Dancer In The Dark

The resolutions

2011-01-13T22:36:00.000+11:00

Don't eat like an arsehole*.
Read fiction every week.
Dedicate at least one night a week and one day a weekend to leisure
Be $5,000 in the black by December 31st.

*This refers to nutritional value, ethical procurement and portion sizes.

Excuses, excuses

2010-11-16T08:27:00.000+11:00

So since my last post I have clearly remained a very lazy blogger. I'd like to reassure you all (and myself) that I have not completely abandoned this blog! My latest excuses include a lingering lurgy and an enormous essay. I plan to be rid of both of these by the weekend... and then can turn to all those things I've been ignoring:

writing on my blogs;
the state of the bathroom;
my novel (the one I'm reading, not writing!); and...
maybe I'll go for a run.

In the meantime, here is a giant octopus fighting a shark:

The peaks and troughs of productivity

2010-10-25T21:26:00.001+11:00

I'm sitting on the couch, doing some internet business. I've had a delicious and none-too-healthy haloumi pasta and two glasses of wine, and I'm feeling a whole lotta Monday lethargy. I planned to make a start on an essay tonight. The same essay I planned to make a start on yesterday. Yesterday, instead of making a start on my essay, I went for a long walk up Sydney road with Leith, just to get some fresh air, and also a book, a record and a new pair of bathers. And some gourmet chocolates. And now all I want to do is go to bed, read my book for 20 minutes and then fall asleep with my glasses smooshed on my face until Leith gets home from his rehearsal, laughs at me, and turns off the light.

I'm sort of mildly disturbed at how much I want to sleep, watch tv, and generally laze about at the moment. I sometimes go through intense bouts of productivity: I can work long hours, start baking projects at 10pm, get up early and go for long runs, and use every minute to the full. But the last week or so has been notably relaxed.

I'm a bit annoyed at myself - all the things I haven't done in the last few days (run, study, bake, call friends I should have called etc etc) that I should have done. And there are things I've voluntarily let slide. Things that aren't essential, but that still add value to my days. Things like writing on this blog.

But at the same time, I can't get too worked up over it, because life is good, and I'm relaxed and happy. Maybe I shouldn't be. I can't help but think that I need to knuckle down a bit more. After all, most of the things I'm not doing are things that no-one apart from me can hold me to - they're things I want to do. So I'm being a bit perverse. But actually, it's not very often I get a chance to take it a bit slower, and so I'm going to let it go on for one more day...

I am not a 'good girl'

2010-07-21T16:58:00.001+10:00

Is there a particular phrase drives you barmy with rage? I have one. I heard it just now. I was in the chemist and a gruff older dude stomped in in his work boots and asked for a script he'd dropped in earlier. The neat, pony-tailed assistant said "I'll just get it for you" and he responded "Good girl".

Good girl.

Honestly, have you ever thought of saying this to a grown woman? Here's a tip. DON'T. I felt so mad for her. She politely continued on with her business and didn't seem to be mad, but then I usually react in a similar way because of MANNERS and POWER DYNAMICS relating to AGE. Because I don't hear it from anyone younger than me, or even those who are my contemporaries. Nope.

Being told "Good girl" is an unfortunate reality from time to time, and each and every time it's said to me it fills me with rage, and chips away at any respect I have for the person saying it. It's the verbal equivalent of a pat on the head, and every bit as patronising. It is said in a number of contexts, and as with the chemist today, I'm sorry to say that most of them are in the workplace, where you would hope that things like age and gender would just be left out of it.

The first situation in which it's often said relates to me having just performed some entirely basic and ordinary task that would be seen as merely minimum functioning in any adult with a normal intellect. This might be remembering to bring a document to a meeting, or something equally innocuous. Telling me I'm a good girl in this kind of circumstance is so utterly demeaning, because it implies that something that really ought to be assumed in even a mediocre employee making a nod towards professionalism is being rewarded to me. Would you say "good boy" to a grown man in the same situation? So for fuck's sake don't say it to me. (Seriously, if you answered 'yes' to this you need to go take a good hard look in the mirror). Just say thanks with all the decorum and brevity that the situation calls for, in a manner that acknowledges that I am in fact a professional and capable of really basic shit even though I am, like, female. Like the chick in the chemist today.

The second situation is where I've actually performed above and beyond in some way or another. "Oh good girl" I'll be told. No. Not fucking good girl. Guess what - the reason Ive performed so well and been able to impress you is probably because I'm a lot smarter than you. I'm sorry to come across as arrogant but seriously, my IQ is probably higher than yours despite me being younger, and being told "good girl" by you just makes me seethe. You know what else? I work hard. I've got many years of study under my belt, and even more of workforce experience. I'm an adult. I'm 30 goddam years old. So between my age, my intellect and my hard work, I would like to be treated as a professional in a professional environment. IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK?!

These are some of the things I will think if you call me a "good girl". Just so you know.

This includes you Tony *fuckface* Abbott.

RANT ENDED

NB If you are a complete moron, here is a basic test you can use to work out whether it's appropriate to say "good girl" to someone.

Q Would you say "good boy" it to a man your own age in this situation?

A Then don't say "good girl" to me.

Worst. Holiday. Ever.

2010-07-19T18:34:00.001+10:00

I have four days off this week. It's Time in Lieu resulting from the heinous overtime I worked during January, February and March this year. It took four months and some agitating to get these four days off. And I am spending all of them at my computer because I have a 4,000 word essay due for uni on Thursday. Balls.

I had a grand fantasy of getting everything done by Wednesday and taking a Real Day Off - maybe going to some galleries, sleeping in, seeing a movie, that kind of thing. However it is 6:25pm on Monday, I have been at my computer since 10am, and I am WELL BEHIND SCHEDULE. It is seeming highly unlikely that I will get said day off.

At this time it is important that I perform two great acts: one of remembering and one of forgetting.

Act 1: I must remember that I chose to do some Uni subjects this year. Me. Lots of people said "Oh, on top of full time work - you'll be so tired". And I shrugged my workaholic shoulders and said "Whatever, I can do it, it'll all be over soon enough".

Note on Act 1: I am a massive eejit.

Act 2: I must not directly relate this time to the time I spent working myself into a frenzy earlier this year. Because I will be filled with resentment and tears and they will almost certainly not be contained by my brain or my face and make will make everyone uncomfortable and me rather puffy. I must FORGET that this is Time in Lieu and technically intended to redress some of the kerazy I endured. It's four months too late and there's too much to do. So harden up, me!

Now, back to work...

The ginger fox

2010-06-24T13:51:00.000+10:00

And just like that, we have a new female PM.

Wow.

I don't think anyone really knows what to expect from her. I don't. But I'm hoping big things, for Australians, and for women.

YAY.

The Bake Sale

2010-06-07T20:01:00.001+10:00

Have you ever held a bake sale? I recommend it. Leanne and I had one last Saturday, and we had super huge amounts of fun. Sure, there was lots of standing, and some people (ie everyone) ate so much sugar we were bouncing off the walls, but what can you do?

How hot is Leanne when she punishes that biscuit dough? I know.

We were set up at Smiley McSlidey Rehearsal Studio, who were celebrating their opening with a large garage sale, gig and bbq. Lez and I got together and had one of the most fun Friday night's ever. We drank wine, ordered pizza, watched Masterchef and WE BAKED LIKE MACHINES. Honestly, we were so on top of our game, we had whipped up three different kinds of goodies by 8pm, washing up as we went, exchanging extremely important gossip and only slightly burning one batch of biscuits due to wine/good times.

Then, having produced our delicious wares:

Caramel slice
Yoyos
Peanut Butter and choc chip biscuits
Choc-fudge cupcakes with raspberry icing

We set ourselves up with coffees and the paper, and sat around all day while our friends traipsed through, exchanging hugs and money for sweet treats. Then we spent all our profits on clothes at the sale. We probably could have made more profits, but we were weakened by the cuteness of the many kids there and sold a lot of stuff for cheap (like 20c cupcakes! Bargain!). Also Leanne busted a little girl shoplifting biscuits and made her go and get $1 from her parents. I was proud of Leanne's moral fortitude, and frankly thought the little girl showed little to no remorse. So after all it was an important day full of life lessons, even more than just don't sit the chocolate slice in the sun and if you bake it, they will come, and not just a frivolous excuse for two grown women to make a big mess and wear silly aprons.

Also, at this point I'd like to tell you about my yoyos. I don't want to brag... okay okay, I really want to brag, but my yoyos are just so good. All credit to my Mum, since it's her recipe (would you like it? Okay, here it is). And she came and bought one to test mine, and I think I passed. I do want to say that I've made yoyos numerous times and these were probably the best batch I've produced so far.

They're all gone now, in case you were wondering. Because we sold out of everything by about 3pm. Uh huh. It was a really lovely day, which is likely to be repeated in a few months, and I'd urge you to get down there, have a snag, buy a skirt, hear some bands, and eat a yoyo (if there's any left).

Tragedy in vinyl

2010-05-31T20:43:00.004+10:00

If you were to ask me how life was panning out, having moved in with my handsome gentleman companion, I would wax lyrical about the many things that are just lovely. But right now, I'm going to tell you about just one of them.

Life with a record player.

I haven't lived in a house with a record player for years. My parents had a record player with accompanying magnificent old school fabric covered speakers on wooden and steel 70s stands. I used to adore playing my story book 45s, turning the page when the bell dinged. I also danced daily to Joseph and His Technicolour Dreamcoat at the age of 3. I remember falling asleep in our tiny Frances St house with the reassuring sounds of the music (usually an opera or else Gilbert and Sullivan) my parents were listening to filtering into the room. Later I found their old copies of Hair and the Beatles box set and danced away to them. When my parents seperated, the record player went with Dad.

Later, my brother Tristan bought one, and as a student I lived in a house that had one. But they weren't my record players and I didn't buy records for them.

And now I live with a man for whom music is fundamentally important, and has a considerable record collection, half of which I adore and half of which is just not my thing. But I have rediscovered the warmth of sound that vinyl gives you. It's not like other sounds. And I'm not sure how much of this I associate with my early childhood, but regardless, it's wonderful, and it's opened me up to new kinds of music, and new ways of listening to it.

Sunday mornings Leith has a habit of putting on Jazz - Coltrane or maybe something like the Swingle Singers (!) and I can't recommend this enough, accompanied with eggs and the newspaper.

I also tagged along a few weeks ago with Leith record shopping. And I got the bug. I got it bad. Because all of a sudden I realised: these records can become instrinsic to my home life. I enjoy playing Leith's music, some of it more than others, but in the record store were albums guaranteed to send shivers down my spine. Artists whose tracks had not been released on cd and nor were they likely to be in future. And artists who belonged to a vinyl era. I bought Aretha Franklin, Sarah Vaughan and Nancy Wilson. And oh my I love those records. And I fantasise about going back to buy more!

Another realisation I had was that the songs that most move me, that send me outwardly catatonic while inwardly I get all stirred up, are the most pathetic, tragic and anti-feminist love songs. They're the songs I go to when I know I'm tense and need to provoke a good cry. I don't know quite what this says about me. And I don't know whether I can untangle what I perceive as the tragedy of the love the women feel from the tragedy that the women should feel love for such objects in the first place.

All I know is that these songs slay me. I'd like to leave you with a few, but trying to find them on youtube is like trying to find a diamond in a big pile of poo. I thought about providing the lyric, but the lyric without the music and the delivery are hollow at best and do nothing to convey the heartwrenching truth of these songs. The only one I can find is Aretha. For the others, the best I can do is provide a few links and urge you fervently to check them out, with a box of tissues handy, and preferable on vinyl.

Good for nothin' Joe - Lena Horne

I don't want him - Nina Simone

Banning the burqa: Racism in feminist clothing

2010-05-29T14:11:00.014+10:00

The 'debate' about potentially banning the burqa in Australia is very troubling to me. Many people have jumped on this bandwagon recently in the name of Freedom, Democracy, Feminism, Equality, Civic Responsibility and goodness knows what else. And I haven't agreed with a single one of them on the issue.

I've agreed with a lot of the objections to the burqa. I find the implication that one's appearance can offend your peers or your God pretty offensive. But then, I'm an atheist. And I don't think society is objecting to religion. Just Islam. But an individual objection to something (hello Southern Cross tattoos) is different to banning it. Banning something takes individual values that are acknowledged as having place in society (religious, family, aesthetic) and making them universal. It is handpicking one set of difference and saying that we don't want that here. The arguments being put forward for the burqa being an unacceptable difference are masquerading as libertarian and feminist and democratic. And I posit that they are not, they are racist. So let's look at some that have been prominent lately, and I'll show you why.

One argument is that by covering the hair/face, women are concealing important aspects of their identity. They are not fully participating as citizens. Well tough shit I say. I can walk into a bank wearing sunglasses. Or a hood. When my hair was long I would wrap it up into a scarf to clean the house or simply on hot days. Eastern European and Mediterranean women will wear headscarves. African women will wear headscarves. Indian and Asian and Anglo women will wear headscarves. So why just ban Islamic headscarves? Uh, that would be racism.

A further argument is that the burqa carries a symbolic element that is offensive to women, as exposing the head/hair is considered to offend god and man in Islam. Well I happen to agree that this is a daft notion. Did I mention I'm an athiest? But Jews do it with their skull caps, nuns do it with their habits. So do you want to rip the habit from a nun in the name of her freedom? I don't see anyone ranting about these other forms of religious coverings in the newspapers or suggesting for a moment we should make it illegal for these other groups. Only Muslims. That's racism.

There are people arguing against it on the grounds of feminism. That many women would prefer not to wear a burqa but are forced to by their family and community. In righteous feminist outrage, these advocates want to remove the shackles of this oppression by making it illegal.

Well I put it to you that the people advocating on these grounds are not giving one toss about women in this situation. Because they will only be further oppressed and excluded by a ban on the burqa. They will not be able to leave the house, and their freedom will be further curtailed. Honestly this argument of 'freeing' women by banning the burqa is the most selfish and stupid of the lot. The only people it will make feel better is the rest of us. The white priveleged people who will no longer have to squirm and feel uncomfortable when a burqa clad lady gets on the tram. The ones who refuse to allow that some women are choosing to dress that way as an expression of their ideological conviction. Banning the burqa is not about feminism, and it's not about freedom. It's about one group of people deciding what makes them feel comfortable, and imposing it on another group of people. Again, racist much?

