I want to be a slashie

Growing up to be a slashie… It’s not really something to aspire to, is it?

I mean, the definition of a ‘Slashie’ is someone who thinks that their day job isn’t their real job. As in, a model who really wants to be an actress, and is therefore a model slash actress (model/actress), or a hairdresser/singer, waiter/writer, and so forth.

I am aspiring to be a slashie though, because that would mean I have the TIME for an aspiration, to believe that my day job (erm… wiping bottoms, grocery shopping, editing, picking up children, nursing rabbits with pneumonia, researching and medical writing, making 3 different breakfasts cos ‘I DON’T LIKE THAT’ all at the same time) is not my REAL  job, then YES. I want to just be a slashie. Just two items please. One job title, then a slash, then another job title. Ah. How serene it would be.

I don’t even care if I’m better at one side of the slash than the other. Look, Kylie Minogue was first and foremost an actress at the time of Neighbours, and was a Singing Budgie when she went to add the slash with ‘Locomotion’. Now? She’s an international pop phenomenon, and if she tries to throw the ‘actress’ slash back in, she’s taken much less seriously for such highly credible efforts as Street Fighter: The Movie. Open your MINDS people of the world, and bend them like Beckham. He does. He’s a soccer player slash model. Quality is not what matters here. What matters is that both sides of the slash pay money.

Rapunzel! Let down your hair! There's a soccer player climbing your tower

Rapunzel! Let down your hair! There’s a soccer player about to climb your tower

Perhaps the difference between the modern-day slashie versus the old-school performer is that the guys and girls of yore were expected to come as a full package, able to dance, sing and act with their eyes closed. The closest we’ve come to that in recent years is with the graduates from the Mickey Mouse Club – Justin Timberlake, Christina, Britn..oh.. Actually JT is the only one from that pack who can sing, dance AND act.

In the acting category, there are some FASCINATING forays into the slash singing realm. Some of these Slashies have the most tempting song titles on their albums, like Molly Ringwald’s version of ‘Don’t You (Forget about Me)’  - YES from the Breakfast Club, and yes singing THAT song from the end with Judd Nelson. As a jazzy lounge number. Oh the irony. Or Bruce Willis’ song ‘Respect Yourself’. While singing into a pool cue. Ahem.

You may like a peek because it’s pretty amusing. And, almost, perversely, kinda good. If you are still wearing your stonewashed jeans.

I’ve missed another smaller category of modern-day awesome who actually CAN do it all, inhabited by the likes of Hugh Jackman (YES I most certainly WILL be dragging my husband along to see the new Wolverine, purely for the QUALITY ACTING), and some other people I don’t feel like thinking about now because Hugh is all we need.

Slash personal slave? Sure, I'll add it to my list.

I want to know about your career-type aspirations. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

High on my personal slashie list? Writer/sleeper. Lounge singer/drinker. Recliner/eater of cheese and olives (with martinis). Wine-taster/manuscript-assessor. Mrs Jackman/potato enthusiast. There are plenty more where this came from.

If you could be any kind of slashie, what would you be? Have your singing/dancing/fire-twirling aspirations been dashed by the arrival of reality and/or children?



New year, in clover.

Smashing photograhy by yours truly. Of course

I’m baaaaaaack! Well, sort of. It appears I’ve taken some kind of accidental bloggy break. Apologies, friends. 2012 was a ball-buster of a year, or, to put it more politely (in the Queen’s English), an Annus Horribilus. She won’t mind me adopting her vernacular. We’re close. I’ve been to her place and stuff.

When it came to the time for reflective posts on the year that was had, I started at January, then decided that would do and switched off my trusty Mac. I decided to eat an apple instead. When it came time for Christmas, I saw craft and tinsel and gritted my teeth while I decked my halls with boughs of festive shizzle on ma nizzle. I had a blissful beach break up north, and then New Years’ Eve rolled around with all its resolute resolution-ness. I don’t do those. In all, 2012 left me feeling somewhat like a crash test dummy who’s been allowed to drive a car. Who decided that’s a good idea? They don’t have eyes OR opposable thumbs. In any case. Last year. It sucked. Details, shmetails. I did a bit of that in the last post and I’m wearing my clothes now. But let’s just say, if you were playdough and I was the carpet, we’re making sweet, sweet love, and no butter knife can tear us apart. I felt flat out and thoroughly squished.

HOWEVER. Yes, capitals. NEW YEARS EVE was just loverly. Loverly, loverly. LOOOOVerly. Loverly. (Have any of you seen My Fair Lady or am I singing this in my head all by myself? Don’t leave me hanging.) We’d had a call that morning about a death in my husband’s family, and will be flying to Brisbane tomorrow morning for the funeral. This New Years Eve was a sweet bit of hope and distraction through the kids’ eyes. There was no big party, no champagne. There was, however, a very special invitation to Little L and her family (that would be us) to the Lord Mayor’s picnic, extended by JDRF (thank you!) held by the City of Sydney and Clover Moore each year in the Botanic Gardens for children with disabilities. The girls were treated like stars, and given gifts and VIP passes on arrival, before being glammed up with face paint. I’m not sure that many stars queue for portaloos, but that’s a minor detail my mini-divas are willing to overlook.

Pop princess

Diva in miniature


There was a stage with live performances, event tents with activities, free food, and this was all a precursor to the privileged position we’d be given to a section of the gardens for the 9pm fireworks. Not only that, but there was KYLIE. My kids were hugely underwhelmed, like most of the audience under the age of 15, but the adults made a rush for the stage with their iPhones. Fine. Yep. Ok. I did too. She didn’t sing, but she said we were all stars. I didn’t really believe her. Little L looked at her just long enough to say she was pretty.


MUCH more exciting was the kid who climbed to the top of the event tent and tried to kill himself. OK – perhaps that was not his intention, but it was a superb circus act and I had to withhold my applause at the end, but then I let loose and told myself it was the rescue team I was applauding. (Don’t tell anyone – I was applauding the kid). It was spectacular, and all the parents and adults were terrified. I was supposed to be one of them, but the rescue team looked very in-control and had his escape hatches covered, so I had to instead suppress a pang of jealousy, since bouncing around up there looked REALLY fun. That little boy has a bright future ahead of him, on the trapeze I suspect.

Death-defying feats! Oooh! Aaaah!

When it was fireworks time we snuck into the bushes of the gardens for a prime vantage point (old rebels die hard) and stared defiantly at the rovers who tried to scare us out with flashlights. You looking at me? Punk? I felt a bit bad since the volunteer rovers and scouts that night did an awesome job and I did a lot of extra smiling on the way back to the gate. I’m sure they appreciated the crazy lady smiling at them with leaves and twigs in her hair.

Home by 10, we popped our first champagne, and glued our eyeballs open watching 80s music videos until midnight. Strangely entrancing. Welcome, new year. I’m prepared to be entranced. Or, at least, pleasantly surprised.

Bring it. xx