I Do? Oh Sorry, You Can’t

The Gay Marriage Debate

In most of the world, homosexual citizens cannot marry the person they love. 50 years ago African Americans couldn’t drink from the same water fountain as their Caucasian neighbour. We think times have changed? Please. We may have swapped The Beatles for Bieber and bowl cuts for quifs, but we are as backward as ever. In another 50 years, future generations will look down on us. Am I wrong in thinking this is the apartheid of our generation?

I woke up this morning and checked Twitter in the bleary haze of too much wine and last night’s mascara. The Project tweeted that “marriage equality was a driving theme behind yesterday’s Mardi Gras”. And it hit me like a ton of bricks.

I live in a country, in a world, that tells some people that they can’t marry, with no good reason why. Go ahead. Argue with me. Give me one solid, bulletproof reason why allowing gay marriage would be the death of modern society. Religion? Politics? Bull.

Photo from here

Honey. The gays are modern society. They’re not cordoned off in the festive part of town. They’re our parents, our teachers, our brothers, our nieces. They are us.

I propose a new rule. If you want to treat homosexuals as second-class citizens, be my unwelcome guest*. But you’ll have to forfeit any form of entertainment or service containing a homosexual person forever. That means no Ellen DeGeneres. You can’t watch Neil Patrick Harris in How I Met Your Mother. That’s right. You’ll never know who the mother is, you slimy git. No Adam Richards. No Hannah Gadsby. No Magda Szubanksi. No Justice Kirby. Perhaps your mailman is gay. No mail for you. Ever.

Everyone is entitled to their opinion, yes, but do we listen intently to the “opinions” of racists?

NO.

Why?

BECAUSE THEY’RE FRIGGIN’ MENTAL.

Marriage

Please don’t tell me that opposing gay marriage doesn’t mean you think being gay is wrong. It may just be a piece of paper and a couple of gold rings, and good on you if you don’t need or want that. To me, the act of marrying is a sacred promise. Forget religion. It’s you standing in front of the world vowing to bind yourself to another forever. It’s special. (I don’t know about you, but I can’t even commit to a regular haircut.)

If you can stand in front of someone and tell them that because they’re attracted to the same sex they'll never be able to make that promise, you think homosexuality is wrong.

Who the %$#@! does it harm?

I went to a Catholic school. Now, I loved my school, and they did a lot of stuff right. But in Year 12, for some religion assignment that I probably scribbled in a fit of fear the night before it was due, a member of the Church came in and spoke to us about the establishment’s opinion on global issues, including gay marriage.

I wasn’t too offended by it. They weren’t horrible or rude and no one was surprised; we knew their stance.

Recently someone told me that their sibling (who happens to be gay) had to sit through that same speech. Had to sit and politely listen to someone tell them that gay marriage was wrong; and that God only wants men and women to be coupled. The hair on my arms stands on end at the mere thought of it. We sat in a room and heard about how wrong gay marriage was. And that was considered ok. Fine. Just part of our education.

Our school had to consider that some of us might be gay. That at least one kid in that room probably had a gay parent, brother, sister or uncle.

How did they think that kid would feel? Did they think? Did they assume homosexuals are so fabulous that they have no feelings? Did they assume that none of us were gay? Or - worst of all - did the potential hurt feelings of a gay student not even factor as a factor?

Would we force a Jewish person to sit through a speech detailing the merits of Nazism? (Ok - maybe it isn't quite on that scale, but you see where I'm going here).

There is something so deeply wrong with a society that discriminates against citizens for aspects of their identity that are beyond their control. There is something absolutely VILE about a society that considers it appropriate to calmly discuss this discrimination without considering it might be offensive.

Furthermore, if someone DID choose to be gay (maybe I’ll get into the Cynthia Nixon choice debate another day) - WHAT BUSINESS IS IT OF OURS? Are they harming us? Is their sexual orientation doing ANYTHING to us personally? 

Now. I don’t know Jesus. Didn’t have the pleasure. Regardless of whether you believe, he said some nice stuff. He told us to love one another. He dared associate with members of society that others condemned. He sat with them. He talked with them. He treated them as his equal.

