An open letter to the editor of The Age

Dear Ms Alcorn

On February 19th I read your piece titled “Why The Age is, and will continue to be, editorially independent.” In it you stated: “Our editorial and commercial success…depends on serving our subscribers well and earning their trust. We know…that people who pay for The Age want independent, fair, fact-based journalism and intelligent opinion pieces that offer a diversity of views.”

Hello – long-time Age subscriber here. I’d like to know whether rape apologies and victim-blaming are included in your publication’s “intelligent opinion pieces that offer a diversity of views” and if you’ll be publishing views this “intelligent” and “diverse” in the future? Because the Amanda Vanstone piece about Brittany Higgins published on February 22nd was disturbing, served nobody and betrayed the trust of women everywhere. Titled “Linda Reynolds doesn’t deserve criticism: her response to Higgins rape claim was textbook” it was, according to the headline, ostensibly a defence of the actions of Ms Higgins’ former boss but its contents read quite differently and its only saving grace was that it was published in a time when it can’t be shared on Facebook.

To borrow a phrase used by Vanstone, her piece was “unattractive on so many levels that it’s hard to know where to start.” Perhaps we should begin with Vanstone’s statement that “Sexual assault and rape in Australia are all too common,” which she thoughtfully placed in the second paragraph of a piece which went on to illustrate perfectly one of the main reasons for that frequency: the public discourse around sexual assault and rape in Australia is irrefutably stained by a culture that blames women and perpetuates the idea that we are “asking for it.” So ingrained and ugly is this stain that the victim-blaming is often reinforced by other women.

“Hmm…I love the smell of internalised misogyny in the morning.”

How so? Over to Vanstone, who provides the 2016 Australian Bureau of Statistics stats on sexual assault victims, including women and men (because it’s ‘not all women!’) and stating “One reason women don’t report [assaults] is concern as to whether they will be believed.” Incredibly, Vanstone immediately follows this with an attempt to discredit Higgins, who she has already told us up-top had been “attending work drinks at a bar,” (I know – outrageous!) on the grounds that “One of the trickiest aspects of rape cases is the question of consent” (gosh, it sounds like she’s going somewhere with this…) because “when two people go out and drink too much, the mental capacity of both can be impaired but the hormones can be raging.” Bang! There it is! Nice one, Vanstone (said no-one, ever). Now, just in case you’re playing Victim-Blaming-Bingo: that’s “drunk,” “stupid,” “horny” and “asking for it.” Hang on – what did she say about women not reporting sexual assaults because they’re worried about whether or not they’ll be believed? I can’t remember.

Of course, I don’t have to look at Vanstone’s ‘mental capacity/raging hormones’ assertion as victim-blaming. I could also consider it in terms of rape apology – justification for why Higgins’ alleged rapist attacked her: ‘He was drunk so he didn’t know what he was doing’ and/or ‘Their hormones mean ‘boys’ will be ‘boys.’’ Which is just as offensive. But I’m going to err on the side of Vanstone blaming women, thanks to the seeds she plants in her next couple of paragraphs.

In the first, Vanstone writes: “Just as Prime Minister Scott Morrison reflects on “what if this was one of my daughters,” so many mothers are reflecting on “what if this was my son”. They would be thinking, “I hope someone listens to his side of the story”.” Would they, though, if their son had been accused of sexually assaulting and/or harassing no less than – wait, let me just refresh my screen of The Age online because it’s been a few minutes – four of his female colleagues? Four! Four totally separate sexual assault and harassment allegations made against him by four different women! Actually, come to think of it, I would like to hear “his side of the story.” While he’s in a courtroom, formally facing those allegations as charges and under oath.

Now steel yourself, because Vanstone’s next paragraph is a real kicker. She’s not content to just blame the women being sexually assaulted for their assaults: oh no. Why stop there when she can also blame the assaults on – stay with me here – the women who spawn the men who commit these crimes? Mothers are also horribly negligent: “If it turns out their son coldly took advantage of an inebriated young woman they’d be tossing a million things over in their mind. Did they fail in parenting?”

Let’s just let that sway in the breeze for a moment to really appreciate it before we break it down. Go on – breathe it all in: I love the smell of internalised misogyny in the morning!

