- Targeted Facebook advertisement catches eye. Lament the loss of privacy in the digital era and fear an inevitable march to a 1984esque dystopia. The ad is for print pants, you like them. Click the ad.
- The pants are not too expensive. Contemplate sadly the likelihood that they were made in a sweatshop, and that your purchase contributes to a system of global inequality. Consider not purchasing the pants, but know that a widescale embrace of this option may lead to a loss of income for those employed by the sweatshop. Click purchase.
- The option to select your size comes up. The sizes only go to 14. Think about the body-image connotations and exclusionary nature of such limited options, driven by economic interests. Despite living a sedentary lifestyle and eating fast food, you are size 10. Know that while you have escaped obesity, your lifestyle in our capitalist society means you will probably die of heart disease at a younger age than your parents. Select size 10.
- Before continuing with the purchase, notice a “SALE!” section, visit it. Meditate on the disposable nature of modern materialism, which leads to a spiral of dissatisfaction and is deeply environmentally unsustainable. See a cute watch for only $15. Select that, too.
- Enter your address. Contemplate the environmental impact of the vast distances your purchase must travel to arrive in your mailbox, and the societal impact of having so many desirable objects just a click away, only further fueling the insatiable need for material prizes so valued by our society.
- Remember the devastating impact of the 2008 GFC which was in part contributed to by the ever-increasing dependency on credit cards in a society which is built on a presumption of individual debt. Enter credit card details. You know them off by heart.
- Wait the week for the pants to arrive. Feel as though, given our “now, now, now!” mentality, a week is an incredibly long time to wait. Yearn for a simpler era.
- The package arrives. You like the pants. The watch, too.
Money can’t buy sense but it can buy the biggest wedding ever and which would you choose really I know my pick
I live and work in an area which is notorious among the genteel classes for being the stomping ground of the teeming masses of plebs, bogans and potential terrorists, as well as home to excellent charcoal chicken, for the more intrepid explorers.
To clear up a misconception, my area is not just this, but more!
It is home to multiple excellent community led ventures, in art, poetry, music and theatre, among the many other creative arts in which I have no talent. It is home to many a drive-by shooting and even more grossly exaggerated tales of being witness to a drive-by shooting. It is home to huge mosques, insane mega-churches, some massive sikh temples, and a large number of MacDonalds. It also has some very nice parks.
And yesterday, it was home to what has been dubbed enthusiastically by its investors, the wedding of the century.
The wedding, which made the news in order to allow those watching to feel insufferably superior and classy, was the perfect representation of the area. It involved a laughably shady Deputy Mayor, four helicopters, a fighter jet, illegal street closures, a whole lot people having an amazing time, and, seemingly incongruously, a live performance by Missy Higgins, who sang about a sad break-up.
The Deputy Mayor, also a property developer in not-at-all a conflict of interest, deputy mayors the area where I work, an area famous for having no parking because the council has allowed many property developers (including those who hold council posts such as Deputy Mayor) to build massive apartment blocks with no additional parking. As a pessimist and a cynic, I appreciate the laughably overt and pathetic nature of council corruption.
But my favourite part of the wedding was when a news reporter asked the groom what the best thing about his wedding day is, and his answer, beamed across televisions and facebook newsfeeds everywhere, was:
My brothers and hanging out with the boys
Oh honey.
My brothers and hanging out with the boys
I have a feeling all the fighter jets in the world aren’t going to save him from his new wife’s fury today.
Purchasing Supplies from KMart, A Black Hole of Futility and Nihilism
Not sponsored by Kmart
Not sponsored by anyone
Not even read by anyone, truth be told
I’m so lonely
Wow, that disclaimer got a lot more real than originally intended.
As mentioned in previous blog posts (well, one), I am a knitting fiend. As someone with an unhealthy need to constantly fiddle, knitting provides me with the opportunity to both make something productive, and stop leaving weird twisted bits of rolled up paper all over the place, as I used to.*
And knitting is very cheap! Or so I thought initially. But I never fail to take a heartwarming, traditional, anti capitalist activity and turn it immediately into a costly exercise of yearning for the most expensive associated products ever.
Take up knitting, they said. It’s very cheap, they said. (Note, no-one said either of these things, not then, not ever).
Anyway, the point is, I knit with enthusiasm, and my bank account is more sorry for it.
I was out to dinner with my brother and his wife the other night, and he asked how I got into knitting.
“Well, myself and Husband got suddenly enthusiastic about the idea, and went to K-Mart and purchased supplies, and I started practicing, and it stuck”
“Incredible,” said my brother, “I’ve been to K-Mart a million times and purchased supplies, and it’s never stuck.”
“It’s true,” said his wife, “remember the skipping ropes?”
