I know it's wrong.
I know it's sick.
But watching episodes of Dr Phil featuring guests who are suffering such severe cases of anorexia that they are literally about to keel over and die, makes me absurdly happy.
Because maybe one day, I might be that thin.
One day.
Maybe.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Judge, jury and executioner.
And we're all guilty.
Guilty as charged.
But don't ever admit it, or someone may judge you.
As a stiletto-wearing, mascara-obsessed, non-career-oriented feminist, it offends me to see us women being our own worst enemies. We'd all be only mildly less threatening to each other if we went around pointing semi-automatic weapons in each other's faces while wearing combat boots.
We're all fond of a gossip, this is true. But today, let's call it by its real name: condemnation. We get together over coffee, we bump into each other in public toilets or at the shops, we call each other up when we've got some free time and talk about mutual friends and acquaintances, air our grievances, and get feedback on whether we're 'right' in our judgments and momentarily feel better about ourselves.
What is it with women and our inherent ability to sneer at those around us, judge their words and actions and label them 'less than'?
Don't get me wrong. I'm just as guilty as you are. Maybe even more. I'm not sitting here on my high horse pretending I'm perfect, I know I'm just as much of a bitch as the next female. But I'm learning to hold my tongue, reserve my judgment and stop pigeon-holing everyone into neat little boxes that enable me to feel good about myself by taking others down a notch or two.
We have a bloody long way to go in our society. For a community that claims to be free- and forward-thinking, we are sometimes still as mired in the mentality of our Victorian forebears as the 'conservatives' we denounce.
We don't like working mothers. (Why bother having any if you're just going to dump them in daycare and let someone else raise them while you chase a promotion?)
We don't like stay-at-home mothers. (Way to destroy everything we've worked for for fifty years, throw away your potential and sit around in your pyjamas all day refusing to contribute to society!)
We don't like young mothers. (Keep yer bloody legs shut, you're too dumb to raise a family.)
We don't like old mothers. (You selfish cow, why didn't you marry off at 21 and have kids when you should have?)
We don't like promiscuous women. (Dirty whore. 'Nuff said.)
We don't like chaste women. (Uppity bitch, who does she think she is, carrying on like she's better than us?)
We don't like social butterflies. (Too vain is her problem, why can't she stay at home and look after her man/kids instead of flashing it around all over town like she's special?)
We don't like homebodies. (Uppity bitch, who does she think she is refusing invitations to come out with us like she's better than us?)
We don't like childless mothers. (You won't know what you're missing out on until it's too late - mark my words!)
We don't like potential mothers. (Would you just give up on this IVF nonsense already and face facts? What about adoption? Maybe you just need a holiday and to stop thinking about it so much, it'll happen when you're not expecting it.)
We don't like married women. (This isn't the 1950's, you don't need a piece of paper to prove your commitment to someone.)
We don't like single women. (What are you, commitment-phobic? Just set the date already!)
We don't like militant idealists. (How dare you make me feel bad about my own choices? Just shut up already!)
We don't like passive 'don't fix what ain't broke' types. (God, would you get a clue? You can't just float through life not caring about anything outside your own private bubble.)
We don't like subservient women. (Too much under the thumb, is her problem. Needs to stand up for herself and tell that man she ain't making any more sandwiches.)
We don't like them to be in positions of power, either. (Ugh, what's she got, concrete balls? Tell her to get back in the kitchen where she belongs.)
The list goes on for days, and no matter what you do, no matter what you say, someone, somewhere, is pointing the finger and saying, 'She's doing it wrong'. And chances are, that person is a woman. A woman who should, if not understand, then at least put herself in your shoes for a moment and say, 'What if?'
The truth of the matter is, there is a weight on my shoulders and I'm relating everything back to it right now. I'm still not ready to talk about it, but I'm tired of keeping things to myself for fear of being judged by those I trust to support me. It's unfair, it's unnecessary, and you're just as flawed as I am.
Be kind to each other.
Guilty as charged.
But don't ever admit it, or someone may judge you.
As a stiletto-wearing, mascara-obsessed, non-career-oriented feminist, it offends me to see us women being our own worst enemies. We'd all be only mildly less threatening to each other if we went around pointing semi-automatic weapons in each other's faces while wearing combat boots.
