Amra Pajalic

I can’t believe it’s been only three days since we landed in Melbourne. Who could believe you could pack so much into three days? We’ve been frantic from dawn to daybreak, but we’ve achieved a lot. The house is slowly coming into order.

I’m so aware of how quiet suburbia is. We’ve mostly lived in flats in inner city suburbs. Shared walls, shared communal areas and busy streets. Yet here we are surrounded by houses spaced far from ours. There is no noise from our neighbours, no cars going past, no people walking that we can people watch. There are lots of cats. Nearly every house has cats or dogs as pets. As an avid cat lover at least I have that to watch.

The next door neighbour’s cat has already adopted us. She’s a Slutty McSlut (a description coined by Meg Cabot). Every time we step outside of our house she comes running. She even stalks us by going from window to window and meowing.

What I’m loving about our house:
Being able to pick up the mail from my mailbox
Not being woken up at five am by the butchers downstairs
Having allocated space for things i.e. the washing machine goes in the laundry, not in the bathroom.
The heater. It is becoming my second love.
Dreaming about all the things I can change and modify.
Not having to deal with fricking real estate agents ever again. The vindictive bitch at the Sydney property dragged out the final inspection and return of our bond as payback for not letting her show the flat to prospective tenants (even though the landlord was okay with it.) So I called the landlord and sicced him onto her and our money is forthcoming.

What I’m getting used to:
The lightswitches. It’s driving me batty having to hunt for a lightswitch every time I enter a room.
The fact that the cats are banished from the kitchen yet within two days Roscoe has figured out how to open the door and break in.

There’s a lot going on. It’s lovely catching up with friends and family. Having a support system making life easier for us while we settle in.

I’m including the obligatory cheesy photo that every home owner aspires to. There’s another photo that’s my favourite but I’ll have to take it out of circulation, unless my husband figures out how to modify it. I’m sporting a crotch that has a suspicious growth in it. Such a shame. I love that photo.

Ten years ago today I met my husband. While it wasn’t love at first sight it was close enough. I remember the exact moment I fell in love with him, even though I didn’t know it at the time. It was in a café the night we met. We talked the whole night and there was a moment when he was listening as I talked, his blue eyes focussed intently on me and I felt as if no one had ever listened to me the way he was doing.

On our first date he passed a test he didn’t even know about. Mum was excited I was dating a Bosnian and she had coffee prepared for the big parental introduction. When she asked him in, he politely refused. If I hadn’t been in love already, this would have cinched it. When he dropped me off at home I mooned him. My way of showing my appreciation.

He declared his love three nights later. We were parked on the street and making out in his car. After he told me he loved me, we made out some more. He stepped out of the car to take a leak, I jumped into the driver’s seat and turned on the headlights, framing him in the light as he stood by the side of the road. He frantically waved his hand for me to turn it off, but I was busy laughing to comply.

He claims that a week after we met when he said something along of the lines of: “When we’re married you won’t be able to do so and so,” was a joke. I thought it was real and told my whole family we were getting married. Our difference of opinion was exposed two months later, after we’d moved in.

We were driving to my Mum’s house and I had to call a girlfriend when we got there. He was telling me not to talk too long and leave him at Mum’s mercy. I told him: “I’ll tell her my fiancée is giving me dirty looks.” He responded: “I’m not your fiancé.” I hit the pedal while he hugged the door and screamed for mercy.

He bought me a ring a week later and did the whole formal proposal.

Fast forward ten years later…

Today is the settlement day on the purchase of our house. Our contract has been signed and the house is officially ours. We picked the 20 July as our settlement day due to practicality, our lease runs out next week and we wanted the house settlement to come through a few days before we moved next Monday 24 July.

The next chapter of our lives begins.

This post is inspired by Toni McGee’s piece <a href=”http://killeryear.wordpress.com/2006/07/07/my-louisiana/
“> My Louisiana and Bill Cameron’s <a href=” http://www.billcameronmysteries.com/on_the_road.html
“> On The Road to Find Out .

