First published in Onya Magazine, on December 16th, 2009.
I’ve discovered the third biggest and most popular question that faces any impending bride.
‘Have you got the dress?’
The first most common question is, ‘When are you getting married?’ And obviously so. The second? ‘Where?’ And the third, with almost more pressing importance than the others, is always about the dress.
To read the rest of the article, click here.
First published in Onya Magazine, on the 30th of November, 2009.
I’m getting married next year. In five months and one day, to be exact.
Before I tell you about that, though, I need to tell you about this:
I’m getting married to the most wonderful man.
It’s the truth. And I need to be truthful, to preface this column and all the rest that will follow, so that you understand something:
The love I have for my fiancé is beyond anything I can explain. As a writer, I was once told I should be able to explain anything and everything. And I can, except this one thing. Love. Not just any love, but the love I have for him, and with him.
We’ve been together for just over eight years. Whenever I say that, people gasp, because they think it’s such a long time. And it is. But those eight years have gone so fast. They feel like eight months. And I sometimes wonder if, when I’m an old woman, I will one day think of how the past fifty years have flown, and how they feel more like five than fifty. My fear is they will.
Even though time has flown, looking back it seems, paradoxically, that we’ve been together for a lifetime. So many moments. So many memories. So many brilliant, diverse, tiring, happy, complex times.
People ask the funniest things, especially after they find out we’ve been together longer than it takes to start and complete high school. ‘Do we get sick of each other?’ ‘Has the spark gone?’ ‘Aren’t you bored?’ The answer to all three questions is no. A big, fat no. My fiancé, Kaz, and I instantly clicked upon meeting. We then started going out. And then we went out some more. We never discussed our relationship, where it was heading or what we wanted out of it. We just liked each other, and we had fun. Seven years later I was sitting opposite him in a café and he proposed. That was probably the first time we talked about where our relationship was heading. We’re very organic in our lives – we live for today (probably too much than is sometimes wise) and go by feeling rather than reasoning more often than not.
People also ask if I was surprised when Kaz proposed, because really, after seven years, would I be? Yes, I was. I was utterly surprised and shocked. Never for a moment did I expect it. Sure, we instinctively knew that’s where it was heading, but I was surprised and touched when it happened. In seven years I had never moaned or whined about getting married. I’d never even thought much about it. That’s just not me.
I’m telling you this because I want you all to understand that first and foremost, Kaz is the love of my life and I am his. We believe in great, big love. A wedding, for us, is a way to celebrate and publically and legally acknowledge that love. We get that it’s not that way for some people. But for us it is. Most importantto us, is our love. Not canapé menus and tulle skirts.
We’re different from a lot of couples we see. From a lot that we know. Not better, not worse, just different. We’re disgustingly happy. We rarely fight, and when we do it’s usually diffused quickly because one of us bursts out laughing when the other is screaming. We get each other – down to the very core. We have the same values, but we’re not the same. We’re never bored, or stuck in a rut. We’re always talking. We’ll stand up and stick by each other, even when one of us has done something questionable. We don’t ask for each other’s permission to do or buy anything, because we’re both individuals and we both have minds of our own. And, as for the spark, it’s shinier and more electrifying than ever.
In books and movies and real life people grow apart and get bored, but we’ve only grown stronger, closer, fallen more in love than ever. I’m even convinced Kaz is better looking now than he was eight years ago. People look at us and assume we’ve been dating for six months, because apparently beyond three years or so you’re supposed to start hating each other.
I could never hate Kaz. I could never be out of love with him. Even when illness or death or something tragic tears us apart. I love him even though he sometimes annoys me when I’m tired or trying to do something else. Even though he misspells words. Even though he forgets things when I say specifically say, ‘Please don’t forget’. And he loves me. Even though I annoy him when he’s tired or trying to do something else. Even though I harp on about his misspelt words. Even when I say, ‘Please don’t forget’ four or five times in a row. And for people that think we’ve got it easy, and have never known an issue or drama, correct yourselves. We’ve individually and collectively been through more than our fair share of shit storms and problems.