We're all fond of a gossip, this is true. But today, let's call it by its real name: condemnation. We get together over coffee, we bump into each other in public toilets or at the shops, we call each other up when we've got some free time and talk about mutual friends and acquaintances, air our grievances, and get feedback on whether we're 'right' in our judgments and momentarily feel better about ourselves.
What is it with women and our inherent ability to sneer at those around us, judge their words and actions and label them 'less than'?
Don't get me wrong. I'm just as guilty as you are. Maybe even more. I'm not sitting here on my high horse pretending I'm perfect, I know I'm just as much of a bitch as the next female. But I'm learning to hold my tongue, reserve my judgment and stop pigeon-holing everyone into neat little boxes that enable me to feel good about myself by taking others down a notch or two.
We have a bloody long way to go in our society. For a community that claims to be free- and forward-thinking, we are sometimes still as mired in the mentality of our Victorian forebears as the 'conservatives' we denounce.
We don't like working mothers. (Why bother having any if you're just going to dump them in daycare and let someone else raise them while you chase a promotion?)
We don't like stay-at-home mothers. (Way to destroy everything we've worked for for fifty years, throw away your potential and sit around in your pyjamas all day refusing to contribute to society!)
We don't like young mothers. (Keep yer bloody legs shut, you're too dumb to raise a family.)
We don't like old mothers. (You selfish cow, why didn't you marry off at 21 and have kids when you should have?)
We don't like promiscuous women. (Dirty whore. 'Nuff said.)
We don't like chaste women. (Uppity bitch, who does she think she is, carrying on like she's better than us?)
We don't like social butterflies. (Too vain is her problem, why can't she stay at home and look after her man/kids instead of flashing it around all over town like she's special?)
We don't like homebodies. (Uppity bitch, who does she think she is refusing invitations to come out with us like she's better than us?)
We don't like childless mothers. (You won't know what you're missing out on until it's too late - mark my words!)
We don't like potential mothers. (Would you just give up on this IVF nonsense already and face facts? What about adoption? Maybe you just need a holiday and to stop thinking about it so much, it'll happen when you're not expecting it.)
We don't like married women. (This isn't the 1950's, you don't need a piece of paper to prove your commitment to someone.)
We don't like single women. (What are you, commitment-phobic? Just set the date already!)
We don't like militant idealists. (How dare you make me feel bad about my own choices? Just shut up already!)
We don't like passive 'don't fix what ain't broke' types. (God, would you get a clue? You can't just float through life not caring about anything outside your own private bubble.)
We don't like subservient women. (Too much under the thumb, is her problem. Needs to stand up for herself and tell that man she ain't making any more sandwiches.)
We don't like them to be in positions of power, either. (Ugh, what's she got, concrete balls? Tell her to get back in the kitchen where she belongs.)
The list goes on for days, and no matter what you do, no matter what you say, someone, somewhere, is pointing the finger and saying, 'She's doing it wrong'. And chances are, that person is a woman. A woman who should, if not understand, then at least put herself in your shoes for a moment and say, 'What if?'
The truth of the matter is, there is a weight on my shoulders and I'm relating everything back to it right now. I'm still not ready to talk about it, but I'm tired of keeping things to myself for fear of being judged by those I trust to support me. It's unfair, it's unnecessary, and you're just as flawed as I am.
Be kind to each other.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Burn.
'"Don't talk of worlds that never were,
The end is all that's ever true.
There's nothing you can ever say,
And nothing you could ever do..."
Still, every night I burn,
Every night I scream your name.
Every night I burn,
Every night, the dream's the same...'
The end is all that's ever true.
There's nothing you can ever say,
And nothing you could ever do..."
Still, every night I burn,
Every night I scream your name.
Every night I burn,
Every night, the dream's the same...'
Happy Father's Day!
To my own Dad, to my beloved Poppy (God rest his hard-working, hilarious and beautiful soul), and to the father of my babies who is a fantastic provider and a much better father than his own ever could have dreamed of being.
To all those out there who love their kids, tuck them in at night, go to a shitty job every day to make sure those kids eat well and have all the material things they could ever ask for, who show their kids how adult relationships are meant to work by being considerate, kind and supportive of their partners, who show up to their kids' dance recitals and footy games even though they'd much rather be at the pub, and do everything in their power to be 'good' dads.