When I was eight years old my mother took my brother and me to visit her family in Bosnia. The visit turned into a four year stay. Those four years were the best and worst in their own way, and are the years that most stand out in my mind.

To understand the profound effect of these four years on my life I first need to take you back to when I was four years old and when my father passed away from cancer. He left my mother a widow at 27 years of age, with two small children.

The next four years were the worst in my life. My mother struggled with being alone and dealing with her grief and guilt at my father’s death. He was abusive and when he first came home and told her that the doctors thought he had cancer, she thought: “I couldn’t be so lucky.” That thought haunts her to this day.

As a woman brought up to depend on men to take care of her my mother searched for a father for us and we had a revolving door of men coming and going. I was constantly changing schools as we bounced from house to house. At one point we lived in a tent when she left a deranged boyfriend who nearly killed her by pushing her into a camp fire during a holiday.

So the four years living in Bosnia were heaven. My grandparents were traditional and old-fashioned, but as I hadn’t had the chance to be a child their overprotectiveness gave me this opportunity for the first time. My mother married and she and my stepfather returned to Australia. My brother and I refused to go with them and when my grandparents forbade our return we stayed with them.

We lived in a village and my grandparents were farmers. We had cows that I took out to pasture. To this day I drink supermarket milk and think about what real milk tastes like. The thick creamy texture. The way that the steam rises from the milk when it’s first milked. The way I loved drinking it until my stomach would burst and my grandmother chasing me away cause I was drinking it all.

I remember hot summer days when we collected hay. The whole family, my grandparents, auntie, uncles and nephews, would get together and sit on the trolley attached to my grandfather’s tractor and he’d drive us to the field hours away. We’d rake hay for hours and stop in the afternoon to eat the lunch my grandmother had prepared. Food never tasted so sweet. The tartness of fresh tomatoes, freshly baked bread and white creamy cheese. On the way back home we lay on the hay and bounced around as the tractor roared ahead of us on the dirt track roads.

During a hot summer nights my grandfather would take a sheet and climb on the haystack and sleep amongst the hay. I always wanted to do it, but wasn’t a fan of heights. I always imagined how it would be like to sleep with the stars directly above you, the sweet smell of hay surrounding you, the sounds of the night ringing in your ears, the hay making the softest bed you’ve ever slept in your life.

There was one night I remember as the best in my life. My grandfather used to grind corn into flour for people. One summer night the whole family helped to pick the corn and then get it up to the attic of his grinding shed. We worked well into the night and finished near midnight when we went into the house and ate. The house was full of people, everyone was full of cheer, and Dynasty was on tv.

I’d never played so hard in my life. The road in front of my grandparents’ house was a dirt track and every summer night all the children in the village would gather and play hide and seek late into the night. When the road was turned into asphalt it became a busy thoroughway and we never played like that again.

In winter we used to wear our rubber boots and go “ice skating” in the canal behind our houses. The shallow water would freeze over and with our boots worn down we’d glide around and pretend we were stars, until we hit a crack in the ice and smashed ourselves.

The other great winter activity was collecting plastic bags that staples were bought in and using them to sled down the canal wall. But this took time and preparation cause you had to keep throwing water on the ice and waiting for it to freeze over into a smooth track, otherwise you’d smash your spine on a rock when you sat on the bag and have trouble walking for days.

I’ve always had trouble with winter. In Bosnia school was conducted in two shifts, morning and afternoon. When I had the morning shift in winter I had to wear my regular clothes and my snow suit over it. When I got to class I’d sit in the back and while the teacher was teaching, slowly strip off the snow suit until I was in my regular clothes.

During the war my grandparents, uncle and auntie, lost their houses and came to Australia as refugees. The town my mother’s family comes from is occupied by Serbs. I don’t have any photos of my time in Bosnia. When they left they took only the clothes on their back. The only place I can retrace these memories is in my mind.

