AUDREY AND THE BAD APPLES

eat our dust

2008-05-08T16:28:00.005+09:30

After rigorously planning a trip to Melbourne with my Swedish Wife's sister, we were aghast to discover yesterday I'd gotten the flight times wrong. Sadly, this is not unlike me. I dream of a day (as do my best friends, family, past and future lovers, workmates, anyone who ever requires anything from me at any point in time, ever) when my brain finally accepts that maintaining a diary will probably lead to more effective life management than simply looking at times, dates and appointments and repeating them once in my head.

Disaster loomed as the cost of the next available flights entered the triple digits. Regardless of how desperate I was to return to my spiritual homeland, I wasn't paying $600 for the privilege (and that would be $300 for J too, as it was my woeful planning that got us in the situation in the first place).

It took approximately 15 seconds between us to decide to hire a car and speed off into the distant horizon. We are young and free and wild and we do what we like.

After a series of adventures involving a girl mourning her father in Kaniva, fashioning ashtrays out of old donated XXXX cans in Tailem Bend (thanks TB pub), getting navigation advice from a hilariously odd yet mutually supportive double act of truck drivers, and choosing the inappropriate time of 10pm while on a lonely stretch of pitch black highway to say, "Hey J, have you seen Wolf Creek?", we finally pulled into Ballarat after an 8 hour drive and turned down the street towards our motel which was located just behind a railway crossing.

A railway crossing that quickly revealed itself to be stuck on the 'train coming' setting.

We could see the hotel right there, not 20 metres away! And there we were, 8 hours into an impromtu drive, stuck behind an impenetrable fortress of heavy bars and flashing lights...

We had to navigate Ballarat for about half an hour before we figured out how to get around it, and when we finally parked in front of the old Eastern Station Hotel, the fracking lights were still set to "Jacqueline du Pres". And wouldn't you know, our hotel room overlooked the whole thing.

Needless to say, we drank ourselves into a stupor and watched while the poor railway worker who'd been called out from his bed in the middle of a freezing night scrabbled around with knobs and switches and finally put the whole thing to bed. I did applaud, but I'm not sure he heard.

So now we're in Melbourne and I'm sitting in an internet cafe on Flinders St. It's good to be back.

Peace out (my apologies to Melbournite pals and chums I've forgotten to notify of my presence. As you can see, I've not even the foresight to notify myself of the ins and outs of my plans. please call.)

Samantha Brett strikes (my brain) again

2008-05-06T16:53:00.006+09:30

While you're all busy going about your days, paying your bills and nattering about Handsome Guttermouth Ramsey over the watercooler, a covert resistance organisation taps away with determination and an almost peculiar obsession with all things infuriating.

All day long they sit hunched over their desks, firing back and forth missives and angry tirades with surprising regularity and not just a little stirring passion.

We are the Australian Feminazi League. You'll find us wherever sexism stalks freely through the media. Our recycle bins are where misogynistic articles, captions and newspaper headlines go to die.

Jesting aside, I spend a good deal of every work day writing hundreds of emails back and forth with my fellow man-hating feminasty pasties petstarr, mtk, nai and the book editor. In this way, we've waxed lyrical about panic station articles about celebrity cellulite, alpha male syndrome in Big Brother, Sam ~~Fuckwit~~ Newman and various unintelligible (not to mention illiterate) bigots that visit News Ltd message boards with more frequency than the aforementioned Fuckwit makes a dick out of himself.

All this would explain why I spent approximately three hours today wondering how it is that the quite obviously intellectually challenged Samantha Brett has a regular column for a well respected newspaper. More importantly, is the insane amount of commentors (or 'bloggers' as she refers to them, which is kind of like an author at a writers' festival referring to all those who ask her questions as 'writers') she has an indication that Australians have more or less sold their brains to science for the staggeringly low reimbursement of 'sucked in'?

I despair.

This week, Samantha tackles the highly original topic of how we women are PRACTICALLY the same as Ms Bridget Jones, and in fact her Sex and the City lifestyle has done nothing but damage our own prospects of finding True Love.

Taking her cues from a turgid article written in that bastion of journalistic excellence the UK's Daily Fail, Brett ponders whether or not author Gareth Sibson's theory is correct - that women these days are boring, talk too much about work and are determined to appear sexually dominant just so men will find them attractive.

Sibson's problem seems to be that in the last three years of dating, he's never managed to make it past three dates with any woman because apparently all they want to do is talk about themselves while ascertaining whether or not he's willing to commit to marriage down the track. This is especially vexing for Sibson, as at the same time they've tricked him into thinking they're independent and strong willed.

He illustrates this by ~~making something up and pretending it happened~~ recounting an incident where, waiting for a woman for their third date, he snooped through her notebook and found something shocking:

"What I saw scrawled across the page in a rather childish hand summed up everything about the emotional insecurity of single women today. There, in blue ink, she'd repeatedly written her first name and my surname. This was a woman who had talked nonstop about her career and her independent life from the minute we met."

my emphasis

Never mind the gross invasion of privacy (for which he seems to congratulate rather than admonish himself for - what a catch...) - was I the only one who felt slightly ill when reading the words 'rather childish hand'? So not only is she a potential bunny boiler, she's also been infantilised. Great. In response, Brett comes out with this pearler:

"As could be predicted, instead of Sibson finding her scribblings incredibly flattering, cute and endearing (as most women would do if the situation was reversed, although we all know George Clooney would have kids before that ever happened), he saw it as a sign of desperation."

my emphasis

I don't know about you, but I don't actually get off on the idea that someone might be scrawling my name all over their diary after three dates. I certainly don't find it 'cute' or 'endearing'. But then, if 'most women' are supposed to be like Brett then this is hardly surprising.

Sibson's argument is really too ridiculous to even bother deconstructing. Suffice it to say, he continues to write for ~~a million years~~ far too long about the lack of complexity in modern women and how their real problem is that they've bought the pop culture furphy of the independent lady hook, line and sinker and morphed into...wait for it...Bridget Clones.

Get it? See what he did there? He made a pun! About Bridget Jones! You know, our leader! The woman we all want to grow up to be!

Colour me unsurprised that Brett chose to write about Sibson's quandary and didn't rattle off a treatise on how not only has everything he's written been said before in a million different ways, but it's still bullshit. Instead, she considered the matter carefully before agreeing that yes, he was probably right. How did she know?