I realised that I too, have gone to K-Mart many a time, enthused with a fantastic idea, purchased supplies and in that act sated my desire for any further progress.
Here are some examples:
- An entire scrapbooking kit. And every time we go on holiday I force my husband to carry around a small pile of train tickets and museum stubs, in case the urge to scrapbook does one day take hold.
- A lot of foil tins, in which to make The Pioneer Woman’s cinnamon scrolls but which have languished in the third draw down for over a year.
- Many small bottles and different coloured pouches in which to take toiletries overseas. I did actually try this one- it was a nightmare of fiddling through little pouches and trying to remember what colour the shampoo is as I didn’t think to label them.
- Multiple photo frames for only $10 but one breaks when I’m not as delicate as a feather removing the back and so I give up on all of them.
- A car cleaning kit (which nearly cost as much as actually getting another human to clean the car, supplies included).
- Some blank USB sticks to back up my computer and stop dicing with oblivion as I don’t have any copies of any of my pictures.
All of these supplies are currently lurking in drawers, cupboards, and on top of book cases throughout my house.
I mentioned this to a friend, and she said her “purchasing supplies” penchant was focused on the cooking aisles. To that end, she has purchased, and used a maximum of once thus far:
- A certain machine which allegedly grills fat whilst being lean and mean
- A super blender
- A slow cooker
It occurs to me that K-Mart really has monopolised the market on the supplies-purchasing suckers like myself, my brother and my friend.
I’m not even mad, K-Mart. I’m impressed.
*I really did. My best friend/ former housemate thinks it indicates I have the tendencies of a serial killer, my husband thinks it’s useful as it means he can track which areas of the house I visited during the day, and thus piece together my activities. Which upon reflection makes it seem as though he in fact is the serial killer.
A Week of Absurd Injuries, in Three Acts
ACT ONE
In a MYER change room, I am trying on a dress that costs twice the amount even available in my bank account. I love it with the deep intensity you can love something that will never be yours- Javier Bardem, for example, or a reasonable mortgage in Sydney.
I regretfully remove the dress, and return to my normal outfit, which suddenly seems shabby and inferior.
AND THEN
I can only assume that somehow the assistant has cast the evil eye on me in revenge for being *that* customer who tries on an eye-wateringly expensive item which is obviously well outside her means (“oh, for you?” the assistant asked doubtfully, when I walked into the change room) taking up room in the change room for more well-to-do browsers.
You know those door latches, which look like this?
The door latch was nothing like this, but this is the best Google could offer.
Well, as I left, the sharp edge of the door latch caught that soft inner part of my upper arm.
Sweet mother of Zeus.
The pain was immediate. I went deeply red and breathed heavily through my nose. A nice older lady helped her daughter pick a formal dress gave me a sympathetic look.
The assistant smiled.
ACT TWO
I was sitting on my sofa, watching many hours of trash tv, as is my wont. My brother was sitting on the other sofa, studying hard for his engineering degree and reading newspapers, activities which really solidify his position as the successful one of our family.
I was sitting with my legs under me, partly because I always do and partly because it is freezing in my house and my husband wants to “save” the “environment” or something similarly ridiculous and meticulously well-researched.
After watching four satisfying episodes of various Kardashian shows in a row, I got up to refill my hot water bottle.
I love you all, adorable Kardashians
AND THEN
Out of nowhere! My foot which I had been sitting on was suddenly a limp rubber blob which literally collapsed totally beneath me, and I crashed dramatically down on my brother. His computer fell on the floor, revealing that he was browsing Buzzfeed and not studying engineering at all.
My foot immediately swelled impressively, and I hobbled for a day or two, but when I realised no-one cared, I stopped.
ACT THREE
It had already been a morning punctuated with drama and shock twists. I had taken the day off work to attend a full day seminar at a University far, far away. I won’t name the university. Let’s just say it begins with “N”, and ends in “Ew South Wales”.
When I got to the university, observed the tiny children attending it and reflected upon my advancing age, found my class and sat down, it became rapidly apparent that in fact, this was not my class at all, and in fact, I had misread my timetable and my class was in October.
I left and got on a bus to the station. Now, I am a knitting hobbyist, and had brought my knitting with me to pass time on public transport. Only when putting that into words do I realise how old that makes me seem. I don’t even have the external trappings of cool, to be able to pass off my knitting as ironic.
I was knitting on double pointed needles, which look like this:
They do actually look like tiny weapons
I got a little too enthusiastic about my knitting, and realised I missed my stop, which is a fairly central stop, evidenced by the fact it is literally called “Central”. Unfortunately, I had only realised I had missed it when the driver stopped, and yelled, “this is the end of the line, everyone off”. I had travelled by now 30 mins in the wrong direction.
I hurriedly put my needles in my knitting bag, and went to cross the road.