I don’t talk to anyone in my family about what I remember. That’s the thing about memories, they are so real to you but other people remember differently, or perhaps they remember better and you remember wrong. Either way I want them to remain intact so I keep them locked in a box in my mind. The only time I return to Bosanska Gradiska is in my dreams when I fly over my grandparents’ house and the canal.

I’ve got two more stories up at Flashing in the Gutters. The Vow and The Old Man
.

I was talking to someone at work the other day and was telling her about my brother, so I said his name. She said: “I didn’t know you were Muslim.” I responded: “My grandparents are, but I’m non-practicing.” My name is only a give-away to those who understand the regional differences in the Balkan, but my brother has got a moniker that proclaims him to one and all that he’s Muslim. His name is Muhamed.

You’re probably looking at that and thinking I might have spelt it wrong. Nope. In the Balkans the basis of the alphabet is: “Kako se pise, tako se govori.” Translation: “How you write is how you speak.” So we have no silent letters or hidden sounds in Bosnia. Muhamed is spelt phonetically.

When my brother was in primary school and learning how to write he was taught by a teacher to write his name as Mohammed. Pissed me right off. Things haven’t gotten much better in the intervening years. He’s constantly having his name butchered. Even his girlfriend of three years didn’t spell it right and he’s kind of given up.

He was one of the first people in my family to have a middle name. Our father was stuck on giving him the name Muhamed but Mum thought that might be too hard a name for a kid to wear. So she gave him the middle name Adam. My brother never uses his middle name. Our father died when I was four years old and he was two. My brother can’t drop the name he was given because it’s the only thing he has from our father.

I lucked out. Mum liked the name Amra from the time she was a little girl and when she came to Australia she realised that it was a name that would translate well to the English language. The only time I had trouble with my name was in primary school when a teacher was singing a made-up song and she rhymed Amra with Camera. I copped for at least a year. And I do have trouble with people hearing it for the first time. They always think I’m saying Amy or Emma or Anna.

When my older sister was born Mum couldn’t give her my name because her first husband (my sister’s father) wanted to name her after his mother, which is kind of the Bosnian tradition. The first-born girl is named after paternal grandmother, so she got stuck with Mehmeda, but she calls herself the abbreviated version of Meda. Which kind of worked out well for the family cause my Mum’s father was called Mehmed, so they covered both bases. She had trouble in high school when kids called her Meda-Header and made allusions to her shortness and what good it was for.

My husband is called Fikret which does not work well at all. If you’re wondering about how to pronounce it think of Thick Rat. People try to make sense of the sound when they hear his name and so far he’s been called (and had it spelt as) Figret, Kikret, Pikret, Fickret, Secret, Fik Reth, Vic, Vicram, Victor, Siegfried, and Frederick.

My Mum’s name is Fatima and after the Virgin Mary appeared in Fatima, Portugal she’s been cruising. My father’s name was Nevzudin so he was basically stuffed. I’m sure he must have used a nickname, as most people with a moniker of that kind do, but I don’t know what it is. He never got to tell me.

When I think about what to name my (as yet non-existant) children I want to give them a Bosnian name, but one that is easy to pronounce. I made a promise to my grandmother when I was a child that I would name my daughter after her mother. She said that her name is becoming unpopular and it hurt that no one uses it anymore.

My great-grandmother’s name is Muradija (pronounced Muradiya as the j in Bosnia is pronounced as a y). It’s a promise that weighs on me cause it’s a curse to give a kid a name that difficult in an English speaking country. I was thinking about shortening it to Radiya but we’re still negotiating on what we shall name our non-existent children and so far I’d have to give in to Ernest if we had a boy in order to get Radiya. Mmm, quite a conundrum.

I read the joke below and it inspired this post cause it was so true.