"Sadly, while we modern women think of ourselves as sexually liberated femme fatales who shouldn't be afraid to speak our minds, apparently we've gone a little overboard and ventured right into boring-banter territory. (I noticed this on my last date while I was passionately talking about work to which the gent turned around and said; "Okay, I'm not really interested. Can we change the topic?" Ouch.)"

Yes. 'Ouch'.

One swift and frankly rude comment did not lead Brett to think that her date was a dick of the highest degree; it led her to accept Sibson's fantasy that all women are boring and have lost sight on how exactly we go about charming and 'snaring' a man.

"So where did we all go horribly wrong? Is it the fault of Sex and the City? Have we gotten worse with all the encouragement we get from the four independent ladies who don't have qualms about analysing oral sex over egg-white omelettes and fruit salads? Have we made a detour away from true independence and into making desperate attempts to come across as spanking-mad nymphomaniacs in attempt to impress our Mr Bigs?"

And this was where my standard withering disregard for Brett crossed over into the kind of passionate hatred reserved primarily for alpha male fuckwits on Big Brother. The only thing worse than her acceptance that women HAVE gone horribly wrong is her utterly yawnsome use of that old chestnut oft quoted in boring articles about unhappy women unable to find husbands: Sex and the City.

As I furiously typed to the AFL today, will we EVER reach a fucking day when the role models available to women expand beyond Bridget Fucking Jones and the Sex and the City gals? Not only are they all completely different, they're employed as terms of reference to make women feel two things: inadequate and ridiculous. What these articles say to us is that women are trying so desperately to be the chic, well dressed superstars who click clack down the streets of Manhattan sipping cocktails and having wild sex with attractive men - but who they actually are is the sad, socially awkward embarrassment and resident frump that is Bridget Jones.

Papers aren't even trying to make a distinction anymore. Check out this pointer from The Age's website:

If they're going to insist on always conflating Bridget Jones and SITC with the antics of real women, could they at least occasionally make the captions and the pictures line up?

Apparently, there really CAN be more to say on a topic that has been so done to death it's crossed over into farce and is currently being propped up by Andrew McCarthy and Jonathon Silverman at a party somewhere in Miami. You just know that editors are like, " We don't WANT to hear about the wonderful inventions being patented by female scientists in the field of medical research! No one CARES about the lives of women who married Indian men during the Raj and how this was a brave decision given the social mores of the time! Teenage film makers? Female activists? Pah! Write something about how women are still throwing their lives down the toilet in an embarrassing metaphorical morning-after-too-many-cosmos puke because they're trying to live like Carrie but just can't get their shit together enough to not be like Bridget. PEOPLE UNDERSTAND THAT."

Gareth Sibson's original article contained the level of casual research and made up scenarios masquerading as scientific research that I've come to expect from the Daily Fail (and let's be clear - it's articles like these and NOT comprehensive research that create supposed social trends like 'urbane tomboy' and 'metrosexuals' and as a result subtly urge the world to fit into the labels). Sibson goes on some bad dates and thus decides that not only are all modern women crap, they're deliberately crap and more than a little bit pathetic.

If I were to resort to the same kind of generalised stereotypes and predictable falsities trumpeted by pop culture articles, I might suggest that the reality of his luckless dating record is quite different to what he believes. That it is entirely possible these women have found him so utterly boring, so charmless, so uninspiring that the thought of going on another date with him is nauseating - but not wanting to be rude, they've constructed elaborate personalities designed to freak him out and send him running. A random straw poll amongst carefully chosen people would support the premise that women are kindly creatures and wary of bruising a man's delicate ago, yet understand intimately that all men are terrified of commitment and will run for the hills at the mere mention of marriage. It would be just as accurate and as believable to the undiscerning eye as the balderdash he's regurgitated.

But Samantha Brett, a supposedly savvy woman who should know better? She takes his article and does what is so completely predictable of her.

Namely, writes one that is even worse.

Peace out (written in a childish scrawl.)

Q: What is a noop?

2008-05-05T14:05:00.005+09:30

As sometimes happens, I had to summon the fortitude to crawl out of my cosy flannalette sheets (my bed just screams carnality, no?) at the obscenely early hour of 5am this morning so that I might go and sit in a cubicle and listen to endless talkback calls about the river and proposed anti association laws for bikies (plus one particularly stupid news item about a doctor who thinks young healthful types ought to be allowed to sell their kidneys). Don't pull a muscle envying me too much, there.

But despite the brutally early start, I willingly ensconsed myself last night in the most beautiful home or my even beautiful-er friends Maddy and Nathan to indulge in a spirited game of the universe's supremo boardgame.

Absolute Balderdash. Or "Absolute Brilliance" as one might justifiably call it.

With bff mtk snuggled next to me on the couch and all the stoners in the room (them: joints + me = paranoid wreck) heightening their abstract creativity, we were off in a mad race to trick, deceive and gallop towards the board's end.

For those who haven't ~~lived~~ played, Absolute Balderdash is quite simply more fun than a hatful of mischievous monkeys. Basically, there are five categories: word, person, acronym, movie and date. The dasher (board game geek speak for person wot turn it is) selects the category she thinks she can fool the most people with and then reads out the word, title, initials etc. Everyone else then writes the word/s down along with a definition they think THEY can fool all the other players with. Dasher then reads the answers out (about a million times each if the dasher is Nathan) and then everyone guesses. Points are awarded based on how many people you fool, if you guess the correct answer, and if no one guesses the correct answer. Hilarity ensues, and people try desperately not to die from 'ribzuka' (which last night was potentially a disorder whereby people suffer internal bleeding from excessive, impossible-to-stop laughter).

It. Is. Awesome.

Where else could you learn that the word 'extispicey' is not actually a term employed by Hollywood studios in the 1960s to describe the desired performance from actors when playing Asian characters, but rather the practice of fortune telling through examining the organs of animals that have been struck by lightening?

You'd be ignorant of the fact that 'Crazy Fat Ethel II' is not a stirring silent film about two brothers' attempts to build a build a hot air balloon so strong it can take them to the moon, but instead the sequel to Crazy Fat Ethel I about an obese mental woman who is so hungry she goes on a murderous people eating rampage - or that said sequel is so bad, it's actually mostly just flashbacks filmed pirate style from a TV playing the original.

That acrynym 'P.O.C.O' does not stand for Psychic Octogenarian Conspiracy Operatives, but in fact Physiology Of Chimpanzees in Orbit?

And you certainly would never, at the end of the game when everyone is tired and too mellow from wacky cigarettes and wants the game to be over because they've plundered their best material and are working with nothing, have the supreme enjoyment that comes from asking for a brief synopsis of the film Girl In My Pocket and inspires the following:

"Film: Pussy In The Snake-Den.

