Excuse me, girls...

There seems to be an inordinate amount of ageism and sexism going down at work these days, and to be frank, it's driving me bonkers.

Now I rarely put fingertip to keyboard for blog-writing these days - my blog has certainly not enjoyed the whirlwind of internet fame since I first started blogging that others seem to have experienced, but this current wave of annoyance I deem worthy of a blog.

It deals with the divisions in the staffroom, and the genders and ages thereof.

It's no secret that our boss has a very low opinion of the younger female variety, a pitiful shame seeing he chose to work at an all girls' school. This year there has been a number of occasions in which he has treated young female staff with absolute contempt, accusing them of being unprofessional and lazy.

"WHAT!?" I hear you screech. But it's true. It seems to have gone unnoticed, by pretty much THE ENTIRE STAFF that the 'girls' are the only ones who do after school activities with the students, particularly the PE teachers who spent most of the year staying behind until 5pm with the students supervising sport, after starting work at 7:30 in the morning.

It was the 'girls' who oversaw the school production. It was the 'girls' who organised the debating teams and travelled out to another school each week at night to watch them. It was the 'girls' who huddled in the freezing cold to watch the students play tennis. It's the 'girls' who arrive at work at 7:30 am to get a head start on marking essays, marking SACS, marking posters, marking tests, marking exams. Girls, girls, girls.

We are not 'girls'. Well we are, but that's beside the point. We are not 'girls' to the other staff, we are women, we are teachers, we are professionals, we are colleagues. But we are not 'girls' to be told off for chatting at our desks, or accused of being bitchy, or seen as unprofessional or lazy. We do everything everyone else does, and more. For a whole lot - and I mean A WHOLE LOT - less pay.

Thousands and thousands of dollars less.

So to everyone who talks to us like we're naughty 15 year olds, I would just like to say a resounding 'fuck you' - from the girls.

O me, o me, o me! I heart W.W.

O me! O life!

O ME! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;

Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;

Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)

Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;

Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;

Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;

The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?



Answer.
That you are here—that life exists, and identity;

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.


Walt Whitman

I'm sick of...

... being sick! I got a really bad cold about three days into the school holidays, and have felt gross ever since. So I went back to work last week, and had so much on, that my cold just got worse and worse.

When I was talking to the other girls, we came to the conclusion that in our jobs, we just have to accept that we'll be sick pretty much the whole time from between about April/May to early November. The abominably early mornings, the straining our voices constantly above the din of classroom chatter, the sniffles, coughs and sneezes all over us as snotty kids try and tell us they need more time on their essay, they need to go to sick bay, can they go to the toilet please?, Miss -- can you sign this note etc etc.

I fall into exhaustion from all the caring, caring, caring, listening to 29 whining voices, only to be told by the bell after 45 minutes that I have to move onto the next 29 strains of colds and flu and high-pitched voices.

It is absolutely, definitely categorically time for career #2. Or just another job. I said to Josh last night, "maybe I'll have a baby, and not have to work.' That was met with a fairly determined 'no'.

So the hunt is on. The question now is... for what??

The Challenge

Mi amiga Lisa has presented me with this challenge (cos someone presented her with it):

List five things that certain people (who are not deserving of being your friend anyway) may consider to be 'totally lame,' but you are, despite the possible stigma, totally proud of. Own it. Tag five others.

It's kind of hard, but I'll do my best. And like Lisa mentioned, I'm not sure I'm proud of them, but I guess they are things that I think are pretty cool or at least completely acceptable.

1. I always listen to my iPod/mp3 player and pretend I'm on Australian Idol.

It's true. And I don't just imagine I'm on the show, I actually imagine my outfit (black vinyl bodysuit ala Britney Spears Oops!... I Did It Again for when I do Thriller by Michael Jackson), hairstyle (will probably need hair extensions for the ones I want), the genre of the week (playing an instrument - Alive by Pearl Jam) and the judges' comments (Dicko: "Every week you amaze me... you just know how to rock out.")

I don't even watch Australian Idol!

2. I'm fanatical about etymology.

I'm prone to giving people enlightening, exciting lectures about the origins of the English language, and I analyse words to see what links they have to ye olde English, German, French, Gaellic etc. Unfortunately most people are ingrates who take our language for granted and poo-poo my hordes of knowledge on the topic.

3. I get stressed out really easily, especially when it comes to Cuba and what will happen when Fidel Castro (viva Fidel!) passes away.

I couldn't sleep the night he had that operation last year. What am I worried about? I guess I hate to see everything he stood for torn apart by US occupation. Who wouldn't be worried!!

4. I want to be everything and therefore am totally non-committal to any kind of career.

You name it - a law degree? Hell yes, I'll do that! Beauty therapy? I'm looking into it my friend! Acting - I'm organising my portfolio as we speak! Farmer? The simple life is what I want! Writer? I've started three novels and a screenplay! A fairy at childrens' birthday parties? I'm the girl!

Never ask me for a long term(or short term for that matter) plan cos I got nothin' and everything! In fact I've made a career out of dreaming!