If you’re going to cower behind your faith to protest gay marriage, sit yourself down and read between the lines.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Fifty years ago there were people that hated African Americans for no other reason than the shade of their skin. And you know what? Those despicable people still exist. We can’t wait for everyone to be ok with gay. It’s never going to happen.

Julia, I know you have a lot on your plate. That Abbott douche keeps egging your car and pulling your pigtails (metaphorically, though I wouldn’t put it past him).

But come on. It’s time.

 

*Please note – this sentence contained the f-word. I felt it would be detrimental to my argument, but man I liked it there.

Do We Have A Problem?

"The happiest day of every girl's life is not when she gets married or pregnant or is set for life, but when the online order finally arrives at her door step... pure bliss." Discuss.

There comes a time in every woman's life when she catches sight of herself in her receipts mirror, and realises she's over-shopped. You realise you didn't really need those dove grey pumps. That this headband is way too OTT, and will be relegated to the headband cemetery with all the other fabulous purple glitter coated mistakes.

The problem is, these days, if you're having an ugly day, you may be couch-detained in frumpy gear and a scrunchy, but your credit card is most likely BOUNDING over the Atlantic.

(Metaphorically. Unless your card has been stolen, it's probably with you and the seven packets of Tim Tams on the couch).

The opening quote was posted online by a dear friend of mine. I immediately giggled and responded in the most enthusiastic caps lock. Post-giggles, I was again struck by something that's been bothering me lately. Why do we buy, and why does it feel so good?

 

The spoils of Ala Moana. I feel giddy.

Too many of us have liked shopping for too long for it to be a fad. It's not a trend, it's not a phase. Hell - it's a sport. You forage through your favourite stores. Given enough time, a true shopper will even rummage through the non-favourites. The mature lady stores, the cheap Asian outlets. The Kmarts. The Big Ws. (Correction - these are my favourites).

You sprint to the sales rack. You flip through with the speed of an Olympic sprinter; the precision of a gold medal archer. 

You improve with training. You get better at knowing what will or won’t flatter. You know a decent price-tag when you see one, and you know how to feign a frown at a counter when you 'spot' a loose stitch (that you spotted twenty minutes ago and decided to fix anyway). Most importantly, you know how to smile sweetly when the salesgirl suggests a ten per cent discount. 

Here's where the game changed; online. There's no instant gratification, no rushing home to show hide it from Mum/boyfriend/cat. You're now seventy bucks out of pocket, and you have nothing to show for it. But shit's about to get crazy.

There's now a heightened sense of excitement. You've hunted further than anyone else. Chances are minimised of someone else owning what will soon be yours. You will be the envy of every woman who dreams of being able to pull off a pair of canary yellow brogues. Seven to ten days delivery? The anticipation! The FEAR that it got lost on the way. The FURY when it hasn't arrived on the seventh day. The frustration that you might actually have to wait til the tenth day like all the other schmucks. The terrifying thought that it might not fit. The SWEET SWEET ELATION WHEN IT DOES! 

Lucy has a problem.

I have this theory. Cavemen. Lionesses. Emperor penguins. We’ve just evolved in the era of the loyalty card. We no longer set out to hunt for food. We don’t impress the rest of the tribe with how much mammoth-bacon we bring home – we now whip out the Olga Berg, the Steve Madden, the MAC lipstick.

'Oooh, ahhh!', the tribe exclaims in the nightclub bathrooms. On holiday, my sole reason for buying a cheap pair of Steve Maddens was to see the look on a friend's face.

Ron Haynes' article Why Do You Shop? 10 Reasons And How To Change Your Shopping Habit reveals we even get some other items with our shiny new purchases. Emotional reward, feeling cool, acceptance. Escape. We get these free of charge! Hooray, bargain, lucky us!

No matter what you buy, how much it cost, or how you bought it, the end result is the same: I bought this and it makes me look and feel fabulous.

Reading those points makes me feel icky. And like I should race out to the nearest nursing home to volunteer. Did I buy that fabulous gold sequinned shirt from Sportsgirl because I liked it, or because I was trying to feel better about myself? Did I buy it because, God forbid I return home from Sydney without having bought anything? Return to the tribe empty-handed? No no no.

Children are starving. Children are dying. Grown men are carting their entire life down the same street every day in a small sad duffle bag. Preventable diseases are rampant and lethal; and here I am, clean, fed, educated and considering a stupid floral purse?