So, before I could start a weekly column on weddings, specifically our wedding and the journey leading up to it, I needed you to know all that. I needed you to understand us. Because us will be featuring in these columns quite a bit. And for those of you wondering whether I have Kaz’s permission to write these columns, whether he’s horrified at the thought of them, I don’t and he won’t be. I only decided to start them this morning and I’m not going to bother him at work about something so minor. I told you, we’re different to other couples. I get him. And he gets that this is me:
I have not been dreaming of my wedding day since I was five years old. In all honesty, I’ve never dreamt of my wedding day at all. And even now, as an engaged woman on the wedding journey, I do not daydream about it half as much as what I’m probably supposed to. But I’m so excited about it.
As a result of not being wedding high half my life, I don’t have it all figured out. But I like exploring the options. My aim is to be the bride in a beautiful ceremony, and have a corker of a party. And neither of us has ever struggled with style or design or details so I’m sure we’ll be fine.
I’m no bridezilla. Yet. I don’t want to be one. It’s the antithesis of who I am. But I am sometimes impatient. And stubborn. So pull me up if you see me veering off the rails.
Lastly, I am proudly Australian and the Director and Editor-In-Chief of an online and soon to be print magazine that is all about celebrating every facet of Australia. So, naturally, my journey will not just be to plan a wedding that is magical and beautiful, but one that is magical and beautiful and supports Australian businesses. No, I’m not getting married under a gum tree in ugg boots and stubbies. I just really hate the shit that comes out of factories in China. And I don’t think lace has to be French to be pretty. And, heck, if I don’t, I’d kind of be a hypocrite to my beliefs and business.
Let’s see how hard it is to plan a wedding and support Australian businesses.
Or easy.
Until next week, your Bride-To-Be,
Sandi
*Weddings, Parties, Anything were an Australian indie folk rock band formed in 1984 in Melbourne, that continued rocking until 1998. Their name came from The Clash song Revolution Rock. I’ve decided to use it as the name for this weekly column because I was born in Melbourne in 1984 and love Australian indie folk rock. And I’m having a Wedding, Party, Anything in 2010.
Image credit: Kathryn Sprigg
First published in Onya Magazine, on the 27th of November, 2009.
I will tell you, first up, that Why You Are Australian: A Letter To My Children is a very, very good book. It’s an easy read – because it’s so beautifully and clearly written. It’s also an uplifting read. A book for anyone who needs reminding of why being an Australian is such a wonderful thing.
Nikki Gemmell is no stranger to bookshelves. She is the author of five novels; The Bride Stripped Bare, Shiver, Cleave, Lovesong and The Book of Rapture, as well as non-fiction work Pleasure. She has been called the female Jack Kerouac in France, and the US describes her as one of the few truly original voices to emerge in a long time. In her home, Australia, she is considered one of the most engaging and unique authors of her generation.
Why You Are Australian is proof of the above. What I love most about the book is that it’s real. It’s the real story of a mother, and a family, and a country. It’s honest and moving.
As an expatriate living in crowded London for the past twelve years, Nikki begins to achingly miss Australia. She decides to leave London, for three months, and spend the summer at home – to give her children a slice of the Australian childhood she had. One filled with sun and surf and gumtrees and space and fresh air. Her children, despite all being born in England, all hold Australian citizenship over British. Nikki needs to explain why she chose that for them. And she needs to show them why.
‘I want you to know what it is to be Aussie kids. Where playing barefoot is a signifier of freedom not impoverishment. Where a backyard’s a given not a luxury. Where sunshine and fresh food grow children tall. Where you know what a rash shirt is and a nipper, a Paddle Pop and a Boogie Board.’
Incredibly heartfelt and warm, the book is a pleasure to read. And it evoked so many memories of my own childhood. Every now and again it borders on repetitive, but not in an annoying manner – more as a construct to constantly remind the reader that some facets of Australian life are so important they must be repeated.