“CLINTON DEPLOYS VOWELS TO BOSNIA

Cities of Sjlbvdnzv, Grzny to Be First Recipients

Before an emergency joint session of Congress yesterday, President Clinton announced US plans to deploy over 75,000 vowels to the war-torn region of Bosnia. The deployment, the largest of its kind in American history, will provide the region with the critically needed letters A,E,I,O and U, and is hoped to render countless Bosnian names more pronounceable.

“For six years, we have stood by while names like Ygrjvslhv and Tzlynhr and Glrm have been horribly butchered by millions around the world,” Clinton said. “Today, the United States must finally stand up and say `Enough.’ It is time the people of Bosnia finally had some vowels in their incomprehensible words. The US is proud to lead the crusade in this noble endeavour.”

The deployment, dubbed Operation Vowel Movement by the State Department, is set for early next week, with the Adriatic port cities of Sjlbvdnzv and Grzny slated to be the first recipients. Two C-130 transport planes, each carrying over 500 24-count boxes of “E’s,” will fly from Andrews Air Force Base across the Atlantic and airdrop the letters over the cities.

Citizens of Grzny and Sjlbvdnzv eagerly await the arrival of the vowels.

“My God, I do not think we can last another day,” Trszg Grzdnjkln, 44, said. “I have six children and none of them has a name that is understandable to me or to anyone else. Mr. Clinton, please send my poor, wretched family just one `E.’ Please.”

Said Sjlbvdnzv resident Grg Hmphrs, 67: “With just a few key letters, I could be George Humphries. This is my dream.”

The airdrop represents the largest deployment of any letter to a foreign country since 1984. During the summer of that year, the US shipped 92,000 consonants to Ethiopia, providing cities like Ouaouoaua, Eaoiiuae, and Aao with vital, life-giving supplies of L’s, S’s and T’s.”

So what about you? Are you happy with your moniker or are you still cursing your parents?

Australia’s Big Brother in its fifth season. It’s been rocked by scandals in the past, but the newest was initially described as a sexual assault and the police were involved to review the footage and see if charges were to be brought against the perpetrators.

Over the past day information has slowly leaked. It seems that two male housemates Turkey slapped a female housemate. For those of us who don’t know what this delicate term describes (I was ignorant until this morning) a Turkey slap is when a person is slapped by a penis across the face.

The housemates involved, including the female housemate who was Turkey slapped, laughed the incident off. Big Brother has kicked out the two male housemates for breaking Big Brother rules. In the latest news bulletin the sexual assault claim has now been downgraded to a sexual harassment incident.

The debate has centered around two issues:
1. Should Big Brother be axed?
2. Is this a publicity grab for ratings by the producers?

I disagree with the first question on the basis of free speech. While tasteless and of no value we should not be introducing censorship. Australia is a pretty open country and a lot of content that would not ever make it in America ,for example, is par for the course on Aussie tv.

I tend to agree that this is a publicity grab. The first indication is the way that this incident was presented. The shock value of using the words sexual assault and that the police were called to review the footage. Instead of presenting the correct information straight away Big Brother let the speculation build as to what really occurred.

While the Turkey slap is sexual assault as the definition is “physical contact of a sexual nature without consent,” this does not represent the true depiction of the incident. The two male housemates called the female housemate into their bed. She lay between them. One loosely held her from behind while the other urged her to close her eyes. When it happened she laughed and screamed out to the other contestants “I’ve just been Turkey slapped.”

While I don’t wish to downplay the seriousness of what the two male housemates did, I do wish to discuss the environment which contributed to this incident. At Big Brother auditions potential housemates have to have simulated sex with other people in order to prove they have what it takes to be in the house. A dance pole is provided for the housemates to dance suggestively to each other.

One of the Big Brother tasks set for the female housemate who was involved in this incident was to kiss all the housemates on the face on the lips within an hour in order to get points knocked off her nomination. She kissed housemates without their consent and therefore assaulted them.