Yeeeeesh. I feel awful. Unless your last name is DeVille (fabulous faux by the way darl), I'm guessing you might too. This piece started as a (hopefully) humourous blow-by-blow description of the online shopping process. And now I've guilted the crap outta myself. I am completely lost in the murky waters of conscience. Let's work through this.

Logically: if you give generously to the less fortunate (and I don't mean your pal who doesn't yet own Mimco), there is nothing wrong with shopping. There is nothing wrong with rewarding yourself for working hard.

... Right?

Then why do I feel so slimy right now?

Unemployment

A month. A MONTH since I've been here to regale you with a few hundred words wrapped around my crush on Elijah Wood. OH dear hearts, my laziness brings me such sweet sorrow.

The good news? In one week I will be unemployed. By choice, mind you. But still, I'm more than a little terrified. No matter what I say about having to quit to start uni, I am still very deliberately walking away from employment, money and security.

I imagine my future has a very 'Down And Out In Paris And London' vibe.
Uh, please note, I never did finish reading that. I know. I love Georgey(/Ericy). Shameful. Anyway... 

Since stumbling upon The 5 Weirdest Reasons We Have Sex (According to Science) earlier this morning (hilarious read by the way. Nerdy perfect), I decided, maybe I can do that. I can write, and I can do so not half-bad.

So if I'm going to unemployed with lots of time and lots of internet (aka be a freelance writer), I'mma needa spruce this blog UP.

Oh and the bad news? I think I'll always crush on lil Lij. If you find this morally apprehensible, it was nice knowing you.

Joy out

Martyr mindreader

Driving home today, I had another epiphany.

I know right. Aren't you all lucky.

But before the e-word, lets give you some background.

I am, sometimes, what you might call, an overly conscientious citizen. A martyr, if you will.

I - like many females - derive some sort of sick pleasure in attempting to be all things to all people at all times. Despite my best attempts at laziness, my itty bitty candle often burns at both ends. Indeed, as I sit at the computer to write this (one-handed, whilst consuming ice-lollies), I am texting a friend about what time I'll pick them up tonight, fretting that they'll be inconvenienced by me, making a mental shopping list for the time I'll be inconveniencing my friend, watching an episode of Castle (with just my ears), and worrying about seeing someone tonight who is mad at me (wondering why they are mad at me).

I, as an eight year old at a sleepover, not wanting to wake my older cousins who were sharing the bed with me, tossed and turned in super slow motion. I'm not joking. Slo-mo. The whole time. The next morning they told me it was so incredibly annoying that they almost throttled me.

And when I first began driving, I was almost in an accident.

I was five minutes from home (where the most accidents occur, I once read), and trying to cross a main road. By nature, I'm over-cautious when I make these kinds of turns, so I'd been waiting for a while for the traffic to clear. Waiting, waiting.

I began to get nervous that the person in the car behind me was becoming impatient. And the person behind him. And the person behind her. Oh God, I thought. They're all sitting in their cars muttering about stupid P-platers. I felt it was my duty to protect the sterling reputation of P-platers, and decided to show off my responsible driving skills as soon as I could.

It looked like there was a break in traffic, so, against my better judgement, I pulled out behind a car when I wasn't one hundred per cent sure there wasn't a second car in the next lane obscured from my vision by the first.

There was.

And he almost hit me.

And if I'd felt a hundred per cent sure there was no second car and totally gunned it, he probably would have.

I need to say here, that I feel very lucky to have made it out of that stupid situation without a scratch on me. If there is someone looking out for me, I thank them for all their hard work. (And ask them why they haven't yet put me in the path of Daniel Radcliffe).

But anyway, on with the epiphany.

God speed, bunnies. God speed.

Today I was driving home from work. Same road. Five minutes from home. I was thinking about someone I know (and engage in a pretty hardcore intense hate/love relationship with), and what they'd think if I did decide to go back to studying (a stunning blend of 'I-knew-you'd-fail' and a not-so-subtle hint of condescension). While thinking this, I also got nervous that the dude in the car behind me was mad at me for braking, and moved my foot to the accelerator - and I stopped myself.

(This is the epiphany part).

Hang on, I said. Just hang on a second here girly.

