Drop dead gorgeous

A few years ago I worked with someone who annoyed me so much that I delighted in torturing her.  Not in a waterboarding kind of way (of course) but rather, I indulged in inflicting extreme mental anguish.

She was, in essence, the type of woman that drove me insane.  It took her hours to get ready for work each morning as she had to straighten or blow dry her hair to within an inch of its life and trowel makeup over her face.  Apparently even her husband was not allowed to see her un-made-up face.  I have friends who are girly girls, but this woman was insane.

I tormented her by happily regaling her with (mostly true) stories about doing my grocery shopping in torn t-shirts and old tracksuit pants - usually combined with unlaced sandshoes and unbrushed hair, occasionally hidden under a cap.  She would hyperventilate and gasp, ‘It’s no wonder you’re single.  How do you expect to meet a man when you leave the house like that.’

Despite all of this, there were aspects of this woman (whose name now escapes me) that I secretly envied.  She was, you see, quite a buxom woman.  Like me she was tall and a bit overweight (note, that the ‘like me’ bit only related to the tallness element.  I am very overweight!).  Although I wouldn’t be seen dead in most of her clothes, she dressed with pride and little self-consciousness; flouncing about in low cut form-fitting bright dresses and ensembles.

I found this intriguing.  As a bigger woman, I cloak myself in loose shapeless shirts and pants.  I add some funky jewelry to try to give myself an iota of ‘style’ despite being forced to wear what is almost akin to a mu-mu.  Even when just ‘slightly’ overweight though, I was prone to covering up; to not drawing attention to myself, or holding myself up for comment or ridicule. As a result I envy those bigger girls who have the confidence to flaunt their bigger-than-the-norm curves rather than tucking them away and hoping others fail to notice them.

Which is why I am both intrigued and heartened by the Sony Pictures TV series, Drop Dead Diva.  I have watched the show since its launch here in Oz… initially on Channel 9, before being relegated to one of its digital stablemates, GO!

The show’s leading lady, Jane Bingum, played by the larger-than-is-the-norm-in-TV-land, Brooke Elliot, is a smart and savvy lawyer.  Well, in fact she is a size nothing vacuous blonde model (Deb), who is killed in a car accident - but rather than actually, you know, dying – inhabits the body of the decade-older plump lawyer with a heart of gold.

After the initial shock, Deb settles into life as Jane, bringing a sense of style to the character.  So, what I like about this show is that Jane’s weight isn’t really an issue.  I mean, obviously Deb is no longer stick thin and immediately superficially attractive to everyone, but Jane (like my former colleague) flounces about her life as if she is some sort of supermodel rather than a chubby lawyer.

I suspect there are some lessons here: how we feel about ourselves on the inside being reflected in our behavior towards others and how we treat ourselves etc.  And I wonder if this is true.  If I act confidently – and as if I was slim and beautiful and stylish – would others view me this way or, at least, judge me less savagely?

I am about to start a new job and need some new clothes.  Tempting as it is to buy more loose shirts and boring pants (until I lose weight and fit into my trendier clothes), perhaps this is my opportunity to put it out there a bit.  Well, by 'it', I mean me.  Perhaps I should embrace my curves (while simultaneously trying to lose the 30kgs I need to!) and strut my stuff with style and confidence.  Just like Jane Bingum.

It helps that Brooke Elliot is gorgeous.  Smiley and vivacious she is perfect in this role.  And as Deb/Jane, she dresses confidently.  She doesn’t don baggy shirts and pants to cover herself.  She wears bright skirts, dresses and jackets.  She totters about in high heels, red lipstick and glossy hair.  And she looks gorgeous.  She twinkles, and I find that I don’t pay any attention to her weight or her size. They are – for me – irrelevant.

But, so rarely do we see someone less-than-perfect playing a lead character.

A couple of months ago Marie Claire blogger, Maura Kelly created a furore when she wrote a somewhat scathing article about a new CBS show Mike and Molly.  The show hasn’t hit Australian screens yet, but I gather it is centred around a plus-sized couple (and show’s namesakes) who meet at an Overeaters Anonymous meeting.  In her blog, Kelly basically says she doesn’t want to see two fatties ‘get it on’ on television.  However, after much hue and outcry (and 4000+ comments on the MC website), Kelly posted an apology for her insensitive comments, admitting some of her reaction may have been more related to her own post-anorexic preconceptions than a response to the actual show and its characters.