A scientific experiment goes horribly wrong. A story about searching."

- Nathan"

I practically died from Ribzuka on the spot.

Peace out (for larks and giggles, get thee to a Target and pick up your very own copy. You need never leave the house again!)

Do you have a permit for that jumper?

2008-05-02T17:54:00.013+09:30

Not 15 minutes ago, I was strolling through Rundle Mall with bike in tow when I passed one of the requisite gaggles of girls clad in all the tell tale marks of Private School: tartan skirts, rolled sleeves, dishevelled-yet-cute-in-a-pretty-teenage-girl-sort-of-way hair capped with a ribbon, impossibly clear skin...you know the sort. One of them was wearing a jumper, her tie poking out and bobbing up and down with their laughter.

As I pass by, they're approached by a girl who is obviously older, if her general air of unconscious superiority is anything to go by. She looks exactly the same, except she's wearing the after school uniform of skinny jeans and long cardigan. She's got an apologetic smile on her face, as if she's about to do something she really doesn't want to do but it Must Be Done. The girls obviously know her and more to the point, they seem to know what she's about to do...

"Hiiiiiiiiii! Yeah, I'm reaaaaaallllly sorry (smile smile, perfect white teeth) but I'm going to have to ask you to take your jumper off...!! (smile smile, apologetic eyes, revelling in the power)...yeah, I know....I'm sorry!!!!!!!!!"

To which Jumper Girl obliges, looking apologetic back.

Meanwhile, I'm like WTFF? It took me a moment to remember, but then it all came flooding back...

Prefects. They can make you do shit after school. Like pick up rubbish or stay behind to, I don't know, watch the library or something. Or take off your freakin' jumper because wearing it without a blazer is AGAINST SCHOOL RULES!

And I thought to myself, Self - I am so fucking glad high school is over. Because back then, shit like that seemed normal. Especially since my school had this complicated system of Survivor-like leadership tiers which basically saw a third of the year 11s and half of the year 12s given some kind of authority to hand out detentions, lines and make you take your fucking jumper off in public.

Peace out (sorrrrrrrry!!!!! I know, it sucks, but I have to do it because otherwise the entire world will collllllaaaaaaaaaaapse in on itself like one gigantic ode to irony!!!!!)

Home, home on the Grange

2008-05-01T14:58:00.004+09:30

One of the big news items in little old SA today is the release of Penfolds new Grange. Retailing at around $550 a bottle, it's probably not the kind of thing you'd BYO to one of the cheap yet cheerful gut busting Chinese kitchens me and my ilk like to frequent. At that price, I'd probably save it for one of the many ritual male sacrifices held by my Ladies Feminist Foxilliary Club every third full moon (three for each point of the holy vagina). After smearing our menstrual blood all over the defiled carcass of whichever hapless schmuck we'd chosen to hold accountable to all the sins of the patriarchy that particular night, we could pop the cork on a bit of expensive red and congratulate ourselves on being crazy. Which is just like any other Feminasty Friday Full Moon really.

But I digress.

Matthew Abraham and David Bevan invited callers this morning to share their own memories of Grange Hermitage. The following two stories leapt out from the radio waves and pierced me straight through the heart. Truly, there is nothing more depressing than what you are about to read...Consider this your warning.

"Caller Robert shares his Grange story. Way back in 1978 he used to look at various wines a lot. He could not buy much wine then, but he could buy a lot of Grange at about $10 or $12 a bottle. In 1979, the news report came in that the Grange 1971 had won the National Wine Olympiad. He knew where he could get this particular wine cheaply so he picked up ten bottles of the Grange 1971 in Hobart for about $12 each. He also knew that when he returned to Geelong, he could buy them at the supermarket for $8. Robert explains that a bottle of Grange 1971 today would sell for around $1000. After he bought his wine, he drank one bottle and gave a bottle to another friend before storing the rest. But in 1984, tragedy struck when his car broke down and needed a new engine. He sold the Grange bottles to replace his car and was really happy because he got $30 a bottle for them. Alas, Robert says he has never been happy since."

Heartbreaking.

But then there's Min:

"Caller Min owns a holiday house in Victor Harbor where she and her partner keep their wine. Some time ago, they had a phone call from the police saying they had been burgled. When they went down, their wine cellar had been plundered and nearly all the wine was stolen. The policeman who had interviewed them was a red wine drinker and he was beside himself to hear the Grange Hermitage wine was gone. Weeks later, they found out where the burglar lived and discovered him with two half empty bottles of 1991 Grange. The policeman asked him why he hadn't finished them, puzzled. The burglar said he didn't like them and so had been drinking them mixed with Woodcroft's lemonade. "

*cries*

Funnier though was when Abraham and Bevan mused on what exactly Grange mixed with lemonade would taste like. After reflection, they decided on cold duck.

Peace out (while sighing at how I have gotten into the unbreakable pattern of drinking cask wine at the pub)

* Hey, some people have knitting clubs.

That same old chestnut

2008-04-28T23:15:00.008+09:30

Oy gevalt, there aren't many things a weekend away in the country won't fix. After trundling up to the Yorke Peninsula with mtk and nai, I feel a little like an Oompa Loompa. This could be because I ate enough to satisfy three pregnant women for the duration of their gestations while working extremely hard to stain my skin from the inside out with copious amounts of merlot.

Saturday was a bit of a fizzer as I made the ladies follow me around while I tried to charm a local into letting me use their internet. I had to post my Sunday Mail blog you see, and it hadn't occurred to me that it might be a wise idea to do this BEFORE I set out on an eating weekend. Memo to self: be better at doing shit on time.

Eventually, the kindly folk at the Warooka pub allowed me access to their very private computer while the chef looked on over my shoulder to check I didn't steal any of the giant wads of cash lying about the place. Meanwhile, my amigos sat out front and indulged in glasses of house wine that were dispensed from upside down bottles the size of scuba diving tanks. For realsies. I know who had the better end of the deal.

I urge you all to check out said blog from yesterday. It's all about why I love being one of them lesbo socialist feminasties. The (endless) comments from some faceless person called 'Gender Irrelevant' (and it really is irrelevant - either way, our faceless friend is a douchebag) are worth the clicking trip alone. It never ceases to amaze me how many people are prepared to write off your opinion as bullshit based purely on the fact you're younger than them. Also, how many will insist that all feminists hate men even though you are a living, breathing one standing right in front of them telling them the complete opposite is true and in fact if you could find a man to love right now (in the biblical sense) you would be very well pleased indeed. SIGH.