5. I still sleep with Snuggles, my teddy of 22 years. And he has a small wooden doll inside him that seems to have once been a part of a babushka set that is drawn as a British knight, called Arthur (see photos).

Snuggles is from a line of toys that I believe is now defunct called 'Glow Worms'. I took out Snuggles' glow stick thing years ago and mum stuffed him with some material. Upon finding Arthur on the floor of my mum's shop in about 1991, I put Arthur inside Snuggle's tummy, where he rests on a red woollen bed. Weird? I think not. Innovative? Absolutely!

Suzi

That's it. After two and a half joyous years together, my best friend and I have parted ways.

Suzi drove off into the September rain with her new owner today, and a little part of me has disappeared forever. Goodbye little princess, you shall not be forgotten xx

A tale from A Tale from the Gunbarrel...

After what seemed like a thousand set-backs, and many, many rehearsals and auditions at Northbrooke house, Josh finally got his actors and crew ready for the shoot yesterday.

And what a shoot it was. Arriving at 2pm, after hauling what felt like a neverending conga line of lights, cables, bags, stands, tripods and a very expensive camera into the car, we straight away got into unpacking and assembling the items we had so painstakingly stacked in the little Civic.

The shoot was at a place called the Chaise Lounge (which Josh consistently and incorrectly pronounces the 'chase lounge') which when I arrived was quiet, peaceful, warm and reminded me very much of Moulin Rouge. The bar is in a basement, decadently furnished with red velour chaise longues, regal looking armchairs, red walls adorned with baroque-style paintings and even slight early-twentieth-century-chinoisie-esque curtains and drapes. Textures, textures, textures... it was indeed an ideal setting for Josh's bizarre underworld film.

Time flew and before we knew it, it was 4.00pm and the actors were arriving. I was completely amazed and inspired by the way the whole thing ran - actors were completely focused (as I mentioned to Adam, very few boo-boos - nothing for the bloopers reel), our make-up artist (the beautiful and talented Liz) was so versatile, so sure of what she was doing and created a very creepy scar for Dale.

But most amazing of all were the two directors, Josh and Chris, who withstood 8 hours of holding boom mics, cameras, arranging lights, sets, directing and focusing... just for one scene.

Josh's fearless determination constantly amazes me, his undying creative vision is a force to be reckoned with. He wrote the screenplay, he auditioned the actors, he was the set director, director of photography, gaffer, boom holder and motivational speaker, all at the tender age of 22.

The pied piper of puds or, Token Insane Trophy Wife strikes again

I've already posted a post about my insurmountable levels of love that I have for everything, constantly bubbling under my skin, waiting to erupt in an earthquake of affection or compassion.

Yesterday I went for my walk again, no suprises there, everything completely normal.

As I neared the park, I noticed a white cat rubbing itself against the brick fence of a house on the corner of Wattletree Road and some other street. Being the animal obsessee that I am, I HAD to stope and give it a cuddle.

Well. Big mistake. HUGE mistake. The pud WOULD NOT LEAVE ME. IT WAS LIKE A DOG.

I tried dumping it back in its front yard a few times, only to have it RUN AFTER ME like a puppy! It didn't even slink cat-style, it actually trotted by my side. This started to bother me after a while, as its very upsetting to leave something so vulnerable. I even had to change the direction I was walking in to avoid the pud being hit by a Malvern 4 wheel drive (a likely fate for any of us, really).

So I sped off again, hoping the cat would forget me and stay back at its house, but it didn't.

Enter Insane Malvern Trophy Wife in 4 wheel drive, pulling into her driveway. She lowered her electric window and smiled at me. Understandably, I thought the pud must belong to her.

'Is this your cat?' I asked hopefully.
'Oh God no,' she replied, 'that cat's a horrible thing. Very vicious.'

I looked down at the cat rubbing its head lovingly against my legs, purring audibly.

'It seems to like you,' she said unhelpfully. 'Just throw it over a fence, it'll find its way home.' Her Trophy Children in obligatory private school uniforms with Camberwell-girl hair stared.

'Maybe I'll try the house one more time,' I said slowly, trying to end the pointless conversation. The cat darted towards the car, and I grabbed it quickly. It hissed, but still loved me.

'Puss!' I reprimanded lamely, 'you'll get run over!'

'Oh, oh oh,' chortled Insane Trophy Wife sadistically, 'go ahead! Put it under the wheel and I'll just squish it, miserable thing!'

'Mum!' squealed the Trophy Kids, as I smiled numbly and backed away with pud safe in my arms.

Insane bitch!

I don't have curly hair...

... cos I don't eat crusts. They're disgusting :(

This place...

This place terrifies, amazes and humbles me.

When I die I want to crumble into the earth, be pecked at by birds, be consumed by dirt and clay and return to life as grass and eucalyptus and shrill cicadas. I want to stare at the sky for all eternity and die and be reborn over and over til the day that there will only be night.

Tumbling

I've been to Queensland twice.

