‘Demolished, no? Someone demolished a heritage building?’
‘Mate, you really have to watch the news.’
I should be thankful. At least they’re not complaining how hot it is, how cold it is, how many millimetres of rain we’ve had or how noisy the wind was during the night. Well, not this time at least.
When my grandparents were living, we had too much respect for them to ever refuse to listen to a favourite story. On the contrary, we’d pretend like we’d never heard the details before and sit as if rapt at their feet for family night storytelling. Overly familiar sayings such as Pa’s ‘No more than full, thank you’ (whenever anyone was pouring him an alcoholic beverage), ‘First of the day’ (raising every single drink in a cheers) or hearing that we ‘come from good stock’ were each an endearing pearler we’ve determined will live long into our family’s future. For Nan’s part, we loved that her only curse word was ‘Christmas!’
But why do our parents repeat themselves so often? Is it because they can’t recall having ever told the story before or who they’ve told it to? Lately both my parents have started relaying catchups to me in graphic detail. There’s nothing wrong with that . . . except that I was there!
Our knee-jerk reaction is to feel impatient or dismissive. Then, maybe as we age and hear our own kids say, ‘You already told me that!’ it becomes a trait we berate in our parents but quickly deny in ourselves. Then again, my editor Shannon tells me I’ve already told that story of Mum, Glen and me at the All Blurries in a previous book, so perhaps I’m already well on my way down that slippery slope.
Is it inevitable that we will turn into versions of our parents no matter how determinedly we resist? I’m pretty sure I know which side of the nature versus nurture debate I fall on. I’ve never lived with our kids, yet, eerily, I see some uncannily familiar mannerisms and character traits – all incredibly endearing, naturally. The older I get, the more certain behaviours of my parents frustrate the bejesus out of me. They are traits I’ve always sworn I would never, ever emulate. But there are some things I can’t help doing just like them. This is a rather sobering and somewhat depressing realisation.
I believe it was Freud who first coined the term Petenjude: ‘acute psychological agitation caused by the irrational behaviour of one’s ageing parents.’ But I’d much prefer they drive me up the wall than them not be here at all. A large part of my suffering could also be coming to the horrifying realisation that I’m gradually turning into them. For example . . .
I pluck hairs from various body parts
As a disaffected youth, I wrote this poem, inspired by my father:
I race to the window
And shout out a prayer
That somebody somewhere
Feels the same.
Dad was driving the car and simultaneously plucking hairs from his ears. He pulled each hair with such violence I thought he’d knock the steering wheel on the rebound with the same force and we’d veer off course and head straight for the nearest tree. I mean, who has hair in their ears anyway?
Because Jeff has been tasked with my grooming for many years, I rarely go to professional hairdressers, but recently on a whim, I found myself at a hip and trendy barber shop. At the end of my haircut, the guy proceeded to use the clippers to shave the white hairs protruding extremely unattractively from my tragus and lobules on both ears. Now being conscious of their ugliness, I pluck them whenever I notice them getting too long, including, sometimes, while Jeff and I are watching TV. I just hope he doesn’t write a poem about my dirty plucking habit.
I like giving my hooter a good blow every morning
I never needed an alarm to get me out of bed. Every morning my father’s routine included standing over the bathroom basin, way at the end of the hallway, placing one hand against one nostril and blowing the other nostril with such potency I sometimes feared I’d find his brain wedged in the plug hole. Two deafening, tremulous explosions out of each nostril. It sounded like a dolphin impersonating a horse blowing a foghorn.
I don’t know when it began, but I’ve developed an irrational fear of being seen in public with a ‘hanger’ (as we used to call them when we were kids). To combat this, every morning I hold toilet paper to my nose and blow as hard as I can to clear it of any potential for falling debris. Sometimes I blow so hard it grazes the back of my throat. At least it’s not over the same sink where Jeff brushes his teeth.
I sneeze and yawn at 120 decibels
I’ve forever pitied the people who live on the same street as my father, however long that street happens to be. His sneezes sometimes measure on the Richter scale . . . in Reykjavík. His yawns are capable of drowning out the sound of my mother’s guttural humph when music unexpectedly plays from her iPhone.
In public I’m conscious of keeping unwanted attention off myself, so sneezes and yawns are elegantly stifled. But, in the comfort of my own home, I choose to let nature take its course and Jeff bolts for the ear plugs any time he senses a sneeze brewing. I wasn’t even conscious of the volume of these bodily functions until Jeff started calling me Pete after each and every one.
