Reinvention

Something bad happened yesterday, seemingly a minor setback. My former-soon-to-be employer got rid of me, I'm not even sure why, after fucking two months of stringing me along and pushing back my start date.
I am feeling like a fool for believing that something would work out so easily for me, and absolutely humiliated that I could just be dropped for seemingly no reason.

The fact that I have to find a job all over again is merely annoying, along with the fact that I will be poor for another month. But the thing that makes me want to scream and kick things is that I seriously believed that my luck was changing and that things wouldn't be such a fight for once. Ever since I moved to Melbourne by myself, I have worked a string of horrible jobs with bosses who were verbally abusive, didn't pay me, made me work until 2am on a school night, et cetera. Myer was one saving grace, but sadly cut short due to changes in management. Actually being financially independent has been one of the biggest, stressiest things in my life for the last year and a half. I thought I was turning a corner. Alas, no.

Enough on that, one good thing about adversity is that it inspires one to work harder. And as Fawkes suggested, I could use this as impetus to reinvent myself.

This is the list of things I wrote last night:

I want to clean my room and make it a nice space where I can breathe and sleep and study and be happy.

I want to do my schoolwork well and efficiently so that it does not consume my time.

I want to find a job that I can work three or four days a week, something that is challenging and fun with a good culture, something that relates to things I want to do in the future.

I want to start contributing to Farrago, Broad Lit and some other publications.

I want to be thin, beautiful, with striking eyes, pale skin, red lips and masses of dark hair, the kind of beauty that can strike a man down in the street.

I want to dress like a goddess, a muse, an artist, a geisha, a feminist, a mermaid, a debutante or a dominatrix depending on my mood and not let myself be too scared.

I want to have time to paint and sculpt again and be recognized as a saleable artist.

I want to draw and bring out a range of greeting cards and stationary featuring my illustrations.

I want to model for a life drawing class and for photographers, and feel genuinely comfortable and proud of my naked body.

I want to be able to play Bruch's violin concertos, dance en pointe, get my Chinese and French language skills up to 'fluent' and buy a piano for my apartment.

I want to buy a kitten and take care of her.

I want to get a column on The Age online, get work experience with Frankie magazine, become a contributor to Salon.com and be recognised as a decent writer.

I want to be proud of myself and confident in my brilliance, and next time I face a bitch like Jane Angel telling me my worth, I will tell her in the most eloquent language I can exactly what I think of her and cut her to size.

Done. Unfortunately I can't do these things today.. my brain is not quite allowing me to be positive or action-oriented right now. It's a day for laying in bed, frowning, aching for action but not having the drive. My body feels like it is in the grip of a bad virus, there is no energy to go around and everything aches.

I need a day or two, then it will begin.

Gutted

When I worked at the ice cream shop on the little island on the Yarra, I arrived early one morning to find three young boys catching fish. They cast shabby rods like pros, calmly waiting before hauling in pitiful little flat silver fish.

The fish would flip around on the concrete for a minute before the boy would step on the fish and yank the hook out, ready for another go. The fish was then left on the cold pavement, glaring up at the ceiling and bleeding everywhere, giving an occasional shudder or convulsion. The boys caught one each then called it a day, leaving with their still-breathing fish wrapped up in a newspaper. The blood pooled and spattered and smeared over the ground, so my boss washed it away with a hose.

Right now, I am those fish.

Possums

The little possums came to visit tonight, in a rather alarming fashion. I had not fed them for a couple of days and they were obviously hungry. As soon as I opened the balcony door they came scampering up to me, sniffing my shoes and clawing at my ankles.

It's a mother and her baby, except the baby is getting bigger all the time. When I first moved in, she was still but a fist-sized mousy thing living solely in her mother's pouch. Gradually she started crawling out and surveying things, but nowadays her sole mode of transportation is by clinging to her mother's back. Her mother is smaller than a very small cat or a large rabbit, and the baby is about half her size.

I gave them four slices of bread, six multigrain crispbreads, a mandarin, a beurre bosc pear and two weetbix spread thickly with peanut butter. They devoured everything. They had more to eat today than I did... I've been fussy today.

My soon-to-be employer has cancelled my first two shifts that were meant to be happening this Friday and Saturday.. apparently they are running behind schedule. They are racing to open the store for May 10th; it's not going to happen. It is angering in some ways. They hired everybody almost two months ago, and in this time our starting date has been pushed forward about five times - finding other real employment during this time has not really been an option.
Now, I have rent, an electricity bill and a phone bill due by Friday. I had actually put money aside for it all, for once, and now it is still not enough. And I am still fuming over the fricking $120 prescription that ruined all my planning.

My mind is turning to creative ways of making money that involve my (lack of) talents. Nothing comes. Something:
- modelling for life drawing classes
- getting a busking license and dusting off my vocal cords
- writing a story and magically getting published by Thursday night
- getting some nice paper and painting something on it...
-...?
Or there is always losing a million pounds, dyeing myself orange and becoming an exotic dancer. I actually read the recruitment section on the website of a men's club. It sounds so easy; they do not mention once what would be expected of you except to "be yourself!" and raves about all their services and benefits for their girls. Alas, I do not have the confidence nor the body/height to do that.
I would also probably have an anxiety that one day somebody I knew would come walking through the door. Likely a seedy uncle, but the real fear would be that it would be my father. So, that brilliant idea is dead.

Concluding remarks: Rhubarb is gross tasting, affection is lacking in my week, I can't believe that Channel Ten pulled Letterman for Big Brother: Up Late, and my cloud leopard is nowhere to be found. She mustn't love me as much as I love her.