This doesn't mean that I don't think that we, as a society, should try to tackle religious and sexist values that result in women being forced to dress in a way they do not wish. We absolutely should do that. But banning the burqa doesn't do this at all. It doesn't involve any engagement with the people who would enforce it. It only punishes the women who are already oppressed through having to wear it, and punishes those who have freedom and use it to choose to wear it. Discuss the burqa. Discuss with the people who think it's important. There are knotty issues wrapped up in there. Confront them in dialogue. Don't ban it.

And if anyone wants to go down the road of 'how free is the choice of the women who are choosing it?', well good for you, it's a damned important question. But don't pretend for a second that any of us aren't making value-laden peer pressured choices all the time. Of course we are. We have freedoms, but they are not absolute, not for any of us. I've yet to see one commentator acknowledge this fact.

If I had my way, then I wouldn't wear clothes in Summer. At all. I would get my tattoo out at work and in front of my grandmother. How is this different from a young woman who covers her hair in front of her relatives? The outcomes for me might be less severe if I transgressed these norms, but I choose to follow them because it makes my life easier, it makes my grandmother happier. Is it a loaded choice? Of course. Do I wish the conservative people in society could cope with my having a tattoo? Absolutely. Do I wish that conservative Muslims could cope with the exposed heads and hair of their female relatives? Darned tootin. But for society to BAN it? To make it illegal? How is this anything other than a socially sanctioned punishment for a difference that we can't tolerate. How dare we call ourselves multicultural or diverse and entertain such a notion?

Do I have a problem with women being forced to wear a burqa? Yes.

Do I have a problem with a woman freely choosing to wear a burqa? No.

Can I know how free the choice is of a woman I know nothing about, beyond what she's wearing? No.

So what are we left with? The burqa oppresses some women. Undoubtedly. And banning it? Oh wait, that is a problem and will oppress women. Yep.

Let's recap. Burqa = oppressive. Banning the burqa = oppressive. The difference between the two options? White people feel better about themselves.

So why would we ban it, when every objection to it has its counterpart in other religions and social norms? Um, because we're racist?...

NB My friend Beck has pointed out (see comments) that the burqa is a full body covering, as distinct from a hijab which is a headscarf. Thanks for clarifying Becky.

Solidarity

2010-05-18T22:36:00.000+10:00

I sat up tonight pottering around and playing on the internet. I was trying to show some solidarity to Leith, who is up working just like he has been every night this week. But in actual fact all I did was snicker audibly at people's twitter feeds, fart surreptitiously a few times, and go to bed. Despite making him a cup of tea, I am clearly lousy at solidarity.

Cherchez la Femme - Part 2

2010-05-16T17:25:00.003+10:00

Ok, so I utterly failed at writing up Cherchez la Femme the next day. And yes, I am a lazy and haphazard blogger. Also, beyond an immediate whole-hearted endorsement of the evening, as I pondered the event, and discussed some of the ideas with friends and loved ones over the following view days, it took me some time to organise my thoughts. For feminism is complex, it operates in many different spheres simultaneously: personal, professional, social. It touches on understandings of free will, and the role of the environment in shaping subconscious associations, and how you understand yourself as an agent in the world. The degree of responsibility you feel towards others. And I am constantly flummoxed by the murky and mysterious ways in which these ways of knowing and of being interact. As someone dear pointed out to me recently when genuinely curious as to why I would feel so strongly about a feminist cause, my life doesn't show any signs of having experienced disadvantage based on my gender. So why am I so upset?

But I don't want to have an emotional or intellectual outpouring here, nor get too philosophical. Nor will I go into the detail of the night itself. Mel has already done so as articulately as anyone could wish. I enjoyed the night thoroughly, and thought it entirely worthwhile. That said, I'll be honest, I wanted some answers from Cherchez la Femme, and I didn't get them. I got a lot of ideas to ponder instead. And later on, I got questioned about the case for feminism and female disadvantage. Because all the women at Cherchez la Femme were educated, employed, stylish, assertive.

And so the best possible response I can offer to anyone, man or woman, who may wonder what need there is for feminism in our Australian society today, is a simple imaginary exercise.

Imagine you have grown up in this world a girl.
Think about what things adults might have said to you as a child. How important is it to be told you're pretty? How often do you hear that, as opposed to some other praise?
Imagine you wanted to run around and get muddy and swear and yell. How might that have been responded to by your parents and teachers?
Imagine reading some of the most exciting profound literature of your youth about wondrous worlds beyond your door. What do the men in these books do? How about the women? How many of the adventurers and protagonists and heroes are men? You're not one.
Imagine the schoolyard and fighting for the sought after downball courts. Would you win them? What would it take?
Imagine going into the 7-Eleven to get some milk for your Mum pretty regularly. You pass newspapers, chocolate bars, and a rack of magazines with breasts all over them. You're only little, do you stop and wonder why there are no magazines with men on them? Or is it simply that those ladies are pretty?
Imagine learning history at school. History is the story of things men have done. There aren't really any women in history. No one seems to notice. You don't. At least, not yet.
Imagine that despite playing sport all week, when you turn on the television all the players are men. You're not one.
Imagine being at high school. Imagine you always do better on tests than the person you have a huge crush on. Do you think he's cool with this?
You're told to be polite and ladylike to your superiors. You're told that this will be necessary if you want to get ahead in the world. You're told it's not fair but it's just the way it is. Polite and ladylike means non-confrontational.
Imagine the hierarchy of popularity amongst your friends is determined by their degree of popularity with the opposite sex. As in, whoever the boys like best is who the girls will also defer to. If you haven't already, you may start to say to yourself, what the fuck?
Imagine that you're not allowed to do things your brother is because you're more likely to be assaulted. Everyone acknowledges that it's not your fault that you're more vulnerable. But you have to take responsibility for it. You are told to dress modestly, act discreetly, not take risks. People say this because they love and care for you. Truly. Who then is left to complain to?
Imagine that critiquing the bodies of your gender is a passtime that is done by your friends, your peers, the media and society both publicly and fairly constantly.
Imagine reaching for the new remote and trying the wrong button, only to have it gently but firmly taken from you before you even get a chance to look at it twice.
Imagine a world in which young women will opt to be photographed in porn-style poses for a clothing store or a website; they find it empowering. You know you're not a kill-joy that you wouldn't find it empowering at all, but others may not see it that way. But many of those others are the intended consumers of those images, and you are not.
Imagine you can get a job as easily as a man can. Imagine knowing that despite working your arse off and being damned good at your job, you are paid statistically less than you would be in the exact same role if you were a man. Your boss would be offended if you suggested as much to him. Probably almost every woman's boss would be. But the women are still paid less, including you.
You're less likely to be promoted regardless of performance. Your reproductive organs make you a risk to a business, regardless of your plans for them. This is fairly commonly accepted.
You're less likely to both have a family and reach the upper echelons of your field. Your partner isn't.

Please, if you haven't already, imagine some or all of these things. Imagine that you are generally very happy. You are in a loving relationship of equals. You are respected by your friends, colleagues and family. You work hard. You have fun. And you have a problem with the way the female gender is constituted in the world. This is what it is for me to be a feminist. It isn't always angry and ranty, but sometimes it is. It isn't whingy and it isn't anti-fun, unless your idea of fun requires an imbalance of power. It isn't blaming the men or the women of our generation for creating these power dynamics, but it does require the men and women of our generation to take some responsibility for changing it, and for men this means changing it away from their advantage. It is an act of recognition that there remains a problem.

So do it. Imagine you have grown up, and live, as a woman in the world. And then tell me whether there's still a need for feminism in Australia.

Cherchez la femme

2010-05-03T20:16:00.001+10:00

Tomorrow night I'm going along to Cherchez la femme. It's the first of a monthly series my excellent friend Karen has organised as a soiree to discuss feminist issues, and I am very proud of her for having the chutzpah to get something like this started.

I'm not quite sure what to expect. So many of my attempts to participate in a feminist dialogue end in disillusionment and frustration, and yes anger, at the dogma that can often dominate these discourses. But here's what I'm hoping for tomorrow:

I'm hoping to meet assertive intelligent women.
I'm hoping there'll be lots of men there. I know so many men that I would call progressive, and would call themselves progressive, but I honestly don't know how many would be likely to opt to spend their Tuesday nights participating in the issues directly in this kind of forum. I'm guessing not many.
I'm hoping that there'll be genuine heterogeny, a vast difference of experience and opinion, and that the only thing people are agreeing on is the fundamental drive for equality of opportunity for women, with all the nuances that can entail.
I'm hoping to laugh and have a few beers.
I'm hoping for acceptance without conformity.

I'll report back tomorrow.

Fuck yeah Autumn!

2010-04-22T19:09:00.001+10:00

How good has the sky been lately? ALERT: RHETORICAL; IT'S BEEN AMAZING.

Admittedly this freaking heat wave has got me all bejiggedy, and so far I've managed to refrain from running around with my hands flailing above my head, screaming "We're all gonna die! We're all gonna die!". But only just.

But I can forgive the world for a late April that has me dripping with sweat as I ride to work, because of the ridiculous Renaissance skies. They're all fierce blues and shards of glaring sunlight and clouds! Clouds like we haven't seen in 13 years of drought. Big, voluptous, bucolic clouds. Clouds in every single kind of grey, piled and heaped and teetering on top of one another. Clouds that streak across the sky like they have somewhere else to be. Clouds that pouffe about and mosey along as though they been blown from the hookah of Lewis Carroll's caterpillar.

And deep charcoal clouds, laden with rain and bombastic with lightening. My only sadness is that too few of the storms have unleashed themselves over central Melbourne. But it is wonderful to wake every day to these glorious, ever-changing, magnificent skies. Nice one, Autumn.

Things I am becoming increasingly obsessed with, despite having mostly had indifference to them in my youth

2010-04-11T12:18:00.001+10:00

Hehem.

Cooking. Notably, cooking for friends and loved ones.
The weather. Particularly wind patterns, cloud movements and storm fronts.
Caramel. Different ways of making it. Opportunities to consume it.
Small cute things. Including children. *frets that life is following an all too stereotypical trajectory* *eats some caramel*

As a counterpoint, here are some things I am indifferent to, despite having obsessed over them in my youth.

My nose.
The size of my bum.
Being a person of enormous significance in the world. Fame. Glory. etc

Throughout the course of my life thus far, my consistent obsession remains: Potatoes. Scrumptious potatoes. They never let you down.

The Lobby Romance

2010-04-09T00:05:00.001+10:00

About a month ago I moved in with Leith to an apartment in Parkville. There have been lots of good things about this move, and some adjustments to living in such close proximity to others, but one aspect I'm particularly enjoying is The Lobby Romance.

The Lobby Romance is between a young Asian woman and a young Asian man. They might be late teens or about 20 or so. Young Asian woman (let's call her YAW) clearly lives in the building, but I'm not sure where. I suspect she lives with her parents. YAM is her gentleman caller, and is pretty clearly not allowed upstairs or into her apartment.

To the casual observer they are incredibly sweet.

Before I moved in here I would sometimes arrive at around 10pm-ish and pass The Lobby Romance on my way up. It wouldn't happen often but it would usually consist of one of two scenes:

Scene 1 - YAW and YAM are sitting on the ground at the edge of the path leading to the door to the building, having one of those quiet, intense, couple-y conversations.

Scene 2 - YAM is outside the building up leaning against the glass and YAW is seated inside leaning against the lobby wall, and they are having a quiet, intense, couple-y conversation over their mobiles.

Once I came in and they were both seated on the ground inside the lobby, side by side, talking and I had to skirt around them to get to the stairs. But they are never slobbery and gropey, they just talk long into the night.

They are oblivious to the world around them and I try to be as unobtrusive as possible. Leith tells me that The Lobby Romance has been going on some two years now, and has its share of ups and downs.

Since I've moved in I've only seen them once or twice, but in the last few days there has definitely been drama afoot.

On Tuesday we got home from the gym, sweaty and sore, and came up to witness The Lobby Romance in a moment of crisis. YAW and YAM were in scenario 2, she inside and he out, talking on their phones. Only she had tears streaming down her face and he was literally pressed up to the glass, looking shattered. Despite it being quite awkward for Leith and I to barge into this in our sweaty shorts , I felt terribly rude just being there in the midst of this scene, since it's perfectly obvious they have nowhere else to go.

We executed a very quick change upstairs and headed back out in search of food. I had commented to Leith that it looked like they were breaking up, but he assured me that they just went through these phases from time to time. It was funny, because we'd never acknowledged The Lobby Romance to one another before, although we were both abreast of the latest details. At a glance it appeared that she was calling the whole situation off.

Anyway, we headed back downstairs and passed through the lobby as quickly as we could. The scene was basically the same but maybe a little bit worse and more heart-rending even than before.

And then tonight we came home at about 11:30 and YAW and YAM were embracing on the stairs, in one of those 'home from the war' embraces. Not bent over or tonguing or anything, just holding each other very close and stroking hair and nuzzling into necks and so on. And there was a few tears and a palpable air of relief. We just edged past them on the stairs as silently as we could.

And internally I did a little high five to the world, because I didn't want them to break up. These two people who I've never even made direct eye contact with, let alone spoken to - I really really want them to be happy! They are putting in the hard yards, let me tell you.

So it would appear that The Lobby Romance will continue, same time tomorrow (I hope)...

An idea so crazy it just might work - Part 2

2010-04-03T12:22:00.001+11:00

As promised, I am reporting back.

So I remained completely sober through Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and most of Thursday (until about 7pm). And let's not forget that I didn't drink on the previous Saturday or Sunday either.

There were both positives and negatives, as follows:

Positives
Slept well
Exercised more
Saved some money

Negatives
Had a shocking headache all week that felt like dehydration despite guzzling water
Skin went berserko

On Thursday I had a couple of beers with dinner, and yesterday I had some decent Chianti with lunch, and beer and wine with dinner plus a post-comedy show whiskey. Didn't feel any different to the other days. I think I got a bit high on sichuan peppers, but that's another issue.

The only other comments I'd make are that not drinking didn't affect my enjoyment of being out at night with friends at all. No difference. I could note that I didn't stay out late so this wasn't really tested, but in fairness, I don't really stay out past midnight anyway these days. Now where did I put that blanket? My legs are getting a chill.

On a seperate note...
I've been getting some, er, interesting commenters in recent weeks, and so have decided to begin moderating the comments for purely pragmatic reasons. I don't intend to censor anything that is actually relating to the content of the posts, just the links to the porn sites. Sorry about that folks.

An idea so crazy it just might work?

2010-03-28T22:10:00.002+11:00

Here is the idea: I drink less. But wait, let me elaborate...

So I drink pretty regularly. This is not a news flash. It's just true. I like booze, especially wine.