In other news, here is my hard copy column from yesterday. I'm interested to hear what you think about the comments. For the record, with the exception of Patricia's, I find them certifiably ridiculous.

---------------

Sunday Mail

27/04/2008

I KNOW what it's like to lose a parent at a young age. I could sit here and wax lyrically for hours about the endless questions, self doubt, frustration, grief and recrimination that are gifted to you through death.

I could paint for you a perfect picture of the static emptiness that comes from knowing you'll never touch your loved one again, or hear their voice, or kiss them on the cheek, or smell that identifiable scent that has been your safekeeping since birth.

But all that can be easily summed up in five words:

It. Feels. Like. Utter. Shit.*

So I find it hard to understand how someone would bring a child into the world knowing death is lurking ever closer.

I had difficulty articulating my feelings last week when I read that celebrated former broadcaster Philip Satchell's wife Cecily had given birth to a child. Jemimah is spectacularly beautiful, and by all accounts Cecily will make a great mother. But at age 70, Satchell's attitude seemed to me dismissive of the trauma Jemimah will face when her father inevitably dies long before any parent should.

I understand the inclination Cecily had to create a child with the man she loves. As we well know, rational considerations often take a backseat when love and babies are involved.

And after all, the age of first-time parents is climbing across the board throughout Australia. They're certainly not bucking any trends. But just as we discourage 12-year-olds from having children, surely there has to be a reasonable cut-off point in the autumnal years where it's really just a bit irresponsible to be donning your parent hat?

It could just be the leftover pangs of anger associated with the death of my mother talking, but I feel an absurd rage that Satchell, by his own admission, was the one who suggested Cecily have a baby even though he knew he wouldn't "have much time with (her)".

There was no understanding in his comment as to how much time his daughter would have with him.

There are issues of ethics that must come into consideration when having a child. Is it fair to knowingly consign your child to eventual life in a one-parent family because your death is imminent?

At an age when the risk of developing degenerative diseases like Alzheimer's and senile dementia is elevated, can you really say you are taking the best considerations of your potential child into account?

If Satchell were to suffer a debilitating illness tomorrow, his wife would be left with a newborn baby and a husband who might require round-the-clock care. While you can never predict what bucket of mud life might throw in your face, there are some situations where we might reasonably predict that the odds are not exactly in our favour.

YET I've heard very little criticism of Satchell, and I can't help but think it has to do with our attitudes towards parenting.

When Adriana Iliescu became a mother a few years ago at the age of 67, most people (including myself) expressed abject horror.

I imagine this is because mothers are innately expected to be the "real" parent (i.e. sacrifice their lives for their children).

Dads are allowed to get away with the simpler things, like playing with the kids or pushing the pram occasionally.

But the role of a father is so much more important than people acknowledge. I passionately believe that females need strong, positive male role models in their lives who can act as a blueprint for the kinds of men they might one day have their own children with.

While I've no doubt Satchell and Cecily will shower Jemimah with love and attention, I think there's a tinge of sadness and irresponsibility here that shouldn't be ignored.

Every child has the right to believe their parents will live forever – and telling them otherwise won't lessen the gut-wrenching pain when it becomes all too apparent that's not the case.

-------------

And here's what tracey nelson of adelaide had to say about that:

How dare you confuse your own grief over your father's passing with the joy Phillip Satchell and his wife are currently experiencing with the birth of their daughter. I am 49 and have a three year old, my husband is 59. After many years on IVF we gave up hope and discovered ten days after my own father's death that I was pregnant. Do the math and you will see that I conceived at the very time of my dad's death. We will forever cherish our darling Esther but are very much aware that my husband's time with her is limited. She is a gift, just as this other baby is. You have no right to tinge their joy with your clouded judgement over the sudden and sad loss of your own father. As you see from my experience my father's sudden loss brought great joy to others. Some opinions can be expressed and should be expressed as that is our right, but I think the way you have personalised this to one couple is unfortunate. At 26 you really do need more life experience to make those sorts of enormous judgement calls. You are too young to appreciate that you grab joy when it presents, no matter what form it takes and no matter what possible pain it might cause. My father lives on because of the gift I believe he gave me (in my daughter). You should not make judgements based on your own grief (as sad as this is). Age makes people better arbiters of their own fate than 26 year old columnists.
Posted by: tracey nelson of adelaide 10:25pm April 27, 2008

a) Father?

b) How would tracey feel if Philip was actually 'Phillipa'? My guess is she wouldn't be quite as supportive.

c) The old life experience chestnut again! I cannot possibly know anything because I was only hatched yesterday and still have a bug for a brain. I think I love that almost as much as the endless comments about how I love having abortions.

Thoughts?

Peace out (and do head to my news ltd blog and leave a comment. it's so nice to read reason amongst blatant examples of how people don't read the text properly...)

* This appeared in print as "Misery". But "Shit" is more apt.

PS: How good does Big Brother look this year? I'm not even joking.

Moral panic 'boring, predictable'.

2008-04-23T23:56:00.003+09:30

Snap.

And I'm back.

After a little absence it seems only appropriate that I launch straight back into 'the fold' with one of those lesbian-pinko-socialist posts you know I'm so fond of. What can I say? I is what I is.

As you know, in addition to being paid to deliver obnoxious and divisive opinions on a weekly basis, I work as a media monitor. This means I get to listen to largely right wing talk back shows while shaking my fist in the air with rage. One such show is 5AA's Chris Kenny, former Chief of Staff to Alexander Downer, aka everybody's favourite has-been.

Despite spluttering angrily about the fact that people take climate change seriously (it's a big lie apparently - Kenny obviously got his Diploma in Science from the University of Opposite Day), Kenny is a fan of taking other alarmist articles and discussing them as if they're fact.

Observe the following summary:

"Kenny talks about a major survey conducted by the Australian Woman's Weekly magazine. Deputy Editor Jo Wiles joins Kenny. The survey involves almost 15,000 women aged 20 and above. Some of the major findings were that Aust'n women are stressed, unhappy with their looks and increasingly seeking solace in alcohol and drugs. Kenny says this is disturbing. Wiles says the worrying evidence is that women are putting their health at risk. She says one in five women avoid looking in mirrors. One in ten women turn to prescription medication to lose weight. Kenny asks how the respondents were selected. Wiles says last November an incredibly comprehensive survey was run in the magazine. Wiles says the AWW is a replica of the Aust'n population at large. They have readers of all ages and demographics. They discuss how frightening it is how many women are drinking and smoking to alleviate stress. Wiles says the new issue has coverage of Catriona Rowntree's wedding and how the first lady of France has managed to seduce the British public and the Royals."