Disaster and a Salamander

I left 40 minutes early to get to my training session last night, so eager to make a good impression and pretend like I really cared about whatever a Bugaboo is.
I caught the wrong tram. I realised too late, had to catch the tram back and then I caught another tram. This tram did indeed take me to Burwood Road, but only 100 - the number I wanted was more like 800. I started walking, getting later and later all the time, when I noticed a train line directly behind the street. I caught the train for two stops, got off and found myself in a completely different suburb.

By this stage I was 40 minutes late and I gave up and came home.

I didn't dream last night, but I stayed awake for too long staring at the dark shapes in my room. Without my glasses (which I never wear) I can barely see anything in the dark, but my imagination fills the blanks. The black kimono hung up on the back of my door turned into a long-haired ghost glaring at me and waiting to pounce. The radiator resembled an immensely fat metallic caterpillar gobbling up the shoes and books on the floor.
I pulled the blankets up close and surveyed the room with a sort of frightened intrigue - I have always been afraid of the dark to some degree.

When I was little, I used to imagine that ghosts, monsters, murderers, robbers or whatever was lurking in my room could sense fear. I would go out of my way to appear normal and asleep when really I was terrified. One night as an 8 year old, I was reading Oliver Twist when I was sure that I saw something moving near the far corner of my bed. I was so scared that I just kept reading, pretending not to have noticed, trying not to give myself away. I finished the book in a couple of hours and then was struck with a problem - what was the 'normal' thing to do? I read the whole book again. The whole time I was sweating like crazy and the room started really smelling bad. Not like body odour, but like burnt toast. Is this the smell of the fear of an 8 year old girl?

Eventually a huge salamander jumped on my window, causing me to scream and go tearing down the hall to my parents room.

Afternoon, Only Just Waking Up

On television, there was just an ad for a mobile ringtone that can't be heard by 'parents and teachers'. I can't hear it, yet I don't fit into either of those categories. Slightly depressing.. I suppose this means that, physically at least, my teenage years are over.

Lucien put a spanner in my new attempts at having scheduled days - on Saturday night he summoned me out of my pajamas and into a dry martini as he celebrated with his jiu-jitsu buddies post-competition. Being drugged up to my eyeballs on prescription medications, I just teetered, nodded, spoke too fast and flailed my arms about. I didn't actually drink anything, but I'm quite sure I looked drunk.

The reason for the drugs was a multi-day headache, stemming from my upper jaws. Wisdom teeth, perhaps? It's my reluctant guess. But it hurts, a lot, and I haven't been a happy madame for the last three or four days.

Tonight is a training night for my new job. We're learning all about the features of Bugaboo prams - I feel like a soon to be mother going to those information group-love sessions. The other people who will be there are going to confirm that too.
Last time I met with them, it was an initiation night for us to talk about the aims of the new store, et cetera. After the wine, mini sandwiches, speeches and introductions, people began chatting. I joined a couple of groups, figuring I could widen the scope of potential friends. Almost everybody started chatting about their kids, leaving me out of the loop. Not just their kids, but details of their pregnancies, what lactating breasts do, how children learn to use the toilet... it shocked me that these people would share intimate details of their and their children's bodily functions within 20 minutes of meeting each other. C'est la vie, I suppose this is the kind of person I'll be dealing with from now on.

Last night as Lucien lounged in my bed glued to a book, I was upstairs reluctantly being talked to on IM by his twin brother. He wondered what his brother was doing, and I told him that he was in bed reading Wuthering Heights. This is hardly an obscure work, so I was naturally shocked when James asked "Oh, what's that about?". After I told him, he asked if there was a film of it.
Ugh - I can see it now - he will seek out the film and watch it, then wish to discuss the literary merits of WH with us based on his viewing, and suddenly profess to be incredibly interested in literature. When Lucien played Courfeyrac in Les Miserables, James became obsessed. He watched a film version over and over, and assaulted everyone's eardrums by playing On My Own on his flute constantly. The part that also annoyed me was that he presumed to be on a similar level of 'expertise' on the subject as people who had read the book, studied the history and been in the musical. Now with my beloved Wuthering Heights, I am afraid that he will do the same.

Two girls in Belgrave killed themselves in a suicide pact. Now the current affairs shows are cashing in, having heavily edited interviews with psychologists warning that every teenager is at risk and that there are 'warning signs' to look out for. The media reaction wreaks of The Virgin Suicides, I can just smell the concerned parent's groups. I'm not exactly sure what I think about suicide, but I know that it is probably radically against the status quo. It's sad for the people they know, but it is a perfectly valid way of dying, perhaps even less tragic than other ways because they chose it.

I want a cat, or a puppy. Anzac day is Wednesday, and I will be spending it alone. Doing housework all day would be more bearable if there was some other creature to bask in the cleanliness I could create.

Lucien expressed surprise at how smooth my back was last night. I hadn't noticed until he said anything - perhaps it is the kind of thing that you need a before and after photo to tell the difference. Apparently I used to have acne on my back, and now it is "perfect". Nice to be called perfect, especially by one's boyfriend. But coming from someone wearing love-goggles, maybe it doesn't mean as much.
I think my body is growing tired of eating. Do people's metabolisms routinely change for no apparent reason? I hope mine has. My starving artist status doesn't quite work with my current level of .. 'curviness'.

HNT #4 - Maria Callas

I have shed my inhibition - I will post my face, only when it is obscured in some way. In the beret shot, it was my fringe and sidelong glance; in this one, there is something off happening with lights and mirrors.

This is one of the oddest pictures of me, so I better explain it a little. I had just got out of the shower, put on some lip gloss as I was going to work. My hair is all up in a pink towel, and I noticed that the room was full of really bright light.

I was doing typical myspace style shots in the mirror, and this photo was a test to see what angles would be best so I have no real expression. But for some reason, it came out with this bizarre darkness above my head and green tones decending into my eyes. My eyebrows too, which normally are not particular conspicuous, have reached Maria Callas proportions.