Early last year my love of wine induced me to buy Leith a position in a beginner's wine appreciation course, and to go along with him myself (super generous of me, huh). I found the course incredibly stimulating, and not just because I was drinking six wines a night, although that was an obvious perk. I found I not only liked wine, but was interested in it too, and the more I was understood it, the better it tasted. Older wine is gooder wine and so on. Partly I think the intrigue I have developed is due to the fact that wine, and particularly the range of factors that deliver the attributes of a given wine, is complex. So knowing why a certain wine tastes the way it does feels a bit like solving a puzzle. Only more delicious. Yes, I am basically one of those wankers from Sideways. Sorry folks.

So anyway, wouldn't you just know it, this course gave me a taste for a lot of relatively expensive wines. I'm not talking Grange Hermitage or anything. But $30 bottles, and including styles that are only ever imported. I can get more pleasure from 'browsing' in a decent wine cellar (at this point I would like to give a shoutout to Rathdowne Cellars, which is bloody brilliant) than I do in a shoe store. Just this afternoon I impulse bought a Petit Chablis with no intention of drinking it today or at any anticipated occassion, simply because it was good value and I like Chablis. I buy wine. As I bought it, I considered what else I might have bought if I'd splurged that money on some other thing, and the wine seemed like a pretty sound purchase.

And yet at the same time as this, I still participate in my typical weekly shindigs involving events (dinners, bands, theatre, comedy, birthdays, movies etc etc) most nights of the week, when I'm not working like a demon. This week was just such a routine, with me having slightly more festive (read: late (read: midnight *gasp*)) nights out than usual, and having them daily. And drinking at all of them. Not guzzling it down then walking into a lamp-post drinking. Just festive, social drinking with dinner and maybe one or two after, and then failing to get up for a run AGAIN the following morning and devouring cheesymite scrolls at my desk the next day a little more than I should.

And so, by Saturday morning, following yet another night that didn't go later than midnight but still involved beer and wine and tequila and beer, I felt a little crappy. Not blistering hangover crappy. More a feeling that all my internal organs were a bit grey and shrivelled, and the spot on my back where I imagine my liver to be was actually a bit tender. A bit gross you say? Agreed.

So this weekend I had one of those bleary-eyed couple of days where I didn't do much at all. I didn't sleep in, but I did read the papers whilst in bed, I drank tea, read books, watched movies. Went for a long walk, cooked quite a bit of food, drank craploads of water and exercised rather vigorously both days. Not out of piousness, just because it was genuinely what I felt like doing. And, I had my idea.

Now before I tell you what it is, let me just say that I'm not signing up to it right now or anything. I'm not a convert. I'm just twirling it around in my brain, letting the 'light' (ie sluggish mental reflection) catch it from various angles, seeing how it looks. Right now it doesn't look stupid, but then I've been sober for two days.

Ok. So. I'm thinking that I should conserve the value of my overall investment in alcohol, let's say on a weekly basis, BUT convert quantity for quality. So no drinking pots from unclean taps in shitty pubs. No drinking the house red (unless I'm in a genuinely decent bar). And in fact, to help with all this, limited weekday drinking in general (I'd settle for 3 AFDs a week). And the other times, crack open a really nice Cotes du Rhone with dinner. Just because. Buy aged reisling and drink it in the sun on Sunday afternoon whilst reading my book. On my own if necessary. And so on.

At the moment, after a dry weekend, and still feeling more run down than I should, I think it sounds alright. I plan to road test it this weekend, and will report back on the state of my wallet, my sanity and my liver in due course.

Rating the films of Will Ferrell

2010-03-22T22:20:00.002+11:00

On Saturday night Mel and I had a Will Ferrell movie night slash sleepover. Leith joined us for movies number 2 and 3, and Marcus rocked up after work for the second half of proceedings too.

Mel and I were both hella excited. While it's awesome that we have a spare room and so Mel was able to actually stay on a mattress in a room to herself, a part of me wished she and I were lying on the living room floor in sleeping bags like sleepovers of yore. We would eat sherberty lollies and cake-decorating sugar flowers stolen from the cupboard, in order to stay up all night giggling and doing arithmetic games to determine who we would one day marry.

We watched Old School, Blades of Glory and Talladega Nights. We were going to watch Anchorman but we all got too sleepy. Leith really wanted to see Stranger Than Fiction, but we agreed that it was too different a kind of movie (though also awesome) to fit within the marathon we'd planned. I also have a hankering to see Step Brothers, and it remains high on the list.

Prior to Saturday I would have ranked these movies thus (favourite to least favourite):

Anchorman
Talladega Nights
Blades of Glory
Old School

After Saturday my rankings have shifted somewhat, to this:

Anchorman
Blades of Glory
Talladega Nights
Old School

Anchorman is the undisputed Gold Standard. Leith and Marcus both felt that Old School is one of the best of the bunch, and I have to agree that it remains hilarious over repeated viewings. However, I feel it falls down compared to Anchorman for two reasons.

Reason one is that Old School has no strong, or even particularly interesting female protagonist. Christina Applegate in Anchorman provides some of the biggest laughs, and I enjoyed her character's powerlust and exquisite breasts enormously. Reason two is that while Anchorman sports an impressive ensemble cast who ensure that every line is a doozy, Old School is really carried, in my opinion, by Ferrell. Vince Vaughan plays Vince Vaughan extremely well, and Luke Wilson does his adorable self proud as well, but it's Ferrell who is non-stop hilarious from start to finish.

Talladega Nights really slipped in my opinion. I hadn't seen it in years, and while the moments of sheer ridiculous were still there (cougar in the car, the endless shake and bake, the obligitary Ferrell nudie streaking scene) I felt that the shape of the movie wasn't as good as it could have been. Specifically, the first 20 to 30 minutes of exposition feels drawn out and too long. Additionally, the initially very funny 'poke fun at rednecks' theme actually waned for me on this viewing. I'm not sure, but I suspect that greater exposure to what my mother might refer to as The Great Unwashed made me recoil more and laugh less at these characters. Also telling is that the best five minutes of Talladega Nights is the closing credits where Ferrell and John C. Reilly are simply riffing to camera. It's tea-comes-out-of-your-nose funny.

On the other hand, Blades of Glory improved in my estimation on this viewing. Originally I'd found it very funny but had felt that Jon Heder's character wasn't strong enough against Ferrell. I also found the film a bit (I can't believe I'm writing this) two-dimensional. However, in the wake of the recent Winter Olympics and some of the delightful skating personalities it exposed us to, I found it utterly enthralling and silly and ten kinds of wonderful. So I moved it up the charts.

Before my chart can really be completed, I feel I have to see Step Brothers, and this is a viewing burden I am most happy to bear.

UPDATE:

So I watched Step Brothers. It was pretty bad. It goes to the bottom of the list.

10 step recipe for a pleasant Thursday night

2010-02-18T23:40:00.004+11:00

Work has been destroying me lately. Mostly targeting my sanity. A range of circumstances, unforeseen and somewhat distressing, have resulted in an inordinately large pile of highly sensitive work, with ridiculous deadlines, landing in my lap. And I've been going like the clappers, to borrow the extremely unfortunate phrase. People who I've actually spent time with lately (which isn't many) deserve many props, not least gentleman caller (soon I will have to call him gentleman roommate - eeek) who has been stoic, pragmatic, and a reliable provider of nourishing meals through all this.

So I'm having a February that I wouldn't wish to repeat, that involves 8-12 hour days 7 days a week, minding a cat that chooses to defecate in the living room more often than not, and ridiculous and zany (though not fun) mood swings of a type that could well be termed 'histrionic'.

However, tonight I managed to have rather a pleasant night, in the midst of all this. Here's how I did it:

Step 1: Work late, but not too late.

I worked until 7:30, which is late enough to feel that I've achieved a large amount (especially given my 7am start) but still early enough to be able to salvage my evening.

Step 2: Have delicious leftovers ready and waiting for dinner.

My leftovers were purple and black eggplants that I'd sauteed with shallots and bell peppers, then stirred through with sliced Adelaide and Black Russian tomatoes, sprinkled with sumac and topped with a tahini/yoghurt/lemon juice/garlic dressing. Mixed with parsely and pearl couscous. NOM, I TELL YOU.

Step 3: Acquire additional comforting treats on the walk home.

Treats this evening constituted The Best Chips In The World (you may also know them as Red Rock Deli Potato Chips with Sea Salt) and a Bounty Bar. Hey, I'm a simple girl. All this is very important, as it means that you can leave work, and indeed stay late at work, safe in the knowledge that pleasantness awaits.

Step 4: ~~I can give you more~~ Meet entertainment needs

I signed up at the Blockbuster Videos that is one block from the office and half a block from the house, so that I could rent a movie without having to ride my bike the several small blocks to the Video Ezy on St Georges Rd. I know, I know. But that's just how it was today.

The lady made me fill in several forms, and gave me a hard time about not having a bill with proof of residence on it. And in my head I was all "hehe, jokes on you lady I'm only house sitting and I'll be GONE in a few weeks anyway!" but in reality feigned humility and pretended I still lived at Dudley St and several minutes later came away with Julie & Julia. This was something of a victory, as whilst in the office I'd been pondering the need for some pure feel-good escapism and the best I'd come up with was Mamma Mia. I know, I know. And so, still keeping with Meryl, I feel I really triumphed at the Blockbuster this evening. Julie & Julia was something I'd had every intention of seeing at the cinema. But as with so many movies, I had completely failed to get there. Also, if you don't know me/are a dimwit, I am mildly food obsessed, which is to say, I'm happy to think, talk, read, hear about food anywhere anytime. Also to eat. This is very important.

Step 5: Get home to a piss and shit free house

The madly defecating cat seems to calm down her frenzied excretions in direct correlation to time I spend at home. I was here last night and this morning, and thus, by miracle and demented cat logic, there was no shit this evening. Hallelujah.

Step 6: Talk to my family

Yes, this makes me one of those people that other people who don't get along with their families think is a schmuck. But I haven't had a proper conversation with my Mum or my Dad (divorced) in weeks. And there have been some broader family-related things going on. And it was very grounding to speak to both of them. And to be able to blurt out how manic I've been feeling, to a non-judgemental audience (Christ, just writing that makes me realise how lucky I am with my hardly-perfect-but-extremely-otherwise-functional parents).

Step 7: Crack a bottle of wine

I had a 2008 Innocent Bystander Pinot Gris in the fridge, and it complemented my dinner perfectly.

Step 8: Watch entire movie

I curled up, cat nuzzling my knee, and ate my way through the chips, more wine, and then the bounty, watching Julie & Julia. And it was thoroughly delightful. It featured relatable women: smart, funny, with unutterably amazing partners, but who were perhaps a little lost. Oh yes, and who were food obsessed. I realise that every woman aged 30 who has seen this film has probably also thought this, but c'mon you guys, this was shouting out to me.

Obviously* I had a little cry during parts of the movie, and that was nice too.

Step 9: Write on blog

It has been ages since I've had any dedicated brain capacity for anything that isn't work related. And as it's most likely boring and definitely completely inappropriate to write about work on this blog, I haven't written at all. It's good to write.

Step 10: Go to bed

This is the step I'm most looking forward to! Little poo-bum cat will come and curl up in the crook of my knee, the breeze from the open window will waft around the room , and my head will sink into the cool darkness of the squishy pillows until my alarm tells me it's time to go for a run, at sparrows' fart tomorrow.

Thoughts on Julia Childs' French cooking.

Obviously, it looked magnificent. And I am in complete agreement with her thoughts on butter (ie you can never have too much). But it didn't make me salivate the way that Mediterrainean or Middle Eastern or South East Asian cooking can. It was all meat and potatoes and European flavours. It screamed STODGE. Which is not to deny that any of the dishes would be anything but exquisite. But for a whole year?!

But I did love her intrigue with the science of cooking - that will make a souffle rise or a sauce emulsify or a combination of flavours explode. And the extravagance of some of the recipes were awe inspiring in themselves. I also really enjoyed the demented perseverance of Julie Powell, who must have been a sleep deprived loon for the love of cooking. And while the movie focussed on her job and her culinary feats, all I could think was "and she's still managing to writer her blog every day!" . That's a dedication to writing that is clearly well beyond me and I have to admire.

And so, with these thoughts, I wish you Bon Appetite, and good night.

* I cry in everything. EVERYTHING. Like Terminator Salvation, and RSPCA commercials and terrible rom coms. I'm beyond shame, it's who I am, and I've learnt to live with it. And the movie was quite touching in places. Although it should probably also be noted that in the last few weeks I've been (not)dealing with this sudden burden of stress at work by being basically on the verge of tears a good 90% of the time, and spazzing out in more ways than one. So.

Oh, for an infinite supply of energy!

2010-01-21T21:32:00.000+11:00

Oh, for an infinite supply of energy!

I would use it to do stuff,
Instead of just sitting here, listening
To my audio book and drinking
My wine

Also, I suspect
I would use my vigour for good
Rather than my lethargy for

Poetry

Which as we all know,
Is mostly rubbish, such
As this

Apologies.

Choc-top review aka Multiplex me

2010-01-08T12:53:00.003+11:00

I have been to the movies twice this week. Twice! High-fives for holidays, people!...and so on. The first time was for cheap at the Nova on Monday to see Fantastic Mister Fox. The second was at Hoyts Victoria Gardens to see the Princess and the Frog.

At both these cinema experiences I have done what any self-respecting movie goer would do, and purchased a chop-top, and now I am doing what behoves any self-regarding blogger to do, and publicly comparing them.

It's sad news for the Nova and their 'home-made' choc-tops, because their choc-top performed very poorly indeed. Here's everything that was bad about it:

The only available flavour was Vanilla. I realise Monday's are busy days at the Nova. Surely their managers realise this too, and would have extra stock available? But no. Vanilla.
It was pretty small.
The ice-cream had that icy quality of having been thawed and refrozen a few times, and was not very nice.
There was a massive air pocket between the chocolate and the ice-cream, ie. not much ice-cream at all.
The cone was pretty stale.
It was over-priced (in the tradition of all cinema snacks).

Here's what was good about it:

It was covered in chocolate.
The cone was a waffle cone (but remember, a stale one)

By comparison, the Hoyt's choc-top performed very well. Here's what was good about it:

When informing us that not all flavours were available, the staff member apologised politely for the reduced choice. Apologised! Take that, coolsie Nova staff!
The reduced choice still left us with three delicious flavours to choose from - chocolate, banana and boysenberry. I had boysenberry. Yummo.
It was pretty big.
The ice-cream filled the cone and the entire chocolate dome.
The ice-cream was really creamy and tasty.
The cone was a waffle cone and really fresh, crunchy and sweet.