You need to stop caring what other people think.

Because if you're focussed on what everyone else is thinking, and doing, and saying, you cannot give yourself the attention that you need. You might even fail.

You can't drive straight if you're not looking at the road.

And you can't decide what the right thing to do is by gaining acceptance from others. 

 

(I know, right)

Do you want to be popular?

For the past few months I've had a little niggling thought. Just a little tiny question that keeps flinging around my head like a demented (albeit, sort of peaceful) frisbee. I've been watching The Kardashians and wondering why we - modern society - are so totally grossly guilty-pleasurely obsessed with celebrity.

Why, do I sometimes prance around the house wearing a (fake) solitaire ring on my fourth finger, making grotesque poses in the mirror, pretending that the paps have (well shit) surrounded me and are currently frothing at the mouth at the prospect of being the first to share my fabulous taste in carbon allotropes (that is totally wrong and I have now offended all the scientists/jewellers who read my blog. Apologies to the masses), with the world?

So, why? Why do I do this?

Don't worry. Don't get up. I've got it. That's why I've stayed back at work to nut this epiphany out.

(Ya welcome).

Well. It is a hell of a lot of fun ladies. Gents! By all means, give it a whirl too. I'm all about equal rights. 

On a more serious note, I think we all just want to be popular.

Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, blogging - it's all about gaining fans, friends and followers. That unique, euphoric, soaring plethora of emotion that can only be fully experienced in a public place whilst checking your social media notifications and fighting the urge to jump up and down yelling 'THEY WANT TO BE MY FRIEND! SUCK IT, EVERYONE ELSE!'. We don't care who they are. Sometimes, we don't even care what they think.

All that we care about, is that Someone out there thinks that we are special. That we are smart and terrific and witty. And that they will somehow, magically, alert many more Someones to your genius, until the Chief of all Someones - which everyone knows is Elijah Wood - discovers your brillance, flies that God-awful 20 hour flight from the US to Australia, to fling open your front door and make you his bride.

Fin. 

Master Whinger

Been a terrible Blog Mama. Yes yes. Left you all neglected and hungry. Terribly sorry.


...It will happen again.

Why, yes I did have a fabulous summer adventure in various international paradises. Thank you for asking! Incredibly lucky. Feeling totally spoilt, mostly due to people's reactions to my complaining about heading back to work. Well. I don't care what any of you say - I will complain as much as I wish. If whinging were a sport, I'd ... be bloody good. (I wouldn't win anything, as I'd be too lazy to enter. Thus, would sit on couch complaining about said laziness).

So, apart from making everyone hate me and my slutty passport, I've found myself a nice backup career - giving workaholics crash courses in being a lazy sod. It's like I was born to do it. (Mum would absolutely cack herself if she read this).



Wish you I were here



(Yes this is a very real life photo of the gorgeous Hanauma Bay, where I later that day, snorkelled was set upon by the most thuggish coral).

Anyway - currently back at work. Colossal struggle to get back into work mode (which I am so very rarely in, and forever fighting to get back into... assuming I've ever been in it).

So a few snippets on life updates:
- Have declared 2012 year of Change and Dream-Following. Watch. This. Space.
- Have read Bridget Jones' Diary. Am now speaking fluent Diary.

- Want to travel at all times.

- Dislike all things about being home.

- Do enjoy unlimited supply of undies though.

Hoping you had a very Merry Christmas and (will have) a Happy New Year.

For now, I'm off to continue my storm of complaining and being generally horrible.


Business as usual.



:)

Bali - Barter yer heart out

Dudes, Bali shouldn't be expensive - food is cheap, transport is cheap, and clothes are cheeeeeeeeeap. The issue is not knowing how much stuff is worth & getting ripped off. I was lucky to have a friend who had been to Bali before. So, perhaps I could be that friend to you...

Here's a rough coupla tips:

TRANSPORT: Most of my taxi fares were around the $2 mark. You need to either get in a Blue Bird taxi (light blue ones - be careful, the others will try to trick you by looking the same), or you need to negotiate your fare/demand that your driver put their meter on. My friends (a few of them big burly boys) got locked in their cab by a driver wanting 50,000 IDR for the ride. Scary stuff. They're fine, but it's something to gulp about, eh.