This photo reminds me of the song "La Mama Morte", because of the Maria Callas association but also the expression on my face. It looks distant, sad, introspective.. it's also funny how my eyes are set in such moody colours, then the rest of my face is so candy-ish. I like it.

Implications

Doing what seems to be the normal thing, I decided I should probably write something about what happened at Virginia Tech. I'm going to cross post this to a school blog I contribute to, so don't fret about issues of authorship - it's the same person. One thing that I would like to mention though, before I dive in, is that any mention to US 'culture' is not definitive - seriously, different suburbs are like different worlds in North America, so to judge the country as a whole is a dangerous area. However, there are some inherent differences between Australia that I will try to point out, but yes - I realise that there will be a million exceptions to every rule.

The shootings at Virginia Tech are undoubtedly tragic. I will admit that I cried - after seeing a picture on the news of the second person killed. It is said that he was trying to help the first victim as she was dying before he was gunned down. Then came the journalistic kicker - "He was a month away from graduating."
What power - suddenly a point of commonality was offered up. Watching the news, it is very easy to forget the gravity of unnecessary death, pain and injustice. Every day there are reports of gruesome murders in the next suburb, suicide bombers in Iraq, rapists, paedophiles, et cetera. The worst part is that every day I feel less and less.

But there was something different about seeing his smiling photo, knowing he was a student and realising that we are the same - two young people hoping that our hard work will pay off, hoping their is a place for us in the world and looking forward to it. Then I realised that we were the same person, and now everything he had to look forward to and hope for has been cruelly snatched from him. It's not fair, it's unnecessary, and I am so angry and sad that this happened to him and the other victims.

However, there was a double-edged sword in this tragedy. The media has been quick to jump on the shooter, Cho Seung-Hui. In what seems to be some attempt to explain or even justify what happened, journalists have dug up testimonies and personal writings of his so as to paint him as a thoroughly 'evil' person. The public's common logic will latch onto the idea, and process it as this: Evil person does evil things, fact of life. But there are some much more important issues at play here, relating to the 'why' and the 'what now?'

What drove this man to commit this act? Apart from the 'evil' theory that seems to be saturating most mainstream press, there have been reports that he was delusional, psychotic and paranoid. It's reasonable for one to argue that you would have to be to commit such acts, but the fact that somebody could get to such a point indicates a fatal flaw in mental health treatment and management programs. I'm not here to bash the US; mental health is an area that is greeted with doubt and a rather laissez-faire approach by most countries. But at some point we have to realise that contrary to what Tom Cruise may think, vitamins and sunshine do not a healthy mind make if there is a problem with brain chemistry.
Scientists have examined the brains of healthy individuals and compared them with patients affected with various mental health disorders, such as schizophrenia, anorexia, depression, bipolar, and others. What they found is that there are physical changes to the brain relating to the disorder - in some, parts of the brain have shrunken, in others there is decreased electromagnetic activity, others a lack of certain vital chemicals and hormones.
Medication is useful in treating mental health issues, especially when combined with things like cognitive therapy, behavioural therapy and counselling. Whatever school of thought you like, treatment of some kind is the best way to get better. But what happens to those who, like students, can't afford treatment? Or people whose illnesses have isolated them and impaired their judgment to the point where they can't seek it out for themselves?
The unfortunate thing is that mental health is not just a problem for governments and health professionals, it is a problem for everybody in every community. In news reports, teachers and classmates have stepped forward voicing their 'fear' of Cho Seung-Hui - telling how students felt afraid of him, how he wrote plays about his hatred of his classmates, stalked some female classmates and set fire to a dorm room. Teachers, classmates, family - did these people not feel it was their responsibility to make sure he got help? Reports are coming out that he was taking anti-depressants, meaning that he was seeing either a shrink or a doctor - how come this medical professional did not realise something dire was happening and take action? We can't ask the governments for better mental health programs and resources if the people who really need them are not even going to use them, either because they think they don't need them, or the people around them don't care enough to make sure they get help.

The next issue that comes up is that of guns. I understand that it is a constitutional right of American people to possess a firearm for their protection, but this is clearly outdated - it's not cowboys and Indians anymore. George W. Bush seemed eager to avoid the issue of gun control in his reaction to the issue, and I don't blame him. If he were to say something along the lines of guns being only allowed for sporting, law enforcement and agricultural purposes, I'm sure some of his fellow Texans would personally come all the way up to the White House and shoot him (sorry Cherie). Guns are a far more accepted part of American culture than they are in many other countries, but at some point people have to realise that this is not necessarily a good thing. Having lethal weapons so easily available and so plentiful has potential for disaster, especially if the relative stability of the United States should ever dissolve into something like we are seeing in the Middle East. I sincerely hope that whoever gets voted in next time has the courage to reform gun laws, so that lives can be spared.

The last issue I'll touch on is that of racial/cultural stereotyping. The shootings happened, then I found out that the shooter was Asian. Oh boy. I could just imagine what the popular public response would be - don't tighten gun laws or address mental health infrastructure, let's get rid of international students! Just as September 11 injected prejudice, fear and hatred worldwide and created new generations of Islamophobes, my concern is that the foreign origins of the shooter will encourage yet more malevolence. Cho Seung-Hui hailed from South Korea, but had lived in America since he was 8 years old. The Bush administration has targetted North Korea as the next 'problem area' after Iraq, and unfortunately many people don't really understand the difference between North and South Korea. Will Cho Seung-Hui's acts be taken as an act of hatred towards the ways of the West from 'Korea'? Will he be unwittingly adopted as the poster-child of the enemy?

It is too soon to know what sort of implications are going rise from what just happened at Virginia Tech; whether the Bush administration will finally understand the consequences of the 'gun culture' they are so reluctant to reject, whether people will finally understand the severe consequences of their inaction and apathy towards mental illness in their communities, whether Cho Seung-Hui's terrible acts will signal a more intense wave of hatred and misunderstanding. But we can know the gravity of what was lost on Monday - not just people's lives, but all their hopes and optimism for what the future had in store for them.