The aforementioned and much-censured Marie Claire blog was Kelly’s response to a CNN article, which asked the question, ‘Can plus-sized actors have starring roles in which their weight isn’t a major part of the character or story line?’

Frankly, given the controversy around Mike and Molly and the fact that the CNN article even needed to ask the question… it seems not.

Even Melissa McCarthy, the new female lead of Mike and Molly, has done her time as ‘the best friend’ on the now defunct, The Gilmore Girls before her elevation to leading lady.

I mean, the TV show Roseanne has been on the shelf for 10 years now, and how many other larger women have we seen in lead roles on the small screen (or large one for that matter) during that time?

There have been a few hits and misses over the years, and the American show, Less Than Perfect, and British show, Linda Green, come to mind, though neither were blinding successes.  And of course, the talented Dawn French bucked tradition as The Vicar of Dibley… but it seems we are so accustomed to petite actors that we react (in one way or another) when faced with something different.

But, I wonder, is it really the fault TV Executive boffins that less-than-perfect leading ladies fail to grace our screens?  How many people out there are of the same mindset as our Marie Claire blogger and would be turned off by an overweight character playing a role normally earmarked for the trim and perky?  And, are we more accepting of the too-thin, than we are of the too-fat, when either extreme is unhealthy?  As a bigger girl, I should have been huing and crying myself at the Marie Claire article, but instead I wondered if I too am turned off by less-than-perfect leading characters.

Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against not-perfect actors or, you know, people in general. But, I am a bit fussy about my TV viewing so tend to tune in only if I find the lead or supporting characters interesting or charismatic. So, The bigger question for myself and others, I guess is, are the two mutually exclusive?

Hopefully not.  And given that I find Drop Dead Diva’s slightly imperfect Jane Bingum delightful AND inspiring, I hold some hope for me and the rest of mankind.

Great expectations

My current hometown of Brisbane in Queensland, Australia, has just experienced record flooding.  And although many lives were not lost in the city itself, many homes and livelihoods have been impacted, some destroyed.

I believe the State and Local Government authorities have been amazing.  Providing regular updates and support during the crisis, and now in its wake mobilizing relief and rehabilitation.  Volunteers are being coordinated, bins scattered about the city for the destruction of perishables and kerbside pick ups arranged for debris and furniture needing to be removed from 20 000 flood-affected properties.  And yet, people are already complaining.  There aren’t enough bins.  Our suburb has received insufficient attention and support. Etcetera.

Record rainfall in Brazil has similarly caused flooding, as well as mudslides.  At least 600 people have been killed.  I’m sure their State and Federal authorities are doing as much as possible, but I can almost guarantee it isn’t as thorough or organized as the efforts of our governments.  I mean I am sure there will be blame games here in Oz about how on earth this could happen in such a prosperous and developed city and country.  Our policies in relation to dams, town planning, building requirements and the sustainability of infrastructure will all be examined.

There’s some adage about ‘the more we have, the more we want’.  But I think that ‘the more we have, the more we expect’ is more accurate.

Although not affected by the flooding in our State I feel nothing but sympathy for those who are.  But if I had been affected I’d like to think I would be grateful that the authorities are doing their best to help and I would try really really hard not to complain.  But perhaps it’s easier for me…. And no, not because I am an incredibly tolerant and generous person; but because my expectations are so very low in the first place.

In the mid 1990s I was in my mid 20s.  I had just paid off my first new car.  I was working in Local Government and commenced studying for an MBA.  I was also wondering if I should be starting to save for my first house.  But it all felt wrong.  It seemed pointless.  So, in an attempt to stave off my own quarter-life crisis and to seek some purpose for my own pathetic little existence I applied to an overseas volunteer program.

The Australian Volunteer Abroad (AVA) Program (like the American Peace Corps, or British VSO program) sends Australians to developing countries to work alongside partners in those countries.  Earning a local wage and living long-ish term in local communities, the program aims to be as beneficial to volunteers as those with whom they are working.