AND THEN
Somehow, one of the needles got caught between my legs, while I was full stride. I noticed when I stepped forwards, and suddenly had the feeling I was being gored in both legs.
Following hopping around saying “ow ow ow ow OW” and rubbing my inner thighs vigourously while stanging on the side of the road in a manner which must have looked quite perverted, I called my husband in order to garner sympathy.
He laughed heartily, observed that I had been betrayed not once but twice by my knitting in a single session, and suggested that knitting was more of a blood sport than we had originally thought.
END ALL ACTS
I end the week battered, bruised and damaged by three of my favourite activities; shopping for items I could never afford, watching Kardashians and their adorable antics, and knitting. I stagger into the next week braced for the future indignities it may hold. Wish me luck, single reader from my stats, who I am not entirely sure isn’t just me on my work computer.
The Bikini Body: Resistance is Futile
This pop up forced it’s way into my life today:
I tried to close it, as I have no want nor need for a bikini body, which I believe is a ridiculous categorisation for something which breathes for you whether you remember to or not, creates life, bleeds monthly, houses your mind and has a face, but as you can see, the option to close the pop-up involves claiming ownership of a bikini body.
Damn corporations!
My thought process:
Me: Bikini body? Pah. Clos- bikini body! Literally can’t escape the pop up without affirming the bikini body!
Eventually I closed the Internet, even though I was only halfway through my article.
Take that, unrealistic societal expectations!
A Variety of Specifically Twenty Exciting Ways to Pass Time During a Long Haul Flight
In the course of my work, I fly on a regular basis. Here is my sage wisdom, gorgeous fools. Follow this and your flight will proceed literally exactly like it was already going to.
- Moodily brood on how much better the flight would be if you had been upgraded. Meditate on the fact that even your mum’s best friend has been upgraded and she only flies once a year, to Bali. Return to this theme 200x throughout flight.
- Drink a lot of water because Cosmo said it would stop you developing flying pimples. Sit in agony for ages because you want to go to the toilet but the person next to you is asleep. Finally climb over them as they side-eye you. Go to toilet to observe emergence of three flying pimples. Repeat 6x throughout flight.
- Make polite conversation with the people in your row. Feel obliged to converse with them regularly even though none of you have any wish to do so. Repeat at least 20x throughout flight, more if you are so unfortunate as to catch their eye while looking for your missing pen.
- Walk slowly along the aisle from the back to the front, observing who is watching sex scenes. Give them knowing looks as you pass. Don’t repeat this one- eventually they’ll just think you’re hitting on them.
- Impress the person next to you by telling them you’re travelling internationally for work, then spend the rest of the flight avoiding revealing how achingly boring your job really is.
- Have the cabin crew begin serving the food from the row immediately behind yours, and know that you will therefore be the last person served in your section and all the good meals will be gone and you’ll be stuck with the chicken breast and wilted spinach.
- Try to eat your meal methodologically and neatly. End up with little bits of foil everywhere. Everywhere.
- Abruptly lower your chair immediately after your meal is collected, forgetting that the person behind you still has their meal to be collected.
- Have a neighbour pull down the carry-on luggage surrounding yours. Pull down yours, narrowly missing it landing on the head of the person behind you. Rummage for ages, causing a build up behind you. Produce a hand cream; use, and put away. This can be repeated four times with the following products: mascara, lip balm, a hair brush and fluffy socks.
- Spend the time in turbulence trying to convince yourself that you’re not terrified of turbulence.
- Accidentally drop a pen between seats. Put an inordinate amount of effort into recovering it.
- Turn on the movie you were looking forward to watching, but inexplicably never get interested in it, and spend the flight watching reruns of Friends instead.
- (After at least 11 hours) Go to the toilet without your shoes, because you couldn’t find them and after this long on a plane, what is life.
- Go stand at the back for some fresh air. Be joined by a middle aged aviation enthusiast, who engages you in speculation about the tail wind, and tries yet fails to spot the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. Return grudgingly to your seat rather than continue this torture.
- Walk past the good looking guy, who is sleeping. Walk slowly. Appreciate the view. He’ll never know.
- Lose your iPhone among the in-flight magazine, menu, sick bag and the four newspapers you picked up in the tunnel, believing in a moment of madness that you would read the broadsheets in economy.
- Put your feet on the armrest in front of you, even though you hate it when the people behind you do it.
- Observe the couple across the aisle hissing at each other about who has to take Madison, the two year old, to the bathroom.
- Coax the cabin crew member to tell you the scariest thing that happened to them while flying, and then spend the rest of the flight convinced that a repeat incident is only moments away.
- Turn on a movie which is 120 minutes even though you’re landing in 112 minutes. Become unexpectedly deeply involved in the plot line and feel as though you have been slapped in the face when all the landing announcements cut it off right before the climax.