So let’s tackle Vanstone’s question of whether a mother whose son rapes a woman (regardless of the woman’s age or sobriety) has failed as a parent. Although I’m wondering why she’s suggesting it’s only the mother who should be doing this and not the fath- oh well, probably not important.

In all seriousness: if – or more likely, when – a man rapes a woman tomorrow it will be less likely that either of his parents failed to raise him correctly and far more likely that words like Vanstone’s published in mainstream media under the umbrella of “a diversity of views” failed him – and all of us – by continuing the normalisation and progression of an ugly cultural narrative.

A narrative in which women are considered ‘fair game’ if they are drunk and men are excused from blame if they are.

A narrative in which women are discouraged from speaking out about sexual harassment or sexual assault for fear of what the consequences might be – for them.

A narrative in which men only speak out against a woman’s sexual assault after being prompted to imagine it happening to their daughter.

A narrative in which women are expected to be the ones to make huge changes in their lives (Vanstone: “Reynolds offered Higgins the opportunity to work in a different place, namely Reynolds’ home state of Western Australia.”)

A narrative in which women are the ones who are seen as tainted (Vanstone: “If someone had applied to work in my office and the story going around was that she had come, drunk, into a previous minister’s office at the weekend, late at night, with a man, I would have thought very carefully before offering them a job.”)

A narrative in which women are the ones who are seen as calculating (Vanstone: “Plenty of alleged victims understandably think hard about reporting a rape. Plenty take a long time to decide to pursue the matter with the police. Not so many have an organised media offensive.”)

A narrative in which women – particularly young women – are patronised (Vanstone: “In federal Parliament, there is a high prevalence of advisers under 35. It’s a high-pressure job. They’re away from home, eating out and alcohol is at almost every restaurant. It’s a heady mix.”)

As editor of The Age, you’re part of many narratives because your publication plays a role in shaping them. Would you publish the anti-Semitic views of a Nazi? The hate-filled rants of a homophobe?  The blatant prejudices of a racist?

No. Of course you wouldn’t. So in that spirit, could we maybe add rape apologists and sexual assault victim-blamers to the list of people The Age doesn’t give a platform to? Please?

Sincerely,

Terri Psiakis.

P.S. I’m asking this as a mother…

No part of this post may be published/reproduced on another site without express written permission from the author – I’m pretty much talking to you, Mamamia.

A short story about losing it.

I grew up in the kind of family you could hear before you saw. “They’re not arguments, they’re discussions,” I remember telling my now-husband after he attended his first full family dinner at my parents’ house, to which he replied: “Then why did your dad’s face turn that colour?”

So let me be clear: I yell. But, to use toddler-speak, I’m just letting out my “big feelings” and, like burps, those are better out than in.

Even perfectly-coiffed mums lose their shit.

My kids are now 9 and five-and-a-half and they know I crack it. I recently heard my son explain to his visiting friend as they stood side-by-side at the toilet bowl – bless – that if they got wee on the wall instead of in the bowl “My mum will do her block.” And I would.

To be fair, I never really shouted in the presence of my kids until there were two of them. When it was only my daughter I managed to keep a lid on myself but the arrival of my son and his progression from sedentary cherub to fully-loaded destroyer of everything saw my volume increase. And now that my kids’ favourite pastimes seem to be backchat and ignoring most requests, my volume is often at eleven.

I’m not proud that I yell – I almost always regret it and sometimes I feel ashamed, but I don’t see the point in being coy about it. Any parent who says they’ve never once lost it with their kids is either lying or parenting Cabbage Patch dolls. Kids push your buttons. It’s the way they learn where boundaries lie. And parents are human: often harried, frequently sleep-deprived humans. Sometimes we falter and drop our bundles in spectacular fashion.

And it’s not the worst thing that can happen. The worst thing that can happen is your toddler removing their jam-packed nappy and smearing it on the wall of the fitting room while you’re too busy trying on nursing bras to notice (don’t ask me how I know). And it doesn’t make you a bad parent. Losing it with your kids – provided it’s not violently, of course – shows them nobody’s perfect and provides an opportunity to talk about negative emotions and how we can’t always hold them in all the time, and I think that’s an important conversation to have.

