2 Nov 2012
Some of the guys on Nauru have set up a Facebook page with their half an hour access every second day as a means of communicating with a world that they are worried might forget them and their plight. And a bunch of racist Australian rednecks are protesting their single mother plights are more profound suffering than those seeking refuge from war and oppression. I’m not saying it is easy – I’m saying its comparing oranges with apples.
And some of the asylum seekers are on a hunger strike as they want not to be on Nauru in tents. They are looking for a asylum and a better life, not a freaking camping trip in the middle of nowhere. And people are saying that they go on fasting diets where they last longer than the hunger strikers. Again – your diet is an orange, their desperation an apple.
And now Australia is talking about annexing themselves or some such crap, which makes our current government a bigger pack of xenophobic dickheads then the Howard government. And that’s saying something.
It makes me ashamed to be Australian.
Being born Australian isn’t some kind of right. It’s luck. You could have just as easily popped out anywhere else in the world. Being born here doesn’t make you more entitled, more worthy of safety than those born in countries like Afghanistan and Iraq. It’s a privilege to be born Australian. Not a right.
It definitely doesn’t make you a better person as made evident by the policies they seek to enshrine or the comments on the Facebook pages or in the media. Those are the kind of people that mistake their good fortune for some kind of divine specialness.
We have the room, we have the resources and we have a history rich in immigration and opportunity. People don’t leave perfectly good homes and their families because they’re in a great position and just fancy a freakin’ sea change. If that was the case, we’d all be paying dodgy sea merchants to ship us in the opposite direction, or we’d be breaking our visitor’s visas and trying to seek asylum overseas. Desperate people live on the edge and below the radar because they feel they have no other choice. Not happy, shiny, smiley people living lives of deliciousness.
Lets start living as compassionate, educated and welcoming people. Not xenophobic, racist arses. Because those Australians do not speak for me or my family. There is room in my Australia for those wanting to make the most out of life for both themselves and their families. The only thing that my Australia doesn’t have room for is bigotry.
(You can support a better Australia at www.welcometoaustralia.org.au)
1 Nov 2012
There are a couple of us at work that are what you would call ‘good spellers’, and a few of us at work that you would call ‘not as good spellers who are mega competitive’. So the challenge was on to find a word we couldn’t spell and various options from websites and medical tomes were thrown at us. But the word that brought us undone was actually drunkenness. One word out of many but oh the smug faces of the people who were not able to spell idiosyncrasy and had to look up drunkenness before hurling it at us.
Anyway, I digress. Drunkenness.
It has two n’s. TWO. A fact that when you see it written gives it the lurch of a drunken man and actually looks like the spelling was made up by the same drunken man hanging off the shoulder of a slightly less drunk compatriot. When you say it, conscious of the double n scenario, you actually sound like a drunk person attempting to sound sober.
It is in fact a brilliant word. That double N makes the word so terribly appropriate for a state that a lot of us find ourselves in on occasion but disguise with adjectives like tipsy, friendly, loud, relaxed or wankered. When in actual fact, there is that word describing us at all stages of the inebriation process. Who’d have thought?
I don’t know if prior to this conversation whether or not I would have typed drunkenness with a double n subconsciously. As a fast touch typist, there are many occasions where the correct spelling appears on my keyboard even as my mind starts to wonder about the spelling but now that I have verbalised it and spelt it incorrectly it becomes a conscious word. A gloriously descriptive word. Which almost means I’m going to have to go and have one glass too many just to roll it around in my mouth along with the ‘one last glass’ of chardonnay.
So basically – I’m organising Friday night drinks purely to spell. I would not have imagined this scenario in any of my passion pop drinking days on a cold winter’s night on the Watson Oval. Not even once. Honest.
30 Oct 2012
My husband has been in Dehli for a couple of weeks to celebrate his friend’s wedding. He’s had a marvellous time seeing the fireworks to celebrate the beginning of Diwali and throwing tumeric at Amit and generally having a fab time at the wedding and pottering about the city.
People keep saying “ooh, bet you hope he’s not having too good a time”. Well no. He better be having an awesome time because he’s supposed to be having fun for the both of us since funds didn’t allow for us all to go. So when he looks at something that he thinks “ooh nice” he better be saying out loud “OOOH NICE”.
But I’ll be honest, I’m ready for him to come home. I’ve missed him, the girls have missed him and I’m able to tell you factually and with no guilt that I am in no way equipped for being a single parent. I’ve never thought it easy but having gone through a period where I have to be the good guy, the bad guy, the on it guy, the cook, the cleaner, the Dora fan, the night timer getterupperer and the going to the toilet with a child attached to both leggerer I am ready to contribute my time and funds to build a giant memorial as a permanent accolade to single parents.
