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Fishwife or Femme Fatale? |
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what are the odds?
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Fishwife or Femme Fatale - a book for women, about women, and by women - is the latest publication by Rebus Press. Combining fast fiction, poetry and creative nonfiction, this amusing, moving and poignant collection is a must for every woman. Embrace your 'not-so-perfect' status and order your copy today.
To order your copy of Fishwife or Femme Fatale? send your details, along with a cheque or money order for $22.00 (plus $3.95 p&h), to: Rebus Press
Latest reviews for "FFF? " ‘The best book I’ve read all week.’
Click on the links below to read a few extracts from this quirky new collection. |
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when did? I am in the bathroom. I am standing in front of the too-large mirror bemoaning the ravages of time. When was the last time I stood naked in front of a mirror? Surely, not that long ago. My memory says mere months, but what my eyes are witnessing suggests it was at least a century ago. Despite myself, I stand on the footstool to investigate what other slippage has occurred. I close my eyes and take a deep breath before opening them again. Visualisation chant required. I am a thirty-six year old woman in her prime. I am a thirty-six year old woman in her prime. Well, maybe prime is not exactly the right word… How bad is it? Moving on down ... have my hips spread? Don't think so. The silky grooves of my stretch marks would suggest otherwise. It's really not too bad, no really – all things considered; such as absolutely no maintenance whatsoever. And what of my saving grace – my long lean legs. Shit, is that really them? Ghostly pale? Sticking out like stalks? Veins turning varicose before my eyes? I look like a scrawny chicken ... without the tail feathers, of course. I quickly check, just in case. Thank Christ. No feathers … yet. No age spots either; at least none that I can see. There are a couple more moles perhaps – hopefully pre-melanoma stage – a consequence of my beautiful golden tan. Well, alright, it's more a wog-brown … and that's only my face and neck, and my arms up to where the T-shirts end. My washing-line tan. The area between my knees and ankles are a slightly lighter shade and the rest of my body is ghostly white. My eyes drop lower of their own volition. Do I really want to go there? It seems I have no choice. I am relieved that my pubes are still naturally red – which is more than I can say for my head. Speaking of which, when did I start going grey? Jesus, there's one right there in the middle of my fringe. It's not even grey, it's pure bloody white. I pull at it and am relieved when the white disappears. Only toothpaste. Phew! That one's not though, nor that one. I start to pluck the grey hairs out one at a time. It's a difficult process. God got it wrong you see – when he made me. He must have been distracted during the creation stage because I got the tight curly little hairs on top and the silky sweeping locks below. I suddenly remember someone saying that for every grey hair you pluck, seven grow back. I stop plucking. Maybe I should cut it all off? ‘Beloved partner' would kill me, of course; he likes my hair long. Maybe ‘beloved partner' should grow his own bloody hair. I wish … ‘What on earth are you doing, woman? You'll kill yourself if you fall off that!' I hate the way he pops up when I'm least expecting it. It's unnerving, this knack of his to appear just when I don't want him to. We can go the whole week passing like ships in the night; yet, the one moment I don't need him around – there he is. He lifts me down and pushes the footstool back to the corner of the room. My hero! I wash my face quickly. My reflection gazes balefully back at me; it smiles wistfully. Why is it that you don't realise how gorgeous you were until it's too late? Oscar Wilde was right; youth is wasted on the young. I apply a light layer of tinted foundation (SPF factor 130), mascara, then eyeliner, and finally some lip balm. I notice a faint radiant glow on my cheeks. Not quite one foot in the grave then. I open the little wooden box that contains my earrings. I choose studs … for fear that heavy earrings will make my earlobes sag. what are the odds? Every weeknight at 5.30pm, my husband and I take advantage of some well-deserved quality time. For thirty minutes we lock our three kids outside, pull the blinds down so we can't see their little faces pressed against the glass, and adopt our respective positions on the sofa … Settle down people, this isn't going where you think. While some couples may squander their precious moments canoodling on the couch, we spend ours engaged in an exhilarating battle of the minds. For thirty minutes I pit my shrewd female intellect and commonsense against his all-consuming greed and contempt for good judgement. This nightly battle takes place not in a boring debate about global politics or existentialist philosophy, but in the