The survey in question spawned this syndicated article, my favourite headline of which was:

"Aussie women, 'drunk, confused'"

In the interests of keeping journalists accountable, let's do a little checklist to make sure they've paid to strict attention to the memo that should be thumbtacked above their desks: Making Women Feel Stupid: If We Don't Do It, Who Will?

"Most Australian women drink too much and feel bad about their weight, with some so troubled they avoid mirrors, a survey has found.

- Be deliberately vague about actual numbers in your opening paragraph. It's far catchier to imply large tribes of women are engaged in moronic activity than to honestly admit it's only a small percentage, some of the time. CHECK.

They are stressed, confused about diet and don't exercise enough, an Australian Women's Weekly survey of 15,000 women has found.

- Walk the fine line between concern and accusation. You want to make women seem incapable, but you don't want to blatantly label them retarded. We find words like 'confused' and 'clueless' achieve the desired effect of making them seem completely unable to care for themselves (the lost darlings) while not seeming too mean. They're the div kids remember, and no one likes a bully. CHECK.

"The worrying evidence is that women are putting their health at risk," says Deborah Thomas, the magazine's editorial director.

- Remember: Concern first, criticism later. We want them to think this is coming from a place of love. CHECK.

Only one in six women were happy with their weight, the survey found.

One in five had such a poor body image they avoided mirrors and 45 per cent would have cosmetic surgery if they could afford it.

- Fail to acknowledge that said 'evidence' comes from multiple choice questions and hence has parameters that are not only restrictive but completely unable to reflect the nuances and changeable nature of a woman's complex self image. It's irrelevant if they only sometimes avoid looking in mirrors if they have, say, their period and are feeling fat or they're having a bad hair day or they just don't give a flying fuck WHAT they look like on a particular given day. The key here is rounding up. If you've avoided one mirror, you've avoided them all. CHECK.

More than a quarter of the women were confused about what constituted a healthy diet, and 26 per cent failed to eat vegetables every day.

Women weren't getting enough exercise - only 45 per cent exercised for 30 minutes or more at least three times a week.

- Quit playing the concerned mother type. It's time for some tough love. Highlight their shortcomings. Identify activities that are desirable in a fully formed, responsible, attractive and successful woman. Then shine the flashlight on all those schleppers dropping the ball so they can sit on their fat asses. CHECK.

Daily drinking, mostly to ease stress or unwind, has declined among women - 16 per cent now drink every day, down from 19 per cent in 1980.

But binge drinking appeared to be rife, with a third drinking too much and one in five women admitting she had been told she had a drinking problem.

Few of the women smoked, just 18 per cent, but most were happy to continue, partly to help with stress.

- Exaggerate the social concerns of the day. For example, people in Australia are very worried about binge drinking because it's a social ill and causes liver disease, violence and dependency. But they're especially worried about women binge drinking, because it turns them into unladylike sluts who get blind drunk and have sex with men so they can accuse them of rape and ruin their lives. Even though these figures are comparable to male levels of binge drinking and are possibly even lower, it won't be necessary to mention this because everyone knows men are inherently more capable of making responsible choices. This is mainly because they don't have the confusion gene that affects women. Also, even low statistics can be used to make women look bad if you manipulate them to suggest prevailing devil-may-care attitudes. CHECK.

When it came to ageing, more women - 62 per cent - were worried about getting Alzheimers disease, than their partners dying - 57 per cent.

Other big fears were losing touch with children and deteriorating health.

- Insert the boring facts at the end. People will feel so outraged/worried/superior about all the made up bullshit they've just read that they won't care about the genuine concerns women have, like death, mental deterioration or the welfare of their families. Snooze! CHECK.

Nine per cent of the women had tried cosmetic surgery - but one in 10 of them said it wasn't worth either the money or the pain.

- Mention cosmetic surgery. It highlights how vain women are. Confuse readers by mixing statistical modes of reference so eventually the only thing they know they can definitely believe is that 9 out of 10 women have had cosmetic surgery at some stage, and only 1 said it wasn't worth it. CHECK.

The survey also found most women had been depressed at some stage, with one in 10 currently depressed."

- Reinforce the message. If they weren't depressed before reading the article, make sure as shit they're depressed afterwards. Thus, the natural order is restored. CHECK.

And even though this article was a vacuous black hole of substance from start to finish, it still doesn't surprise me that news outlets voraciously gobbled up that hokum about the binge drinking. Women are worried about Alzheimer's, their children, their partners dying, the constant pressure to be beautiful, thin and capable? Incidental! We know what the real story is here!

"Australian women 'drunk, confused'."

Peace out (I'm off to smash a few mirrors)

Sunday blogging

2008-04-20T13:00:00.002+09:30

Hey y'all. I made a video for my Sunday mail blog today. Watch me strut my stuff around town here.

Also, Seinfeld is very funny. What a funny show! That was a good decade.

Maybe it's early onset menopause...

2008-04-17T23:50:00.007+09:30

It might just be the full moon, but I seem to have had my period all in reverse this month. The communists sojourned quite happily in the summer house and left with as little ceremony as they arrived. It was only then that my strange body saw fit to notify me of their presence. For the past three days (all of them curse-free) I've traveled the gamut of widely recognised period related activities.

Monday: felt jittery and nervous

Tuesday: recognised the desire to burst into tears at the slightest provocation - seriously, I was walking down the mall listening to Disney's Greatest Hits (musical geek, front row centre) and I almost started crying during 'Colours Of The Wind'. Yes! Yes! We ARE all connected to each other! We CAN paint with all the colours of the wind!

Wednesday/Thursday: I became obsessed with eating everything sweet and/or salty within reaching distance. I must have devoured my left leg's weight of cashew nuts tonight. It's out of control.

Perhaps that's why I've been so incapable of writing this past week? Stop fucking with me, body!

Honestly, I understand that *I'm* lax and irresponsible when it comes to remembering and preparing for appointments - I would never have guessed such vague headedness extended to my hormones as well. Obviously, they need to start writing lists. Or at least covering their tracks a little better.

Pull your socks up menstrual cycle! This is not like freelance writing! You can't just put a star next to your emails and try to convince yourself later that this small concession to activity means everything's trucking along smoothly.

