Not Meeting Mr Right by Anita Heiss Read Free Book Online

even help me grow
as a person, and so it became even more important, and
urgent, to make a firm commitment to the strategy.
    In true peacemaking style, Liza called the exercise
a tie at three am, even though we all knew that
the strengths and opportunities we'd discussed far
outweighed the weaknesses and threats. Dannie had to
get home because the kids would be up at seven looking
for breakfast and cartoons. Peta had a draft policy to
read and a plane to catch the next day for a department
meeting in Canberra, and Liza had to prepare for a
hearing on Monday morning. I needed to process all
that had happened that night and find time to mark
essays as well.
    Finally in bed, my head pounding, but only lightly,
I considered what my Mr Right might be like. It was my dream, so I made him drop-dead gorgeous, and as
he began to undress me, he grew even sexier. I went to
sleep smiling: I would soon implement my strategy for
meeting Mr Right.

three
Feng shui-ing Mr Right
    I rose with a hangover and stumbled and groaned my
way to the kitchen, but after an orange juice and some
coffee, the seediness subsided. I contemplated the lists
on my fridge and felt inspired. Today was the first day
of my soon-to-be-Mrs-Right life, and I was keen to
swing into action. The first strategy on my list was feng
shui-ing my flat, and I decided to start straight away.
    I'd recently cut an article on feng shui out of the
local paper, and following its instructions, I completely
rearranged my bedroom, rotating my bed to face my
south-west 'love corner'. I also decided to replace two
of the mirror doors on my wardrobe with frosted glass.
In feng shui, pairs are auspicious, representing couples,
but this wasn't really about feng shui –I just didn't want
to roll over in bed anymore and see my naked reflection.
I kept one mirrored-door for future use, though.
    Calling my father in to help wasn't originally part
of my plan for the morning, or his for that matter. As
fathers do, though, he came to my assistance. He always
did. He often replaced light globes for me, fixed leaking
taps, hung pictures and screwed, nailed and hammered
things when needed. He was the reason that I hadn't
really noticed not having a man around. I was a feminist,
but I was also quite comfortable with not having to
swing a hammer or turn a screwdriver. I knew what I
was good at, and it wasn't home maintenance.
    He seemed puzzled today. 'Why fix something that
isn't broken, Alice? There's nothing wrong with these
doors.' How could I possibly explain to my father the
self-nudity thing, and that the two new doors were
supposed to symbolise a couple? He simply wouldn't
get it. Nor would he have cared, I'm sure. My dad is
from the old school. Man meets woman, man courts
woman, man marries woman, man supports woman
and they live happily ever after. Just like him and Mum.
They were both outcasts when they met in the 1960s.
Mum was a Koori from the country, not even a citizen
in her own land, and Dad, a migrant from Austria, was
simply a 'wog' to just about everyone he met, but to
each other, they were immediately the world. Their love
knew no racial or class barriers. They were married in
their early twenties and were still happy after nearly
thirty years together. Dad still brushed Mum's hair when
they got up every morning, and she still had his meal
on the table at the same time every night. They were
complete opposites, and both Scorpios (Aria would
not have approved!), but they were bound by shared
notions of respect and family and hard work. Their
relationship was my benchmark; was it any wonder I'd
been avoiding commitment by dating losers and long
shots? My marital bar was unbelievably high because
of them.
    My dad believed there were certain ways to do
things. The way he did things. The way he and Mum
did things. They expected my brothers and me to meet
someone, fall in love, get married, just as they had, and
they would expect the same of their grandchildren
and great-grandchildren.