous, because you don’t take anything with you.
That you can’t buy style.
To always use the good cutlery.
To develop a keen hawk-eye.
That family comes first.
That any day is a good day to spoil yourself.
That it’s all in the small details.
To always take advantage of a good bargain.
That no summer fruit platter is complete without cherries.
I have learnt that I was lucky to have an Aunty and Godmother like her. That not everyone gets one.
That, in turn, I am lucky to be an Aunty to a beautiful niece. A niece I think of when I buy something nice or do something great. A niece I want to share with, spoil, teach, and one day buy teacups for.
That I understand being an Aunty can swell your heart with so much pride you feel like it might burst.
And that maybe, I did that for her.
Marriage…And Meaning.
On Sunday morning I picked up Sunday Life, one of the supplements (and my favourite weekend lift-out) within The Sunday Age and started reading. I came across an article by Lena Chen, on marriage.
Chen’s article made some valid points – on social justice and who’s allowed to get married and why people get married and why it’s not just about big dresses and seven tiered cakes. All points that I nodded to and agreed with. Except one. This one:
“There’s nothing inherently ‘special’ that marriage brings to a relationship.”
That’s the point when I stopped and thought, ‘Hmm, I don’t think so.”
And so I tweeted that despite the fine points made in the article, I disagreed with that one and wondered how Chen could claim that to be so when she has not ever been and is not married.
Chen has since contacted me via Twitter and raised various points as to why she sticks by what she says – backing it up with statistics and stating that a marriage is only one because it’s legal and that ,“Marriage doesn’t imbue relationships with meaning,” and the only reason people marry is for Government incentives and that marriage does not necessarily equal love and so on and so on.
Despite all of her efforts, I still entirely disagree with her statement. And, in true Sandi Sieger fashion, I let her know that. That despite Chen’s fine points, I cannot and will not ever agree that marriage does not offer anything special, or meaningful, to a relationship.
Chen is unmarried. Try as she might, assume as she will, she cannot know what it is like to be married. She can guess, imagine, empathise and use as many stats as she likes, but the fact remains that she’s unmarried.
When I raised this with her, she said, “I (also) don’t need to have been married to be able to make statements about the institution if I back up claims with logic.”
Well, yes Lena, yes you do.
I’m not a mother. Assume and guess and use logic all I like, until I am one I will not fully, completely be able to make statements about being a mother with any form of credibility.
More so, as a married person, I do not assume that people who are unmarried aren’t in “special” and “meaningful” relationships. So I don’t really appreciate it when people make statements about my relationship that are entirely incorrect.
The truth is, when it comes to love, you can take the graphs and stats and logic and throw it out a window because it’s irrelevant – there’s no place for logic in love. You can talk about reality, and divorce, and how marriage is a, “Western and privileged idea,” all you like and it will not make a squiddly do of difference.
Perhaps some people that get married don’t do it for love. Perhaps they do it for comfort or convenience, or in countries that I would label as ‘backward’ perhaps they do it by arrangement or to provide their family with eighteen goats – but they are not my reasons. I did not get married by force or because of expectation, due to ease or comfort, or because I wanted to start a small farm.
I got married because I, and my husband, wanted to. We chose to. Because marriage is something we value.
Has marriage strengthened our relationship? Yes. Has it enhanced our relationship? Yes. Are we happier? Yes. Do we love being married? Yes. Do we believe that our marriage has meaning? Yes. That it’s special? Yes.
Yes, yes and yes.
To suggest that what we have isn’t special, or meaningful, is entirely incorrect. To suggest that what we had prior to marriage wasn’t either is also incorrect. My point is, that for us, marriage only added to something already great and made it even better. And how or why that happened is something beyond a survey questionnaire or a logistical explanation – something shifted, slowly, and changed, slightly. Something about the way that we feel and the bond that we have and that something is between us – and us alone.
I wasn’t to know that was going to happen – but I wasn’t self-righteous enough to assume that it wasn’t ever going to either.