This is what my girls' wonderful Dad got from his loved ones this morning:
(And to my own Dad - sorry bud, you won't be getting yours until I hit the shops tomorrow. Your fault for being away AGAIN this weekend and causing me to forget entirely that I have two 'Dads' to buy gifts for!)
(PS Dad - It might have to wait until I get paid on Tuesday. Just blew my last $30 on another fragrance for the Boss because I decided that even though *he* prefers the DB Signature, *I* prefer the DB Intimately and since he only bothers with fragrance for me, I bought it for him as well just now.)
It's raining today, and the Boss decided that despite the crappy weather, he was keen to spend Father's Day treating himself. To a spot of fishing. So he's taken off to Lake Awoonga with Syndrome and only God knows when they'll roll in...
Would it make me a terrible wife to wish a thunderstorm upon them so they come home earlier and help me deal with the two feral children suffering severe cases of cabin-fever?
ETA: Okay, still tweaking stupid blog. Cannot figure out how to make it wide enough to accommodate my pictures :( But all you have to do is click on it to see the full picture... Sorry guys! Waaahh @ being semi-computer-illiterate :(
To all those out there who love their kids, tuck them in at night, go to a shitty job every day to make sure those kids eat well and have all the material things they could ever ask for, who show their kids how adult relationships are meant to work by being considerate, kind and supportive of their partners, who show up to their kids' dance recitals and footy games even though they'd much rather be at the pub, and do everything in their power to be 'good' dads.
This is what my girls' wonderful Dad got from his loved ones this morning:
(And to my own Dad - sorry bud, you won't be getting yours until I hit the shops tomorrow. Your fault for being away AGAIN this weekend and causing me to forget entirely that I have two 'Dads' to buy gifts for!)
(PS Dad - It might have to wait until I get paid on Tuesday. Just blew my last $30 on another fragrance for the Boss because I decided that even though *he* prefers the DB Signature, *I* prefer the DB Intimately and since he only bothers with fragrance for me, I bought it for him as well just now.)
It's raining today, and the Boss decided that despite the crappy weather, he was keen to spend Father's Day treating himself. To a spot of fishing. So he's taken off to Lake Awoonga with Syndrome and only God knows when they'll roll in...
Would it make me a terrible wife to wish a thunderstorm upon them so they come home earlier and help me deal with the two feral children suffering severe cases of cabin-fever?
ETA: Okay, still tweaking stupid blog. Cannot figure out how to make it wide enough to accommodate my pictures :( But all you have to do is click on it to see the full picture... Sorry guys! Waaahh @ being semi-computer-illiterate :(
Friday, September 3, 2010
My idiot brother...
Got a tattoo.
'So what?' you say. 'You're half-covered in ink, like YOU can judge!'
Hey, now. I never said my tatts were works of art... they're pretty stock-standard, boring plain black jobs done by random 'artists' - some kanji on my back, song lyrics on my wrists, my precious heartagram on my leg, and of course my 'babies' - the Beretta pistols emblazoned across my chest...
But this 'tattoo' of my brother's is like nothing I've ever seen before.
I honestly thought it was a shitty texta job done last night after a few drinks, during a bored spell where he and his girlfriend couldn't agree on which of my mum's DVDs to accidentally scratch next.
Nope, turns out it's real - I know ink when I see it and I could see the scab factor dating it about roughly 3 weeks old. Why has my mother not showed up on my doorstep tearing out clumps of hair and sobbing about her wayward (borderline knuckle-headed) son's latest dumb attempt at rebellion?
Oh. Maybe he's just been hiding it from her the way I hid my DIY lip-piercing from my parents for a good month when I was 14. Oh, I was bad-ass - even my Social Studies teacher gave me a good talking-to after class the day she noticed a big silver sleeper stuck through a hole in the middle of my lower lip.
But still. This tattoo ain't even jailhouse. It don't even come close. It looks like something an 8-year-old with a brain injury scribbled on the side of his torso with a Connector Pen.
It's so, so, SO bad.