bloodthirsty arena of the television game show – a show called ‘Deal or No Deal'. Now I've seen game shows come and game shows go through this fickle afternoon timeslot, but none have caused such dissension in a marriage as this one particular show. For years Baby John Burgess spun his giant Wheel of Fortune round our screen and my husband said nary a word. When Burgo went to Nine and tempted us with Catchphrase , my husband remained reticent and detached. Hell, even the charm of the beguiling Larry Emdur couldn't make him wonder if the ‘Price' really was ‘Right'. No, what my husband likes about this show is the complete lack of skill or knowledge needed to win … in fact, blind monkeys could play this game and do equally as well as any non-psychic human contestant. Now, I'm not going to go into the details of the game because, frankly, they're complicated and dull. Basically, contestants can accept a guaranteed amount of money, or risk this amount in the hope of winning a higher amount through pure dumb luck. What the whole thing comes down to are ‘odds'. And odds, combined with large amounts of currency – as any punter will tell you – are an enticing and heady mix. My husband is a great believer in odds. He's also what you'd call an equal opportunity gambler. He likes the odds that give him a promising 1 in 8 million chance of winning Tattslotto just as much as the odds that give him an unlikely 1 in 7 chance of getting lung cancer. I, on the other hand, neither smoke nor gamble as I know exactly how those shifty little odds work. If the odds are a million to one and the prize is cancer, then someone has to be that one. Conversely, if the odds are 50/50, and the prize is an all expenses paid trip to the Caribbean, then you can bet I'll be waving from the terminal as the confetti-covered winner boards the plane. Sensible people know that good odds are not a guarantee; they're about as sure-fire as crossing your fingers. I descended from my lofty moral high ground one day to illustrate to my husband the complete lack of logic behind his view of odds. Using simple words, combined with visual aids, I explained to him that he had far more chance of winning an Academy award (1 in 11,500) or of dating a supermodel (1 in 88,000) than he did of winning first prize in Tattslotto. I then pointed out that if he continued to smoke he was more likely to eventually get lung cancer (1 in 7) than he was to get flu (1 in 10) or haemorrhoids (1 in 25) within the next 12 months. Finally something sank in. Faced with this information he agreed that it was indeed stupid to waste all that money on Lotto. Now he's putting all his Tatts savings into extra cigarettes so he can smoke himself thin for when he takes Claudia Schiffer to the Oscars. We pick the odds we like and the rest be damned. So there's no prize for guessing our respective views when it comes to Deal or No Deal. Each night while we watch, my husband and I argue about what we'd do if we were in the contestant's position. As soon as the heat's on – before you can say ‘Cash or giant cheque?' – I've taken that guaranteed amount and invested it in a tax-deferred retirement account and portfolio of blue chip stocks. My husband, meanwhile, is busy writing an IOU that offers our first born child in exchange for just one more shot at the big bucks. But because I've never been a quitter – especially when it comes to proving I'm right – I keep a weekly tally of our respective winnings to further illustrate my point. According to this week's figures, my prize money stands at a healthy $145,000. That's enough to pay off the mortgage, buy a crate of confetti and purchase my own goddamn ticket to the Caribbean. My husband, on the other hand, has a total of $500, is completely childless, and is now contemplating selling his hair for profit. At the rate he's going, I suspect that the Devil may soon be in possession of yet another, shiny new soul. To be honest, I don't know why I'm surprised. If bar graphs and flash cards couldn't make him understand the dangers of playing the odds, I don't know why I thought that a cheesy, afternoon game show would.
he asks for my order he nods and begins I take a deep breath he catches my staring eyes he tosses a look over his shoulder oh, he's good at what he does I'm not ready to leave he's definitely the one with the lot
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waiting for the doors to open |
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‘Not even a teenager yet, Holly Sievers has been attending Melbourne poetry readings for many years where she has read her own poetry and listened carefully to many other poets. As a result, her poetry is mature beyond her years.
To order your copy of Waiting for the Doors to Open, send your details, along with a cheque or money order for $20.00 (plus $2.95 p&h), to: Said and Done Management
Click here to read the title poem from holly sievers
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waiting for the doors to open The people waiting at the station
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