Here's what was bad about it:

It too was over-priced.

Frankly, the exotically flavoured home-made choc-tops were to me the only real perk of the Nova, because the screens are tiny, the seats tiny, the other cinemagoers are too often wankers, and the queues ridiculous. The failure of their choc-tops is a death knell for the Nova in my internal list of preferred Melbourne cinemas. Victoria Gardens on the other hand is large, cool, is conveniently located near Minh Minh for a meal adjacent to the movie, and has boysenberry choc-tops even on a busy day. Decision: made.

An open letter to the cafes of Melbourne

2010-01-07T13:25:00.001+11:00

Dear cafes of Melbourne,

I was hoping to discuss the subject of soy milk. Hasn't the Bonsoy crisis just been terrible? And all you wonderful cafes who purchase Bonsoy despite its extremely high cost, appeasing your bourgie soy-drinking customers, such as myself, are suffering.

However the crisis shows no sign of ending. In fact, just 20 minutes ago I enquired at one of you as to whether you knew when Bonsoy would be back, and you said you didn't know!

But here's the thing. I still want to drink nice espresso coffee. And I still don't want to drink it with dairy milk.

In short, I appeal to you all, lovely cafes with your commitment to first-rate produce and products, to please for the love of God buy some other kind of soy milk. Just in the interim. I know your regular supplier probably doesn't have it. You may even have to send a staff member to the supermarket for it. But surely this is the kind of flexibility and innovation that small businesses thrive upon. May I also add: For fuck's sake.

Love, Natasha

A post about nothing

2010-01-06T15:16:00.000+11:00

I'm getting pretty good at doing nothing. I'm particularly good at doing nothing whilst asleep. At the moment, I'm racking up huge swathes of nothing at a time this way.

I'm doing pretty well at riding my bike around without a particular purpose, my aimless pedalling enhanced by some mild sunshine and a nonchalant breeze.

I'm great at doing nothing in front of a screen - be it at home or in a cinema. I sit, and the entertainment simply filters through to me.

I'm less good at doing nothing at dinner time. I've been rubbing fish fillets in spices, and slicing a huge range of vegetables, and then eating them slowly with a glass of wine. Eating slowly is the triumph of those with little or nothing to do.

I haven't rushed anywhere in five days. I checked my work email yesterday, but didn't reply to any of them.

Sometimes I just walk along, looking at things.

I think my brain is melting.

Get It Out, Prudes!, or The Sexualisation of Nudity

2009-11-18T23:32:00.006+11:00

Today as I wheeled my lame and punctured bike home, I passed an Islamic couple (I assume, since she was covered top to toe in a traditional fashion), and I was all too aware that they both averted their gaze down and away as they passed me in my bare-legged short summery skirted attire. There was no open disdain, but there was a deliberate aversion.

I always feel hyper-conscious of this kind of reaction. But today it actually bothered me. Not because these people seemed to be judging me. Indeed I doubt if they gave me two seconds thought. But I wanted to turn around and shout "C'mon! They're just legs. I'm using them for walking! Just like 'he' is." I certainly didn't want them ogled. They are hardly remarkable as legs go, nor text book examples of sexy legs.

And the whole episode got me thinking about prudishness, religious or otherwise. Here's my thoughts in a rambly nutshell:

Prudishness offends me because it assumes that my naked body is a sexualised body. It does not allow my naked body to be anything other than a sexual object. Whether this is the 'morally overlaid' prudishness of religious doctrine (I use inverted commas because I do not think that religion equates to morality), or the prudishness of the friends who don't want you to see them get changed, they all seem to me to be slices of the same pie, the difference is one of degree.

I can't sunbathe topless on the beach because my breasts are always always always assumed to be sexualised in our society. To the man and woman I passed on the street today, my bare legs were equally sexualised. I think they're just legs. I also think they're just breasts. Don't even get me started on the whole limitations-on-public-breastfeeding stupidity.

This prudishness makes me resentful for a number of reasons.

1. Prudishness places the responsibility for the sexualisation of women's bodies on women.

It is my responsibility to display my body appropriately, given mens' assumed inability to stay cool headed around breasts, and possibly legs and hair as well depending on where you sit on the subject. It is not assumed to be mens' responsibility to be able to refrain from harassment or assault if there are breasts around. Perhaps not legally, but colloquially, most people seem to think this is true (maybe not right, but true). I allow that there are times, places, contexts in which my body will be sexual. And to some people more than others. But mostly all those bits of my body are either functional or negligable in terms of their contribution to my interaction with the world and the people in it.

2. Some women who buy into arguments for prudishness where the female form is concerned particularly bother me, as they are implicitly demanding that their naked form be sexualised. I often see this as a manifestation of sexual insecurity, that such a woman can't accept or allow that no one cares that she just flashed her undies, or 'popped out' of her top - she insists it's a big deal. It demands sexual attention simply for the act of physically being. I think this is a bit lame, as a rule.

RANT ENDED

Reflections on my Twenties

2009-11-02T13:33:00.000+11:00

My Twenties started off pretty well, with a year spent travelling around Europe. They'll end with a job I love (and dare I say, am good at), a relationship I value more than I'm prepared to go into on this blog, and seriously amazing people that I can call good friends. And in the middle: years of adventures both unexpected and planned.

The short version is:

They just got better, and better, and better. Sure I occasionally lost my way, my dignity and the odd pair of underpants, but I gained an awful lot of self-knowledge, (some) calmness and contentment, some bust size, and plenty more besides.

If I can say as much for my Thirties when the time comes, I'll have no regrets*.

But enough for such pleasant reminiscences - I have a party to prepare for.

*Except my bust size, which will hopefully stay much the same.

Rain Riding

2009-09-25T23:49:00.002+10:00

I just rode home from Swan St in Richmond, what I would deem a medium length ride, on one of the rainiest nights we've had in ages. You would think I hated it, but I didn't. Admittedly I'd had quite a few lemon margaritas, and this may have contributed to my zen-like state.

I'm not sure what it was that I enjoyed most about the ride. Some possibilities include:

It didn't feel like a long ride (see note above re: margarita consumption)
It wasn't cold. Or if it was, it didn't matter because I was warm.
Maybe it was the knowledge that, despite the rain, I was on my way to a warm house, warm bed, cup of tea and some YouTube.
Maybe it was riding down side streets I'd never travelled before, gawking at the architecture, and the street life at 11pm on a Friday.
Maybe it was the transition from the unfamiliar to the familiar; the fascination of the new and strange replaced by the comfort of the known and cherished. This transition actually took place very rapidly. One moment I was careening down some entirely new street in Richmond, only to turn, cross Punt Rd, and recognise every building, every intersection, and tread the well worn path to my house. Richmond was a reminder of the mainstream that I am generally so removed from; I was returning to my self-contained, intelligenstia, artsy-fartsy bubble. I do love my bubble.
Maybe it was the newly acquired benefit of Sharryn's punishing gym sessions, and the fact that I didn't lose my breath or feel a strain. I could have just kept on riding.
Maybe it was the aftermath of a pleasant evening, and the knowledge of fun times in the days ahead.
Maybe the steady rain also echoed the melancholy undercurrent I'd been feeling and ignoring all day, of knowing that one of my very favourite people was away, and that however much I'd like to see him, I wont get to for another week.
Maybe it was just because I'm a bit naff.

All these thoughts and more occurred to me, as I rode home in the rain.

Weary thoughts accompanied by wine

2009-09-24T19:04:00.001+10:00

A universal tetchiness is permeating the world; It has crept up slowly throughout the day.

Those of us who have yet to succumb to the attitudinal pallor (like the kind lady who served me at the deli) smile warmly at one another in tacit agreement that it doesn't have to be this way, our smiles evidence that not all is lost.

While those around us spiral slowly inward, ever more enveloped by their gripes, our days can still be redeemed by pleasantness.

Lacking the urge

2009-08-16T21:21:00.004+10:00

I have been feeling extremely contented lately*. And the thing about feeling contented, is that it really diffuses my motivation to write**.

That is all. For now.

* I am, however, very annoyed at my bike seat which needs tightening with an Allen key, and sinks 6 inches every time I go over a speed hump.
**Since I am disinclined to write awful schmultzy doe-eyed stuff, just as I imagine any potential readers would be dismayed to encounter it, and fair enough too.

The big questions

2009-07-13T20:20:00.007+10:00

Today I was asked, by my boss of all people, where I wanted to be in five years' time. My response was "you sound like my Mum." Not the most mature, but a standard act of deflection.

Still, he persisted. I didn't honestly have an answer. I realise that the most suave response might well have been to rattle off a description of ambitious yet realistic achievements describing the perfect mid-thirties existence, as described by Sunday Life (don't even get me started on the new format: "how to: get a flat stomach, how to: iron a shirt - Blergh!) but just couldn't visualise it.

My mother, an otherwise resoundingly pragmatic woman, is unfortunately a big believer in 'positive energy' and 'visualising goals' blah blah blah. Admittedly she is mega-successful, but I attribute that more to her 5am starts than the Deepak Chopra cassettes she keeps in the car. She has rabbited on to me in the past about how I need to be able to articulate the future I want for myself - apparently then it will just magically happen.

I, however, have a different strategy. My strategy is all journey, no destination, admittedly. I figure that as long as I make decisions that are the best thing for me at that point in time (not in a ridiculous, not-factoring-in-consequences way) then wherever I end up is where I'm meant to be. So, decisions like: go back to uni, take this job, go out with him, go on that holiday, all get made simply by asking: "Is this the best/right thing for me to be doing?". And if the answer is yes, then so be it. So I can't possibly know where they'll lead me. Let's face it, the best laid plans of mice and men and so on don't guarantee anything. And if you ask me next year where I want to be in 5 years time, you'll probably get a different answer to the one I'd give you today.

My mother has observed me with a not-so-well-hidden skepticism as I've doggedly meandered through my 20s in this fashion, every so often coming out with "but surely working in a cafe isn't the best thing you could be doing" and "the magazine is doing very well but what about your degrees?" and so on. And it was with some equally ill-contained pleasure that I pointed out to her a few months ago that my mazy path has lead me to somewhere I'm happy to be (and she is equally pleased about), AND I've managed to be content pretty much every step of the way.

In some ways this will seem contradictory, because I am regularly accused of being and over-planner. My response to this would be that I like to over-plan on the short-term, and thus anticipate that the long-term will just take care of itself. My long-term plan is made up of my short-term plans. Rather than my short-term plans being decided by my long-term plans. Rightly or wrongly. All means, no end. In case you hadn't worked it out yet, I have basically no assets. But I do drink nice wine.

So, no, I don't know where I'll be in five years' time. I don't know where I'll be in one year's time. I do, however, know what I'll have for breakfast tomorrow. I worked that out on Sunday when I spent my last $20 for the week. And that's a good start.

Disney Princesses: A half-arsed feminist analyis

2009-07-03T17:58:00.004+10:00

So, the other night, I was unable to sleep, and so I did that which I'd been lamely threatening to do for some time: I sat up and watched Beauty and the Beast on YouTube. Someone has kindly uploaded the film in nine chapters (and chapter nine is just final credits).

It was awesome. The only downside was that it was 1am and I felt it would be unneighbourly to my aurally long-suffering housemates to sing along to the Gaston song with all the gusto it assuredly deserves. I just mouthed the words and grinned and slapped my thigh a lot. And I pretended that cartoon Gaston was real life Hugh Jackman. Which is a totally normal thing to do by the way.

And, I also cried - not least because I was too stressed out to sleep. But also because of how awesome Belle is, and how her love prevailed against the odds. The odds being the beastliness of her paramour, ostracism from her entire world and some pretty severe past wrongs done to her by Mr Beasty.

Anyhoo, all of this is tangential to what I actually wanted to write about, which is how the Disney Princesses of the 1990s - particularly The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, and Aladdin, all offer at least one glimmer of positive role-modelness for little girls. And by little girls, I mean me as a little girl, mostly.

You see, I was never especially girly. I always dirty, shouty, and quick to resist any hint of gender inequality. Anything boys could do I could do better, or at least do without having to wear a ridiculous dress. So it's interesting that I loved these movies so much when they came out.

Admittedly, I am one for a bit of a song and dance. But I would still loathe the dancers if they were in any way weak or pathetic (I give you exhibit A - Sandy from Grease). And admittedly, Disney princesses all end up with their men, who save them dramatically at least once a film. So let's not get carried away with the whole Disney as advocate for women's rights or anything.

But, let's recall that watching these movies I was a young and extremely curious and restless child living in the suburban no-mans-land which is Heathmont. That's the Heathmont that's between Ringwood and Bayswater. Heathmont, where your schoolmates grow to marry your other schoolmates and progenate young because they all belong to the happy-clappy church and they purchase houses a few streets from their parents house and the whole thing goes on again.

The thing that resonated most for me with these doe-eyed protagonists was that each of them wanted to escape! Escape the expectations of their family, or community or peers. And they wanted to escape beyond the horizons of their current world to discover new opportunities for themselves.

The development of this idea throughout the three movies is quite interesting to me as well. Ariel simply wants to be away from what she knows, and is inspired by her love for a handsome man from the world beyond the ocean. She finds her fulfilment by stepping into the shoes of a beautiful princess, and it is very much her beauty that gets her there (given that she essentially woos the Prince without her voice).

Belle more actively rejects the future proffered by life in a provincial town, where she would be expected to abandon her intellectual pursuits in order to find fulfilment as the wife of a brutish oaf, the ridiculously bulbous Gaston. Despite an eccentric father, Belle feels constrained by the world at large, and finds her happiness through a prince, yes, but not a handsome one. Belle is easily my favourite of the three because the catalyst of her adventure and ultimate happiness is not her beauty, but her bravery, kindness and character. It is these traits that pave the way for her to wind up in a fairytale castle with the finally handsome prince.

Princess Jasmine has the slightly different predicament of being trapped inside the palace - and she simply longs to get beyond the palace walls where she perceives a greater freedom (although the price of that freedom is poverty). Rather than leaving her world to run off and become a pauper's wife in order to keep her happiness with her beloved (I would LOVE to see Disney sell that one!) she manages to change her world in order to enable her happiness within it. Good work Jasmine!

So anyhoo, that is a small insight into why I love Disney movies. That and the songs.

Beer and chips

2009-06-18T18:43:00.002+10:00

Some days dinner is just too hard. These are the beer and chips days. I might round it off with some fried eggs. Don't worry, I'll go for a run in the morning.