[caption id="attachment_425" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Mozambican village (1995)"][/caption]

I worked as a volunteer in Mozambique and Cambodia.  The African experience was more life-changing as it came first (and was probably more of a shock). I loved Africa.  Until I returned home, I couldn’t imagine coming back here and certainly initially on my return I felt an extreme sense of culture shock and displacement.  Cambodia was different and I was only there for 7 months.  Security was in issue in both places, but while I was in Phnom Penh the post-UN power sharing agreement between the two Prime Ministers disintegrated until there was a coup d'état.  The city was on edge for months before the tanks appeared and fighting started.

In both countries I worked in local organisations and lived in local accommodation (albeit better than many of my work colleagues could afford).  Although I received very little money (in our terms) I still had savings and resources to fall back on and – well, quite frankly, I still had a ticket out of there any time I wanted to use it.

At the turn of the last century (ie.1999 – 2001) I also worked in East Timor.  By then I was with the Commonwealth Government and there on a diplomatic posting.  My lifestyle was quite different to that of a locally-paid volunteer.

In Mozambique’s capital, Maputo, I lived (like most people) in a high-rise building.  I think there was one other expatriate in the building, although he moved out just after I arrived.  No cause and effect there, but rather as a result of his being mugged at gunpoint on entering the building one evening and his suspicion that our building’s ‘guard’ was somehow involved. With two iron doors and a strong timber front door AND six floors off the ground, my own apartment felt quite safe. I had no hot water of course, bit quite often had running water and my electricity supply (as I lived near a large tourist hotel) was fairly consistent.  I had a telephone line although battled with operators who (pre-2000 Olympics) had never heard of Australia were adamant that I really wanted to speak to someone in Austria whenever I attempted to call home… a result of my poor Portuguese as much as geographical ignorance I suspect.

My biggest splurge in the 16 months I spent in Maputo was a TV/video.  Although television itself was limited to CNN, a local station, an Angolan station and Portuguese game shows, pirated videos were available for rent locally for about 20 cents.  I had befriended two other Australian Volunteers in town and, as they had a car, they took me shopping (for groceries, booze and possibly illicit-money changing) while I hosted video evenings.

[caption id="attachment_426" align="alignright" width="199" caption="Power pole on Norodom Blvd Phnom Penh (1997)"][/caption]

In Cambodia I lived above a local family in a little dirt street with no name.  My flat had no telephone and intermittent power.  I paid an exorbitant amount for the little power I did have, because it was the norm for neighbours to somehow tap into my supply and apparently expats paid more anyway.  Water was also in short supply, although it was my poor cleaner (ahem, ‘maid’) who lugged bottles to my flat each day.  Given that she demanded to work daily (even though I didn’t want or need her to), I suspect it gave her something to do.  Without access to transport I walked everywhere and travelling at night was not an option.  Most evenings were spent sitting on my balcony by candlelight listening to my Diskman on batteries recharged before the power went out.

Although I would not even consider comparing my time in these countries to that of my local colleagues and compatriots, it was – by developed country standards – difficult.  Corruption was rife in both countries.  Just when I thought my workmates were accepting me as ‘one of them’, they would hit me up for some money.  Meat was a rarity and I lived on potatoes or rice with sauces.  I spent exorbitant amounts of money on treats.  And pre-internet contact with family and friends was precious and rare. (In Mozambique, the minimum cost for my weekly fax to my parents was USD5.  On one occasion the line dropped out 3 times and the page cost me USD15.)  I expected little.  And was rarely disappointed.

Then I returned home.

Naturally I thought I would return this zen-like more tolerant person and… well, just grateful for anything really.

On some level this has been the case. I find myself more appreciative of what we have (in the developed world and particularly here in Australia) that others don’t; social safety nets and supports, and well-functioning governments (on the whole).  And every time I am frustrated with bus delays I remind myself how excited I was 9-10 years ago to come home to Australia and to our efficient (and well, existent) public transport system.

Several years before travelling overseas I worked in the social sector for Local Government.  People with a disability were (understandably) unhappy that some buildings in our local area were not wheelchair accessible and some existing ramps provided a challenge for their motorized wheelchairs.