Luckily, such feelings allow one to indulge in activities like pouring your salt ravaged body onto the couch and drooling over handsome men in romantic films you've seen billions of times already.

I declare to you thusly, The Notebook is officially the best film ever. Why o why does Noah Calhoun not exist in real life? HE BUILT HER A FRAKKING HOUSE PEOPLE.

But I was really sad to ~~discover while trawling the trivia pages of both Gosling and The Notebook's respective IMDb pages~~ hear that Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams split up last year. They were so adorable together. If those two kids couldn't make it work, what hope do the rest of us have?

See? Upside down hormones.

It must have been this befuddled mind that led me to purchase stamps on RSVP tonight. I resisted it for so long, but it actually made me feel quite liberated to initiate whimsical emails to two attractive gentleman living yonder across state lines. And yes, one of them was this lad. I am happy to report almost immediate success in response. Who knew it would be so easy?

Peace out (please o please will someone give me back my blogging mojo? This shit is getting embarrassing...)

PS Be sure to check out my Sunday mail blog this week. I made me a fillum today (or rather, I walked around and talked my face off while Harry recorded, directed and then edited the footage into some semblance of excellence) to vlog the bejeezus out of the Sunday crowd. Breaking down fourth walls is what I'm all about.

Girls more awesome than me right now

2008-04-15T10:55:00.009+09:30

Writer's blogk is refusing to leave me. I think it might be the reason I've been having strange dreams about orphan children being left on my doorstop, bodily functions gone mad and boats sailing across angry oceans. On the other hand, it could be because I'm desperate for a little sugar.

Sigh.

So until I get my mojo back, please accept this link to an article that will simultaneously crush your heart with hopeless sadness yet lift it to the skies in buoyant optimism.

I can't even begin to comprehend how brave this little girl is, and how awful the system (however grassroots in terms of the fact it was sanctioned by her parents) that allowed this to happen to her in the first place.

UPDATE: Case resolved.

"I am happy that I am divorced now. I will be able to go back to school," Nojud Mohammed Ali said, after a public hearing in Sanaa's Court of First Instance.

Maximum awesome. But extremely sad when we have confirmation from her abuser that the 'marriage' was consummated. Sick fucker.

On a side note, I interviewed Martha Wainwright this morning, and my overwhelming feeling post phoner was this:

I knew there was a reason I didn't do music interviews.

Because I fucking suck at them.

And now she knows it.

UPDATE: I still suck.

Peace out (Martha...)

PS Coming up! Posts on Zoo's divorce comp, brazillian waxes for 8 year olds, cosy winter dinners at the homestead and the madness that is an IKEA instruction manual. I'm nothing if not endlessly optimistic.

Sunday blog entertainment

2008-04-13T11:10:00.001+09:30

I know you all love my treatises on internet dating, so you'll just love to head over to the Sunday Mail blog where I've provided some handy pointers for men looking to woo women online.

Love is a battlefield - so bring out the big guns.

As usual, liveblogging at 12 midday.

aa

Across State Lines

2008-04-10T23:05:00.005+09:30

I spent a delightful afternoon today with J, my Swedish Wife's sister. Despite the fact I had a newspaper deadline and no discernible idea (read: fucking clue) what to write about, I wisely decided it would make perfect sense to while away the hours eating risotto and trawling the RSVP profiles of handsome Melbourne fellows.

And what a find! Melbourne, you are hiding a treasure trove of quality within your perfect walls. It's simply astonishing to me that such charming lads are needing to resort to internet dating - especially when I can name dozens of lovely Melbourne ladies of my acquaintance who are experiencing the same man drought affecting us girls south east side. What's the problem here? Why can't y'all get it together? It's like the year seven disco all over again, except with less violent headbanging to the Gunners*.

Having already decided to make it a policy to visit Melbourne at least once a month, J and I decided it would be completely fair to transfer our profile locations to the 3000 postcode. We're completely up front about our living situation, and desperate times call for desperate measures. Is it too much to ask that our jaunts to Victoria be punctuated with evenings in cozy corners with dapper gents who may or may not kiss us at evening's end?

In other gentleman related news, I fell in love in the supermarket tonight. Said fellow caught my eye as he was perusing the cheese section. Boy was he dreamy! I lost him somewhere around the vegetable section because I got distracted testing the garlic for hidden dents. I heaved a sigh and cursed my rotten luck, then headed for the checkout.

Somewhere between ending up behind Dream Boy on the registers, I decided it would be a brilliant idea to pick up a copy of this month's Cosmopolitan as it probably contained all manner of blog worthy posts**. Unfortunately, by the time I realised he was right in front of me, it was too late to put the magazine back or change lanes. I had to wear it and be The Girl Who Thinks Cosmo Counts As Reading.

Yes. I am that shallow. And if I am, I can hardly expect other people not to be.

Like two ships passing and so forth, he grabbed his cheese and jumbo value 12 pack of crisps and headed off into the night leaving me to swoon over his dreaminess with the checkout girls. Apparently he was Scottish, which makes the whole thing even more depressing.

Of course, given how maximum hott he was he probably had a girlfriend or a bevy of willing women anyway. But we could have been so right. I know tricks...***

So. To recap. I have given up on A-town and shall be looking across the border for dates / hot loving. Gents, tell your friends.

Peace out (will I ever reach a stage in my life where I don't look to binary coding to help me get laid? The outlook is bleak.)

* Is this not how you did it in year 7? They also routinely played 'Stairway To Heaven' as the last dance. All the girls would delicately place their hands on the boys' shoulders while they in turn fearfully gripped the girls' waists. I was only asked to dance once. I think it was because I was fat. Or spectacularly bad at headbanging. (Probably both.)

** And boy did it ever! But that's for a future post that can only be substantially less of a shithouse failure than this one. I warned you I had writer's block...

***Well. I don't really, but I'm willing to learn. And until such time as I become proficient in said tricks, I am willing to pass the supposed knowledge of them off as solid fact.

Liveblogging at the Sunday Mail

2008-04-06T08:55:00.004+09:30

News just in: still sick. Coughing like a decrepit old crone. Serves me right for smoking...stupid cancer agents. I HATE YOU.

----

In addition to my newspaper column, I started blogging for the Sunday Mail last week.

You can find today's blog here. It's about the hypocrisy of Swimming Australia when it comes to human rights abuses in China.

Part of my blogging conditions means I spend an hour each Sunday between 12 midday and 1pm (Adelaide time) liveblogging.