I am feeling particularly gratified to be stuffing and crunching away with the delicious salty crumbs scattering down my front, while cravatted men waffle on about the fine knowledge of Italian cuisine and the difference between barley and farrow on Masterchef.

I made these chips by opening the bag! And using the corner of my skirt to twist the top off my delicious beer. Mmmmm.

My private power ballad playlist

2009-06-15T22:52:00.006+10:00

Gutsy lady hits, to be wailed by me at opportune moments, in a particular order:

Total Eclipse of the Heart - Bonnie Tyler
Nobody Does it Better - Carly Simon
Heaven is a Place on Earth - Belinda Carlisle
Piece of My Heart - Janice Joplin
Today I Sing the Blues - Aretha Franklin
Can't See My Way - Etta James
100 Days, 100 Nights - Sharon Jones

The first three tracks feature heavily in my karaoke selections (along with Alice Cooper's Poison, Bon Jovi's Blaze of Glory, Michael Bolton's Love Is A Wonderful Thing and Queen's Don't Stop Me Now), while the list then verges towards the soul end of my musical tastes. If I were to meander further from the dubious 'power ballad' label, there'd be some Porgy and Bess and Sarah Vaughan lord knows what else.

The catharsis of wailing a power ballad with abandon is matched only by the tolerance of my good housemates and general acquaintance.

On Saturday afternoon I had the added bonus of a grand piano to writhe around on top of, a ridiculous pleasure that everyone should experience at least once in their lives*.

* Wear your good knickers if you plan to kick your legs. And be careful, those things are slippery!

In Two Minds: The Porn Conundrum

2009-06-12T18:55:00.004+10:00

I like to think that I know my own mind. I am certainly prone towards neurotic levels of analysis: of others, of situations, and of myself. And like any somewhat neurotic person, nothing motivates me more in my analysis than a conundrum, some inexplicable feeling or situation. But recently I've hit upon an inherent truth about myself:

I am completely, and frequently, capable of holding two contradictory positions simultaneously.

I've been aware of this in a murky way that I'd never examined too closely until a year or so ago, when I realised that I both loved myself and hated myself to an uncompromising degree. This is something that I think most people, on some level do. We think we're quite special and unique, and when we get a promotion, or a new lover, we feel very gratified that other people are recognising our true worth. And at the same time we can loathe ourselves, and feel deserving when other people reject us or hurt us, and punish ourselves in all kinds of cruel ways. I know I do. I think I'm smarter than most people and can be smugly righteous, and yet in the past I've deliberately physicaly hurt myself (not in a suicidal way!) because I think I'm so shit, and I needed an outlet. Other people have other methods like alcoholism or 'arsehole' syndrome. I feel vainly gratified that my lover would choose to be with me, yet would find it pathetically understandable if he were to abandon me for someone more attractive. I think these things all at once. It's amazingly daft.

I can't remember who said it, but I recall a line being delivered to someone else: "You are both far more important, and far less important, than you think". To me, this is nearly always true, except for those wonderful glimmers of humble perspective which are the exception rather than the rule of my thinking.

But the other day this internal contradictory state crystalised quite profoundly for me. I was looking up porn on the internet. I haven't really done this before, but I was curious, and so I went looking. The footage I discovered was both compelling and also in no way sexy. I had a sort of clinical fascination with it, and moreso with the people who were making it. What were they thinking? Did they find it empowering, sexy, or just a way to pay the bills? Did they have low self-esteem? Do they see their bodies as an instrument that is seperate from some kind of 'self' or are they deliberately undergoing a something more experiential. Do they find it gratifying to imagine all kinds of people getting off on the footage, or did they just want to be famous? Were they exploited? Or were they exploiting? Or could both be true at once? And how was a viewer accessing these images on a laptop in the privacy of her room possibly to know the difference? All these questions and more have been occurring to me since, as have recurring images of some of what I saw (none of which could I relate to what I knew as sex - all those bleached and hairless genitals made it all seem highly removed from my 'real life' experiences).

The only conclusion I have come to is that I like porn, I find it curious and arousing and it makes me question my body and has stimulated some new bizarre fantasies. And at the same time, I find it confronting, it makes me feel a bit upset on behalf of the performers and worried for them when I try to understand their self-image, and troubled that some people see this as the pinnacle of possible sexual activity. And some of it makes me really angry. And some of the stuff that makes me angry also makes me hot. But then a lot of people can find self-destruction appealing, so I guess there's no rocket science going on there.

I can relate to people who defend porn, and who occasionally curl up at home and have a good go at themselves whilst watching it, and I can also read and intellectualise about inherent power dynamics and active vs passive gender roles and find it all a bit off. I've never really been much of a post-feminist after all.

For now, I'm not going to think about it much further. I shall remain a riddle, wrapped in an enigma, couched in a mystery, who is a bit of a hypocrit.

Saturday Night: Nana Night

2009-05-30T19:39:00.006+10:00

For the longest time, Saturday night has been the night I'm most likely to spend in. It seems counter-intuitive to most people I tell, but seriously, by the time Saturday night rolls around I'm thoroughly knackered.

It would be easy but incorrect to blame this on my relatively new grown-up job with regular hours + overtime arrangement. You see, in the height of my partying days, this pattern of Saturdays on the the couch has held fairly steady (except for those weeklong benders that my body is no longer capable of sustaining).

Usually, at the moment, my week shapes up thus:

Monday: I'll be newly reminded of what the week ahead requires of me, and often spend the evening at home and cook a lot of food, stockpiling for the week ahead. There is a high probability of dvds with housemates or the gentleman caller, who may equally be called upon.
Tuesday - Thursday: There'll be busy days at work, often starting quite early. Then racing off to something or other such as a meeting, drinks with friends, dinner engagement, movie, theatre, gig, exhibition opening, festival event, dinner with family member, and the usual combinations of the above. I am rarely home of a weeknight.
Friday: Post work drinks with workmates, then out to somewhere or other. Friday is always accompanied with a big sigh of relief that I get a couple of days to wind down, to which I then apply poor judgement, liberal quantities of booze, and shouty conversations late at night in bars with people I wish I saw more of.
Saturday: The thrill of having a whole day to myself is such that I generally get quite carried away with regards to what can actually be achieved in one mere day, and set myself a frantically scheduled to-do list, which I race through with an urgency that belies the notion of a 'day to wind down'. I'll try to get up before 9am to fit in a run, get to the market or at least supermarket to stock up on food, clean things, catch up with people, and think ridiculous thoughts about getting to relax eg "from 3:15 - 3:50 I'll read in front of the heater, oooh, whilst baking a tea cake!, but first I'd better wash all the dishes from yesterday so there's some room in the kitchen." Often, I'm also a bit seedy.

It should be noted that I'm rarely able to keep to my plans. For example today I slept until 10:30am, got up, rode to the supermarket, cooked up a big hot breakfast (which took bleeding ages because our oven is so crappy), and then somehow watched an entire series of Black Books with gentleman caller. Before I knew it, it was time to meet Amanda for cake, and my list was uncommenced (except for the supermarket/hot breakfast part - two things I greatly enjoy ticking off on a weekend). However, between 5pm and 7:30pm I downloaded 6 podcasts and listened to three of them, did all the dishes, a load of washing, tidied, dusted and vacuumed my bedroom (no small task), marinated steaks for dinner, checked emails and played with the dog.

By any given Saturday evening, the prospect of costumes, parties, cold night air, the feigning/mustering of high spirits are often a bit beyond me. Especially when I know in advance that the week ahead offers not a single prospect of an evening at home. I don't even have the energy to tell you about Sunday, but it certainly involves a few hours work.

Also, I would like to pause for a moment to sing the praises of the 'nana-ry': home cooked meals; heaters; comfy couches; ug boots and elastic waist lines; hot cups of tea; wine that has already been paid for; movies; books; bed. Pass my crocheted blanket...

The Pants Rant

2009-04-23T21:04:00.005+10:00

Dear Kayser,

Please stop publishing large glossy images of bean-pole shaped women and labelling them apples and hourglasses.

The picture's a little small, but is still clearly retarded.

Kayser, the women in your ads are bean-poles, plain and simple, and no more or less beautiful than other body shapes for it. But this is not my point.

My point is that terms such as apple, hourglass, and pear have been adopted to encourage recognition in women, particularly the impressionable and the young, that female bodies which are something other bean-poles* are completely normal and should be acknowledged as such. In addition to being normal, bean-poley women are privy to a pervasive and subtle series of advantages that other-shaped women often miss out on. To commandeer these body-shape terms to sell underpants lacks taste, responsibility and also plain logic. I may be rounded but I'm not blind.

Are these ads trying to convince non-bean-pole shaped women that Kayser's skimpy lace concoctions are designed just for them? Because all I'm seeing is standard issue underwear models. Men may like them, but men don't buy that many briefs, so I'm stumped.

HOURGLASS FAIL, people. Honestly, the presence of a-cup breasts does not an hourglass make. A female they make. A diverse gender but generally a breasted one.

Until I see a pear shaped bottom, preferably sporting requisite dimples, snugly wrapped up in your undies, I remain utterly unconvinced that they will be anything other than a literal pain in my arse.

On behalf of the young and impressionable, I would also like to add FUCK YOU KAYSER, YOU ABHORENTLY RECKLESS PIECE OF CRAP COMPANY. GIVE ME BACK MY PEAR.

* I heard these women referered to as zucchinis tonight, and needless to say was filled with mirth.

The world is on my side.

2009-04-05T00:48:00.004+11:00

As Leith and I sat side by side on the QANTAS jet yesterday, which was slowly taxiing down the runway, we observed dark grey clouds sort of frothing quite low in the sky ahead.

"Look!" Leith suddently exclaimed.
"What?" said I.
"Lightening".

Shortly after this, there was more, very observable lightening, really very nearby. I was sort of thrilled in a scaredy way by this, and wondered aloud whether the lightening could strike the plane as we flew threw the stormy skies.

"Where have you ever read about lightening striking a plane?" Leith scoffed.

I protested in my usual pedantic fashion that I'd never claimed to have read about it, and was simply musing on a hypothetical.

As we sat in our room at the the hotel in Perth last night, Leith was on a call to one of his clients, and I had checked my email, and briefly flicked to the Age Online. And there, in bold type in the lead story position at the very top of the page was this headline:

Lightening Strikes Plane

with further details about several planes that were struck by lightening that very afternoon, one of them on the same route we had flown.

I got enormous pleasure by frantically beckoning to Leith as he continued his conversation, and pointing triumphantly at the screen.

"I read it there!" I mouthed smugly.

He looked suitably annoyed and amused.

It is in these tiny serendipitous incidences that some of my greatest, and most petty, joys reside.

Cheese Day

2009-03-29T20:04:00.004+11:00

Today I went to Red Hill on the Mornington Peninsula and learnt to make cheeses from goat milk. They're currently sitting in cloths on my sink, draining their whey and waiting for me to rub them down with salt. Yum!

I learnt many things today, about cultures (the microbiotic kind), about goats, and some other stuff too, but mainly I learnt that there is no such thing as Too Much Cheese. I ate cheese in the morning, and from the batches as we were tampering with them in very controlled ways, and then I ate lots of cheese at lunch, and then seconds of the lunch cheese, and then some more in the afternoon, and honestly, I could just keep eating cheese. Especially with some wine.

I came away with cheeses, and Greek yoghurt, and wine and olive oil (to marinate my fetta with some rosemary), and lots of fliers! I can't see myself making cheese at home regularly, especially in my current house. It requires the dedication of some clean kitchen space for a couple of days, and a range of bits and pieces. But I definitely plan to go to another workshop or two this year, and get me some more CHEEEESE!

Deep Fried Night #2: Oil Overload

2009-03-28T16:34:00.004+11:00

On Thursday Gavin came round and he, Leith, Andrew and I had Deep Fried Night #2: Oil Overload. We fried a bag of potato gems (Andrew dipped these into oyster sauce, which was very very wrong), a bag of potato wedges (which we ate with salsa and sour cream), four chicken schnitzels (which were the unquestionable winner of the night), dim dims and spring rolls.

Then we ate doughnuts and watched Twin Peaks.

Twin Peaks was originally the reason for getting together, but the deep fryer stole the show, as deep fryers often do.

Later, my sleep was disturbed, not by visions of Bob crouched at the end of my bed (eurghghghgh), but by a sort of slimy sloppy discomfort in my tummy which required several night time excursions to the bathroom and the Eno jar.

Deep Fried Night always leaves me with a greasy regret, and foolish statements such as "I'm only eating raw vegetables for the next three days!". But who am I kidding? Deep Fried Nights are super awesome. Newcomers to Deep Fried Night stand around awe filled, Leanne pretends like it's gross and she wants nothing to do with it but manages to hang around long enough to eat the wedges, and Leith gets all excited and weilds the oil soaked basket with a flourish. Deep Fried Night #2 was another such success, although I may have gone too hard too early on the potato gems, but then hey, I'm only human!

And it can't have been that bad, as I followed up on Friday with pizza for lunch, and then pizza for dinner (from a different pizza parlour - I do have some dignity). As I rode to Mel's house with the dinner pizzas I sang:

"Oh who eats the pizza in your neighbourhood?
In your neighbourhood? In your neigh-bour-hood, oh
Who eats the pizza in your neighbourhood?
It's the pizza that you eat each day!

Natasha eats the pizza in your neighbourhood!
In your neighbourhood..."

You get the idea.

Actually, we leave so much behind.

2009-02-24T22:39:00.006+11:00

When I was about Two I forgot to eat snails. I looked down at them, and where I once saw food, I only saw snails. I guess I ate other things instead.

When I was Five and starting school I forgot that I liked the colour blue. I'd always known that I'd liked it, but suddenly I stopped liking it, and started liking pink instead. Just like that.

When I was Nine I forgot that I knew anything at all. It seemed that all knowledge was relative and nothing was fact. Ever since then I've been forgetting to forget this, only to forget it again for fleeting, clarifying moments.

At 11 I forgot how to throw temper tantrums. Sure I could still rant and scream, but the old days of 'stomping' and 'bellowing' were over. My desire to reason my way into getting what I wanted forever after trumping my raw emoting.

I woke up one day and forgot to that I'd been supposed to be scared in the night. I'd just slept peacefully through till morning.

When I was 13 I found a resilience I never knew I had, and a fierce sense of protection for my individual family members. Getting these cost me the knowledge that my parents were faultless, but I guess that always had to go sometime.