A month or so later I was living in Mozambique (like Cambodia) hugely impacted by land mines.  By the time I worked in Cambodia many people had received artificial limbs.  But in Mozambique one of the first people I saw with no legs was slithering along the ground.  It wasn’t an uncommon sight.  If they were lucky they had rubber gloves. And if they were really lucky they had fashioned a skateboard to protect their bodies from the unrelenting surfaces of that country.

Shocking, yes.

[caption id="attachment_428" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Me dancing in a church near Maputo (the man with the rooster is the Minister - and no, it wasn't sacrificed). We'd been there for an AIDS presentation"][/caption]

And, as I said, on one level this has made me more cognizant of what we do have and I am more grateful for our lifestyle.  Unlike many of my compatriots here in Oz, my expectations are generally pretty low.  I can laugh when people complain about our public toilets and I can shrug off the very rare power blackouts.

But I am far from being the more tolerant person I hoped would evolve from my experiences with ‘the less fortunate’.  So, although my expectations of life and others have changed, I did not emerge from my life-changing episodes changed.  As it happens, I am still me. For better or for worse.

Give Hope a Chance

I am a self-confessed fickle and adulterous TV viewer.  I have admitted on a number of occasions that I become obsessed with a television series, only to throw it over when a better contender comes along.

Not content to have tossed aside the likes of Northern Exposure, Buffy, West Wing, Sex and the City, Firefly and Dexter, I have blogged about my recent obsession for Pushing Daisies, Dead Like Me, Entourage, Fringe (twice), Robin Hood and Deadwood, each time excited that I have found something which takes my fancy and – the show in question – is afforded top spot on my TiVo.  That is, until the next best thing comes along.

And I am doing it again.

For me, Channel 10 here in Oz topped off a relatively ordinary television year in 2010 by debuting the new American series, Raising Hope.  I’m not one for slapstick humour (in fact you can see from my list of favourites, I’m not one for comedies much at all*), but the TV ads I’d seen before the show aired looked hilarious in an ‘Oh-my-God-I-can’t-believe-they-did-that!’ kind of way.  I laughed-out-loud every time I watched the clip where the young father had proudly bought the baby seat for the car but then didn’t realize it had to be strapped in until they turned a corner and the seat (and baby) somersaulted (unharmed) around the car’s back seat.

While not macabre or lewd, the show isn’t for those who take themselves (or life) too seriously.  The humour can bit a bit juvenile and is often a bit black.

The premise of the show says it all: 23yr old Jimmy Chance has a one-night stand with a woman who turns out to be a serial killer.  Impregnated during their night of bliss, Ms Serial Killer gives birth while on death row and six-month old Princess Beyonce is handed over to Jimmy after her execution.

Jimmy still lives with his young parents (Virginia and Burt) and works for his father’s lawn mowing and pool cleaning business.

We quickly learn that Jimmy’s own upbringing was somewhat unorthodox, with Virginia giving birth to Jimmy at 15 years of age (Burt was 17).  Regular flashbacks give us sneak peaks into the loving – albeit quite dysfunctional - family.

After unwillingly inheriting Princess Beyonce, Jimmy (Lucas Neff) convinces his quirky parents that they shouldn’t leave her on the steps of the local Fire Station and the family starts to grapple with raising the renamed Hope.

The cast is all amazing, though for me Lucas Neff’s Jimmy is outplayed by his parents Martha Plimpton and Garret Dillahunt.  To top it off there’s Maw Maw, Virginia’s grandmother, whose Alzheimer-ridden behavior is delivered hilariously by the often half-naked Cloris Leachman. The comedic timing of all of the cast is perfect.  And frankly, the twins who play Hope are just gorgeous beyond belief.

I know the ‘baby-poop-smells’ gag has been done to death and is beyond passé, but I think the tone of the show was set in the pilot episode when Jimmy is so shocked by the smell that he actually vomits all over the baby.  Before he and his mother can clean the vomit off, she gets a whiff and does the same.  For some reason the scene didn’t cause me to eye-roll which would be the norm for such obvious humour.  I mean, I am pretty sure vomiting on babies is kinda frowned upon – but again this was laugh-out-loud funny. In a sick and not-politically-correct way, that is.