And when I think that so many single parents are teenagers or young adults that haven’t even had the luxury of sleeping away their 20s and early 30s and who are raising children on their own while studying or holding down a job I say round the buggers up and give them cake. None of this slagging off in the media – there should be public festivals in their honour.
I declare November National Hug A Single Parent month. And I encourage you to hunt them out, give them a hug, tell them they are doing a great job and give them a cupcake. Because chances are if that I crave adult conversation and a little hip hip hoorah after two weeks, there are a lot of single parents out there who are going to appreciate you sharing a little bit of your love and energy – even if you can’t be arsed with the cupcake.
26 Oct 2012
If you haven’t already – rush rush rush rush rush to http://www.edenriley.com/
This woman writes beautifully, amazingly, honestly, heartbreakingly and sometimes hilariously. She is words.
And her latest blog post, is so wonderfully eloquent – and ends with a picture that speaks a thousand words and is so refreshingly brash – I want to make sure that the few people that read my blog in its early stages understand that Eden Riley’s writing is the kind of writing to which I aspire.
All hail Eden Riley and her bum.
25 Oct 2012
I heard a throw away line on the radio today by a woman saying that if she was unlucky enough to die young, she hoped her husband stayed faithful to her memory or married a ‘lesser woman’. And it got me thinking – why would you want that?
I adore my husband. I adore my daughters. They are the world to me. If I was unlucky enough not to get the 102 years his grandmother has under her belt so far (or even the 86 my own grandmother achieved) I would want only the best for him and the very super best for our daughters. And lets face it – the vows are until death do us part not until infinity and beyond. Hello – we’re not Buzz Lightyear here!
I would want the woman after me to be vibrant and energetic and as madly in love with him as I am. I would want her to be wonderful to my girls, inspire them and support them and love them. I would want her to give him the courage to embrace life and I would want him to be the foundation for her life as he is the foundation for ours. I would want her to be secure enough in her relationship with him that they can remember me and share stories about me with the girls so that they would know how much I loved them and what I wanted for them in life. Which is to be kind and confident and loving. And perhaps better dancers than their daddy and me. Though we do alright in the enthusiasm stakes.
I would want for my husband and daughters the same life after me as I hope to have with them now. One that is full of love, full of laughter, adventure, possibilities and the occasional blue caused by having four stubborn as buggery people under one roof. I would want them to be encircled and supported by the same wonderful family and friends that we have now, along with the new friends that they will meet along the way.
Why would you want anything less for people you love?
23 Oct 2012
Sleep is defined as (noun) ‘A condition of body and mind such as that which typically recurs for several hours every night, in which the nervous system is relatively inactive, the eyes closed, the postural muscles relaxed, and consciousness practically suspended.’
I’d like to draw your attention to the ‘several hours every night’.
You can keep your 50 shades of grey, your Brad Pitt in perfume, your fetish for shoes – whatever – and know that all I think about at the moment is sleep.
I try really hard not to bitch about the lack of sleep I get having young children. I may not always be successful but I do try. Yes I am tired but my daughters are such in blessing in themselves that sleep seems a small price to pay for having such joy but oh, I really really really miss the irresponsibility of a lie in or even the defined SEVERAL HOURS every night.
My girls have a neat set up at the moment where they take it in turns to be awake during the night or in need of cuddles and love so recently I haven’t gone more than a couple of hours with consciousness suspended either practically or impractically. I appreciate that some people have babies that do this for years but I’m not sure I have it in me.
Basically – don’t bother telling me anything you’d need kept secret in the event of torture or provocation. They would not need to dirty their hands. In fact they’d only have to offer me 8-10 hours of sleep in a big bed with cool pillows and a snuggly duvet and I’d tell them whatever they wanted to know if they led me to that bed.
I long for that opportunity to be woken by the morning sun and stretch out luxuriously before curling myself back into the foetal position and burrowing my head in my arm and returning to sleep. I dream of waking up in a leisurely fashion rather than pulled brutally in the world by a crying baby or a distressed ‘Mummmmmy’ from my toddler. I wish to roll out of bed slowly keeping my body aligned rather than jackknifing into an upright bolt.
And it’d be nice to have languid conversations about the weather and the upcoming day with my husband over breakfast rather than competitive tiffs about who slept most and who was most worthy of the title ‘most tired’ so we could head off to work with the kudos of being ‘the better parent’. It’s a valuable commodity sleep and one more precious to the two of at the moment for its scarcity. It’s not quite Blood Diamond territory but my husband is more handsome than Leonardo.
To all of you in the same boat – big love and to all of you with the opportunity to sleep as you will. So jealous. So so so soooooooooooooooo jealous.