In my late teens I forgot that I was beautiful. There was always something very noticeable to remind me that I wasn't. Usually my nose, or otherwise my hairy legs or my knees or some other innocuous body part.

At 19 I forgot what it was I wanted to do with my life, my one grand plan dissolving and leaving only hints and hunches in its wake.

When I was 23 I lost all my romanticism and trust on the corner of Little Lonsdale and Exhibition streets. I just bundled myself into a cab, smeared away my tears, and didn't think to check for them until it was too late. The great thing about my romanticism and trust is that slowly but surely, they've been finding their way back to me. I could probably help them out a little more. HALLOO THERE. I'M IN NORTH FITZROY!

Last Sunday I forgot not to eat potato gems twice in one day. Them's the breaks.

Liberated

2009-02-07T12:24:00.002+11:00

I am at the office on a Saturday, and feeling a bit bummed about it until I just realised a moment ago that I can burp really loudly and no one will know.

I did a nice big juicy one, and immediately feel much better about being here. Who knows, maybe I'll undo the top button on my pants later?..

A Dog's Life

2009-01-20T22:14:00.004+11:00

Sometimes I just wish I were a puppy. I would get fed everyday, rubbed down every morning, and in hot hot weather I'd get to run around the park at night with a bike light strapped to my collar like a Disco Puppy!

For the last week or so I've been wanting to write about the return of the truly excruiating period pain that I used to get as a teenager, and which hit me like a drunk on King St again last week. But to be honest, I couldn't summon the energy. During the actual pain I was very inspired to write about the whole experience, and afterwards I was both tired and also over it.

To clarify, I wasn't interested in cataloging my pain, more the conundrum of feeling like it wasn't 'done' to be able to own it frankly. So I found myself hiding it, while at work anyway, to save others the awkwardness of having to acknowledge my imperfect endometrial system. Anyway, the short of it is that I begrudged this. But it also led to some misunderstandings. It was clearly quite obvious to a few of my workmates that something was wrong, they'd ask if I was sick and I wouldn't know how to explain that I was unwell, but not sick, and there was nothing to be done.

Because menstruating:
- isn't illness, it's symptomatic of something quite normal and natural;
- isn't contagious, and doesn't need to be quarantined (the only thing worse than being at work while in period pain is being at home, bored and panicked about missed work while in period pain);
- is going to keep on happening to me for a large part of my exisitence; and
- I'll be fucked if I'm going to miss out on anything (work, fun, anything) because of it.

That said, I would like a little leeway to:
- go to the toilet at 45 minute intervals without sneaking;
- wear a heat pack across my navel;
- curl up on the floor periodically, as necessary (I would be more than happy to stay late at work to absorb all floor-curling time); and
- the basic ability to acknowledge it, since it's perfectly goddam normal.

There. That is my rant about menstrual pain. A bit gross, and a bit depressing, but true. And now let us sit back and think about Disco Puppy, racing her little red light into great whirling streaks around and around at the park.

Word Verification

2009-01-03T16:36:00.004+11:00

Okay, so I just wrote that last post, then went checking some of my favourite blogs and comment streams. A comment I'd posted on my friend Nattie's awesome blog had required that I type the word "sperm", which I naturally thought was fantastic, so I'd included this info for the delight of others in the bottom of my comment. Mel commented below and also added her word verification "broslato" which she imagined as describing a particularly manly Italian dish. And then I had the brainripple (let's not call it a wave) of compiling a fake dictionary of word verification words and their meanings.

If anyone is even slightly taken with this idea I ask you to please do one, or both, of the following:
a) tell me your thoughts via the comments in the usual fashion; or
b) tell me your word verification and what it means.

As a childhood lover of the game Balderdash I anticipate that this shall be both amusing, and a good insight into how many people ever read my blog. I'm hoping for as many as five!

2009: A Few Highlights So Far

2009-01-03T16:15:00.003+11:00

Leith - accusingly, to me:

"You shook your goodies at Flava Flav."

Leanne - hypothetically, then again moments later to Isobel:

"You have a mad rack, don't you."

Leith again - post triple-fried donut incident:

"I regret everything...and nothing!"

Dion - pondering the deep-fryer:

"Tash! Tash! KFC, Tash!"

Brendan - as Public Enemy announce they are going to perform It Takes A Nation Of Millions To Hold Us Back in its entirety:

"Oh. My. God." (accompanied by a slightly hysterical facial expression)

Also worthy of inclusion in this list is Nat Graf's resolution to grow two inches. He didn't specify where...ladies...

Farewell To Bacon

2008-12-31T10:05:00.004+11:00

Dearest Bacon,

There's no point pretending: I'm writing to say goodbye. I want you to know that this isn't easy for me. Over the years you've always been there for me, with a greasy salty kick on a sleepy morning that would turn my whole day around. Your presence makes even the most boring risotto or pasta or potato salad so much more exciting. I'm smiling now just thinking about you.

I don't think I can easily explain why I need to do this. It's about ethics, and pigs, and the state of the world, and a whole bunch of things that I don't expect you to be able to solve. Forgive the cliche, but it really isn't you. I'm not sure that it's me either. Perhaps it's life, it's a shitty circumstance, it's not fair. I'm sorry.

Don't be sad, Bacon. I will never forget all the good times. And I'll try not to be jealous when I see other people enjoying you (although, you know me well enough to know that I'll be fighting a white hot anxiety - but I promise not to let it show). You are so scrumptious, I know there will be dozens of girls just waiting to wrap their mouths around you as soon as you're available. But I will always cherish what we've had, and I hope in time you will remember us as special too. But I feel that this parting is the right thing to do.

I'm sorry I didn't let on this morning, as I enjoyed you for the last time. It was selfish of me I know. You were just so delicious, snuggled in next to my tomatoes, I had to have you one last time. I wont be so weak again.

I wish you all the best, my King of Meats,

Natasha

P.S. As for your brother, Salami, my fantastically dirty stick o'meat, don't even get me started. Late nights will never be the same.

Lazing On A Sunny Afternoon

2008-12-27T14:49:00.003+11:00

I've already lost track of which day of the week it is. Everytime someone asks me what my plans are later/tomorrow/for the holidays I reply "Dunno. Don't really have any." There are vague plans involving gardening, cooking, reading, possibly cinema. Hannah and I have scheduled in a sewing day for Monday which I am looking forward to. There's talk of a swim tomorrow. But mainly I am following my whims. It turns out that my whimsy is fairly lethargic and there's a lot of reclining on my bed flicking through recipe books and singing along to Billie Halliday and Peggy Lee.

Despite experiencing my first paid holiday in some time, my imminent tax bill and credit card debt mean that I am living very frugally. And in a strange way I'm finding it quite liberating. I'm very housebound. I'm not rushing anywhere because there's nowhere to rush to. The house is clean. I have ample Christmas presents to potter around with. It's so warm.

I will go to the supermarket later and get some noodles to make a stir fry for dinner, and I am also having thoughts about a slurpee. I ran this morning and have been sweating ever since. I sat at Ray with Andrew, who is going overseas tomorrow, and usual suspects Leith, Brendan and Casey, and my brother turned up by chance as well, as the odds might have suggested he would.

I ambled home, buying myself an apple at La Manna, stopping in at Sugar Dough where I've heard Emma Uttinger, an old workmate, is now working, though she wasn't there. I looked in a vintage shop, promptly bought a skirt (though only $12 it was about $11.50 more than I could afford), and then removed myself from further temptation by riding home. I tended to my tomato plants, watered the garden with the shower water that had cooled sufficiently, using Donald, my handsome new blue watering can. I ate some toast.

I might read.

and I love to sit so pleasantly, in this life of luxury

The Resolutions: First Draft

2008-12-24T11:54:00.004+11:00

For a while now I've been mulling over my resolutions for 2009. I always like to get the wording just right, and go through a number of drafts before I commit them to hard copy on the inside cover of my diary. I like the opportunity to stop and reflect on what I'm doing and where I'm heading, and see if I want to make any changes. This year has involved so many quite large changes for me already that the ideas that have been floating around in my head are I think more about consolidation than major change.

Some of the rules of my resolutions are: that there may not be more than five; they have to relate to a specific action or goal rather than an intangible quality, for example: "I will throw a dinner party for friends once a month" rather than "I will try to be more sociable"; they must be achievable within 12 months or apply for 12 months (so I try not to make them about something whimsical that I will have a change of heart about in a few months); and each one has to pertain to a different facet of my life. These facets usually break down to: health, career/money, social/personal, and learning/doing something new (in the past this category has included learning Spanish, overseas travel and get a tattoo), but they don't have to be as strictly adhered to. Often my resolutions result in a list of projects I want to undertake. One final and very important rule of my resolutions is that they must be realistic in terms of ambition so that I am not setting myself up to fail. I tend to prefer less fantastic resolutions that I'm actually likely to keep, and I'll check in on them across the year to keep myself on track.

A few months ago I read Clive Hamilton's The Freedom Paradox and while I agreed with much and disagreed with a little, the idea in it that has stayed with me most is around having an order of preferences. Hamilton's notion is that human's (unlike other sentient creatures - a tangly premise that is not for tackling here) are capable of having both first and second order preferences. A first order preference is lodged in the present and is a direct desire cultivated by our ego. Whereas second order preferences are the preferences we have about our preferences, and are cultivated by our superego. Therefore we have the potential to curb our first order preferences to align with our second order preferences, should we wish to (a Hedonist would actively dismiss second order preferences in favour of always satisfying their first order preferences). Hamilton posits that most people fail to do this, and this is a source of much personal dissatisfaction.

A good example is exercise. A person may have decided that they wish to be fit, and understand that this means that they should go to the gym 3 mornings a week before work. This is their second order preference: to be fit. When they wake at a 5:30am alarm call and want to go back to sleep, this is their first order preference: to sleep. The person who drags themself out of bed and off to the gym is obeying their second order preference, and Hamilton believes (and I am inclined to agree) that this person generally experiences greater personal satisfaction and contentment in the long term than the person who stays in bed (even though that person may be less sleepy), because they feel that they have mastery over their will, rather than being its servant.

So anyway, this is something I've been thinking about a bit in terms of my behaviours and the things I do, and most of my resolutions this year are I think particularly intended to align my lifestyle with some of my second order preferences.

The resolutions so far:

I will run (or do equivelent heart-rate raising exercise) for 20 minutes a minimum of two times every week.

I will build my expertise at work to encompass policy design and evaluation, and to this end, enrol in a Masters degree for 2010.

I will travel to Japan, China and Vietnam.

I will make no purchases on credit that I can't pay off within 48 hours.

I will become a more ethical eater by only eating animals that have been farmed without cruelty, not eating fish or seafood that are overfished, buying local, seasonal produce as much as possible and growing and making as much food for myself as I can.

The last one is going to particularly hurt. No more freezer box party pies on a hangover! I have to admit to having eaten more meat than usual this December to savour those some last few treats.

Things I Love About Christmas

2008-12-14T14:52:00.002+11:00

This year, more than in any other, I have been regularly encountering earnest and impassioned anti-Christmas sentiment from those around me. I've found it wherever people feel safe to complain about their family: on blogs, and over drinks in a bar, and in passing around the house.

The main source of anti-Christmas sentiment seems to involve grown children (my friends) who begrudge enforced time with their families. And to be fair, as I've listened and tried to understand these complaints, many of them seem damned reasonable. I have friends whose parents are acrimoniously divorced and demand exactly equal time spent on Christmas day, then try to undermine the other parent by guilting the children from leaving. I heard of insane step-parents and drunken racist relatives and right-wing siblings and physical fights. And the upshot of all this is that I feel both a little sad about the world and also terribly grateful for my far-from-perfect-but-nevertheless-pleasant-and-respectful family.

And so while I don't mean this as a gloat to people who suffer these relative torments (haHA - pun of the day right there), I feel the need to speak up in favour of Christmas. Christmas fills me with that internal wiggly feeling that is a sort of combination of contentment and excitement, and usually I also get a big childlike grin. Don't get me wrong, there are also many things that I can't stand about Christmas, but none of them are unusual or original, and there are plenty of outlets for them without me listing them here. Rather, I would like to pay tribute to the things I love about Christmas:

Decorations. It's like the houses are all dressed up and hoping to dance with that boy they've been looking at all year but been too shy to talk to, or at least have him smile and think they look pretty.

Presents. The buying of them. I like having to pay that little bit extra attention to the shortlist of people I love and am shopping for, so that I can anticipate something they will genuinely enjoy. I also like making things in bulk and distributing them a bit more broadly in general goodwill.

Mystery Charity Shopping. Having no little children in my family at present (a great shame at Christmas time) I like to go to the toy department at Myer, ogle all the frankly fucking awesome toys that get made these days, and buy something small for one of those wishing trees. I usually do this at the end of the long and frenzied day I've spent squeezing all my Christmas shopping into because I left it to the minute.

Wrapping. I love choosing coloured papers and complementary ribbons and baubles and then making a hack of them as I impose my terrible wrapping skills on them.

Food with Friends. I like that there is a time of year which places an onus on catching up with people you care about, because otherwise it would be all too easy to let some of those people drop right out of your life. There are degrees of friendship and while there are many people that I don't need to see regularly, I do like to stay in touch with. Then there are my good friends and the barbeques and dinner parties with them that involve great home-cooked food, good wine and the perfect company. Love 'em.

Christmas Dinner. Oh my lord my family is good at food. I wont go into too much detail, but let me just say that Christmas dinner with my family is a meal to revere.

Goodwill. Let's face it, there's a place for it all year round, but a bit of a boost never hurt anyone.

Little Kids. They can be horrors, and they can smell foul, but little children on Christmas, when their faces light up with the wonder and magic that they feel present in the world, are just the absolute best. If for no other reason, filling children with wonder is surely more than justification enough for Christmas.

Disclaimer - I am not religious and don't care two figs for the spiritual significance of the day. I like celebrating loved ones with food and sparkly things. Werd.

Ode to Thursday

2008-12-11T19:08:00.004+11:00

Dedicated to one who shall remain unnamed here on the Internets, as I'm sure he'd want it that way.

Oh day,
You've seen so much of the week
already, yet
You are not the bringer of sweet relief
which is Friday.
To some, you portent joy, to others you are
a cunt.
You are Thurs.
And I am thirsty.

Bedroom Dance Party

2008-10-28T22:19:00.003+11:00

I met up with Jade and Mandy tonight and drank delicious spritzers and ate far far too much sensational spicy Chinese food. Only when I got home did I realise I'd forgotten to take my penicillin tablet half an hour before I ate, and would have to wait 2 whole hours more before I could take it and go to bed.