You cannot sweep ‘marriage’ up into one exact category and stick a label on it – just the same way you can’t do that with ‘family’ or being ‘single’ or ‘boyfriend’ or ‘girlfriend’.
And whilst I can only hope that, one day soon, all people will be allowed and granted the right to marry, I cannot and will not apologise for being one of the lucky ones who is able to. Chen is right, marriage is a privilege, and one I take as being so.
In reality, I care not about people’s relationships – I believe everyone should be able to do as they please and live as they like. But what riles me up is people that make statements, on my behalf, that are unfounded and unfair.
I get questioned, more than you’d believe, as to why I got married – imagine if I asked someone in a relationship why they were not? I get questioned, more than you’d imagine, as to why I changed my surname after marrying – imagine if I asked someone why they didn’t? I get questioned, all the time, from people I hardly know, about everything to do with my marriage – and all the assumptions and jokes that along with that – and I never question anyone about their relationship.
I’ve had people raise their eyebrow at me when I’ve said, “My husband.” It’s as if I’m someone that’s bound to a house, dust brush and mop in hand, slaving over a stove, devoid of an opinion and far too young to be bound up by it all. And I wonder, ‘Is that really what people think of a wife?’ If it is, no wonder they have such a low opinion of marriage.
I’m a wife – an independent, opinionated, hard working, young, spirited, loving, compassionate, happy wife. I love cooking. I even have an apron, or three. I clean our house, and do the washing, and pick up socks, and run errands, and iron clothes, and god damn, I even bake blueberry pies. I also run two businesses and juggle jobs and passions and interests and hobbies and a social life. I do things alone, often, and I’m as capable as clever.
I don’t need a husband to help me form an opinion, or to help me navigate a map, or to make decisions for me, or to hold my hand when I need to buck up, or to pick up the pieces when the pastry crumbles.
I was raised to walk, not crawl. Stand up, not sit down. I was taught to do, not delegate. Act, not talk. Bake my pie, and eat it too. It just so happens that, along the way, I found someone amazing and talented and funny and smart to share life with. Someone that picks up the pastry, even when I don’t ask them to.
What we had was always special, but it’s been made even more so by being married.
And Lena Chen can say all she likes, however she wants to, but our marriage is special and it has meaning – a ton of it – and we’re the kind union that doesn’t slot into a list of statistics, or fit into a graph. Perhaps a pie chart is something we’re much more suited to…but even then, if it’s not blueberry, or apple and rhubarb, we probably won’t be.
There’s a reason thousands upon thousands of people worldwide are fighting for the right to marry – because they want to be married. They want the option of being able to participate in a marriage. And they wouldn’t be fighting, so hard, if there was nothing inherently special about marriage or if it was entirely devoid of meaning.
Billy Connolly and Me.
I met Billy Connolly today. It was an entirely random encounter. And oh so awesome.
I have loved Billy Connolly since I was 12 – since I first started watching his DVDs, and laughing and laughing beyond plausibility.
He’s hilarious; but also right in so, so many ways.
He’s right when he talks about political correctness gone mad, when he expresses his distaste for ‘beige’ people in life, when he goes off at both things and people utterly useless.
He’s clever, and witty, and honest, and entirely devoid of pretence.
I’ve seen him live, twice, one of which being last week. And I was stoked, no, thrilled, to meet him today.
He’s lovely. Just lovely.
I Fall. A Lot.
So, I fell last night. Bang on my left knee. In public.
I was walking to meet a friend and I just went whooshhh, the biggest slip of my life (and there have been many).
You could say I glided along the pavement. A graceful glide that ended in an unpleasant bump. You might even say that it was damp, and that’s what did it. Except it wasn’t.
The fact is, I just seem to fall. A lot.
Up stairs.
Down stairs.
Getting into my car.
Getting out of my car.
In high heels.
In flat shoes.
I bump into corners.
I always whack my hands on things, accidentally of course.