Insomnia

The song I'm listening to right now is bad. I'm not sure why it's on my 'Pod.. I must have accidentally got some of Ellen's music.

Push me, and then just touch me,
Til I can get my satisfaction,
Satisfaction
Satisfaction
Satisfaction
Push, push, push, push
Push, push, push, push

Can anybody tell me what this means? It seems rather dirty.

Last night consisted of a disjointed 6 hours sleep; not great for a girl who usually requires 9 simply to function. Despite this, I managed to make some excellent progress on my essay - pity it was due yesterday and probably won't get handed in until tomorrow. Woe is my academic career.

The Dark Side of the Toorak Mummies

An Arts degree can do terrible things to a person. With only 12 hours of classes a week, I spend more time than is right feeling like I'm on holidays. This has advantages: I generally wake up at noon (except for my sole 11am start), have four days to make money like a mad woman and thus expand my DVD collection, and I have a lot more scope than the average person to schedule a day of nothingness.
But there is a downfall. When having so few real commitments, one can fall into the habit of watching daytime television.

It is tragic indeed, but at least I can say that I occasionally learn something.
From Oprah Winfrey and her guest Dr. Mehmet Oz, I learnt that walnuts contain an appetite suppressant, I should eat more tomatoes and that my waist size is well within the healthy limits.
Trading Spouses has really given me insight into the huge class and race divisions present in North America.
Ready Steady Cook has taught me not to be afraid of fennel and to embrace zucchini flowers.

One show I have learnt nothing from whatsoever is The Catch-Up. Oh, correction - it may just have taught my brain how to transform itself into a noxious oozing goo. Australia has a bad habit of taking successful US and creating an "Australian version" that is rejected by the public in two minutes flat. It happened disastrously with Australian Queer Eye and Australian What Not To Wear... both cringeworthy endeavours.



So The Catch-Up is being positioned as something like The View (that Rosie O'Donnell show), with less spice. The women involved are Libbi Gorr, Mary Moody, Zoe Sheridan and Lisa Oldfield. Their claims to fame? A writer/comedienne, a journalist, a radio presenter and *cough* the wife of the politician who slept with Pauline Hanson. The producers of this show are obviously trying to position these women as 'everywoman'; representing different age groups, different hair colours, different favourite designers, different husbands, different shoe sizes.. oh the depth! So I decided we could give them Spice Girls-esque names:
Libbi Gorr aka Substance Spice: This woman is actually interesting. Back in the 90's she was working with Magda Szubanski on comic endeavours and had us all laughing with her character 'Elle McFeast'. She is funny, she is talented, she is very, very smart. Unfortunately she is also Australia's Kirsty Alley replacement as the face of Jenny Craig, which almost cancels out all the positive things about her. Libbi Gore would be the saving grace of this show, but unfortunately even she can't stand up to the utter rubbish spouted by the others at every available opportunity.

Mary Moody aka Dried-Up Prune Spice: The owner of outdated prejudices, unpopular and unconsidered opinions, and the worst of all - a wardrobe more suited to a firm-breasted 20 year old. Mary reminds me of a horrible assistant principal I had in high school - sweet mannered but ineffectual, married to convention and protocol, narrow-minded and very comfortable in her social strata. Not one to push boundaries or question unfair procedures. She would do nicely as a nosy but caring next door neighbour, but she must do this first: stop, please, stop exposing that grandmotherly bosom on national television. It's indecent.


Zoe Sheridan aka Actually a Baby Spice: Admittedly, she is quite a bit older than me, but it doesn't show. She seems like the type to fail an 8th grade reading test. I'm not quite sure what function she fulfils - in one of my favourite The Catch-Up moments she offered the following line to man grieving over the loss of his young daughter - "Let's face it, when we die we're just worm food anyway.." Zero tact, even less brain power. Her list of former credits show that she has a talent in hosting countdown shows on radio. What a mind, what a mind.

Lisa Oldfield aka Bland/Real(?) Spice: Once again, I am at a loss as to why this woman is included in the line-up. Her 'fame' stems from the fact that her husband had a relationship with Pauline Hanson in her heyday, a fact that he vehemently denies. The others tout trumped up biographies, labelling themselves 'adventure, mother, writer, director' et cetera. But Lisa has no such trimmings, she even lists her HSC score and her part-time job as the most defining aspects of her personality. Perhaps this isn't blandness, it could be honesty. She also mentions her battles with facial cancer and depression. Unfortunately, any integrity or depth this woman possesses is lost on the excruciating show content.

These woman are positioned for us to accept them as we accept our sister, our best friend, our mother, our daughter, et cetera - the show is based on a premise of female solidarity that is well and truly alive in Western culture. But it falls so far short.
Every female group, whether bound by blood or friendship, is intrinsically different from the next. These differences stem from a million different areas - the dynamics of personalities within the group, socio-economic grouping, upbringing, education, political affiliation, similarity of ambitions or direction, et cetera. As an example, I'll use a female group I am part of.

A sort of variant on the 'Ya-Ya' sisterhood has managed to spring up on my Mother's side of the family. My Aunt Antoinette heads this league, along with another Aunt and her best friend. There are rules, a hierarchy, shared interests, commonality of upbringing circumstances, a mixture of young and old, those who are related and those who are friends. It's great fun; we sit around a couple of times a year, drinking tea, doing each other's nails, gossiping dreadfully and eating enough chocolate, cream puffs, muffins, doughnuts and cookies to solve third world hunger. We also get down to the secret sharing - the cement of this sisterhood.

The Catch-Up is trying, unsuccessfully, to mimic this organic bonding of sisterhood. But by trying to appeal to every woman, they effectively lose every woman - the sisterly group scenario simply doesn't gel on television, but even if it did, it would fail to work unless it entertained some sense of exclusivity.