And I can't laugh about it on Facebook because my mum would be MEGA-pissed if she found out through that, instead of a phone call from ol' dibber-dobber big sis over here!
I have to take a photo for you. I know you'll laugh just as much as I did. Oh my Lord... the boy is 21 and STILL acts like a 10-year-old.
I just don't think there's hope for him.
'So what?' you say. 'You're half-covered in ink, like YOU can judge!'
Hey, now. I never said my tatts were works of art... they're pretty stock-standard, boring plain black jobs done by random 'artists' - some kanji on my back, song lyrics on my wrists, my precious heartagram on my leg, and of course my 'babies' - the Beretta pistols emblazoned across my chest...
But this 'tattoo' of my brother's is like nothing I've ever seen before.
I honestly thought it was a shitty texta job done last night after a few drinks, during a bored spell where he and his girlfriend couldn't agree on which of my mum's DVDs to accidentally scratch next.
Nope, turns out it's real - I know ink when I see it and I could see the scab factor dating it about roughly 3 weeks old. Why has my mother not showed up on my doorstep tearing out clumps of hair and sobbing about her wayward (borderline knuckle-headed) son's latest dumb attempt at rebellion?
Oh. Maybe he's just been hiding it from her the way I hid my DIY lip-piercing from my parents for a good month when I was 14. Oh, I was bad-ass - even my Social Studies teacher gave me a good talking-to after class the day she noticed a big silver sleeper stuck through a hole in the middle of my lower lip.
But still. This tattoo ain't even jailhouse. It don't even come close. It looks like something an 8-year-old with a brain injury scribbled on the side of his torso with a Connector Pen.
It's so, so, SO bad.
And I can't laugh about it on Facebook because my mum would be MEGA-pissed if she found out through that, instead of a phone call from ol' dibber-dobber big sis over here!
I have to take a photo for you. I know you'll laugh just as much as I did. Oh my Lord... the boy is 21 and STILL acts like a 10-year-old.
I just don't think there's hope for him.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Things That Grind My Gears (Part Two)
Being invited to a party with no warning that your arch-nemesis will be attending.
Thanks for the warning! I'm now glad I decided that falling asleep on the couch at 4:30 was a better idea than getting dolled up for an exercise in humiliation (more likely to be his, obviously, as I'm a lot more of a grown-up than he is and far less likely to try to cause a scene... but meh).
Consider all future RSVP's to your shindigs an automatic, 'Fuck no. I've got a date with some toenail clippers and YouPorn.'
Thanks for the warning! I'm now glad I decided that falling asleep on the couch at 4:30 was a better idea than getting dolled up for an exercise in humiliation (more likely to be his, obviously, as I'm a lot more of a grown-up than he is and far less likely to try to cause a scene... but meh).
Consider all future RSVP's to your shindigs an automatic, 'Fuck no. I've got a date with some toenail clippers and YouPorn.'
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Just a typical Gen Y!
I WANT IT ALL, NOW!
Okay, so I have *nearly* everything. Just not a billionaire uncle who has no immediate family and leaves me all his riches when he goes (well, he can't take it with him, can he?).
But I want my new couch, and I want it yesterday!
The Boss and I braved the bogan wilds of Rockbunghole this morning to visit Super A-Mart in search of a new lounge suite.
Mistake #1: Trying to hide major purchases from my parents, and opting to take the children.
This one's obvious. Children hate sitting still for over an hour, especially if there's nothing Dora-, Wiggles- or Hi-5-themed to keep them amused. Put one child in stroller, another in underpants when we know there's no toilets within a 20-second sprint, add a couple of fruit bars and spotlessly clean leather lounge suites arranged tastefully... you have a recipe for disaster.
Of course, they did exactly what I expected them to, and hoped they wouldn't. Jumped all over every couch they saw (and REFUSED to get down if it was white), smeared mushy fruit bar filling (apple, so at least a *little* less stainy than blueberry?) all over microfibre ones (well, that'll teach them to rort an extra $200 out of suspecting customers for Scotchguarding), and threatened to smash every tasteful (read: fragile) decoration placed strategically on low-line coffee tables throughout the warehouse.
And it goes without saying that they conveniently left their 'indoor voices' at home this morning. Pretty sure the girl we spoke to about financing a suite was coming very close to strangling Squirtle with the string attached to her wrist at one end, and a helium balloon at the other.