So,you know. If you just don't get enough of my obnoxious, self important ranting over here, pop on over to the Sunday Mail for a double dose.

Peace out (let's see which commentor will relate this week's topic back to abortion! Because there's always one...)

Bressington should join the BNP

2008-04-03T18:05:00.002+10:30

For more info on this, go here:

I arrived in Sydney this morning with a cold and hence am miserable and sick. What I'm about to share with you has not made me feel any better, especially on the back of this ridiculous article.

Essentially, resident fruitloop MP Ann Bressington delivered a speech to SA Parliament this week which disputed the morality of proposed rape legislation. This legislation gives much greater power to female victims, and goes as far as to define 'No' as struggling or fighting back (how this could not be the case now is staggering).

The Advertiser have of course only quoted Ms Bressington partially. It seems quite obvious that her proposal we sign sex contracts to avoid running into mischief is heavily laid sarcasm. In this respect, reporter Nick Henderson has made a silly error.

Because if you read the actual Hansard transcript, it's evident Bressington is a mentalist. I quote:

"Surely it would make more sense simply to ensure that, when a woman cries rape, the impending investigation is thorough and forensic evidence is collected to collaborate it. Perhaps if women did not feel so intimidated about coming forward and could rely on the judicial processes, then the government would not see the need for this rape and sexual assault bill being necessary."

At first reading, that sounds quite reasonable. Women shouldn't feel as intimidated to come forward to the authorities (which is what this legislation seems to be aiming for in part). And investigative practices could always be made better. But Bressington's ignoring the fact that, in a rape situation, there isn't always adequate forensic evidence. What if the guy was wearing a condom? What if the rape was perpetrated by your partner? Meanwhile, 'cries rape'?! Way to reinforce stereotypes about women getting hysterical and regretting sexual experiences enough to make up a story about why it happened in the first place...

It gets better.

"The truth is that women should be expected to take some responsibility for the settings to which they expose themselves. They should also be expected to take some level of responsibility for the messages they send whilst drinking or taking drugs and partying."

Because all rape occurs when a woman has been drinking, taking drugs or partying. Again, what if she was raped by her partner? By her date? By her friend? And yes, what if she was raped because she was out on the booze, flirting up a storm and accepted an offer to be walked home? IT IS NOT HER FAULT. We live in a society that constantly tells women what they can do (and should be doing) to prevent rape, and rarely talks about what men can (and should be) doing to make sure they don't rape women. How many times do we have to stand together and repeat this? No amount of provocative action on the part of anyone is EVER justification for raping them. Period.

But what about all those hundreds of women that make it all up?

" For these women, who do exist (whether or not some females like to admit it), this bill will be the ticket they need to be able to take revenge on a man who, for whatever reason after sex, is not interested in a long-term relationship, or for women who feel ashamed, guilty or rejected the next day when he does not call her back."

I'm not going to say there's never been a case where a woman has falsely accused someone of rape. But to imply there are significant numbers who go through that process of vilification and damning simply because they're pissed off they didn't get a second date is fucking ludicrous. I understand the need to protect people from false accusations (which, according to Bressington who suspiciously cites no evidence to back this claim, make up 65% of all accusations) - but that is implicit in all facets of the judicial system. It seems frighteningly clear that we still consider rape to be something women will just have to deal with, because the risk of tightening our laws might threaten the genuinely innocent. But innocent people go to jail all the time. It's tragic and unfortunate and awful, but sadly a fact. Yet nowhere else is so much emphasis placed on protecting the potentially guilty than with rape, simply because it is so widely propogated that those doing the accusing might be making it all up out of an elaborate revenge scheme.

But what happens if men are just being exploratory?

"I am the mother of four boys: two are married; one is a single young man who is currently sowing his wild oats; and the other is a six year old.
As a mother, I fear for them every day because of the minefield that is being laid; a minefield that, once the legislative agenda is complete, will not allow them to make mistakes, lose their temper, express their anger even verbally, or explore their own sexuality in a normal, healthy manner for fear of being accused of being rapists.
I am not referring to rape and sexual assault as normal male development and curiosity, for those who would grab on to this statement to make this mean what it does not. I am talking about young men who rarely marry the first female they have sex with. I am talking about the feminist hysteria that we are currently working our way through, where men can do no right."

Yes. Wanting women to not be raped by men who don't listen when they've said no, or don't pay attention to the fact they've passed out, or are hurting them but won't stop because at some point consent was given, or who slip them a pill to make it 'easier', or who take them home and then take what is rightfully their's, or who force themselves on them because they've done it before and she's a bit of a slut anyway, or who don't stop, don't stop, don't stop, don't stop even when they're told through words, actions, kicking, frightened silence, disassociation to fucking STOP - this is all a result of feminist hysteria. Let's just back off bra burners...the men are exploring their sexuality.

Listen Bressington - no one's stopping mutually enjoyable, explorative and most importantly consensual sex. It's really pretty simple. If you don't want to be accused of rape, don't rape.

And if you're in the extremely unlucky few who find themselves falsely accused then I'm really sorry to say it but that is just some really fucking rotten luck. It's also life. Sometimes, bad things happen to good people. It doesn't mean the law should bend over backwards and favour a minority of victims over a majority - but we seem to labour under the despicable presumption that because most women have heterosexual sex anyway, the damage down to them will be pretty minimal.

And if that link doesn't make you sick, I don't know what will.

Peace out (Okay, Bressington is a cunt too)

News just in! Rape merely sex! British National Party full of cunts!

2008-04-03T18:01:00.003+10:30

Broadsheet's Tracy Clark-Flory has written everything about this that needs saying, so I'll leave you in her capable hands:

Rape is like force-fed chocolate cake?

Most sensible Brits have been scandalized by a revelation that a candidate for the London Assembly believes "rape is simply sex." Yes, that's an actual quote, straight from the blog of the British National Party's London leader, Nick Eriksen. So is this: "Women enjoy sex, so rape cannot be such a terrible physical ordeal." And this: "To suggest that rape, when conducted without violence, is a serious crime is like suggesting that force feeding a woman chocolate cake is a heinous offence." (Excuse me for one moment while I return my eyeballs to their sockets.)