While researching the show so I could write about it, I chanced upon an article in The Age written along a similar vein. Marieke Hardy is much less scathing but much funnier than I, so check it out.

There are so many things wrong with the show, I don't know where to begin. So I'll start with the website. I hadn't previously seen this, but it opens up a whole new can of vapidity.

These, according to the website, are the 'hot topics' that women want to know about and discuss:
- Measuring Success: Do Diets Really Work?
- Disciplining Difficult Teens: Is Tough Love the Answer?
- Many people use their phones as an address book, without writing down contact details elsewhere. But what happens when you lose your mobile phone?
- Should Australia deny entry to all HIV-positive immigrants? (sadly enough, the poll stands at 85% for 'yes')
- How to discuss embarrassing problems with your doctor.

Wow. I know that these are really the foremost things on my mind.

There is also the absolute killer column on their website called Sexless in the Suburbs, waxing lyrical about the joys of both sex and parenthood. Excusez-moi? Do my ears deceive me? Apart from the fact that one leads to the other, those two tend to be mutually exclusive - even the title of the column alludes to that. The current topic being addressed by the column is "what should be in the Sex and the City movie?". I will admit it - I am VERY interested in that.
But the scenarios that Ms Belinda Cole (who?) comes up with are very frightening.

"Now I have two kids and live in the suburbs myself, I have to wonder; how are Carrie and her skinny friends going to stay relevant in the planned movie version of the series?" Unfortunately for you, Ms Cole, staying relevant does not mean staying relevant to you. Ultimately it wasn't the aim of the SATC girls to get married and have babies - some did, but they all wished simply to find the perfect man and have a relationship that worked. You may have chosen to live in the suburbs and have babies, but for every 'you' who threw it away, there are a hundred girls waiting in the wings hungry for everything those girls stood for. I guess I'm one of those hungry girls. Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda are incredibly relevant to us.

Sidenote: Writing that just reminded me of a Simpsons episode where Patty and Selma sat down to watch 'Nookie in New York', a parody of SATC. They describe it as "four single girls who act like gay men", and later sigh contentedly and say, "It's so like our lives!"

Ms Cole probably did believe whole-heartedly that SATC was just like her life before she 'grew up'. But now her priorities have changed:

[I would like to see] Carrie finally discovers that happiness does not come from
the man she has, the friends she has, or even from a pair of extremely expensive
shoes but from the look in her children’s eyes when they are laughing. ..Sex
& the City gave single, independently-minded women, sassy role models and
hallelujah to that but I wonder if anyone will ever do the same for us mums...
If Carrie does decide to settle down, I wish her the best of luck. I hope she
finds contentment and happiness and realizes that motherhood can actually make
you fiercer, sharper and even, funnier.

Cole has hit the nail on the head for me and doesn't even realise it. The SATC girls are role models for independently-minded, single, sassy women - she may have formerly belonged to that group, but she has obviously shirked it now. Why should Carrie then do the same? She has ups and downs during the show, but ultimately she seems happy with her life - there is no need for her to get married or have children to be happy. Independence can be just as rewarding as the husband, kids, dog and picket fence - something that a lot of gushing 'yummy mummies' are very scared to admit.






Erk. I'm spent. This rant is partly brought on by appalling daytime tv, but exasperated by the fact that I will be working at a baby goods store in about a week, surrounded by the exact types that I have grown to detest so much. Wish me luck. No, wish me survival.

Fashion Zoo

I'm full of Mexican food and mocktails; quite content (see photo, right). Dinner at Montezumas on Bridge Road with Paul after a day of gallavanting? Happy ending to a day that began with a less than happy outlook.

Not sure why, but this morning was not as sunny inside as it was outside. I decided I needed something to cheer me up and picked Fawkes as the likely accomplice for a trip to the Crabapple Bakery for a cupcake. Unfortunately he couldn't be swayed - I jumped on his bed, said "Please" in a million different ways, changed into a cute little red-and-denim Parisian ensemble to try to sway him. It didn't work, so he suggested I take my iPod in place of a playmate.

Disaster struck - iPod was playing dead. Nothing would revive him, so I set off feeling despondent and cursed. Paul was promptly messaged and we caught up in Prahran for some fun at the Chapel St Bazaar which I am ashamed to say I had never visited before. It was brilliant, I saw more than a few vintage red telephones that I needed, except for the price tags..

But once again my fashion-phobias were tested. I ended strutting out of the house wearing my new trenchcoat over jeans and a black petticoat (worn as a dress), with my ruby slippers, red beret and red lipstick. I was angling for 'quirky-cute-French' and did a little social experiment.

For part of the day I hunched my shoulders, frowned, looked at the ground, tugged at my clothes and exuded uncomfortable, vulnerable vibes. For the other part (when I was with Paul), I practically danced down the street, smiling, laughing, standing completely upright and basically being confident and exuding happy and pretty. The way that people reacted to me did change quite a bit - it seems that seeming vulnerability invites judgment and antipathy more than confidence does. Another thing I noticed was that the people who gave looks of approval were the ones who I would consider well-dressed, whereas girls who had obviously fallen prey to phenomenons such as the 'muffin top' were the ones who reacted with disdain. I'm not quite sure what this all means, but I realising in my crusade to understand street fashion and aethetics that you simply can't please everybody.

Too late, bedtime. Oh, and a sidenote - Demosthenes, if you read this, email me!

Materialistic? Me? Never!

I went shopping yesterday, in a big way. It was magnificent, especially after a year and a half of doing no such thing. So, here is what I bought: a pair of cute indigo straight-leg jeans, a crayon pink swing cardigan, a creamy-beige trenchcoat with a cinched waist and full skirt, some pretty necklaces and bangles, an in-tray and an out-tray for my desk, some embroidered silk shoes and a shiny new clear umbrella alla Lost in Translation. Now I just have to buy the perfect boots and some new underwear then I'll be set. Until midyear sales...