When I really crack it with my kids I always try to talk with them about it afterwards. The conversation usually starts with an apology from me (unless it’s because there’s wee on the walls) and then an explanation that describes my feelings: “I’m sorry I got shouty earlier. I felt frustrated that I’d repeatedly asked you to shut the gate before you let the dog outside, and when you didn’t and he got out it made me feel angry and worried that Charly would get hit by a car.” At this point my kids can usually understand why I lost it and often they apologise for the behaviour that led to me blowing my stack. Not that it stops them from pushing my buttons again five minutes later but at least they understood for a fleeting second.

If you find yourself hitting the roof more often than you’d like, here are some simple diversion strategies:

• I have two notes stuck to my kitchen window, and this is written on one of them. Five deep, slow breaths that go all the way down to your belly can give you just enough mental space to stop you exploding. A friend of mine who does this says it helps if she also thinks the words “I am calm” and visualises something peaceful; when I tried this I thought the words “I am Beyonce” and visualised a team of nannies but each to their own.
• My other kitchen window note says “What would Love do?” I know, it’s schmaltzy, but if it’s just stupid, minor things that the kids are doing to raise my cortisol levels, asking myself this question usually results in me choosing not to lose my shit or finding a way to express myself to them that you can’t hear all the way from your house.
• Fresh air or cold water. I go out to the yard for five minutes or splash some cold water on my face: they’re easy but effective ways to re-set. They can also provide a good teachable moment: one day when my daughter saw me go out to the yard, I heard her tell her brother “Mum’s giving herself a timeout.”

And if all else fails: a good gin also helps but apparently I’m not allowed to recommend that.

As originally published by ABC Life https://www.abc.net.au/life/parents-losing-their-temper/10369434 

A short story about smarts.

New research from three US universities suggests that while men might say that they like intelligent women in theory, in practice they’re not interested in dating women more intelligent than they are. For those who’ve ever wondered whether size really matters, turns out it does – in the brain.

is that my intelligence in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

When it came to meeting women of greater intelligence, the men in the study ranked the women as less attractive and were less likely to exchange phone numbers or arrange another meeting with them. A game of chess was also presumably out of the question.

For the life of me, I don’t know why guys wouldn’t want to arrange another meeting with women they perceived as being of greater intelligence. Think of everything those women could explain for those blokes: BAS statements. The final moments of the last episode of The Sopranos. Shopkins. Donald Trump’s hair.

Seeking to clarify the results of the research from the University of Buffalo, Californian Lutheran University and the University of Texas (and no doubt redeem his gender) Dr Peter Jonason, senior lecturer of psychology at the University of Western Sydney said that a woman’s greater intelligence didn’t necessarily equal unattractiveness in the eyes of men. Rather, he said the research suggested men prioritise other traits – such as attractiveness – over a woman’s intelligence.

So this isn’t “junk” science, it’s “junk in the trunk” science. Maybe that game of chess would have been a goer if they’d played in the nude?

Of course, the notion of men saying they’re attracted to smarter women in the abstract and then reneging in the real world needs further definition before it’s lambasted completely. What does “smart” or “intelligent” actually mean? Well-read? Tertiary educated? High-scoring on an IQ test? Or are we talking “life-smarts” as opposed to “book-smarts?” For example, I think my bloke’s a genius because unlike me, he knows how to reset the clock on our highfalutin’ microwave after a blackout. He in turn admires my ability to locate the edge of the tightly-wound plastic wrap our newspaper is delivered in in less than three seconds.

The research has certainly had me thinking. In my last year of high school I was awarded an academic prize known as the “Love Of Learning Award” – was this why I spent almost the entire decade following wallflowering at parties and not being wooed by anyone until I was 27?

As a woman, wondering whether a man is attracted to you for your brains or your beauty is an interesting exercise, although I can confidently say I’ve known a few blokes who – judging from the number of times I caught them trying to make an appraisal – must’ve thought my intelligence level was located at or around my breasts.