(May I add, the balloon was REALLY handy for keeping track of her when I turned my back for a split second and lost her amongst plush lounges. 'Oh, yep, she's over near the outdoor settings. Go grab her will you, honey, while I surreptitiously put my feet up on this couch to test it?')
So, in the end, we chose our new lounge suite. Consisting of a 2-seater couch and two recliners. Did I mention the couch has two inbuilt recliners? Oh lord. If only it were available in red, like the leather recliner set that was my second preference (only due to the fact that it was $300 more costly, and I just spent that on tickets to go see Rihanna next year).
And then, the kicker: 'Sorry, we have none in stock at the moment. You can expect it to arrive in October, or go with the leather set.'
This displeases me. It displeases me greatly. I'm the kind of person who will pay $200 for a pair of shoes when I could get the exact same pair for $50 on eBay, but I just can't wait for them to be delivered. I want my couches. I want them on Thursday (delivery day). Not Thursday 6 weeks away!
But...
I suppose it is something to look forward to. Although the overanalytical imbecile in me now regrets the saving and thinks we should have gone with the red leather suite, just so I could be at Pillow Talk first thing tomorrow finding new curtains to match, instead of trying to work our current blue curtains into a colour scheme with 'Raisin'.
Waaah.
Where's that billionaire uncle? I need to just hire an interior decorator and wash my hands of the whole ordeal.
Okay, so I have *nearly* everything. Just not a billionaire uncle who has no immediate family and leaves me all his riches when he goes (well, he can't take it with him, can he?).
But I want my new couch, and I want it yesterday!
The Boss and I braved the bogan wilds of Rockbunghole this morning to visit Super A-Mart in search of a new lounge suite.
Mistake #1: Trying to hide major purchases from my parents, and opting to take the children.
This one's obvious. Children hate sitting still for over an hour, especially if there's nothing Dora-, Wiggles- or Hi-5-themed to keep them amused. Put one child in stroller, another in underpants when we know there's no toilets within a 20-second sprint, add a couple of fruit bars and spotlessly clean leather lounge suites arranged tastefully... you have a recipe for disaster.
Of course, they did exactly what I expected them to, and hoped they wouldn't. Jumped all over every couch they saw (and REFUSED to get down if it was white), smeared mushy fruit bar filling (apple, so at least a *little* less stainy than blueberry?) all over microfibre ones (well, that'll teach them to rort an extra $200 out of suspecting customers for Scotchguarding), and threatened to smash every tasteful (read: fragile) decoration placed strategically on low-line coffee tables throughout the warehouse.
And it goes without saying that they conveniently left their 'indoor voices' at home this morning. Pretty sure the girl we spoke to about financing a suite was coming very close to strangling Squirtle with the string attached to her wrist at one end, and a helium balloon at the other.
(May I add, the balloon was REALLY handy for keeping track of her when I turned my back for a split second and lost her amongst plush lounges. 'Oh, yep, she's over near the outdoor settings. Go grab her will you, honey, while I surreptitiously put my feet up on this couch to test it?')
So, in the end, we chose our new lounge suite. Consisting of a 2-seater couch and two recliners. Did I mention the couch has two inbuilt recliners? Oh lord. If only it were available in red, like the leather recliner set that was my second preference (only due to the fact that it was $300 more costly, and I just spent that on tickets to go see Rihanna next year).
And then, the kicker: 'Sorry, we have none in stock at the moment. You can expect it to arrive in October, or go with the leather set.'
This displeases me. It displeases me greatly. I'm the kind of person who will pay $200 for a pair of shoes when I could get the exact same pair for $50 on eBay, but I just can't wait for them to be delivered. I want my couches. I want them on Thursday (delivery day). Not Thursday 6 weeks away!
But...
I suppose it is something to look forward to. Although the overanalytical imbecile in me now regrets the saving and thinks we should have gone with the red leather suite, just so I could be at Pillow Talk first thing tomorrow finding new curtains to match, instead of trying to work our current blue curtains into a colour scheme with 'Raisin'.
Waaah.
Where's that billionaire uncle? I need to just hire an interior decorator and wash my hands of the whole ordeal.
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