I send glasses flying at cafés with one intense hand gesture.
I trip.
I stumble.
My elbows are weapons of mass destruction, especially in department stores.
If there is a gust of wind, my skirt is always the first one to fly up. Always.
I even, and this is the worst part, spill food on my clothes. Sometimes even drinks.
I spill. I overturn. I splash. Down the front of my dress. On the crease of my skirt. On the sleeve of my shirt.
I am the woman who breaks the heel off her shoes, by getting stuck in a crack on the footpath, or a gap in between some decking. It has happened three times. How? Simply by walking. Simply by stepping.
I am fine with it. I mean, despite the embarrassment from time to time. Despite the public horror. And the occasional physical pain.
It’s funny, because these accidents always happen at times when I’m feeling really fab. Really swish. Really important.
Like when I’m walking down Collins Street, having just purchased something of the material and pretty kind, wearing a great outfit, thinking I am freakin’ cool and bang – the strap on my tan heel breaks and I end up arse over tit. My purchases and the bags that house them have acted as somewhat of a buffer between the concrete and me more times than I care to tally up.
Or, when I am eating at a posh restaurant with posh colleagues and I’ve just made a great addition to conversation, and I’m thinking ‘hmm, I’m clever’ and splosh – flounder and pommes frittes dribbles down my lovely dress. Oh well, at least it matches the Jacquesson Grand Cru I accidentally sprinkled down there before.
I fear that it/I won’t change. It doesn’t matter how hard I try, these things just happen. There’s no real drama in it, except of course having to always expect the unexpected. That’s why I find it so hard carrying small handbags; where do all the bandaids and spare pantyhose and wipes and tissues and pins and cotton and spare shoes go?
I wish I were like you regular folk. Such small, pretty clutches you get to parade. I will always be in envy of women carrying small handbags. To me, they are the symbol of having everything sorted. Of having everything in order. Women who never trip up. Fall down. Splish, splash or splosh.
So, if you ever need to find me in public it won’t be terribly hard; I will be the gal drying her skirt under a bathroom hand dryer, hobbling on one heel, having just caught my hair in my handbag buckle, with a scratch on my knee and a swollen elbow.
You won’t miss me.
I’m So Not A Nails Girl.
I’m so not a nails girl.
I like to keep my nails short, clean and clear. Why? Because it’s practical, goes with everything and looks good.
I don’t have the patience to paint my own nails, at least not well.
So, once every blue moon, I head to a good nail bar and treat my nails to a little TLC and a nice coat of colour.
But I’m so not a nails girl.
I find the process – sitting there for at least half an hour – tiring. And boring. And all I want to do is fidget. And I usually do. And consequently chip my nails, usually within an hour of finishing my manicure. Because I’m so not a nails girl.
The other week the blue moon was out, and I headed to a nail bar for some shaping, filing and nude polish.
And this is pretty much how it went:
Manicurist: Ok, hands out, no like this, here, rings off, ok.
Me (thinking): Ok, Captain.
Did you pick a colour?
Yes, this one thanks.
I wonder if she ever gets bored doing this all day, every day? I’d be no good at this job. Although, I suppose, if I did it all the time I’d get better.
I wonder if the fumes affect your brain? Surely it’s not good for you. All those chemicals going right up the nostrils.
Ouch. What was that? Bloody nail file. Maybe doing the same job every day makes you sloppy. Or stabby.
Man this is boring.
Eww, look at that lady’s nails next to me. Yuck.
My hand is itchy. Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move.
Be still.
Sorry.
Damn it.
I wonder how many people get this done weekly? If they did this once a week, that’d be 2 hours a month, at least, on nails. 24 hours a year. At least. A whole day. On nails. A whole day of sitting. And breathing in those toxic fumes. Probably takes most people an hour though. So that’s 4 hours a month. 48 hours. 2 days. Of sitting. And literally waiting for paint to dry.
That reminds me, I must fix that bit of chipped paint on the hallway wall.