When I asked my bloke whether he was attracted to me based on looks or intelligence his response was “Yours or mine?” so no enlightenment there. May I, however, heartily recommend throwing this question at your partner, apropos of nothing: “So…which one of us do you think is the most intelligent?” Absolutely worth it for the anxious sweating and seat-shuffling that ensues. My bloke’s eventual – and only – answer of “Is this a trick question?” at least showed I’m smart enough to keep him on his toes.

As originally published by the supremely intelligent folk at http://www.abc.net.au/news/thedrum

A short story about rezzos.

of course, this is how all women make lists. in your frigging dreams.

How are your New Year’s resolutions going? Or, as one of my sisters calls them, your “rezzos?” (I love her turns of phrase: according to her personal phrasebook, performing a U-turn in traffic is referred to as “fanging a youie” and asking me to admire the results of her bicep curls involves “Check out my pipes – I’m tanking up!”)

I don’t make New Year’s rezzos because I don’t buy the way they began. In 153BC (apparently) a mythical Roman king named Janus was placed at the head of the calendar, hence the month we now know as ‘January.’ (Please don’t fall asleep, I promise this will be worth it.) Janus had two faces, which meant he could simultaneously look back on past events and forward to the future. (Mind you, it also meant he had to spend twice as long brushing his teeth.) This ability to see both the past and the future made him the perfect inspiration for ancient Romans everywhere to start reflecting on their bad habits from the past year then making plans for better habits in the new one. Not bad for a guy whose name rhymes with ‘anus.’ (Booyah! Told you there’d be something in there for all of us.)

Apart from being a bit suss on a mythical king whose name might as well have been ‘Pooper’ (hands up who wishes they’d been born in Poopuary?) there’s another fine reason why I’ve never made New Year’s rezzos. Quite simply, I have so many habits worthy of reform that I just wouldn’t know where to start. Take my current top three. Should I:

•Stop yelling at the telly? Every night at 6.30 I flick between Today Tonight and A Current Affair and every night I yell at the telly. On the one hand I think I should stop because I doubt the people taking their evening stroll past my house need to hear me bellowing things like “This is not a news story, you morons – this is a glorified $%#@ ad!” or “How the hell can dodgy tradies who rort worker’s comp be making our kids fat?” On the other hand, if I stop yelling at the telly I’ll lose my favourite form of stress-busting and end up having to do yoga instead. And nobody needs to see my ‘downward dog.’ At least, not unless they’re going to name a mythical Roman king after it.

•Stop singing everything to my kid? In a bid to keep life at home with a three-year-old perky, I’ve been providing The Sprout with a running commentary of everything we do together. And in a bid to keep that running commentary entertaining for her I’ve been providing some of it in songs sung to the tune of nursery rhymes. Trouble is, completing lines is often a bit of a stretch. Just this morning while baking a cake I took my cue from ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ and sang “Blend ingredients til they’re mixed, dogs don’t breed when they’ve been fixed.” Some might call that desperate rhyming, I call it educational.

•Stop using the word ‘booyah?’ I think people who say ‘booyah’ are tools, yet I have started saying ‘booyah.’ I either need to stop saying ‘booyah’ or hammer down the nail sticking up from one of the floorboards in our hallway using only my own head.

Like I told you: no idea where to start.

As originally published by the Melbourne City Weekly

A short story about a dunny study

A University of London study published in the British Journal of Criminology recently has revealed that apparently, a trip to the loo can be a “stressful” experience for men as they try to adhere to unwritten toilet etiquette and avoid fights.

as if any woman would give this much of a shit.

Firstly, the fact that this study was published in a Journal of Criminology intrigues me. Since when has it been a crime for blokes to use the dunny? It’s a crime to leave the seat up, sure, but last time I checked, tinkling in the toilet wasn’t worth a tip-off to the cops.

Anyhoo, in order to carry out the required research,  a bunch of University of London academics played “mystery customer” at urinals  in pubs, clubs, railway stations, shopping centres and museums. Now surely that’s the crime: hanging around a public toilet to observe rather than participate. I can’t speak for any blokes out there but let me tell you: if I went into a public toilet and saw someone standing there ready to take notes, I’d be reporting them faster than you can say “And you mean to tell me someone’s actually paying the fees for you to study this?”