Shows about dysfunctional families and parents aren’t uncommon or new (thinking back to the likes of Rosanne, Married With Children, Malcolm in the Middle, The Simpsons etc) but, well frankly, I didn’t like any of them.  My taste in comedy usually borders on the darker and more sarcastic, but I find myself chuckling aloud at the antics of the Chance family.  In a recent episode (Family Secrets) I laughed so much (at Burt putting make-up on Hope) I snorted diet coke out of my nose.  And did I mention that baby Hope is just gorgeous?

Raising Hope has forced its way to the top of my TiVo recording priorities.  I can but ‘hope’ the quality of acting and screenwriting continues and look forward to seeing what comes next for the Chance family.

* Although old British favorites, Absolutely Fabulous, Black Books and As Time Goes By, hold special places in my heart, Big Bang Theory is a current fave.

Do-over

I spend a lot of time in front of a computer.  After 8-10 hours a day at my desk in the office, I generally spend some quality one-on-one time with my new iMac in the evening.  It isn’t uncommon then that I find myself in bed at night mentally typing my thoughts, or visualizing myself cutting and pasting information into teensy excel cells while fighting insomnia.

Another side effect of too-much computer time is the disappointment that real life is not quite so easily manipulated as the electronic world.  I recall lying in bed one night recently realising that I was trying to actually mentally hit the UNDO key.  You know, the one with anticlockwise arrow (or, <EDIT> <UNDO> in long hand).  I can’t remember now exactly what I had been thinking about or mentally writing, but I found myself kinda disappointed that we don’t have an UNDO button in real life.

I have written before about the fact that (like most people) I have some regrets.  As well as recently contemplating the idea of a ‘me’ living (a more contented and fulfilling life) in a parallel universe I also find myself pondering on the concept of a DO-OVER.

I for one would like to hit that UNDO key and ‘do’ things differently.

Sadly a DO-OVER is not a feasible aspiration.  But never one to let reality get in the way of a daydream, I find myself pondering on what past mistakes or decisions I might change in my own life if I was given the chance.

Earlier this year I came across a Canadian show, Being Erica.  At the time it was part-way through its second season, but ABC2 has just started replaying Season 1 here in Australia.

The show’s premise is not even vaguely believable but I have to admit that doesn’t seem to matter at all.

The show introduces us to 32 year old Erica Strange whose life hasn’t turned out how she imagined it would be (and who CAN’T relate to that!).

Erica, however, puts this down to a series of bad decisions at pivotal points in her life and is able to identify each and every one of them.

At a particularly stressful time in her life she meets therapist ‘Dr Tom’ who promises that he can bring her happiness by allowing her to relive her regrets, giving her the opportunity to change the outcome.

In each episode, with the help of Dr Tom, Erica is catapulted back to the time in question.  Back to High School, to University or more recent times. Where she gets the opportunity to UNDO her actions and (ideally) make it all better.  The quintessential DO-OVER.

In my post about a parallel universe, I was horrified that – at least in TV and movie land – our twin selves living in these worlds aren’t happier and more talented versions of ourselves, rather they are ‘us’ in a different environment.

In Being Erica, the charismatic lead character (played by Erin Karpluk) believes that if she changes past (bad) decisions, her life will be perfect.  So, of course the question posed to viewers is whether changing past decisions, or making a different choice at a crossroads, actually changes the outcome of our lives in any significant way.

Indeed Erica’s experiences don’t always work out as she had expected.  She also finds herself wondering: If you could go back and do it all differently, would you still be you?

We haven’t yet seen the third season as yet here in Oz but I am sure we can expect that Erica will continue to work her way through her regrets.   Her life has improved dramatically since we met her in Season 1 – unemployed and unhappy.  Of course it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that the navel-gazing (over past decisions and why they were taken) itself is what is changing her, rather than the choices themselves.  And, as it happens, so many of those ‘wrong’ decisions, may not have been wrong after all.

I’m starting to sense a theme in my TV viewing of late, but I’d like to think that I am not so very obsessed with lost opportunities and roads not taken, that it consumes me. But, I would like to stumble across a Dr Tom myself to help reshape my life.  Well… either that or a life coach!