There is, thankfully, some good news: After these comments surfaced, the British National Party decided to remove Eriksen as its second-place candidate. But there's also bad news: The party's other senior officials have come to his defense and it's unclear whether he will also be sacked as the party's London leader. BNP deputy leader Simon Darby says the bad press Eriksen received over his boiling-mad blog post is part of a smear campaign that took his comments "completely out of context. So, in context, Eriksen's comparison of rape to force-fed chocolate cake is reasonable, right? Let's take a look at the blog post in question, titled "RAPE: LIES, LIES, LIES":

Rape is simply sex (I am talking about 'husband-rape' here, for those who deliberately seek to misunderstand me). Women enjoy sex, so this type of 'rape' cannot be such a terrible physical ordeal. To suggest that rape, when conducted without violence, is a serious crime is like suggesting that force feeding a woman chocolate cake is a heinous offence. A woman would be more inconvenienced by having her handbag snatched ... Again, for those who are seeking to cause trouble by deliberately misunderstanding me: yes, violent rape by a stranger in the street is a terrible crime, but I am not talking about that -- I am talking about 'husband-rape'.

When taking his comments in context, I can conclude that he believes the following:

1) Choosing to do something and being forced to do it are practically the same thing
2) When a woman is forced to have sex with someone she knows -- which is the case with the vast majority of rapes -- it's, ehh, not so bad
3) Husband and acquaintance rape are never violent
4) A husband deserves total and utter control over his wife's body -- whether he's forcing her to have sex or eat chocolate cake

I'm afraid Eriksen -- who has also called for men to strike their wives "like a gong" -- almost comes off better out of context. News flash to Eriksen and his supporters: It isn't that your critics intentionally misinterpret his argument, it's that they disagree with him with every fiber of their being.

-- Tracy Clark-Flory

It's irrelevant to me that Eriksen is a candidate for the BNP and therefore a lunatic. The fact that anyone can still think this way in 2008 basically reinforces every reason I identify as a feminist.

I am actually feeling too ill about this to even come up with a Peace Out right now. Let's just pretend we did, and I inserted some comment calling Eriksen a cunt.

Shopping list

2008-04-01T00:04:00.004+10:30

Status: Back in A-town but heart bleeding for Melbourne.

Not to worry. Off to Sydney on Thursday. Like a gypsy. Or someone with too much time on their hands. But less money now.

Things bought or acquired in Melbourne:

3 x byoooootiful second hand dresses (one of which illicited some screaming from a car full of apparent revheads. I am a Sometime Head Turner.)
2 x winter hats
3 x books (geek)
1 x feminist dvd (manhater)
1 x Holga camera (indie wannabe tryhard)
1 x swag of new makeup (pursuing sex)
1 x skin care routine (fear of wrinkles setting in and preventing aforementioned sex)
1 x bag of Champion tobacco (relapsed smoker, hence the fear of wrinkles but counter productive because smoker kissing tastes like ass)
4872975 x alcoholic drinks
1 x loss of respect for another human being (who is clearly an emotional abyss)
1 x realisation that I am better than that

And that about covers it I think.

Peace out (sleeeeeeeeeeepy time)

Odes to daddies

2008-03-28T09:15:00.003+10:30

I woke up in my lovely Mata Hari's bed this morning with the birds twittering outside and the sounds of feet thundering up and down the stairs. It's a good day to be back in Melbourne.

After seeing no rain for a million years in Adelaide, I sat in a little bar last night while the skies opened up and released sheets of water to the earth. And I saw that it was good.

But that was probably because I hadn't eaten all day and was on the cham. It does funny things to your eyes.

Here is my article from Sunday. It's about my dear papa.

-------------

WHEN I was still young enough to believe in the Easter Bunny, my father would craft long and elaborate letters from our floppy-eared friend thanking us for our generous gifts of brandy and sugar snaps.

He'd update us on what had been going on at The Burrow, filling in little bits of gossip here and there about Mrs Bunny and their scallywag children. Then he'd wish us well for the next year and sign his name with a charcoal-stamped paw print.

Sometimes I like to think of my Pops sitting there late at night with his little projects, scratching away to create a fantasy world for all his little Fords.

We still talk excitedly about the cake he made for my brother Toby's eighth birthday. It came out as a plain old train until my Dad had all the little boys yell out the catchphrase from their favourite cartoon: "Transformers, TRANSFORM!"

And there, before eyes as wide as they could possibly go, the carefully-engineered chocolate segmented train transformed into a genuine bitchin' robot.*

Scout's honour.

I've written a lot of things about my mother in the past, and not just for this paper. My love for her has been obvious and overwhelming, and spills into everything I do.

Tributes to my father have largely remained in my heart. That same expanse of love exists, but it's quieter.

I can sense the little boy hiding inside the 1.92m bearded giant, and find myself at odd times feeling a maternal need to take care of him.

He has always taken care of us, hiding his fears and worries lest the veneer of invincible protector be threatened.

His life philosophy has been dominated by the idea that it's a man's primary role to financially provide for his family. It took him a long time to realise one could provide and nurture at the same time. Most of my childhood was spent with him working long hours, often overseas for months and months at a time.

Of all his children, he and I are the most alike.

Stubborn yet whimsical, independent yet vulnerable. He was the outline I struggled to colour myself into, but with him gone it was sometimes hard to see the edges.

We had our teenage difficulties like anyone else, sometimes erupting into monstrous, bitter arguments over the stupidest things.

I reflect sometimes in abject shame and horror at the way I used to behave.

But whether physically or not, he has always been a constant source of emotional support in my life.

He has always believed in raising strong daughters who aren't afraid to take advantage of any opportunity, whose bodies are their own and nobody else's to control, who are capable of providing for themselves so that they need never settle for less because they have no other option.

I know he's proud to have a daughter unafraid to speak her mind, even if he doesn't always agree with her.

THERE'S a photograph on my bedside table. I'm about two years old in blue dungarees and bright-red gum boots and I'm walking next to the tallest man in the world.

He's looking down at me and I'm looking at my feet walking in front of me in the way that curious children do. I was always the kind of child that wanted to do things independently, so I'm not holding his hand. But if he'd walked away I would have cried. This is just the way we are.

We talk about motherhood a lot in this country, and elevate it to a mystical status that is seemingly impenetrable.

We forget that fatherhood is just as important. That fathers not only help shape their children, but learn from them in return.

It's time we discuss these relationships more openly and pay tribute to them.

I wouldn't be the person I am today without my mother's influence, but I'd be someone else entirely without my father's.

--------------

Anyhoo. I'm off to shop.

Peace out (does anyone know if there are any secret comedy shows happening this weekend?)

* HOW FREAKING AWESOME IS THAT? I keep trying to get him to do it again so I can film it for You Tube and he can become more famous than that evolution of dance guy. But he's a shy bear.