So I began playing through some of my favourite hip hop tracks and bopping and strutting around my bedroom. It has been ages since I've had energy to expend superfluously on such wholesome foolishness! Anyway after about 45 mins, just as I decided to mix it up a little and delve into the Doobie Brothers (you heard me), my housemate Mandrew yelled the fantastic news that he had just made golden syrup dumplings and there was a bowl full for me. Despite being more than full, I sat down and voraciously tucked into my dumplings. Only after I had completed finger-scraping the bowl did I realised I would have to wait another two hours! I have set my alarm.

However, there is still time for a little Stevie. One of the upsides of this penicillin (the first being that I have the energy to do everyday things, like dance around my room, and write about it afterwards) is that it is tending not only to my sore throat, but seems to be tackling my chronic croakiness - that Mel has always attributed to my mythical nodjools - so that I can sing-along with gusto. What joy!

Oh oh Run To Paradise just came on!

So Much To Tell You

2008-10-01T11:35:00.005+10:00

Having gone 5 days now without the power of speech, or the power to do much at all due to the Lurgy Which Was Even More Dreaded Than The Last Lurgy which struck me down on Saturday, I have an awful lot to get off my chest: How crapped off I am about all the friend's birthdays I missed; How worried I am about how behind I'll be at work, and that my new workmates might just think I've got a head cold and am taking the piss, because they're not aware that taking a day off work is something I basically never do, let alone a taking a whole week; How spending a whole week at home Doing Nothing is a goddam effing waste of a week; the horrors of the Royal Melbourne Emergency Room on Grand Final night; How even though red jelly and fresh mango is a delicious slippery breakfast, I secretly wish I could just chomp down some vegemite toast; The importance of cuddles in times of crisis; How, even as the penicillin needle pierced my rump in excruciating pain several days in a row, I hoped that the nurse would reflect that I had a good bum; How Nature really kicks you in the nuts by making you look like a side-show-freak when you're sick, so that on the day that you can sit up in bed and think about getting up, you look at yourself in the mirror and promptly go and live in a hessian sack.

Still, I think instead I'm going to write about what I was planning to write about before I got sick. I'm going to write about Hollywood Paternalism in the movie Taken.

Obviously, Taken is a pretty one-dimensional vehicle for making Liam Neeson look like a tough guy. Which notion it clinches when he takes 6 bullets in the back and yet is unscathed, just like the Terminator. The basic premise of the movie is this:
Young American Virgin goes off to Paris for a holiday to stay with friend's family. On arrival learns that friend has lied and they have an apartment all to themselves. Naive girls share cab with first cute guy who asks, who also happens to be a Bad Guy. Within 20 minutes Bad Men have broken into the apartment and abducted both girls for their own dastardly ends (ie prostitution ring). Liam, luckily, just happens to be an ex-CIA 'preventer' (read: assassin) who goes to Paris to brutally hunt down the Bad Men and bring back his virginal daughter.

The film has lots of graphic violence, as well as lots of disturbing images of young girls forced into heroine use and prostitution in pretty dire circumstances. Now to me, the idea of showing these images of all these morbid young innocents would be to provide justification for Neesons's unstoppable violence. But the only thing that disturbed me more than those images (which truly disturbed me, more on this later...) was that the film was resolved when the daughter was rescued, with not a tear shed for the friend who'd been brutally raped and OD'd (it is charmingly implied that Neeson's daughter lived because of her valuable virginity making her a pricier commodity [what is this, the Middle East?!], whilst her dirty tramp friend probably had it coming), or all the countless young girls Neeson was quite comfortable about leaving behind to lives of torture.

The whole film turned on the wrong justification. It wasn't a film about a girl getting trafficked. It was a film about an assassin getting revenge. The girl's sexual slavery wasn't portrayed as abhorent because she was a human being deserving rights and agency, she was simply Neeson's property, stolen by some other men to be their property, then taken back. This was captured best in the scene where Neeson confronts the Bad Man running the slave racket, and the Bad Man tries to reason with him, saying "Hey, it's just business. It's not personal." And Neeson replies "It's personal to me" before shooting him as many times as his gun will allow. At this point I wanted to scream "It's personal for your daughter you stupid ape! And every one of those girls getting repeatedly raped. THAT'S who it's personal for! Can we PLEASE at least MENTION that it's personal for them too?" But no, it was only a problem because it was Neesons's problem. Once his daughter was safe, there was no need to feel 'personal' about the ongoing trafficking of women. As it was this film could have been about a car, or a jewel, or a top-secret new military weapon, or anything at all that would provide a Bad Man vs Liam Neeson set-up.

I give those titties Four Thumbs Down, Hollywood.

The other thing that this movie made me reflect on was how very personally outraged and upset I felt about the images of these trafficked women, and how this was due to a direct sense of identification with them. Not that I've been trafficked, obv., but because they were women and I am a woman. Or more pointedly, because the reason for their exploitation was simply that they were women. And I am a woman. My reaction to these scenes was so powerful I felt as sickened and outraged as I imagine I would were someone to actually try to do this to me. Which is probably a good thing. But it did make me reflect on group identity. And while I can see all the benefits and strengths of group identification, I was felt that I was also motivated by something profoundly selfish, ie 'This could happen to me!'

I was thinking about it in relation to the cyclist who was killed on Swanston St a few weeks ago, and how all those cyclist rallied. I think that the rally was a really good thing and if anything gets those ridiculous buses off Swanston street I, as a daily cyclist, will be forever grateful. But what I did find a bit weird were some of the notions coming through on that day that cyclists were grieving more than other people, they were more upset by this girl's death. Not because they knew her, because most of them didn't. Many other people also died in Melbourne that day. Cyclists and non-cyclists both didn't really skip a beat over them either. But I think this reaction occurred to this one particular death because it could have happened to them. And because cyclists in Melbourne are generally of a mind-set to get themselves noticed, which in itself is no bad thing. I don't mean to suggest that their outrage was somehow ignoble. Nor my outrage at the trafficking of women. But I do sometimes think it would be good to untangle our altruistic motivations from our more self-perserving ones, and if they align, maybe that's just a bonus.

I am now aware that my brain is dribbling in many tangential directions, and am going to eat some more jelly and go back to bed.

(Almost) All The Ways In Which I Procrastinated Today

2008-09-17T21:20:00.003+10:00

Today has been my last official 'freelance' day. I am a full-time researcher, basically as of now. I had a list of things to do today as part of wrapping up my work for my last client. Here are all the things I did instead of doing those things:

- slept in, a lot
- scratched the dog's ear (a lot... she loves it...)
- showered, breakfasted
- gargled extensively (I have a throat infection at the moment which I'm relying on to excuse my excessive sleep in)
- checked my email
- checked my other email
- sent a few emails
- checked facebook, replied to messages
- read the fail blog
- read engrish funny
- read every article of interest on The Age online
- read my Herald Sun horoscope
- vacuumed
- did all the dishes
- cleaned the top of the stove
- watered the garden (with grey water)
- walked the dog
- went to the shops, got a coffee, bought some fruit, a pie, and collected my antibiotics from the chemist
- ate my pie
- did some work (about an hour's worth)
- had a cup of tea and cake with a friend
- fooled around with said friend
- played backgammon and drank whisky with second friend and brother
- rang my friend Lucy to discuss our impending holiday
- rang my friend Mel to dicuss our impendig holiday
- drank a bit more whisky
- watched 3 episodes of The Office
- ate lasagna
- made cup of tea
- blogged

Upon reflection this has been some of my best procrastination ever. Good procrastination to me is comprised of a series of finite manageable tasks that are done from your own home (or the location in which you 'ought' to be being productive on something else). Going out to meet a friend for lunch, or going to a movie: any of these things all involve a degree of throwing in the towel mentally, with regards to your intended workload. Whereas I managed to convince myself all day that each thing I was doing would only take 20mins or so and then I would be straight back to work. I went out to get lunch, but I brought it home and ate it by my computer rather than sitting in a cafe with my book as I desperately wanted to (in fact that was just about the only time that I got anything done so it's just as well). Each of my bouts of socialising were constrained by the fact that the other person had to be somewhere else at (insert time in semi-distant future) and so I was able to tell myself that it was definitely a finite break and therefore ok. Also, most of the things I partook of were fairly useful tasks that I could easily justify at another time, so at least I have some small scope for not feeling too lazy.

The ridiculous thing is that I could easily just do this work on the weekend, except that I am going away with a bunch of friends and am determined to finish it before hand. I plan to do all the easy bits now, and finish the rest early in the morning.

While the prospect of doing work now is depressing, I just read over my list again and felt not only a degree of pride at my fine procrastinatory effort, but also that it's been a pretty good day!

The Perfect Sandwich, by Natasha Ludowyk aged 28 and 3/4

2008-09-10T22:09:00.005+10:00

Hehem.

It would start with two really heavy, really tangy, steaming fresh slices of thick white sourdough. The top of the sourdough would not be dusted with flour (as they sometimes are); it would be supple with a delicate yet firm crunch to it.

On one slice of the sourdough would be a generous squishy layer of saggingly ripe brie cheese, probably a Kind Island Black Label or similar. On the other, a thick yellow smear of good quality, salty butter and over that a cheeky smattering of cranberry sauce, ideally homemade, but any good brand would suffice.

Then the sandwich is filled with turkey slices that have been finely carved from a roasted bird so that they maintain the original texture but are still juicy and moist. Round it out with crispy, dark green baby spinach leaves (at least half an inch thick) and salt and cracked pepper. Consume.

Mmmmmmm.

When I was a lass I worked at the deli at Daimaru, and I and the other girls who worked there would often play this game: describe your perfect sandwich, it being the perfect game for adept deli staff and the ideal way to fill in the hours prior to lunch. The Daimaru deli had huge quantities of pressed and cured meats, beautiful ham on the bone that we would hand carve, and four metres of cheese cabinet. Plus dips, olives, delicious crackery things and more, much more!

I hadn't thought about my Perfect Sandwich in a while, but was inspired by reading my friend Nat's rules of sandwiches the other day. The sandwich above was the sandwich I couldn't go past back then. It particularly lends itself to the week after Christmas. But now that I think about it, there are many more perfect sandwiches, and I think that the purely imaginary construction of sandwiches is a pastime worthy of further attention, so I shall revisit (always remembering that the key to a truly great sandwich is in the details).

I have also been known to while away many an hour contemplating The Perfect Pie and The Perfect Sausage. These too, I shall return to, especially as the weather is improving and the sausage (read: bbq) season is about to commence!

The Movie of the Book of the Books of Jane Austen

2008-09-01T15:46:00.006+10:00

Last night Leanne and I made good on a long-held plan to hire and devotedly watch The Jane Austen Book Club. We knew it wasn't going to be great, we were hoping for schmaltzy and good. And it was. It was very schmaltzy - I cried twice, secretly - and mostly it was good.

I was especially pleased that our new and excellent housemate Matt and my friend Leith were also there and stayed to watch it. I enjoy watching men cringe at the more obvious parts of chick-flicks, and enjoy it even more when they get right into it and tear up alongside you. Brendan declared it too girly and went home (probably to watch When Harry Met Sally for the 400th time. Hehe).

Now, I am not going to give anything like a serious critique of the film, and should also point out that I haven't read the book which it is adapted from. I have however read all the Jane Austen novels, some several times, and I felt that the story of this film ignored most of the more salient aspects of a Jane Austen novel. These aspects could be condensed for our purposes as follows:

Upstanding heroine who remains faithful to her values in the face of others' weaknesses and the trials of life? Absent. There were many heroines, each representing an aspect of a Austen heroine, but I only felt like two of them were tested, and only one of them passed. For the most part I felt that the characters didn't develop that much. They moved forward in their lives, but not necessarily as a result of personal growth.

Delightful ensemble of hilarious characters? Absent. Everyone was meant to be a bit of a winner in this film and this was one of its failings. It lacked some of the realism of an Austen novel, where not everyone is good, not everyone is happy, and people make compromises out of pragmatism more often than not. This was particularly telling in the ending, in which everyone in The Jane Austen Book Club had found love simply through reading the books of Jane, even if finding love hadn't appeared in their character arc at all throughout the rest of the film. Jane Austen had much more to say about life than simply that falling in love was good.

Unstinting Hero? Tick! There was only really one male character of any depth and he was an excellent example of an Austenesque Hero, although he could've had a few more demons. He was persistent in his pursuit of his object of desire, yet remained gentlemanly to the end. Yay for him.

Generous lashings of wit, with a mere lacing of cynicism to drive it home? Nope. The Jane Austen Book Club lacked any of the delicious stylings that make an Austen novel feel so voyueristic, as though the whole world is a legitimate source of entertainment. Mr Bennett captures it best when he says "well well, what do we exist for but to make sport for our neighbours, and to laugh at them in our turn" (or words to that effect). The Jane Austen Book Club didn't offer any grander insights into the human condition.

The best bits of the film were when the characters were discussing the books themselves, and disagreeing with one another over various characters' motivations. So in the end, the characters of Jane Austen remained far more interesting than the characters of TJABC itself.

Next time I want a chick flick, I should just go and read Persuasion again. I wont though. I'll hire Enchanted.

I Must Be Getting Clucky

2008-08-29T14:09:00.002+10:00

I was sitting at the tram stop on Elizabeth street just now, waiting for the 57 to take me to Spinifex, and an unbelievably adorable Asian-halfie aged about 4 was sitting next me with her Mum on the other side, sucking on a very sticky looking pink lollypop and staring at my tattoo. She reached out to touch it and her Mum (an example of the kind of parenting I wish I saw more of in public) gently asked her not too because her hands were sticky and I (the lady - hee!) probably wouldn't want to get sticky.

I shrugged and said that I didn't mind, and the child and I exchanged a solemn look that meant we understood each other and everything was chill, and then she informed me with a smile that I had a very pretty flower in my hair (earlier this morning I had jubilantly declared it Spring by plucking some of the neighbours' lavender and ceremoniously shaving my legs). She had little fake flowers on her hair clips too so I told her that we both had pretty flowers on today, and she grinned at me and we were firm friends.

This child and her mother ended up sitting opposite me on the tram, and the child was singing some unintelligible song that had repeated 'dinging' of a bell throughout. She informed her mother, and the riders of the tram at large, that she was going to sing some other songs about bells, and then proceeded to sing a mangled interpretation of Jingle Bells about 6 times in a row. I did not find this annoying, and on the contrary found the whole thing pleasantly amusing. Hormones can do weird shit to a girl.