Did I take the washing off the line this morning? Don’t think I did, hope it doesn’t rain.
Why am I thinking about the washing? I shouldn’t be thinking. I read somewhere that people should try and use manicure time to decompress.
Ok, try not to think.
Oh this is stupid. I never not think. And how can I decompress when someone is prodding my fingernails?
I wonder if we’re halfway through yet.
I must book in a haircut. Why don’t manicurists talk to you like hairdressers do? Hairdressers are so chirpy and friendly. Manicurists are scary. They are all about the business. I’ve never heard of anyone having a gossip session with their manicurist. Except for in that film, The Women. I actually liked that film. Women hated it. I just liked the characters. Some people take things to seriously.
Ok, time for the hand massage.
Sounds good.
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Is the massage over already? That was nice. Wish it was half an hour of that. Massage is so good for you, should really do more.
It’d be great to have a weekly appointment somewhere.
Yeah, sure, between nails and hair and a massage and this and that and the other, it’d be a full time job just looking good.
Feeling good is underrated.
I’m hungry.
Time for polish.
Great.
I bet this polish won’t last long. I wonder if this nude colour will suit me. Or just blend in. I love nude. I also love that grey shade over there. Maybe I’ll buy some.
Oh what’s the point of that? I never paint my nails.
Look at the way she does that. What a pro.
What will I make for dinner tonight? Maybe a roast. How good is our oven? Such a good oven.
Must go to a farmer’s market soon. Must Google farmer’s markets close by.
Must keep an eye out for cheap flights to Sydney. Gotta schedule in some meetings up there.
Must pick up that new John Butler CD. And a Billy Joel ‘Best Of’ CD. How good is Billy Joel? I love Billy Joel.
Must buy some coriander to plant. And some basil. And some pots to plant them in.
I should really write all of this down so I don’t forget.
But I can’t. Because I’m getting my nails done. Why did I decide to come today? Seriously? It’s not like I’m going anywhere special that requires me to have painted nails. As if anywhere even exists that requires painted nails. And I have so much to do.
Is that a top coat? Yessssssss. This must nearly be over. Must try not to tap my nails on anything.
I’ve got to go to the supermarket though. How’s that going to work? I’m going to look like a right twat trying to pick things off the shelf with my fingers spaced out, trying to dry.
All done.
Great, thank you.
Just sit here for at least 10 minutes to allow your nails to dry. But you’ll need at least 45 minutes of not touching your nails for them to dry properly.
Ugh.
WHAT am I going to do sitting here for 10 minutes? And who could ever sit for 45? If you added that 45 minutes to the half an hour it normally takes, that’d be, hang on, how many hours a month?
Oh don’t kid yourself Sandi, you were never a maths girl.
And I’m so not a nails girl.
My Secret Crush, Continued.
The other day, I stepped into my local secondhand bookstore (never a good idea) and emerged with two more books to add to the collection:
The Getting of Wisdom by Henry Handel Richardson, from 1960, and Alfred Hitchcock Presents ‘My Favourites In Suspense’ from 1959.
As a huge Hitchcock fan (heck, I did an entire subject on him at University), this was a massive coup. Made so because I didn’t even know the book existed. Yes, after an entire Semester spent on the one man, I didn’t know this book existed. And of all the secondhand bookstores, in all the world, his book happened to sit on a shelf in mine.
Fate? I like to think so.
I will be taking Hitchcock’s personal advice prior to starting the suspenseful collection, “When you begin reading, may I suggest you choose a time when you are alone in the house. If there are people there, get rid of them.”
And if, and most likely when, I get too freaked out, I’ll put Rear Window into the DVD player and relax. Because, while it may be slightly suspenseful, it’s one of the most beautiful films ever made.
To me.
Corks?
As soon as my husband and I moved into our new home, which is actually an old home, with new parts and old parts that mix together to make something lovely and beautiful, I told him I was going to start a collection.
Of what, dear? He asked.
Of corks, dear. I replied.
