Happy Australia Day

I've been hibernating of late, which is the only sensible thing to do when most days are -10 degrees (before wind-chill)...brrrr... this Aussie just wasn't made for such a climate.

Tomorrow (which is already 'today' back home) is Australia Day.

HAPPY AUSTRALIA DAY FELLOW AUSSIES! Have a lamington for me. Non-Aussies spare me your Fosters, it's only export beer don't ya know. Mum I hope you make the ice-cubes shaped like the Australian land mass, as usual. I miss them.



To celebrate I am off to see a performance called Small Metal Objects which is not only an Australian production, but from my home state of Victoria. Very fitting I think.

After that I imagine I will end up at Hemingway's (Toronto's Australian pub) at some point, less culturally refined but utterly suitable for celebration of my country's national day.

Persepolis

In the past week I read the graphic-novel and saw the animated film version of Persepolis, by Marjane Satrapi.

I first encountered Satrapi's work a couple of years ago at the MOMA, NYC as part of an exhibition by female middle-eastern artists and have been a fan ever since.

The graphic-novel is delightful, the film is sublime due to the incredibly beautiful animation.

Both hold a great deal of humour; even though the subject matter is quite bleak; tracing the personal history of Satrapi growing up in Iran through the revolution and rise of the religious fundamentalist regime.

My knowledge of Iranian history is sketchy - to say the least - so seeing the film with my Iranian friend; whose own life has not been entirely dissimilar; was a treasured gift.

I loved this film and book and highly recommend them both.

TRIVIA: The film is in French. The role of the mother is voiced by famous French actress Catherine Deneuve, the grown-up daughter voiced by Deneuve's real-life daughter (with Italian actor Marcello Mastroianni), Chiara Mastroianni. I really liked that for some reason.

Wrong Number Woes

We've all rung the wrong phone number and we've all received calls for the wrong person, but sometimes wrong numbers just won't go away.

When I was a little girl my parents' telephone number was only one digit different from a Poodle Palour's. This was the 1970s, so the idea of beauty palours for pooches was very amusing to my brother and I. Eventually the owners of the business rang my family to apologise for all the wrong calls we were receiving. Or it may have been because my brother, due to reaching his frustration limits, had started taking bookings for "Fifi's bath and clip at 3:00pm" etc.

As an adult I've received the odd missed call, but recently the days of the Poodle Palour have returned, this time it's a school that keeps ringing me.

For the past few months I have continued to received calls from a school about 'my son Ryan'. He apparently hasn't been doing his homework and now he needs to have his immunization shots. Some of the calls were leaning on the nasty, angry side too.

There is only one problem. I don't have a son called Ryan, the only Ryan I know is a 31 year-old photographer, who I am pretty sure has finished school. In fact I don't have any children at all.

I keep ringing the school to tell them that they are ringing the wrong number, but the calls persist.

So please, Ryan, who ever you are, please do your homework, get your immunization shots and most of all give your school the correct number for your parents, because if I find you I am going to take away your pocket-money for a very long time as punishment.

Bitching About the Lost Art of Bitching

'Bring back the red-blooded bitch' is an article in Guardian by Julie Burchill.

It is a highly-enjoyable rave on what the writer deems to be the lost art of the clever female insult, particularly in film. Insults that are not wrapped in faux pity, or born out of writhing jealousy.

As the writer puts it:

These days, bitching is low-fat, decaffeinated and kick-free.

Overall, her primary protest is that women shouldn't be afraid to disagree and that such fear has caused the loss of the mighty female one-liner:

That woman speaks eighteen languages and can't say "No" in any of them.

- Dorothy Parker (1893 - 1967)

I am the first to admit that slinging a cutting insult with abandon isn't one of my strengths or natural forms of habit, yet the idea - on some levels - appeals greatly.

Being able to form an honest bitchy remark requires great skill (verbal and mental) and is ultimately, to my mind, less destructive than the petty passive aggressive path we too often take.

Maybe I should add it to my list of new year's resolutions.

Happy New Year

Happy 2008!

Celebrating the new year, goes back as far as the Babylonians in 2000BC, though they celebrated for 11 days.

It was the Roman Senate who designated the day of January 1st as new year, as westerners know it, back in 153BC.

Best of luck with your resolutions if you made them. So far I have also 'resolved' to make an adamant effort to use fewer plastic bags and to carry my reusable shopping bag.

More resolutions are sure to follow, including giving up smoking, I have to work myself up to that one... AGAIN!