But buying some new clothes from relatively mainstream brands comes with a problem. The last couple of years of my life my fashion sense has adhered to the 'starving artist' ideal - op-shops, vintage, hand-me-downs, and random handmade things. People have commented on my eclectic taste, but honestly I was just scraping clothes off my bedroom floor, then slapping them on along with a "I don't care what I look like" sign on my forehead.
Last night in my oh-so-cute cardigan, spiffy new jeans and a pair of gorgeous little red sparkly ballet slippers I bought last week, I felt like I was suddenly under intense scrutiny. Women do dress for other women, and with my warning label removed I was suddenly up for judgment - like a World of Warcraft character who flags themselves for player vs. player combat, I had a reasonable chance of being slain.
I guess having been out of the loop for such a long time, I am feeling a little clueless. I bought what I liked with little regard to popular fashion, and now I am wondering whether or not I have the confidence to pull it off.

I saw a man today wearing tight, white leather pants with orange swirls and an aqua canvas crotch. He also happened to look suspiciously like George Michael. But he didn't care what anybody thought and swanned around like he was gorgeous, and the charisma oozed. I'm wondering more and more how much of the way you look is based on your skin, your hair, your clothes, and how much is based on your innate style - how you 'work' it?

Right now I am supposed to be working feverishly on my Literature and Cinema essays, due on Monday, but I'm somewhat lacking in motivation. My Lit essay is practically writing itself, so I should be alright.
But woe is me - what a drag two/three impending due dates can have on a girl's weekend! Suki invited me over for a sleepover where we were going to make nachos and watch every episode of The Extra. It would have been brilliant. Perhaps the reason why I am now shirking my work a little is because I'm mad at it, for denying my fun.

Lucien visited me last night. He had a party with some of his law friends at the Belgian Beer Café and came home drunk on cherry flavoured beer. I was less than impressed and shunned him somewhat by going to sleep. In the morning I was surprised by a big bunch of white tulips - he snuck out in the morning before I woke up to go get them. It was so sweet, and unexpected.

Consequently, I was officially in a good mood, so we jetted off up Bridge Road to go hunting for some brunch. After walking past lots of beautiful, atmospheric restaurants and cafés, we settled on an incredibly cheap, tiny one with laminex tables and yellow plastic chairs. I was dubious, but we ended up having a lot of fun. Here is Lucien tucking into the greasefest he ordered - toast with fried eggs, bacon, sausage, mushroom and onion.

There isn't an accompanying photo of me though, but I was munching on sourdough toast topped with spinach, scrambled eggs, smoked salmon and hollandaise sauce... exactly what a girl needs on a Saturday morning! Note: he isn't actually fat or hunchbacked, he was just being silly - in the photo he is pulling a silly face as well.

Seeing as I am in the spirit of photos, here's one of me. Ignore the greasy hair - this was Christmas morning at 3am, and I had spent the previous 7 hours making ridiculous amounts of sushi and pork dumplings.

I love this photo because I was unaware, half asleep and genuinely smiling.. I guess it shows the real me more than any posed photo. Enough, bed time.

Sick

Ergh. Something bad happened last night.

Normally I'm alright with a couple of drinks; I will get happily tipsy, fall over a little more than usual, then sleep like a baby. Last night was not one of those nights.

I had three cocktails with Lucien but I fear I must have drunk them too quickly. I spent hours, from 1am to about 6am, kneeling on the cold tiles of the bathroom whilst hunched over the toilet. Not ladylike, definitely not fun. The only good part was when I discovered I look quite attractive in a cold sweat. My face was the colour of bleached bone literally, but my skin was all smooth and dewy. Short lived though, I look disgusting today.
I'm suspecting that there may have been a bug involved, or maybe some disagreeable food.. because I wouldn't usually react that way to alcohol.

Rather than crawling back into bed and waking Lucien (again), I managed to manoeuvre myself upstairs where I fell asleep on the sofa with a bucket next to me.

After having my body reject practically everything I ate yesterday, I am trying to consume enough salt, sugar and calories to make myself feel a little better - the problem now is just feeling absolutely drained. I hate being sick, but usually it's the flu... being 'stomach sick' is horrible too.

Mini-Break

I’m laying in bed, sandwiched between sheets with a thread count several hundreds higher than the balance of my bank account, licking crumbs of Krispy Kreme glaze off my fingers and recovering from a Season 2 Sex and the City mini-marathon and thinking about how it is less than 24 hours until my huggle-bunny joins me and we can go frolicking and getting up to all kinds of mischief in the woods.... This is decadence.

It’s Easter, and it seems every year at this time I take a week long sojourn to the country; to eat extravagantly and constantly, put on pretty dresses and makeup everyday for nobody in particular, gossip continuously and consume unnatural amounts of chocolate. Such a description can only fit one place – Aunty Antoinette’s house.

It is nice to be spoiled sometimes. Even if it means I will return to Melbourne several pounds heavier than previously. Hopefully this will not happen – there is a treadmill here, and exercise bike and one of those jiggly things that you strap on and it ‘jiggles’ your fat away. They are all about to become my new best friends for the next three days, along with this laptop. I have been absent for a while, so here comes a big ol’ blog entry long enough to tide anybody over until I have more time and resources.

Something weird was happening here. For practically my entire existence, my Mother’s side of the family (Antoinette is my Mom’s sister) were all older than me and my siblings. We were the babies.
Now my Mom’s younger brothers have started having children, and it is hell. There were three little boys aged about 5, 4 and 3 and a 1 and a ½ year old girl. I suddenly feel a pang of guilt for having inflicted myself on my older cousins when I was between the ages of 1 and 6. It was detestable, but luckily all the children have gone now.