The term “mystery customer” is also a doozie – I guess it’s the equivalent of the “mystery shopper” I was taught to always be on the lookout for when I worked for in retail customer service for a major department store many years ago.* However, in this case I feel the term “mystery customer” is somewhat innacurate. Who goes to a public toilet and calls themselves a customer, apart from George Michael?  The academics shouldn’t have been mystery customers – they were quite clearly mystery flushers.

The upshot of the study was that it highlighted the three rules most male public toilet-goers adhere to (my study notes are in brackets):

1. Never catch someone else’s eye (especially, I presume, if it’s a brown one.)
2. Never draw attention to yourself (George Michael flunked out here when he burst into the chorus of Wake Me Up Before You Go Go.)
3. Never squeeze in next to another man unless it is the only space available (I’ve broken this rule heaps of times. Especially in bed with my husband.)

Rather than have any more money wasted on carrying out an equivalent study in female public toilets (I’d much rather the English spend that cash on bribing  One Direction not to release any more music) I thought I’d take out the middle-man and highlight, from my own experience, the rules most female public toilet-goers adhere to:

1. Never let anyone hear you actually do what you went in there to do. This can be achieved by synching your ‘functions’ with the rapid and noisy unfurling of loo paper from the dispenser or, alternately, the loud playing from your phone of a song from One Direction. (Note: this is not the only thing One Direction is good for in a toileting situation)
2. Never request toilet paper from the woman in the cubicle next to you. We all know what happened to Elaine in that episode of Seinfeld.
3. Never exit your cubicle while there’s anyone else still at the sink. You want to avoid having to exchange one of those awkward, how-good-does-a-good-go-feel smiles.
4. Never open the lid of any sanitary disposal unit. I don’t care how many pastel-coloured flowers are on the logo, I would rather mail what I need to dispose of back to myself than lift the lid and release even the most demure whiff of the contents therein.
5. Never call out “Marco!” In all my years of public toilet-going, not once has a fellow whizzer been inclined to indulge me with a response of “Polo!”

 

*Note: in seven years of service I never saw a single mystery shopper, quite possibly because I spent most of my Saturday morning shifts face-down in a pile of perfectly-folded towels to dull the pounding legacy of the late-night drinking I’d usually indulged in the night before.

As originally published on iVillage.com.au

a short story about norgs

A Woman’s Day article featuring a 50-year-old woman who breastfeeds her four-year-old daughter four times a day is getting the Boob Brigade all hot under the collar. You know the Boob Brigade: those people who may or may not be breast-owners themselves who love nothing more than telling other people what they should/shouldn’t do with their norgs.

this is all your fault, dolly.

The Boob Brigade is firmly divided over Byron Bay mum Maha al Musa and her mammary-based ways. Reader comments in an online version of the story range from “disgusting” “weird” and “attention-seeking” to “beautiful,” “natural” and “dedicated.” The “Byron Bay – says it all, really!” line gets an airing, as does the old “You can pick the bottle-fed people in the comments” chestnut. My opinion is pretty sophisticated and consists of three words: Seriously, who cares?Who cares if the child is four years old? Who cares if the woman’s 50? A 70-year old being breastfed by another elderly resident in the nursing home – now there’s a story (Do they take their dentures out? Is the time for a feed before or after the time for a sherry?) Similarly noteworthy is this story about a woman who breastfeeds her dog (and yes, you’re welcome.) But a mother breastfeeding her child? I repeat: who gives a shit?

It never ceases to amaze me how worked up people get about women using their breasts for their intended purpose. How easily advertising, music clips, movies, and Dolly Parton have made some of us forget that a lady’s fun-bags are, in fact, functional. That’s right: THEY’RE THERE TO FEED THEIR KIDS. We forget what bazoongas are actually for and then when we finally remember, we add all these complicated layers of how/when/where we can actually use them. Here’s a thought: why don’t we let the owner/driver of each individual rack decide what they’re going to do with them and then just SHUT THE HELL UP ABOUT IT?

In a perfect example of the Boob Brigade sense of entitlement, one comment I read about Al Musa’s story went along the lines of “Why do we need to see this? Out of sight, thanks!” Really? I feel the same way when I see pretty much everyone featured in ‘Stars Without Makeup’ but you don’t see me writing angry letters to the editor about it despite the fact that Barbra Streisand still gives me nightmares.