'The Rain'

My mother recently sent me one of those ‘please pass on’ emails.  You know the kind…. imparting preachy life lessons, promoting breast cancer awareness and the like.  Although I read these when they pop into my inbox I rarely pass them on.  And I have to admit, even though some hit home, I forget about them as soon as I click on the little X in the top left or right hand corner to close the message.

Until recently.  Because the email forwarded by my mother was probably a bit more significant than most.

A year ago I wrote a post to celebrate the fact that it had been 9 years since my father had a heart transplant.  I pondered on the fact that we had him with us for so much longer than we might have; and how much more life he had experienced as someone else’s gift pumped blood throughout his veins.

But there’s no such thing as a free lunch.  And the gift of life, like everything else, comes with trade-offs.  Drugs that suppress dad’s immune system mean that, although he goes nowhere near the sun, he continually has skin cancers developing.  He is, in fact, currently undergoing radiotherapy for a deadly melanoma known for its attack on those with suppressed immune systems.

But the most challenging of side effects is not visible.

My father has vascular dementia.  Caused, I understand, either by an earlier heart attack or during his life-saving heart surgery ten years ago.

So far only his short term memory has been effected, or more specifically, his ability to transfer something from his short term into his long term memory.  I am sure there is a term for this but that doesn’t really matter… to us anyway.

It started slowly, as if he was just a bit absent-minded; where once he had been quick-witted.  But it is now at the point where he isn’t really able to retain any information.  Unlike Drew Barrymore in 50 First Dates, he doesn’t remember the day’s events, only to awake the next morning in some sort of Groundhog Day fog.  He remembers nothing recent.

A typical 10 minute conversation with him (for me, for example) will comprise him asking the day two or three times – at least.  Each response will be followed by ‘When did we arrive here at your place?’ and ‘When do we go back home?’  In fact I sometimes entertain myself by pre-empting the next question before he can ask it.  He will also enquire why he is here (rather than in his hometown).  This visit I am having to explain that although he had a merkel cell carcinoma removed from his face, it is so fast-spreading he is here for radiotherapy.  Just in case.  Obviously then he queries how long the treatment lasts (5 days a week for 5 weeks) at which point he becomes despondent (at being away from home for so long) and usually comments that perhaps he isn’t worth all of this trouble.

But he is.  Obviously.  I feel for my mother who has the patience of a saint though admits to occasional sarcastic responses to his never-ending questions. But her dedication is amazing.  My father recently spent a week in hospital and my mother camped out beside him for 12hrs a day in the event a doctor visited.  Dad needed my mother to answer the questions.  ‘Yes his bowels moved.’ ‘No, he hasn’t eaten lunch yet.’  A doctor giving instructions or advice to my father was also not an option.  It is at those times that I am overcome with guilt at being so far away and not able to provide more hands-on support.

Hard as it is for my mother, I cannot imagine what it is like for my father, who marvels at his long term memory but who cannot tell you what he did 5 minutes ago, or 5 hours ago.

It makes telephone conversations difficult.  We are limited to me questioning him about the weather, or about whatever he is doing at that exact moment.

A couple of months ago I picked up the phone to call my parents. I then realized it was Wednesday and my mother would be out (as she is every Wednesday night for an hour or so). Although I talk to my dad most evenings when I call home, it is usually just for a minute or two and he asks the same questions (about work etc) again and again.  This night I started to put the phone back on the hook before I thought about what I was doing.   I checked myself and realized I was being incredibly selfish.  Just because I would find the call harder work, and because he wouldn’t remember the conversation was no reason not to reach out and make contact.  He is thrilled by calls.  If mum isn’t home, he dutifully writes down who has called, though not recollecting anything from the conversation.

So I called.  I think there was football on TV, so I asked him about that.  We talked about the weather, my work, my brother and his family.  The usual.   I talked to my mother later that night as she called back when she saw dad’s note.

The little tale in the email my mother forwarded me was called ‘The Rain’.  It was (supposedly!) relayed by a nurse who encountered an elderly man who came into her hospital to have stitches removed.  It was early in the morning and he was impatiently looking at his watch.  She asked if he had another appointment.  He said he did and she enquired what it was, expecting another medical appointment.  He told her that his wife was in a nursing home and he went to give her breakfast every day at 9am.  He also said that she had Alzheimer’s and hadn’t recognized him for years.  The nurse asked why – if his wife didn’t know who he was, or indeed, when or if he visited – did he go everyday.  His reply was, ‘She may not know who I am, but I still know who she is.’