Corks.
There is nothing incredible or beautiful about them.
But what they signify is great; a dinner with friends that goes on. And on.
A celebration.
An occasion.
Long conversation.
The beginning of a memory. The creation of a new one.
A quiet night with a book. Or a DVD.
A romantic dinner.
A birthday brunch.
And on I could go.
Corks. Little things that block the neck between you and liquid gold. Between you and a sigh of relief. Between you and a cheer. Between you and a giggle.
And they are becoming surprisingly rare. Screw tops are taking over a great deal of bottle necks where corks were once secured – and, indeed, they should. Screw tops are far more effective than corks, on a general basis, and they don’t result in a cork tainted taste in your wine or champagne.
But.
A screw top doesn’t ‘pop’. It doesn’t hit the ceiling at an angle, with a force, and cause a stir.
A screw top doesn’t bleed. Or absorb the odour of the alcohol it houses. It doesn’t call out to be played with, to be rolled between your fingers, like a cork does.
It doesn’t sit, on the bench, for a few days, like a cork does, and linger and roll about.
And so because of that, and because of this, I decided to collect every cork that my husband and I chose to unseal in our new home.
Of which there have only been three (so far). Not three unsealed bottles, because there have been more, but three unsealed bottles that were once sealed with a cork.
Corks? He asked.
Yes, corks. I’m going to keep them, every single one that we pop, or pull, in this beautiful house of ours. I’m going to keep them in a jar. I said.
I like that. He remarked.
Me too.
Me too.
My Secret Crush.
I’m not really a secondhand kind of gal – I’ve never bought a used item from eBay, I’ve never worn an item of clothing purchased in an op shop and, if I were to be entirely frank, I doubt I will do so in the near future. I prefer my things clean, and new.
Except when it comes to books.
Whilst the majority of my book collection boasts clean covers and barely touched pages, I have a secret crush on secondhand books – very old secondhand books.
My copy of Tennyson’s Poems from 1899
I love the history of old books – thinking of who purchased it originally, how many hands it has passed, how many people it has inspired, entertained or taught. I love the inscriptions you find in them – books given to people with love, with hope.
I love their stained covers, marked by someone placing a coffee cup on its cover, or spilling the wax from a candle over it accidentally.
I love their musty smell. Their fragile pages.
I adore secondhand bookstores, because they are comforting and warm, but also because they house some pure gems. Gems I cannot allow to leave behind.
My copy of Thomas Paine’s The Age Of Reason from the 18oos
Yesterday, I visited a secondhand bookstore that only opened last week, mere minutes from my house. Imagine my joy to discover an illustrated copy of The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas from 1928.
Or what about this absolutely wonderful collection of quotes, prose and thoughts – on various facets of life – from 1919. If this were published today, it’d sit in the ‘self-help’ or ‘motivational’ categories in modern bookstores, such is its wisdom and power.
Mad January.
Much like AFL players celebrate Mad Monday at the end of a football season, I celebrated Mad January after the end of a big 2009. Post Christmas and New Years there were a lot of things to do, and places to be, and dinners to enjoy, and people to catch up with. And on it goes.
2010 started with a bang for me. Quite literally, a bang. In fact, lots of bangs. From hammers and crowbars. Three days into 2010 my fiancé and I were standing in a beautiful old house from the 1940s, covered in dust and plaster remnants, and wondering how the hell we were going to turn the place around in three and half months and make it our home. Even now, a month on, we still wonder the same thing every now and again, but we can see the final picture (in our minds at least) and it looks good.
So, between renovating, planning our impending wedding, and gearing ever so slowly back into all the Onya Magazine work, January was mad. And that’s not even including all the aforementioned parties and dinners and drinks.
Now, sweet February has arrived and bought with it, albeit a diary full of scribbles and appointments, a sense of calm, purpose and dedication.
Taking a break, if you can call January that, was wonderful. But nothing beats being in the swing of it.
SANDI SIEGER. 
