Caught In The Throws Of Love
Sydney Morning Herald
Monday September 6, 1999
IT WAS the sixth cheese grater that did it for me. What is it with this X Generation? Every time our daughter disposes of a boyfriend she also sheds all the domestic accumulations of the relationship.
As loving parents we are completely supportive of her decisions regarding the unsuitability of boys. As baby boomers who worship the holy grail of recycling we abhor the dumping of her chattels.
We have a large farmhouse with numerous sheds and entertain ourselves with the idea of running a backpackers' establishment.
After each of our daughter's domestic upheavals we dutifully collect the remains and store them against future fantasy. Pleasingly enough, some of the furniture has now been through several homes. Only the furniture with a family history is so lucky; nothing with a boyfriend history gets circular travel. I am sure the french-polished shelving my father made could drive the ute by itself.
I remember the tumultuous years of eighteen- to twentysomething rather well. Moving house was easier than cleaning the cupboards. When the whim came to move interstate, the only essentials carried onwards had to fit into the backpack.
Zen-simplicity was the excuse I offered parents outraged by me abandoning childhood icons such as my rocking chair and bicycle.
However, the simplicity of backpack-packing didn't exclude presents from the opposite sex, such as the leather handbag, the carved wooden box or the Mexican blanket. I treasured these trophies. I took strength from their tangible reminder of good spirit.
"You don't understand, Mum," my daughter tells me. "It would be dishonest to be nest-building with Brad using things I had when I was with Simon."
"What about the expense of starting fresh every time?" I ask.
"You're so attached to the materialism side of life."
"I can't tell the difference between the last three cheese graters. How could Brad?"
My generation spurned marriage. We bravely discovered that women could enjoy sex untrammelled by love. However, love was a prerequisite for living together. The Gen Xer has perfected the art of serial monogamy. This includes cohabitation with each partner, but I've never heard the word love mentioned.
"I'm glad you've both got your names on the bond. But have you got the emotional side of things sorted out?" I ask.
This time David smiles across the teapot at me. "It's too expensive running two places. And if we live together, instead of with flatmates, neither of us will have to put up with a flatmate being stroppy because our partner is staying over," he says earnestly.
"Not your flatmate's emotions. Your emotions." I look from one to the other. "Your commitment. The roles you will inevitably play. Like who cooks and who takes out the garbage."
My daughter is relieved. "There is no-one in this city I am more confident of sharing with than David. We co-operate domestically just great."
That's not what I mean. I suspect they know that. We all co-operate and avoid mentioning that intimate topic of love.
I wondered about the question of honesty. Perhaps my daughter is right.
My husband doesn't know the huge creel we use for the laundry was a gift from a former boyfriend of mine. He doesn't know the red bookshelves were from the boyfriend before that. Or that the table my computer sits on conjures memories of intimate dinners in previous flirtations.
Recently I bought a new dinner set. As I was packing away the chipped remains of the stoneware we had eaten from for years, I remarked that it had been provided by a former lover. A lover from 18 years ago.
My husband helped me pack the old china. He offered to pay for the new plates. If only I'd told him before, he could have done something about it and saved me the stress of eating from those reviled utensils.
Lucky I'm not too honest or we'd have to strip the house.
The emotions of the crockery disposal must have emanated through the ether. The china-providing ex left a message on the answering machine the very next day.
"I happen to be visiting your end of NSW. It's been nearly 20 years. I'd love to see you . . . "
And do you know what his opening words were? Nothing as mundane as hello. I quote: "Is that your natural hair colour?" If a chap can't remember the colour of his lover's hair he should develop a firmer grip on the material things of life.
I wished I had thrown out his dinner set earlier.
I was fondling that sixth cheese grater. Could it be more effective than the fourth grater, or the fifth?
My daughter telephoned me from her new apartment to tell me she had just found the best cheese grater ever. And it came with no Tom, Dick or Harry.
© 1999 Sydney Morning Herald