If you're game to try a 'scootscoot', 20,000 was the average rate for a 5 minute scoot. (Note - I did scoot a  few times. Thrilling. Terrifying. Noone tell Mum).

SHOPPING: Bartering is an art-form here.

Don't look too interested in what you want to buy.

Ask off-handedly how much they want for it. When they give you the price, shake your head, and laugh.

Because their quote will be outrageous.

If you have no idea what the item should be worth, I say that your counter offer should be a little more than half of their offer. This rule doesn't always work though. I got a few people asking for 150,000 Rupiah for a pair of sunglasses. That's about $15 Australian. That's bull. And if you buy sunnies in Bali for any more than 20,000, laughter will be had. At your expense. Literally.

Here's a rough guide:

Sunglasses - 20,000

Singlets - 25,000 (Bintangs) to 35,000 (nicer)

Thongs - 50,000

Dresses - 40,000 to 60,000

Shoes (sneakers) - 80,000 to 100,000

Watches - 45,000

Peace out buuuuuudddies.

Shit.

I totally forgot. The whole reason for the Tomorrow When The War Began post was to jot down that it inspired me to write.

Instead, I bludgeoned you with a book recommendation, swore, and ranted like a 13 year old (version of myself) about wanting to be in a movie. Bahahah.

I watched the special features after the movie (pa-thetic. I'm obsessed again. Watch this space. I'll be reading them again in a matter of days), and John was talking about writing, likening it to a swimmer training for the Olympics.

I'm all 'I'd love to be a writer' but, I don't make the time to write. In fact, the IKEA desk I bought earlier this year? I sat at it to write for the first time yesterday. Yes. My desk has moonlighting as a makeshift WARDROBE (IKEA - so verstaile).
The shame. Wish I took a picture.
 
So, I'm watching John Marsden talk about writers needing to write every day, or we'll become shitty and flabby (not unlike an out of training Olympian). I march into my room, pull everything off my desk, violently deposit it on the floor and commandeer my sister's laptop (mine is so severely old, I need a new one badly if anyone's feeling generous).
 
And I wrote.
 
It's not the best thing I've written, and it's quite TWTWB inspired (haha), but I'm really happy with myself.
Normally I just write when an idea pops into my head; if I can be bothered turning on the light and reaching for my pen and paper (bastard nocturnal imagination).
 
But I sat down, and I just wrote.
 
I'm going to train more often. In different styles, different genres.
 
One day my story will find me.
   
 

I'll always have a bit of clutter, so I leave with this excuse (thanks Einstein).

I love Ellie Linton

Let me begin, by saying Stuart Beattie did a marvellous job with the Tomorrow When The War Began film adaptation.

Let me add to that, that thanks to John Marsden I spent a lot of sleepless nights clutching a paper back in my bed, wanting to yell - at some unGodly hour - at the top of my lungs 'F*CKING HELL ELLIE, BE CAREFUL'.

So I guess it's a little obvious that I recently watched the movie again.

Which means Scarlett O'Hara could be on shaky ground right now, as one of my favourite female heroines battles it out for my (at the moment, shamefully limited) literary interest.

I love the books so much, and the movie totally captured the book's spirit. John wrote the book because he wanted to bring back the adventure story, because he wanted to show that teenagers aren't completely lazy wankers. You can just tell everyone working on the film loves it, and just gets it.

Which is why when I watch the movie I suffer pangs of envy as sharp as Lee's description of a bullet wound. I'm terribly jealous that I'm not a part of it.

But that's ok.

That's ok.

If you've never read the books, I urge you, I implore you. Get aquainted with the gorgeous, gutsy, and totally nuts Miss Ellie Linton ASAP.

You won't regret it.

(And if you do, you suck and we're not friends).

(But you can still read my blog).

P.S Check out John Marsden's website. It's a book. It's insanely cool.

Holy Manolo.

This is the zaniest shoe I’ve ever laid eyes on. Glitter? Check. Perspex heel? Check. T-bars? Check.

Glitter Bug Heel

Way way too far out of my pauperly price range for a novelty purchase. I would totally work these bad boys all over the place if I were a celebrity who gets tons of shit given to them even though they earn more than enough to buy their own things.

... Wankers.