The housemates share beds, sleep in a dorm-like facility shared with males and females, and shower together. Much of the interest generated in the show is about potential relationships between housemates and this is used by the producers to hook viewers. There is Big Brother uncut with all the naughty bits, including a current housemate couple who had oral sex.

In shows like Survivor the contestants are treated like players in a chessboard that are moved around at will. While their personalities are what ultimately interests the viewers the game and challenges are the basis of the show. Whereas in Big Brother it is the housemates’ personality that is exploited as is the sexual content and tension that comes from putting good-looking young girls and boys in a house together.

I feel that the housemates are getting mixed messages. Nowhere in the real world would some of their actions be acceptable yet in Big Brother it is encouraged. While the housemates did do the wrong thing do the producers also have to accept their share of the blame?

Australia’s Big Brother in its fifth season. It’s been rocked by scandals in the past, but the newest was initially described as a sexual assault and the police were involved to review the footage and see if charges were to be brought against the perpetrators.

Over the past day information has slowly leaked. It seems that two male housemates Turkey slapped a female housemate. For those of us who don’t know what this delicate term describes (I was ignorant until this morning) a Turkey slap is when a person is slapped by a penis across the face.

The housemates involved, including the female housemate who was Turkey slapped, laughed the incident off. Big Brother has kicked out the two male housemates for breaking Big Brother rules. In the latest news bulletin the sexual assault claim has now been downgraded to a sexual harassment incident.

The debate has centered around two issues:
1. Should Big Brother be axed?
2. Is this a publicity grab for ratings by the producers?

I disagree with the first question on the basis of free speech. While tasteless and of no value we should not be introducing censorship. Australia is a pretty open country and a lot of content that would not ever make it in America ,for example, is par for the course on Aussie tv.

I tend to agree that this is a publicity grab. The first indication is the way that this incident was presented. The shock value of using the words sexual assault and that the police were called to review the footage. Instead of presenting the correct information straight away Big Brother let the speculation build as to what really occurred.

While the Turkey slap is sexual assault as the definition is “physical contact of a sexual nature without consent,” this does not represent the true depiction of the incident. The two male housemates called the female housemate into their bed. She lay between them. One loosely held her from behind while the other urged her to close her eyes. When it happened she laughed and screamed out to the other contestants “I’ve just been Turkey slapped.”

While I don’t wish to downplay the seriousness of what the two male housemates did, I do wish to discuss the environment which contributed to this incident. At Big Brother auditions potential housemates have to have simulated sex with other people in order to prove they have what it takes to be in the house. A dance pole is provided for the housemates to dance suggestively to each other.

One of the Big Brother tasks set for the female housemate who was involved in this incident was to kiss all the housemates on the face on the lips within an hour in order to get points knocked off her nomination. She kissed housemates without their consent and therefore assaulted them.

The housemates share beds, sleep in a dorm-like facility shared with males and females, and shower together. Much of the interest generated in the show is about potential relationships between housemates and this is used by the producers to hook viewers. There is Big Brother uncut with all the naughty bits, including a current housemate couple who had oral sex.

In shows like Survivor the contestants are treated like players in a chessboard that are moved around at will. While their personalities are what ultimately interests the viewers the game and challenges are the basis of the show. Whereas in Big Brother it is the housemates’ personality that is exploited as is the sexual content and tension that comes from putting good-looking young girls and boys in a house together.

I feel that the housemates are getting mixed messages. Nowhere in the real world would some of their actions be acceptable yet in Big Brother it is encouraged. While the housemates did do the wrong thing do the producers also have to accept their share of the blame?

I updated my blog skin last night. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for the longest time but not being html versed was very intimated and scared I’d fuck it all up.

Was reading Stacy’s blog and saw the three-column template that she’d downloaded from Template By Caz. This template was exactly what I wanted and I finally mustered up my courage and did it. I might even try to change the colours in the future. Gasp.

But for now I’m in love and keep staring at my blog. It’s beautiful. So happy.