What do I think about Al Musa posing with her daughter for the magazine? Personally, I wouldn’t showcase my kid to the point where I compromised her right to privacy: I might be proud of breastfeeding her but she might not appreciate everyone else seeing photos of her being breastfed. As for whether or not I’d breastfeed a four-year-old: well, first and foremost I guess it would depend on whether or not they were mine. I breastfed my daughter until she was around 16 months and seeing how much of a chatterbox she is now at age three, I’m kind of glad I’m no longer feeding her. In the checkout queue at the supermarket recently she announced in front of many people I’ll be eternally grateful never to see again: “I like your boobies, Mummy. They’re very low.” Imagine the running commentary while feeding that kid.

I’m due to give my daughter a little brother in March, and as for the questions of whether or not I breastfeed him and where and for how long, I can only answer: probably, wherever and however long I think is appropriate. Or alternatively: seriously, who cares?

As originally published on iVillage.com.au

I can’t stop …

I can’t stop crying. I am grieving the violent death of a woman I have never met and will never know. Her happy, smiling face is familiar to me only because of the number of times I have seen it on news programs, in the papers and on social media. Since her disappearance nearly a week ago she has been almost constantly in my thoughts – in amongst everything that has kept me busy this week, bouncing around somewhere in my head has been the name Jill. I have left radios and news channels on in the background where they ordinarily wouldn’t be and have checked online updates and feeds more often than usual in the hope that I would hear or see that name, and that good news would follow.

People go missing everywhere, every day. I know this. Why my interest in this person? Would my concern be so great if she were older? Younger? More or less attractive? If she was from another town, state, or country? If she was single? A mother? Another nationality? A bloke? I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. Many times this week I found myself thinking: That could easily have been me. Shit, that could so easily have been me.

I also found myself thinking that it could have been one of my sisters or friends. I have despaired even more thinking that my daughter, who has just turned three, will grow up to be a woman who will no doubt someday totter home from Friday night drinks believing she is safe. She will have no way of knowing what, if any, danger is nearby. Just as Jill had no way of knowing.

This chills me. I want to stop despairing and feeling afraid but at the moment I don’t know how. The victim-blaming I have read and heard this week (some of it outright and vicious and some of it patronisingly implied) disgusts me yet I’m also bewildered by those who have asserted that no woman should have to change her behaviour in the wake of Jill’s story. How can we not fear for our safety in the face of such darkness? Such ugliness?

There are people among us who wait for the right time, place and circumstances in which to harm. That is their intent and that is why I fear. I have wondered many times “Who failed her?” but I don’t know if anyone – excepting the person who attacked Jill – failed her. Yet I don’t feel any less afraid for myself or anyone else because someone has been charged by police in relation to Jill’s death. So many attackers – and victims for that matter – are never found and I am helpless to do anything more than think about it. It makes me sad and afraid and angry and it makes me want to try and keep everyone, everywhere safe even though I know I can’t do that.

And so right now, when I should be asleep in bed, I sit in my lounge room and weep for someone I’ve never met. Then I cry for her family and friends. Then for my family and friends. Then for me. Then for you.

Tomorrow morning will see me take my daughter to another three-year-old girl’s birthday party. The kids will run amok, turning the place upside down while the mothers drink coffee. We’ll talk about toilet-training, fussy eaters, how do you get these kids to brush their bloody teeth? It’ll all be light and airy but eventually someone will say “My god, isn’t it so sad…” And in hushed voices we’ll share our thoughts, fears and anger while watching our giggling, exuberant daughters. Just keeping an eye on them. Willing them to stay safe.

A short story about Olympic daughters and dads.

If you’re an elite athlete, I say “well done” (as I bite into my raspberry and white chocolate muffin…hey, eating is a sport – haven’t you ever seen those guys downing hotdogs on ESPN?) If you’re an elite athlete who’s competing in the London Olympic Games, I say “well done” more emphatically. And if you’re an elite athlete who’s competing in the London Olympic Games with your dad, I say “well done” emphatically while doffing my muffin. And furthermore, here’s to not being you.