An Extra Wife For Longer Life! Sing It With Me Now...

2008-08-25T21:50:00.005+10:00

The Age Online, that most wonderful site of endless procrastination, today published an article entitled "Polygamists* Live Longer".

My thoughts:
Really? Wow. How utterly surprising and simply darned wonderful for them. I bet aristocrats and people with slaves and those enlightened adult men who still live with their mothers and subsequently never have to cook or clean or care for themselves (let alone another) probably do too! I wonder if anyone's done some similar research within cultures that don't acknowledge marital rape? Or fathers that don't acknowledge their children. That would be illuminating! Gosh, it just makes you think how much most of us are neglecting men. Frankly, we could all be doing more for men's well-being. Like stripping on command, and performing handjobs on public transport (the confinement is perfect for it). Honestly, there are just so many ways in which women could demean themselves for men, why stop at polygamy for a few extra years when we really ought to be shooting for male immortality?

Okay, so channelling Catherine Deveny a little bit and apologies for ranting, but for fucks...

Horrifyingly, there was no mention of women's life expectancy/quality of life/existence in this insightful piece of reportage.

* As far as this article is concerned, Polygamists = Men

Melbourne: City of Literature

2008-08-24T21:20:00.002+10:00

I was planning to write about this several days ago, but this is the first alone time I've had with my computer since being away on my inaugural corporate junket (which was totes awesome btw). Melbourne has been awarded 'cultural city' status by UNESCO, named as the world's second City of Literature (Edinburgh being the first).

So, you know, this is good for our collective ego and all, but I failed to get particularly excited about the announcement. The best thing about it is that it triggered the Government into putting some money where its mouth was, by developing the centre for books and ideas at the State Library. The State Library has already been drastically improved and is now beautiful, peaceful and extremely useful, and this should be a great new initiative within it. It will certainly be hella helpful to the small and underfunded organisations that slave away facilitating the culture that has induced this recognition.

I just hope it doesn't cause the literati to be self-congratulatory. The publishing industry in Melbourne is largish to be sure, but the foundation for it is laid by the countless underfunded and poorly paid individuals who write because they love it, not to mention all those good people who will happily drop a wad in their local bookstore (which hopefully isn't Borders). And when you do something because you love it, you do it regardless of a UNESCO title. It saddens me to imagine that this City of Literature business will be seen as a victory for Penguin and Readings and MWF and lord knows Sleepers (who are just so hip they even have tattoos!) whilst overlooking the really important initiatives of Express Media, and all the zines in Sticky, and the websites and blogs and streetpress where so many local writers are broken in, and the wave upon wave of ever-shifting underground movements that are the true source of Melbourne's creativity.

I was mildly bemused by the request that was made of Is Not a while back that we provide some hi res images of our magazine and a bit of copy from our website to be incorporated into the campaign. Of course we consented and gave the committee making the bid the materials they requested from us, but I couldn't help feel a bit like we were the Little Red Hen who had laboured hard for our freshly baked loaf and suddenly people were happy to help us eat it. Of course, our magazine hasn't survived into the heady days of City of Literature status (although I'm sure this info didn't make it into the official bid). Nor were we informed of or consulted on any other aspect of the bid, nor notified of its success: I read it in The Age. Which doesn't particularly bother me, and while it's nice to have one's publication acknowledged, it sure as hell doesn't feel inclusive.

It's just that literary recognition is so top-down. I'm sure there's much good reason behind this, and not least because a lot of the manuscripts and other writing people produce are somewhere between mediocre and plain awful. But I would like to see the effort rewarded. I also have a massive gripe with massively-successful first-time author Carrie Tiffany's comment in the same Age article that writing is "..one of the rare things left in the world that isn't about money". Well not if you want to get published, Carrie. Publishing endeavours that aren't about money go broke. I'm aware that there are grants to allow artistic freedom from corporate bottom lines. But show me one grant that doesn't stipulate that your content be about Melbourne, or having a mixed-ethnic background, or the outback, and so on and so on. It's a politically correct artistic freedom that they provide. So that's sweet if you were planning to do that anyway, but if you were planning to write about your love for David Bowie or your collection of shopping lists, or something far more subversive, you better hope it's damned marketable, or have an in with an editor who isn't afraid to take risks.

My spirits were bouyed on Saturday reading the interview with Sophie Cunningham in the A2. The changes Sophie is bringing to Meanjin are truly exciting to me, and represent a new publishing outlet for the kind of work I find intellectually and culturally relevant and entertaining, and far too little of which is locally produced. It was also lovely to see the September issue cover displayed in the article, the artwork for which I'd seen only two days before in the Stuart and Jeremy's office on their new ridiculously fandangled soy-based printer thingy. I am greatly looking forward to getting my mitts on the first edition.

Duh, I Can Advertise Reel Guhd

2008-08-18T23:57:00.003+10:00

Today on the tram I was seated next to an unremarkable looking guy around my own age who was scribbling onto a notepad. Bored, I spied on his scribblings. He had written:

PINEAPPLE CHUPA CHUP

Then he'd painstakingly drawn an artsy box, inside which he'd written:

FRUITY EXPERIENCE

I surmised he was in advertising. I further surmised that he was on-track to make a shithouse ad.

For the next 10 minutes or so the scribbler failed to add anything further to these two basic elements, but traced thoughtfully around the edges of the box, emboldening its lines (but not its sentiment). Then he caught me looking at him and most likely smirking, and he wisely angled his notepad out of my line of sight.

I can't wait to see the ad for Pineapple Chupa Chups when it hits the streets. I can't help but wonder, with my political incorrectness in full force, whether it will be flamboyantly marketed at homosexuals? Or whether it will simply try to distinguish itself from the other Chupa Chups by virtue of being, um, fruity. I also can't help but wonder what this guy gets paid...

Hear Me Roar

2008-08-17T11:34:00.004+10:00

I have been regularly observing behaviours, comments and events around me and found them to transgress my ideas of good feminism. Most frequently I'm seeing lots of examples of women being valued, and valuing themselves, for their appearance above all other characteristics. Women who will prioritise beauty regimes above some other kind of productivity (like being at work), men who will forgive some shabby characteristics with the throwaway - but completely sincere - justification, "yeah, *shrug* but she's really hot though". I often find it difficult to butt in during these moments with a feminist critique, not least because my own feminism is often hard to pin down, it's quite fluid and complex, and seems to undergo constant evolution.

When I was a teenager and in the early years of uni I confidently took up a pretty second-wave feminist stance and would shout it loud and proud where I could. I would be quick to jump to a pretty extreme position, which was often unhelpful and untrue of my own experience. But as I delved into post-modernism and post-feminism I couldn't help but reflect that I had personally rarely suffered from overt gendered discrimination, I had lots of opportunities and I wasn't afraid to take them, and my feminism shifted to a more slippery individualistic model. Also, I know only too well the usefulness of flirting (flirting? Let's call it being charming!) a little to help get my way. But, I never fully subscribed to this theory as some of my friends did, because there are so many people who do not enjoy the priveleged, educated, position that this kind of theory assumes. And even amongst those who do I see post-feminism being used to justify an awful lot of self-interested bollocks that has nothing to do with promoting the perceptions of and rights of our gender.

Also, there's always been a lot of other confounding factors. Unlike those of my friends with more punk sensibilities, I don't want to got through life pitting myself against something or someone. And I've always taken a 'you win more flies with honey' approach to feminist opposition - so that at least people will be inclined to listen. Also another big problem has been that, like so many of us, I really want boys to like me. I want to be found attractive. It's a difficult psychological hurdle to overcome, to contradict and potentially offend/anger the very people you're hoping to appeal to. And as I observe almost daily, boys will regularly opt for less-argumentative female companions than I (although I would like to point out that I'm not I'm blaming this for why I'm single - just that it probably rules out a big chunk of the field).

But recently I've felt that I and my peers are all too lax when it comes to this stuff. The types of sexism or problematic gender roles I'm encountering are so much more insidious, and sometimes not, and not uncommonly I'm feeling pissed off at something or someone but not knowing how to point it out without creating great discord. The other problem is that nominating yourself as judge and jury presiding over the behaviour of those around you is a massive problem, and I and everyone around me is smart enough to know so. But where does that leave us?

My friends and family are as intelligent, critical, educated and decent as any people I've ever encountered - so if we can't tackle these issues then I am inclined to despair. My new policy is that a bit of discord is a price I'm willing to pay. One of the biggest obstacles my generation of women is faced with is the sense that it's all much better now than it was, even if it's not perfect, it's not so bad that it's worth upsetting a lot of people for. Bah!

I began my new campaign at a family wedding on Friday night where I had a long and engaging conversation with my uncle, who is some kind of Freemason Grand Poobah, about why they don't allow women. I pointed out that no matter how noble are the works of such an organistion, I am instinctively inclined to mistrust and resent an organisation that excludes me just because I have breasts (exquisite breasts!*). He ended up agreeing with me.

*I did not say 'exquisite breasts' to my uncle. That would just be weird.

A Gut Feeling

2008-08-15T12:41:00.004+10:00

I have recently commenced my most corporate job to date, working at a small social research company. Having done various degrees of freelancing as writer or publicist for various 'trendy' organisations, as well as being something of a flibbidygibbet student and waitress for much of my 20s, I thought long and hard about the implications of an 'office job': punctuality; curtailing my gutter mouth; not being (too) hungover; probably not being able to wear outfits held together by safety pins; covering my tattoo. But then, I also reflected on the upsides: weekends; holidays; potential for professional and educational growth; being above the poverty line...

When my musician/it programmer/bum brother accused me half-jokingly of selling-out, I countered that I was in fact selling-in. Rather than spending my days utilising my intellect to convince people to go to bourgie cinemas and buy the olive oil popcorn, or arguing long and hard for the social merits of music festivals (of which there are many, as long as they're kept in perspective), I'm applying myself to investigating the justice system, or the public health system and such and such. So far I'm feeling quite good about it all. My workmates aren't hipsters but they are left-leaning critical thinking well-adjusted friendly people. Also, this office has an espresso machine. And I recently learnt that our annual 'team-building' exercise next Saturday - the prospect of which put me in mind of high ropes courses and paintball - is to be a 4 hour, 8 course degustation lunch in Daylesford. Saweeet!

In short, it's all good.

But on Wednesday I had my first experience of some of the constraint of a 'civilised' work environment, and this is why:

I had awoken in the morning and emitted a large burp, which I hadn't thought much about at the time. When I got to work the office was busy. There were two major client reports due that day and everyone was working frantically. In my fifth part-time week, I was handed a partially constructed report (I had not seen nor worked on a report for them at this stage) on a project I'd partly observed and asked if I could complete it by midday.

Around mid-morning two things became very obvious:
1) there was no way this report was going to be done by midday, and
2) there were dastardly things going on in my digestive tract.

We called the client and they agreed to a 5pm deadline, and I continued to work madly as the bloating further expanded (my stomach was both the circumference and solidness of a fully inflated basket ball), the gurgling intensified and the devastating cramps set it.

I went to the bathroom at about 11am and broke wind fairly emphatically, hoping that noone would come in and that the toilets were good and sound-proof, but suspecting that they weren't (like I said, it's a small office). Not much else was happening for me, and I felt like any absence from my desk on this day was conspicuous, so I went back to work.

And it all just got worse. If I'd been able to fart with violent abandon for about an hour I reckon I would've been fine, but alas this was not an option. And while I'm not afraid to be good and frank about the viscera of my corporal being, I don't really know my new workmates all that well and didn't feel like I could share my terrible intestinal pain. I was also acutely aware that this was the first time in this job that a significant task had been handed to me and that I was being relied upon to come through, and felt sure that if I mentioned to anyone that I was unwell they would all kindly insist that I go home (which i badly wanted to do), and that in doing so I would be letting everyone down.

In the end I just sat squirming on my seat, telling myself that I could go to the toilet at hour long intervals (figuring that shouldn't be too obvious, and if anyone asked I would tell them that I'd drunk lots of tea). The hours felt very long.

At about 1pm I had one of those panic-inducing cramps where you realise you have about 60 seconds to get your naked arse to a toilet seat or an all-brown, pungent hell will break loose, only to see David (the only male in the office apart from Stephen the boss-man) walk into the toilet ahead of me. So I turned my purposeful walk to the bathroom into a meander into the kitchen where I stood pretending to read the day's paper whilst clenching with fervour, then after about 5 mins I went to the toilet which was thankfully empty, and performed acts which are best left to the imagination. Let's just say that I cleaned that toilet with a scrubbing brush afterwards.

The rest of the day was pretty much torture - more psychological than physical - as I desperately tried to keep my cruel illness under wraps. And this was what struck me. Despite experiencing some legitimate physical anguish, I was horribly aware of my incongruous behaviour. I kept expecting that someone would walk into the bathroom, and then walk out again and glance at me suspiciously. In order to pretend that I wasn't constantly going to the toilet (which I would do the second my computer clock would tick over another 60 mins) I would try to befuddle my workmates by walking to the printer and looking at something on that for a second, or walking to the kitchen and turning on the tap for a few seconds, before dodging off surreptitiously to the bathroom once more. At one stage I fantasised that I could perhaps walk down the road to the Edinburgh gardens and use a public toilet there where I could relax fully, but I felt unable to leave the office when we were all on deadline. Also, there was an awful moment when Cathy was explaining hastily and in some detail the further changes I would need to make to the report (this was at about 4:15pm) and I had such an enormous dizzy spell I nearly fell off my chair.

Fortunately, this dizzy spell seemed to herald a downturn in my symptoms and my stomach began to relaxed. We finished the report at 5:35pm. The client was happy.

I am still grateful to have this job. But I would have paid good hard cash on Wednesday for workplace in which I could confidently declare "Evil things are living in my stomach and they have to come out. Probably don't go into the toilet on the right".

It begins...

2008-08-11T20:31:00.001+10:00

This is my first foray into blogging, and to be honest I'm very conflicted about it. Primarily I am scared that my writing will turn out to be boring/lame/incorrectly spelled and will become a source of silent scorn for my friends and acquaintances. It's this very fear that has kept me from blogging until now. I am completely aware of how cowardly this is.

I am also a bit bemused: I don't have any specific game plan for this blog; nothing I am particularly driven to say. I have been reflecting recently on the cultural output of the many people around me. And what with the recent ending of the magazine I feel compelled to contribute something new, somehow. So I am curious to see what I come out with.

Also, I could use a new project.

As this has turned into something of a confessional I shall throw down a gauntlet to myself, and propose that I shall (try to) blog here several times a week. We shall see...