Whether Nikki decides that the Australia she remembers upon leaving, and the Australia as she sees it now is still the same, I will leave you to discover. And I will not spoil whether she, along with her husband, decide to leave London for good. What I will say, and now I’m repeating myself, is that Why You Are Australian: A Letter To My Children is a very, very good book.
First published in Trespass Magazine on the 4th of November, 2009.
Over the past few weeks I’ve noticed myself shifting, craving, veering towards a life of simplicity. A life that isn’t constantly rushed, entirely sorted out and reliant on adrenalin. I crave a life that’s calm, every so often. That’s still, sometimes. That’s wonderfully uncomplicated, always. Since delving into such a life, I’ve found myself much more relaxed. And a world away from convenience.
Convenience is ruining the world; paper cups, plastic forks, foam boxes, throwaway fashion, text messages, microwaves, overnight deliveries from the middle of nowhere to the centre of somewhere, flicking a switch to beat the heat or escape the cold, super fast communication that’s actually communicating very little, food that’s cooked in two minutes, picked up and consumed within five – without even having to step foot out of a house or vehicle, kids that can’t concentrate for longer than the length of an average YouTube clip, people who constantly plan and schedule every moment of their lives, and, the worst of it, noise. Noise is the side dish to everything that was supposed to make our lives easier; washing machines, dryers, mobile phones, dishwashers, computers, electric toothbrushes, fridges, GPS units, mix masters, handheld anythings.
I think it’s time to make our lives harder. Less convenient.
Let’s get back to working hard.
Talking. Face to face. Over a drink. Or alongside a campfire.
Washing Dishes. By hand.
Buying things once, to last.
Building up a sweat. Because it’s hot. And that’s just what happens.
Collecting things; like shells at the beach. Or postcards.
Navigating from the pages of a map.
Feeling a shiver. Because it’s cold. And you’re supposed to.
Making cakes. From scratch. And mixing them. With a whisk.
Driving a couple of hours away, from wherever you are, just to discover someplace new.
Let’s lose the titles; as far as I’m concerned there’s no such thing as a Mortar Logistics Engineer or a Highway Environmental Hygienist or a Media Distribution Officer. There are labourers and road sweepers and paperboys.
Let’s get back to thinking before speaking.
Picking salad from the dirt. In the garden. Not out of a plastic bag. In the supermarket.
Smiling at people when we pass them in the street.
Dressing up, when the occasion calls for it.
Addressing our problems, working through our problems, but ignoring the crap that really doesn’t matter.
Believing that people are kind, and that they do care.
Shining our shoes.
Buying things from the local store. Or green grocer. Or butcher. If you still have one.
Letting clothes drip dry.
Singing in the car.
Let’s get back to aging. Like we’re supposed to. Getting laugh lines. Because we have. Having sunspots. Because we basked in it.
Now, more than ever before in my life, I appreciate simplicity. And I always want it.
I always want to walk out of my back door and feel grass under my bare feet.
I always want fresh air coming through my windows.
Sand that lingers in my car, weeks after I’ve visited the beach.
To pick a lemon from a tree grown in my garden. And an apple. And some rosemary. And tomatoes. And basil. And grapefruit. And parsley.
I always want a spare bed at the ready, for friends who stay too long.
A cabinet filled with quirky knick-knacks from the places I’ve been. Miniature versions of things I’ve seen.
Music playing in the background.
A well greased BBQ.
I always want to feel the arm of the man I love cradling my shoulder.
To trust strangers.
A neighbour I can chat to on a hot summer’s night. Or bank on picking up my mail when I’m away.
I always want to hear kids, making noise – a good kind of noise – like they should.
To eat in a Japanese restaurant, sitting opposite a German, next to a Sri Lankan, near a Russian, and behind an American.
The simple life: a life that requires more actual work than an easy one – more work to keep relationships alive, to eat, to create, to enjoy. That’s what I want. I want to work harder so I can live simpler. I want to do more, so I can rely on less.
Straightforward.
Uncomplicated.
Undemanding.
Simple.
In every sense of the word.
SANDI SIEGER. 