- Watch the guy next to you covertly turn on his phone and begin texting and snapchatting the landing. Try not to freak out that his phone will interfere with the computers and cause the plane to crash spectacularly.
I Am Woman?
I had a friend at university who was androgynous and achingly cool. She had a knitted pikachu sweater and a multi-layered haircut. These days she lives in Paris, has a big dog ironically, and a brilliant job unironically but it probably pays well. I, meanwhile, furtively purchase comfortable jeans from ‘Katies’ and scroll through “100 cutest cat pictures”.
Unlike my friend, I never pursued an androgynous look- I don’t have the cheekbones for it. Instead, I like to think that you can tell pretty soon after meeting me that I am female. If nothing else I have a pretty well defined female name- not Jo or Terri, and not a trendy-either-way name like Cameron, Blake or Steve.
I work for an international company and my job frequently has me chit chatting with staff at some of our other offices around the world. There’s a guy in one of these offices who, it became evident, thought that I am a man.
Fair enough; English is not a first language for everyone, and besides in some countries my name identifies me as a staple foodstuff. He called me “Brother”, and I never corrected him. In fact I called him “Brother” back, in some kind of tacit encouragement. The weird thing is, I began facilitating it. We had to email fairly frequently, and he’d ask after my family. Rather than say, “my husband is fine”, I would say, “they’re fine.” Such was my unwillingness to be like “hello polite and distant colleague, I AM A WOMAN”, that instead I enabled- nay, encouraged– his assumption that I am a man.
Eventually, we had a video Skype meeting. The error was not mentioned, but a dawning look of awareness in his eyes assured me that the issue was rectified. I commended myself on subtly handling the situation instead of being excruciatingly awkward like normal.
Until I received a short and kind email today.
A Great Injustice
When I was twenty, women older than me warned me with a lot of certainty and a little schadenfreude that my magnificent slender twenty year old figure would not last forever. Like all twenty year olds, I ignored all entreaties to enjoy it while I had it, and all warnings that it would not last. I ate carbs in magnificent quantities and inventive forms, such as pasta with only cheese and butter, and a side of garlic bread. Once I ate a whole bowl of raw cake mix to fulfil a pledge made by my five year old self (it was exactly as good as I imagined it might be, age five). Once I ate a profiterole tower, by myself. And then a few years later, I tried on some pants in my normal size, then the size above that, then the size above even that, and I realised the day which I had been much warned of had arrived.
But that is not the great injustice.
Now somehow, I am on the other side of that divide, warning the lithe twenty year old girls who come after me that one day it will all come tumbling down around them. And like the women who warned me, I partly want them to appreciate what they have (though really I know it is hopeless, and they never will, or the cycle could not continue) and partly want to reassure myself that the generation below me will face the same minor inconveniences I face. Of course, the twenty year old girls who are unlucky enough to be subjected to my tirades on the topic dismiss them immediately, eat all the carbs and discuss their “problem areas”.
That, of course, is not the great injustice.
In hope that I will regain my youthful form, and in the hope that the energy and optimism I possessed at the time will accompany it, and in the hope that the glowing skin and general wisdom I did not then nor now possess will also accompany it, I attend a gym on a regular basis and have done so for a few months. I once derided gym goers, yet I now earnestly plan a timetable of gym activities, and decline more exciting invitations which interfere, and have a whatsapp group of likeminded people to coordinate with. Such has my life become.
And that is not the great injustice.
I attend the gym with two friends, both of whom seem to love exercise for itself. I look at them, during a group class. While I limply flail about, hair frizzing above me and teeth gritted, they bounce around with vigour, looking enthused and happy about the process.
That is a little injustice, but not the great one.
There is but one class which I enjoy, when time goes at an appropriate speed and not horrifically slow in a seeming void of pain and dance music. It is ‘Zumba’, the same as the day time commercials full of white people trying to be both thinner and less white.
Our gym has but one Zumba class a week.
And by some sick twist of fate, it is 7.30-8.30pm, Wednesday evening.
Exactly the same time that the Bachelor airs.
And THAT, my friends and silent viewers and people who got here by accident searching for a Zumba routine, that is clearly and obviously the great injustice.
(Following a Recent Birthday) Reasons I Know My Youth Has Abandoned Me
– I used to disparage youths ironically. Now I do it mostly sincerely.
– I attend the gym and eat vegetables for fear of having heart disease one day.
– Instead of laughing in the face of capitalist trappings, I furtively read property websites.
– I’ve developed a deep passion for homewares, including: table runners, coasters, good bed linen.
– I counsel youths to eat all the Macdonalds they can before their bodies turn against them. I reminisce fondly of doing the same. The youths in question mostly look bored and uncomfortable.
– I have a “skin care routine”.
lady user of the internet 