I saw a distant relative a little while ago.  We were talking about my father.  They commented that they were worried that his long-term memory would be next and how horrible it would be when / if he forgot who we were.  I knew they hadn’t seen my father for 6 months or more but innocently queried if they had ‘run into him’ recently.  No, they said, they actually preferred to remember him more as he was and didn’t really want to see him like they believe he is now.

Another friend recently commented on an elderly relative who had Alzheimer’s.  The relative was dying, but my friend said it wasn’t really upsetting as (the relative) had really died to them years ago.  I didn’t say anything but was horrified.  Would she, I wonder, want her family to stop visiting her if she forgot who they were, or would she hope that they still held her in enough esteem that they actually wanted to see her even if she was oblivious.

The old man in the email wasn’t expecting anything in return from his wife.  He didn’t expect her gratitude or adulation.  Perhaps he felt it was his duty or his obligation.  Perhaps he felt he signed on ‘for better or worse’.  It did, however, remind me that particularly in my father’s case – although I hate to admit it - it isn’t all about me.  Even if my father doesn’t remember the moments, it doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

Escaping...

I have a fabulous idea for a TV show.  If I do say so myself.  The idea struck me as I was contemplating what it is that has me so infatuated with the BBC Show Escape to the Country.

Here in Oz it is being shown on one of the new free-to-air digital stations (7TWO).  Obviously not popular enough to make it to its flagship Channel 7, the network is showing it on one of its offshoots (currently on Friday and Sunday at 8.30pm). 

 I came across the show a couple of months ago.  Pitiful though it may sound, I never do anything on a Friday night.  In fact, Friday is the one day of the week that I am likely to be least interested in staying up late or over-imbibing in champagnes or red wines.  I am always mentally exhausted and loll in front of the television for a couple of hours before having an early night.  So for me anyway, the fact that Friday night television is pretty crappy has never been an issue.  The lack of alternatives is, in fact, what allowed me to stumble across the BBC gem.

Not one for lifestyle / makeover type shows I suspect I had flicked past it on a number of occasions before watching enough to get me hooked.

What entices me though, is unclear.  From my extensive research (Google yet again!) I note that the show has (had) a number of presenters and (in the UK) is in its 9^th season.  But here in Oz we are seeing episodes from a few years ago fronted by host Catherine Gee.

I suspect part of my fascination with the show is Catherine.  Or more honestly her voice.  As an Aussie, her well-rounded (but not quite plummy) vowels are surprisingly endearing.

And then of course there is the subject matter: homeowners in suburbia wanting to move to the country.  For some peace and quiet; or to grow a vegetable patch; or (as per last night’s episode) raise some alpacas. 

The format of the show is straight forward*.  We meet the country living wannabes and get a look at their current property (what it is worth and how they currently live); then Catherine sits down with them to get their ‘wish list’; both in terms of property inclusions and location.  Most of those featured are still working so need to live close enough to transport to get back to civilization, but still want a balance of rural living with some access to nearby amenities.

Catherine then searches out four properties and looks them over while the wannabes watch via laptop.  They then choose their favourite two to visit.  They then (of course) have the option of pursuing one that they like by putting in an offer etc.  Disappointingly this rarely happens.

For an Aussie, the quintessential English village is enticing.  And romantic.  I was disappointed that last night’s retired couple was after a ‘modern’ home… which translated into some quite unattractive 1970s ‘brick and tile’ house - a common sight in Australian suburbia, but something I wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole.

I was travelling home from the city this week and as the bus stalled in traffic I read the sign in front of an old Catholic Church.  It decreed that the church was the oldest in my State of Queensland.  It was 160 years old.

On Escape, most of the properties are actually built in the 1800s or even 1700s.  They ooze character, though their upkeep may also ooze digits from one’s bank account.  Here in Oz we have heritage style houses known as Queenslanders.  These timber houses are built for our climate with covered verandahs providing outdoor living space.  The countryside houses in the British show make these houses look positively futuristic. 