I’m talking to you, 20-year-old Hayley Chapman. You’re in London to compete in the 25m women’s pistol with your dad, 47-year-old David Chapman, who’ll be there to compete in the 25m rapid pistol. I know nothing about shooting so I don’t know why your pistol isn’t rapid like your dad’s. Aren’t all pistols rapid? Doesn’t the bullet come out fairly quickly after the “bang”? Like I said, I know nothing about shooting. But I know a fair whack about daughters and dads.

Sure, being part of the first father-daughter combination to compete at the same Olympics in any sport is a big deal, Hayley, but will it be worth it? The Olympic athletes’ village is always a hotbed of – to put it politely – romance, how are you going to get in on that action when your dad’s sleeping on the top bunk? When all the other athletes are out partying long and hard once their events are over and you want to do the same, how will you feel when your dad’s there telling you to “be home by nine, young lady.” You don’t want to go past his curfew, Hayley. Forget being grounded – your dad’s got a gun.

You described the prospect of going to the Olympics with your dad as “the best.” Are you sure about that, Hayley? Because dads can be embarrassing at the best of times – they’re even more embarrassing in tracksuits. Especially Australian Olympic team tracksuits. Those tracksuits make even the fittest, most attractive athletes look like they could just as easily be smacked-out on platform 6 at Flinders Street, waiting for the 4.58 to Cranbourne.

let us never, ever forget this.

Oh, Hayley, I’m worried about your dad and that tracksuit. What if you meet “the one” in London, bring him back to your father-daughter Olympic flat to meet your dad, and find him sitting there in front of the telly in his daggy team tracksuit, using a car key to clean inside his ear? Dads do that stuff, Hayley. Or worse, maybe your dad lets you out late to party but only on the condition that he picks you up at the end of the night. Now picture your dad turning up in his team tracksuit with his flannelette pyjamas on underneath, the collar of his pyjama top turned out over the neck of his trackie top. Dads do that stuff, too, Hayley. (I know because my dad did both – although his wasn’t an Olympic team tracksuit, his was just poo-brown.)God, Hayley, that tracksuit. You do know that long after you’ve come home and packed yours away for posterity, your dad will still be wearing his everywhere he can: mowing the lawn. Doing the speech at your 21^st. Walking you down the aisle.

Get out while you still can, Hayley. You’re young – you can wait another four years to fulfil your Olympic dream. Your dad will still be there but maybe he’ll just be cheering you on from the stands. He’ll be easy to spot. Just look for that tracksuit.

As originally published by the sportingly-attired folk at the Melbourne City Weekly.

A short story about farting at the neighbours.

We’ve been in our new house for just under a month but we’ve yet to meet a single neighbour (as in ‘we haven’t spoken to anybody,’ not ‘everybody here is married.’) I find this strange because my last address was one of those streets where everybody knew everybody. People waved when they saw each other, pleasantries were exchanged over fences and we all banded together to keep an eye out for the The Great Letterbox Bomber of 2008 (true story.)

Our new home is at the end of a cul-de-sac (which sounds like what you’d call the organised slaughter of a pair of testicles) so we no longer have neighbours on all sides like we used to. The one next door neighbour we do have has their driveway and front door on the side furthest from ours, meaning there’s no chance for hellos when we come and go. And the residents of the house across the way park their cars in their ground-level garage, shut the automatic garage door behind them and enter their home via internal access, so no how’s-this-weather-we’ve-been-having there.

It’s all a bit distant but I guess it could be worse: at least we’re not so close that we can all hear each other breaking wind, which can be dangerous. The proof: a US man stands accused of threatening his neighbour with a gun for allegedly letting one rip outside his apartment.

“is that a gun in your pocket or have you been on the beans?”

(In case you’re wondering, yes it is time for my yearly column about cutting the cheese – this year it’s gorgonzola.)The accused gun-toter is 72-year-old Daniel Collins, Jnr., who allegedly pointed a revolver at his neighbour while telling him “I’m going to put a hole in your head” (obviously, he’d already been made aware of the opening at the other end.)