While they were all here though, it just confirmed once again in my head why I will never be a mother. The children just grated on my nerves. They would throw sandwiches on the floor and I wanted to yell at them for being so inconsiderate. They slapped and poked at my puppy until she growled at them, then she had to go outside. They climbed all over me, they decided what movie we watched, they smelt, they put paint everywhere and smeared chocolatey fingers over everything that would stay still.
But the worst part was their parents. Their parents are quite a bit younger than my Mom and some of the other siblings, so I always considered them a bit more fun. But honestly, I am secretly wondering whether parenthood actually has the effect of converting ones brain into mere gray mush. Sitting around the table, basking in afternoon sunshine and sipping Semillon, conversations would formerly revolve around… well, interesting things. Now it’s all crèche, toilet-training, stretch marks, et cetera. It is as if their children have become the only thing they think about. And even the rare, interesting conversations are brought to screeching halts with a, “Oh my God, Tommy, stop throwing pinecones at that bull!” or “Damn, her diaper is leaking again, can you change that honey?” Formerly intelligent, engaging people have become insipid sycophants, pandering to the needs of a small, inconsiderate, self-centred, unintelligent semi-being.

Sorry to everybody with parental aspirations. I suppose I’m just not built that way. My uncle challenged me today with the usual, “Oh, you’ll change your mind. Hormones will kick in and you’ll be baby-mad.” I guess I’m just going to have to disappoint everybody. There are reasons other than my severe dislike of children and babies which contribute to my sentiments. I, coupled with anybody with even slightly iffy genes in the mental health department, would produce the most genetically doomed child ever to exist. I am also an inherently selfish, sometimes unstable person prone to being jealous and holding a grudge – making me very bad parent material. Then there is the fact that I am pursuing a career where I would never get to do those little things that are oh-so-important in raising a child, so I would end up hating the thing once it grew up. All in all, even if I wanted to have children it would still be a bad idea.

So, there is only one thing to do: I hereby declare, adamantly, that I will never, ever have children.

Now, on to things that actually deserve to be written about! (here is the point where everybody who ever read this journal subjugates me to the ‘bitch’ list)…

I am already somewhat on the bitch list with my family though. At least for this weekend. In the long and tedious car ride to the house, several things happened and limits were pushed until I accidentally slapped my younger sister in the face. I had spent 36 hours being her servant, doing everything in my power to make her happy. I let her do a whole bunch of things in my house, I let her have grilled cheese sandwiches after she had refused to eat dinner, I put very subtle caramel streaks in her hair to cheer her up and I spent $50 on doughnuts to appease her. I won’t even go into what she did to me in return, but I can say that she probably would have treated Bush with more respect. So I lashed out - I meant to just push her shoulder roughly enough for her to get the point, but it was dark and the road was bumpy. I gave my 12 year old sister a black eye. Not exactly the proudest moment of my life. I since apologized though and she’s currently reading my books, eating my chocolate and in bed with me and our puppy about to watch a film with me. So I may be a bitch, but I can say sorry.

I was unsuccessful with The Grapes of Wrath. A year ago, I would have been devastated for weeks; crying to everybody I knew and trying to rationalize it in my head with a million different scenarios resulting in them picking someone else who was obviously inferior to me.
Last Thursday came and went. I checked my email a couple of times, sighed, and moved on. Afterwards I managed to say to Lucien, “That sucks,” but didn’t really think about it after that. I was proud.

The other day, Paul and I were discussing over pizza the role of emotions in how we live our lives. He told me of how easy it was for him to practice emotional detachment, whereas I had to confess to being completely ruled by my emotions. It is so stereotypical for a woman and I detest living up to it, but I am ruled by what my heart wants, what my heart tells me to do, et cetera. I am putting in a concerted effort to be a little less affected by everything though, and I think my ‘disappointment’ in not getting Rose of Sharon reflected that. I did want the part, it was a blow not to get it, but I moved on quickly and painlessly. Never before in my life would I have been able to say that, and mean it wholeheartedly.

On to issues less… well, deep, I have discovered a place that is becoming a bit of a haunt. Boheme on Bridge Road is a café-restaurant-bar that I am growing to like a lot. It is light, bright with incredibly high ceilings. They are unpretentious and very casual (something I am very glad of when it is so close to my house – it’s a place I can be seen with no makeup and bad hair days), like an upmarket pub with an emphasis on the food and coffee rather than the drinks. Lucien and I ended up there last weekend whilst looking for dinner; predictably, he ordered a meat-and-everything type pizza in the largest size they had. He was starving and not in the mood to order something subtle or something to enjoy on a sensual level. He just wanted his stomach to be filled as quickly as possible. I ordered a pizza too, and it was divine. Layered with fresh tomato, torn basil leaves, fresh mozzarella, drizzled with olive oil and cracked black pepper, it was topped with huge king prawns and scallops. I have never previously liked scallops, but these were lovely and quite edible!

I am aching to get out and experience more things; visit galleries I have never been to, drink red wine until I actually enjoy it, go to the Melbourne Museum, do things like go to random film festivals or exhibition launches, shop at the Prahran market every time I need food rather than paying three times as much at Safeway for substandard produce, actually go out with old friends for beer and buffalo wings rather than just talk about it. But there is the issue of means. I am realizing more and more that almost everybody I know has been… supported in some way. They live at home, their parents pay their rent, for their books, for their tuition, they have charge cards or trust funds, et cetera. My sometimes best friend Tasi seems to live on another planet nowadays, and is a good example of this divide. She drives a BMW and until recently lived at a $16000-a-year-plus residential college at university, which her parents paid for, of course. During her time at university, she decided she didn’t have enough time to get a job. She then whined to me, expecting real sympathy for the ‘tragedy’ that had befallen her – she had to do bourbon and cokes at her place before she went clubbing, because drinks at the clubs were just so expensive and she couldn’t afford to get drunk there. I think it was at this moment that I realized that the growing divide between us was insurmountable, unless she grew up or I went crazy.