So, I am glued to the television screen as Catherine explores the houses with their original fireplaces and stone walls in villages featuring quaint pubs and few shops.  Having always dreamed of living in some tiny English village with an oddly-named pub, I am probably as enthusiastically naive as many of the show’s couples wanting to make the lifestyle change.

But, back to my idea…. For some time popular culture (here and around the world, I suspect) has raised the notion of families, couples and individuals ‘downsizing’.  Here in Oz we talk about a ‘seachange’ or a ‘treechange’ depending on whether it is beachside living or rural Australia that you are craving.  So my idea is for a similar show here, with a Catherine-equivalent scampering about small beachside towns or picturesque hinterlands to locate new lives for harried city-dwellers.  I reckon the show would also sell overseas.  While I live in a 3-level modern apartment gleaming with glass and stainless steel craving the ‘old’, I am sure there are Brits living in rustic England fantasizing about our beaches and clean lines.  So, voila – there it is.  My brainwave.  Perhaps I can sell it to a network and make enough money to go and Escape to the Country myself!

* The aforementioned extensive research also led me to discover that the format changes from series 6.

Parallel lives

Season 3 of Fringe started on television here in Oz last week and I must admit to gleefully anticipating its return.

Although I missed Season 1 when it first screened, I discovered the show via DVD just before Season 2 commenced and have been a convert ever since.

In fact, I wrote about the show here, contemplating the concept of an alternate universe and the ‘sliding doors’ theory of a twin ‘me’ living a parallel life in a parallel universe out there… somewhere.

I for one, wonder about paths not taken as I get older and (unsurprisingly) suffer regrets – as I am sure most of us do.

But as a new Season dawns and Fringe starts to unravel, I find myself perplexed with the shift in storyline.

As I indicated in my earlier blog, the premise of the show is that there is (in fact) a parallel world; an alternate reality populated by our identical selves going about their business.

Tantalising isn’t it?  I mean, who would we be?  Or more importantly, who COULD we be?  Again, I have to admit that the idea is somewhat comforting as I can only hope that the other me is living a very fulfilling life; taking more risks; following her heart; being happy (etc etc).

So, with so many possibilities I find myself slightly disenfranchised now that we have finally come across the alternate universe in Fringe.  It turns out that our key protagonists are actually doing the same bloody thing they are doing in our world; AND with the same people.  WTF?  So far the only difference between the characters in the alternate world is that their values are slightly screwy.  Oh, and plus a couple of them are dead.

It is a risky move for the writers and producers.  I for one am struggling to ‘care’ about Anna Torv’s fake Olivia who has infiltrated our world while the real one remains stuck in the alternate world.  Although it may be a refreshing change for the actors, it’s a bit like Barbara Eden playing her twin sister in I Dream of Jeannie and Elizabeth Montgomery playing her scheming cousin in Bewitched.  You know they are the same actor, but you just don’t care. I guess that’s the point of the two quite-different personalities.  But I don’t even want to watch the alternate Olivia.  I just want her to die!

Meanwhile (rant over), back to my point…. In contemplating the turn of events in Fringe I am reminded of Sliding Doors, also referenced in my earlier blog.  In the movie, Gwyneth Paltrow’s Helen basically ends up in the same place in both versions of her life.  Only her experiences in getting there vary.  (Oh… and the haircut.)

While this concept of a parallel universe is not new to film, television or literature, it is quite frankly a bit beyond the realm of my expertise.  I could not get my head around the theories postulated in What The Bleep Do We Know, so I figure it’s best left to those into quantum mechanics, neurobiology and human consciousness - and stuff like that.  Instead I am finding myself more intrigued by this concept of fate. I mean, is our destiny pre-determined?  Perhaps the journey in each world varies, but our destinations are the same, no matter what decisions we make or roads we take.

Fate: I can’t work out if I am disappointed (that we have no control over our own destiny) or relieved (that it doesn’t matter if we make wrong choices) at the concept.  But while the notion of an alternate reality remains the stuff of imaginative authors and screenwriters, I must admit to taking some solace in the hypotheses of these works of fiction. As a natural worrier I like the idea of fate and of responsibility being taken out of my hands.  I mean, Phew.