I live in Victoria, the sedimentary state. When I say sedimentary, I mean it is at the bottom of Australia - the safe centre of gravity of an incomprehensibly huge land. Victoria is small but sturdy.

Both times that I've journeyed to Queensland I've travelled via bus and car respectively.

And both times I've had this overwhelming sense of vertigo, that the vehicle I'm in will conk out and roll back down to Victoria, or that when I step out I will fall, tumbling down, down, down til I arrive dazed and damaged back in the bottom of Australia.

You know it really does have quite an effect.

People (well, boys and mean girls) often criticise girls who 'break nails'.

You always see on B and C grade movies some football jock/high school bully/peevish loser/bitter virginal male jeering at girls who are upset, teasing "what happened? Break a nail?"

Ugh. Sooooooo lame.

What people don't understand is that in the case of REAL nails breaking, it friggin' hurts.

In the case of FAKE nails breaking, the shrivelled, pale and weakened real nail underneath looks flaky and munted, not a pretty sight. And it's a massive annoyance cos you have to hide this munted nail under a bandaid while flashing around your other nine sexy porn-star nails.

Last night as I was drying myself after my shower, I felt this unnatural bend on my finger nail. My whole fakey was coming off!!

With a quick clip of the nail-clippers my middle left fingernail was revealed in all it's dishevelled glory.

'Check it out!' I yelled to my beloved, waving my nudey fingernail in his face. He was mildly fascinated, but I didn't get the reaction I wanted (or deserved).

It was truly amazing, and now I am completely divided whether or not to keep up the fakies or embrace my boring old naturals, and start doing the manis again!

What EVER will become of me!!! :)

I heart Anthony Burgess <3

"Well, well, well, well. If it isn't fat, stinking billygoat Billy-Boy in poison. How art thou, thy globby bottle of cheap, stinking chip-oil? Come and get one in the yarbles, if you have any yarbles, you eunuch jelly thou."

Genius!

Why am I not like Lisa?

My friend Lisa, a beautiful, talented girl, is stark raving mad about art and culture. She can't get enough of it. What's more, she's been clever enough to turn it into her career (I'm still working on that bit).

Lisa gets art. She KNOWS it. She can even TALK about it and hold 3+ minute conversations about it.

Now, I view myself as a pretty cluey kinda girl. Oh yeah, I'm switched on.

So why, WHY do I just NOT GET ART?

I don't mean like movies, music, theatre etc, oh I am WELL VERSED in those. I mean your actual pictures and whirls and dots and splashes and 'installations' (surely there's an easier to remember term for that!?).

An artist friend once attempted to take me to an art gallery in St Kilda. We wandered down Acland Street on a sultry early Autumn day, and in retrospect the only way I can desribe my then self is a naughty puppy. I was not focused, a little bit stubborn, didn't take it at all seriously, and more importantly, I was mostly fascinated by something that wasn't what I was meant to be fascinated by.

We approached the heavy green door, its paint flaking a little in shabby St Kilda chic style. On the frosted glass panel beside the door was a no-smoking sticker. Someone had written above the little cigarette in it's angry red circle with the bar through it "It's like..."

Hilarious. What wit!

I went inside, and can barely remember the art I saw. In fact, I can't remember it at all.

Words. That's pretty much what I do. My boyf said to me once, 'I think in pictures, and you think in words' and I have to agree.

But it would be so swell to know art so I could impress Lisa in a 3+ minute conversation.

I am petrified...

... of karma! I am SUCH a goose! What Good Girl needs to be scared of that? :)

I heart Auden

... lovers, approaching to kiss,
instinctively shut their eyes before their faces
can be reduced to
anatomical data.

(Taken from I am not a camera by WH Auden)

Because there is always room for more love in this crazy world

Ever since I've had the capacity to know, I've known that I'm a girl who loves to love.

I love everything. Animal, vegetable or mineral, you name it - my heart will ache with love for it. I worry at times about this bottomless cup of coffee that is my supply of love, because it hurts me so much as well.

My eyes fill with tears at anything to do with the RSPCA, when old people are bashed, when I see someone cry. I crumble at the most un-amazing amazing things.

The year 7 co-ordinator has a plan - each yr 7 homeroom will be rewarded with an afternoon of pizza and a movie if they stay code-of-conduct (like a warning) free for 3 weeks.

Easy peasy, I thought, my homeroom is full of angels. Little well-behaved, angelic baby girls.

But disaster struck on Tuesday. I was informed by a tiny little girl that one of the other girls had been given a code.

'What?!' I asked, bewildered, 'What for? And who got it?'

The tiny girl pointed to her equally tiny friend, who was verging on tears.

'I left my maths book in my bag.'

The class of tiny people watched me for my response. So this is it, I thought, this is why a lioness fights for her cubs. This is why a magpie swoops. Because for some of us, love is what we do.

'That's a silly reason, and it should never have happened,' was my reassuring response, as I mentally beat down my heartache for these little, well-meaning people.

My love is so often inconvenient and overwhelming, but at least it's endless, and I can't apologise or resent that.