Thursday, 7 August 2008

Thursday nothinglessness....

Yes, nothinglessness is my new word. The word ‘nothing’ just does not adequately sum up the plethora of nothing in life at the moment. And yes, I will try and sneak it into a book.

So, I’m going to the Australian Romance Readers Convention in Melbourne, Aussieland, in February. An ex-co-worker of mine said what am I going to wear? My clever, well thought out response? Dunno – probably jeans, shorts, t-shirts. It will be summer in February and depending on Melbourne’s-4-seasons-in-one-day weather, I’ll either be boiling hot or freezing cold. She was surprised at my answer. “Aren’t you going to wear something a writer would wear?” What? Pyjamas? Trackie daks, slippers and a flanno shirt? Bra and shorts when it’s hot? Apparently not the right answer. It seems young…lets call her Nola…thinks authors should dress flamboyantly. Personally, I think those days of powder puff pink chiffon outfits, feather boas and overblown hats are gone or belong to the sumptuous drag queens you see on stage. Besides, I am going as me. I wear jeans, shirts and shorts. I wear Doc Martens. I am the characters I write. None of them dress flashy. I see no need to dress up and be something I am not. Added to that I hate dressing up. I am what you see – a thrown together individual that also has a life outside of writing. I think when you start worrying about whether you look like a writer then you’ve probably spent too much time writing. So, if you are in Melbourne and you are going to the convention, I’ll be the one causally dressed one probably leaning against a wall – I like to lean. If you need further verification, I will show you the striped socks I always wear. Dress up? I think not. It is Australia for god sake. Dressing up here is a clean pair of thongs (flip flops) and a squirt of deodorant. Take us as we are or not at all.

I have had to be present at a series of meeting at work recently. Why? Stuffed if I know. But I have turned up, sat up the back with my double strength latte and basically done my adequate best at looking like I am paying attention. I’m not. It’s an illusion. I don’t care. I turn up to get paid and I only do what I have to…nothing more…nothing less. Anyway I was sitting in one meeting staring at the floor working out a story plot, when I realized I should change where I was staring so it did not look too obvious that I didn’t care. Yes, slack-arse rule number 4. So I looked at my hands. I have rings on 3 fingers on each

hand. The reason why? No reason. That's just the way it is. Anyway I looked at my hands and realized that they looked exactly like my mother’s hands. I realize more and more the older I get the more I look like mum. Lord knows I am grateful for that. You know the expression of ‘look at the mother, the daughter will be like that in twenty years time’? Boy was I ever lucky to have the mother I did.
What else on this nothing day….I ran into an old friend when I was buying groceries. His first comment to me was “You have gotten shorter.” Yes – not you look fantastic, stunning, amazing or how have I lived without you all this time? No, it was you look short. I told him that’s only because he was freakishly tall. This then got us into a discussion on the right height for a male. I said there wasn’t one. He said anything over 5ft 7 inches. I said so anything under means you aren’t a male? You’re a woman with a penis? We were, I should point out, discussing this in the fruit and veg section and one old dear had a giggle at the ‘p’ word. I reckon there are some raunchy grandmothers running around the 'burbs. Actually, my business cards and paraphernalia are up on the notice board of at least one retirement village. Just because you’re older doesn’t mean you never had sex or still don’t. Anyway… where was I? Penis…height…male…oh yes, so men are odd…yes, they are because how are you less of a male if you lack the supposed ideal in height? I don’t get it and I told him
he was weird. He said I was annoying and now shorter than before. I said hmmm…that means I may be a male in disguise because of my lack of height. He said he knew I wasn’t a male for the obvious reasons. I said I could have fooled him all those years ago. The conversation continued on in this ridiculous vein with the old dear with the trolley circling us – I believe for entertainment. I don’t actually miss him but I do miss the crazy arguing over stupid things. You know what I mean? We parted over the bin of broccoli. Will we see each other again – the short woman and the freakishly tall man? Who knows….fate is funny.

So, that was my intensely boring day. I will however tell you I came home in time to find out Eric in The Bold and the Beautiful is getting married again to a woman I thought each of his sons had slept with….most confusing. Oh, and yes, Katie has had her brother’s heart transplanted into her…he was the brother that shot her and then shot himself to save her. Hmmm…maybe having a boring, nothinglessness life shouldn’t be underrated.
Go ahead: Live with abandon. Be outrageous at any age. What are you saving your best self for?


Sandra Cox said...

I try to be very productive too at meetings--as far as my writing is concerned:)
As always, good blog:)

Anny Cook said...

Oh my. Clothes. Learned much to my dismay that I spent a lot of money on clothes I didn't wear for the convention. Next time... if there is one, I'm with you.

Meetings. Contemplating your hands is better than your navel. Especially is you have such wonderful hands to contemplate. My experience is that the company usually gives you notes from the meeting, anyway.

Tall, eh? I go for tall guys...

Regina Carlysle said...

Hmmm. I always wear my pink feather boa and fuzzy high heeled "house slippers" when I write. This is why I do amazing work. Snort.

My son is short. A beautiful young man but this doesn't seem to bother him. He is gorgeous and full of personality. I think the girls don't have a bit of trouble finding him attractive. I can imagine this conversation, AJ. Had me laughing.

Regina Carlysle said...

Oh...more about the clothes. I HATE to dress up. Really HATE it. Last time I wore heels, my daughter was two and now she's 17. I slipped on a step, fell and broke my left leg. I laid sprawled on a sidewalk in a puddle of ivory lace shirts. Never again. I don't do "dress up" events well at all.

barbara huffert said...

A boa. I knew there was something missing from my writing attire. Better rush right out and get one straight away...can't you imagine the neighbors' expressions?

I miss those ridiculous conversations about nothing too.