Nowadays she doesn’t go to university anymore and doesn’t understand why her Mom won’t pay her credit card bills anymore. Also, despite living in a perfectly positioned and comfortable home, Tasi wants to move out and is angry that her Mom won’t pay the rent. I hope that the experience of having to work two jobs simply to pay the rent (with no money left over even for ‘pre-drinking’ let alone going out) will bring her down to earth a little and make her realize how ridiculously easy she had everything before she threw it away.

Meanwhile, I am trying to get on my feet in a way that I have never been before. I’m not sure whether I already talked about this, but I got a job. Irony of the century; I will be selling baby goods. But the pay is good for retail, I will be working three daytime shifts a week and it seems to be a quite secure working environment. I am hoping to eventually wangle my way into becoming Assistant Visual Merchandiser or something that I would actually be talented at. Simultaneously, I am halfway through the recruitment process for the cinema at the Jam Factory. Very hopeful – I volunteered myself for lots and lots of night shifts, if I’m successful.

In typing this, I was suddenly reminded by a comparison that Lucien once made. Upon watching Bridget Jones’s Diary, he laughed and said, “Oh, you two are like the same person!” This was a crushing blow; she is undoubtedly endearing, but ultimately it is not a favorable comparison.
But I see his point. For Bridget, she measured her life in pounds of lard, cigarettes smoked and alcohol consumed. I suppose I measure my life and progress too… let’s see. There is my job and how wealthy/non-impoverished it can allow me to be, being happy with my body and feeling occasionally beautiful, being academically brilliant (bah), my relationship with my darling boyfriend, my social life with friends (do I hear a death rattle?), how well I feel I am progressing with my brilliant career, et cetera.

So, in time the issue of capital will sort itself out, and I will feel better than all those people who can live at home or be supported by their parents because I will have worked harder for what I get.
Easter has been a hurdle in becoming Claudia Schiffer’s younger, thinner sister, but I will be back to my hour of exercise a day and no junk food routine tomorrow. I will go and actually get some things for my face so I don’t turn into a prune before I’m 30.
Essays are coming along, albeit slowly, but I am ahead of schedule and full of ideas. Words are flowing and I am so pleased with my brain right now.
Lucien will be here tomorrow night with bells on, and I am getting some ideas together for our little 2 ½ year anniversary weekend away.
Suki asked me to Click Click and I couldn’t make it, but I am determined to have her over for (this is sad, but we love it) a pint and trivia at the pub. Also planning on seeing about yum cha with Daniel, Lucien and Benjamin… could prove to be a stroke of brilliance. There is also a high likelihood that I will be somehow spiriting Paul away to my hometown for a trip down the coast.
As for career, well, I can’t force things. But I can try to create some luck for myself. I will continue hassling agents until they give me a go, I will continue going along to random auditions for theatre and film, and I will continue saving for the course at the Victorian College of the Arts.

I suppose measuring myself in these areas allows me a sense of achievement about myself that I couldn’t otherwise find.

This has been a huge entry… writing about myself is probably more interesting for me than it is for you to read, so I’ll try in future to either be interesting or talk about something else. Journalism/writing is my back-up career of sorts, so I guess I should try harder to be engaging. We’ll see.

But until then, I apologize in advance for writing trash.

Dial-up!

It's so amusing.. I haven't had dial-up internet since 1999. I realised my Dad actually still had a dial-up account that he accessed on his laptop, so now the phone line is plugged into my laptop. Brilliant! Now I can type, check email, et cetera. Life is sweet, but I am still incredibly amused by the fact that I am using dial-up.

Spent a day of gallavanting with Paul yesterday.. very fun. We watched one of my new favourite films, Hot Fuzz, and wandered and ate pizza. A gorgeous way to spend a day when one is meant to be at classes! Oh well - some classes as just meant to be missed. Especially when they will be spent discussing the differences between pictures, symbols, propositions, signs, logic, unlogic, reality.. et cetera. I'm really not sure why I chose to study an entire semester of the philosophy of Ludwig Wittgenstein. His work is set out numerically in very short sentences, which I am thankful for, but it is still a lot to grasp. The worst part is that I have to write an essay on it soon.. but I have three other essays to worry about first.

I also auditioned for The Grapes of Wrath, for the character Rose of Sharon. I walked in and read the scene where Rose dreams out loud about her new life with Connie in the city. The director said, "Great, that was great, can you read it one more time and try to make it a bit more ... earthy? I mean, don't make her dumb, but just make it a bit clearer that she's not educated." So, I was louder, a littler coarser, scratched my elbow and put a little bit more of a boyish twang in my voice. The director said, "Fantastic, that was perfect. You can go."
So, I have absolutely no idea how I went! Then a younger man took my photo, and I commented that I had just had the shortest audition of my life. He said that the longer auditions were usually the ones where the actors were having the most trouble. I thought about the woman who was directly before me, auditioning for Ma... she was in there for 15 minutes.

We'll see how it goes, I'll know by tomorrow.

Something very exciting is happening though. Later this year around October, there will be a federal election - the first one I can vote on. And unlike most people my age, I am actually incredibly excited about that. John Howard has stirred my ire for a long time. Certainly I will admit that he is a formidable force in politics, but I am far from trusting him. In his later years, he has come across more and more as sneaky, cunning, hypocritical, nasty and self-interested, mostly as he has tried to cover scandal after scandal. Unfortunately for us, the opposition usually wasn't much better - Kim Beazley and Mark Latham were hardly model citizens.

Now there is someone I actually like and trust, who I hope will be the Prime Minister by the end of the year. But more about him and how I met him next time!....