I only recently learnt that, when she was a youngster in primary school, my niece Sophie let out a sneeze that rattled the classroom windows. Her teacher called her out on the unnecessary loudness. ‘You don’t understand, miss,’ Sophie pleaded. ‘I come from a family of very loud sneezers.’
I always have mints on hand
While the mints of my chosen brand are not as thick as dishwasher tablets, I have followed in my mother’s halitosis-fearing footsteps and rarely leave the house without a packet of the things. This is not dependent on time of day or what I’ve eaten recently, but is a type of security blanket that prevents mass anxiety during face-to-face conversations with any person, anywhere.
I’ve been known to go to such great lengths to source a packet of Peppermint Eclipse before dealing with another human being that I’ve been twenty minutes late for important meetings. At least I always arrive with lovely, minty-fresh breath.
I like to have things my own way
If you tell Mum you’re not driving her to the club, you’d better watch out. If Mum says she’s happy to go shopping on her own and you insist on tagging along, you’d better watch out. If Jude wants a new cushion, plant or ornament, and Dad insists they can’t afford it, or one isn’t necessary, he can expect at least half a day of silent treatment, if not two whole days.
When I hand Jeff the remote control for the television, it’s not because I’m being selfless but, conversely, because I think he’ll detect my fed-upness with trying to find something that pleases the both of us and respond by choosing to watch something he knows is more to my taste than his. Similarly, I like to choose the restaurants where we eat and I like to do the driving so I get to choose the route. Did I mention my response to any conflict is also to inflict silent treatment?
I think I’m right even when I know I’m not
It’s not often I concede to being wrong, which is no surprise given, in the forty-nine years I’ve known him, my father has never once acknowledged that a viewpoint, statement of fact or telling of a story is more accurate than his version of the same. If challenged, he’ll respond with a look of such repugnance you’ll think you’ve just delivered him an insult of unfathomable depth, such as calling him a clown. Dad’s knowledge extends to topics far and wide, way broader than his experience can possibly support.
When we talked about buying our first tractor, I sat patiently listening to a lecture on pricing and functionality until, for the first time in my life, I realised Dad didn’t have much of an idea what he was talking about. And this coming from someone who knew only slightly more than nought on the subject. ‘Tell me,’ I interrupted him mid-sentence, ‘how old were you when you bought your first tractor?’
Jeff often tests my knowledge on topics as varied as world history and the lifecycle of the mountain gorillas of Eastern Zaire. When we first met, he’d accept my words as gospel, bless his dear little heart. More often than not of late, however, he responds with, ‘Did you just make that up?’
‘Google it if you don’t believe me,’ I’ll say, knowing full well that he can’t be bothered.
I don’t really care what I look like
Mum to this day will rarely leave the house without a lick of lipstick and the all-important mascara. Dad, at my present age, could often be found at the local TAB barefoot, in stubbies that showed a little too much bum crack, and a white Bonds singlet stretched tightly over his hairy belly.
In my seminal years living in Elizabeth Bay, it was an unspoken neighbourhood convention that one never left the house without looking one’s best, in designer clothes and impractical but fancy shoes. Whether to check the mail or buy groceries, you never left your harbourside apartment looking less than impeccable. That was aside from the iconic woman known to walk the suburbs wearing only her white terry-towelling robe.
When Jeff and I moved to the other side of Sydney, the Inner West, I remember walking to the local IGA wearing a singlet. It was the first time I had ever left home with my shoulders exposed (gasp!) and I felt that I may as well have been streaking on national television. But at the same time, it was liberating. Judging by how few hurls of abuse from passing cars and horrified looks from fellow shoppers I received, I figured my appearance might just be considered acceptable.
These days, in the country, I never brush my hair (we don’t even own a comb), my clothes are usually ripped or stained, every piece of clothing I own has been purchased for under fifteen bucks at Big W and it’s likely I haven’t showered or shaved for several days. I refrain from drinking takeaway tea in public through fear that concerned locals will throw a few coins in the cup I’m holding. My disregard for all fashion sense was further hit home the other day when I tucked my flannelette shirt into my too-high black tracksuit pants and Jeff casually remarked that I was becoming more like my father with each passing day. Which reminds me, has anyone seen my form guide?
I look for home maintenance shortcuts