Frankly, I don’t know why old Daniel is in so much trouble. If you ask me, a 72-year-old with a gun is a beautiful thing. Seriously: if there’s any age group I want walking around with firearms, it’s the elderly because I believe they’re the safest. When angry, young people with guns know exactly what they’re going to do with them. Old people are more likely to get angry, pick up a gun, walk into a room and think “Now, what the hell did I come in here for?” forget, put the gun down and walk off in another direction. Old Daniel may well have said he was going to put in a hole in his neighbour’s head but in another couple of minutes it all would have blown over. So to speak.

Apparently the reason old Daniel was angry was because he supposedly heard the neighbour pass wind outside his front door and the two had been having an ongoing dispute about noise. What I like about this story is that the noise of the flatulence was the source of concern here, not the fragrance. Apparently old Daniel wouldn’t have cared a jot if his neighbour had walked past three times a day dropping silent-but-deadlies.

The problem with the noise of the wind-breaking being the issue is of course that many things sound like farts, for example squeaky shoes and the ratings for Being Lara Bingle. What if old Daniel’s neighbour had walked past and legitimately stepped on a duck?

Anyway, I think old Daniel’s neighbour is lucky. I’ve been eating baked beans all week but so far none of my neighbours have so much as cast a disgusted look at me.

As originally published by the flatulence-free folk at the Melbourne City Weekly.

A short story about Justin Bieber.

If you ask me, the main problem with “Bieber fever” is that it’s just too easily confused with gastro. The teenage pop sensation was in Melbourne recently and while young girls swooned, whenever I saw footage or photos of the curiously-coiffed cutlet (am I the only one who thinks his fringe is a bit There’s Something About Mary?) I just felt a bit vomitous.

twerp-alert.

Granted, I’m not a teenage girl. I understand Justin Bieber’s not meant to appeal to me. His music, his hairstyle, his posing – I’m pretty sure it’s all aimed at the Clearasil demographic. Or so I thought until I saw a photo in the newspaper of a hysterical teenage girl standing outside Bieber’s hotel next to her equally-hysterical mother.Now, far be it from me to tell anyone who they can and can’t have the hots for but really, Mrs Forty-Something? The Bieb? How does that work? I’m all for finding common ground with your kids but what are you doing – listening to Bieber’s music with your daughter then fighting over who gets the poster from Smash Hits? And what does Mr Forty-Something make of all this? Is he cool with it or sick of having to serenade you with Baby every night before bed? I understand that some adults might find Bieber cute but hysterical tears outside his hotel? I’d sooner throw myself at Lord Mayor Robert Doyle.*

To be honest, I’ve never understood that all-consuming, totally overwhelming level of excitement. Even when I was mad for New Kids On The Block (and I was, back in the day) I could never see myself bursting into hysterical tears over them. And that’s not to say I was too cool or composed to go to water, I just don’t think I’ve ever been physically capable of that sort of excitement. And I doubt I ever will be. Sorry, Cr Doyle.

Compare this to The Sprout’s reaction to the Dora The Explorer show we attended together recently and we’re talking chalk and cheese (or Bieber and forty-year-olds.) This was a begrudging excursion because my relationship with Dora has been somewhat strained thanks to The Sprout saying “Dora” before she ever said “Mum” (not that I haven’t let that go, of course – nothing like bearing deep-seated, burning animosity towards a fictional character.)

The Sprout adores Dora and on show day, I knew she was excited. She sang the Dora The Explorer theme song all the way to Her Majesty’s Theatre. From Diamond Creek. That’s a long way in terms of distance and also in terms of explaining the slight twitch I’d developed by the time we reached the CBD. After the theatre lights went down and the show started, The Sprout kept applauding the cast’s appearance on the stage long after everyone else had stopped. (Note: this was very different to her reaction to the start of the Sesame Street show we’d attended a couple of months previously, when she and every other kid who was expecting Elmo burst into tears when the curtains went up and there was Grover.*)

I’ve never seen my kid as excited as she was during the Dora show. She sang, she danced, she jumped around. She soiled herself. But unlike the Bieber-mum and out of respect towards Her Majesty’s fine velvet seating, I refrained from joining her.

*Actually: no, that would never happen.

As originally published by the Beliebers at Melbourne City Weekly.