only1stampsy

I Need To Get Something off My Chest…

My skin is crawling. I am angry.

On Tuesday Donald Trump made a statement.  It was more than the physical signing of a document.  It was clear agenda.  Women are the inferior sex.

While Women marched across the weekend for equal rights, human rights, President Trump and men like him wound back the clock.  He reinstated a policy that has, in the past been recalled depending on the party in power.

It’s known as the global gag rule, the Mexico City policy.

In a nutshell – as mentioned in the Huffington Post- it stops the US funding “international nongovernmental organisations that offer or advise on a wide range of family planning and reproductive health options if they include abortion (even if US dollars are not specifically used for abortion – related services)” Trump wants to put America First. That’s his thing.  He built his campaign on it. But he is thinking like a business man, not a leader.  He’s taken action to save dollars, but he’s doing so while putting lives at risk.  

At the moment the US assists 27 million international women and couples access safe family planning, services and supplies.  This doesn’t include abortions however the old men in politics believe they “need” to “strengthen” any ties to the “possibility” that money will go towards this service.

Whether you are pro-abortion or anti-abortion, I ask you. Is it right rich white men in power decide what a woman in a first, or third world country, does with her body?

Let’s address what this decision means.  13 per cent, or 21 million women in developing countries have unsafe abortions.  These are women in conflict zones who are subjected to unimaginable terror, unspeakable torture, victims in unthinkable crimes.  They are broken.  They are scarred and they are scared. They deserve to regain their power.  They may decide they do not want to live with the constant reminder that a life was brought into this world through hate and against their rights.  That is her decision.

So, what does Trump’s action mean in broader terms? What does this action imply?

His backwards thinking allows other people to believe this way of thinking, and these actions are acceptable.  No, they are not.  It’s archaic.  It’s barbaric.  It’s unacceptable.  A man in politics does not know what is best for our body.  Only women should have rights to their own body.  We should have the option and as a consenting adult determine what is right for us.  

What next? Take away our right to vote? 

A close friend of mine had to make the heartbreaking decision to end a pregnancy. The birth would have killed the baby and her if she proceeded.  The emotional anguish that consumed her during this time sickened her with grief.  It was the toughest decision she’s ever faced and was made after weighing up all options.  Men in the White House do not have to live with the sadness and the regret.  She does.  But she also gets to live.

Dear Steve Price

It’s time for you to step down from your self-imposed Talkback throne and resign.

You have failed.

Last Monday night On Q & A you bullied your opinion onto journalist Van Badham. When you felt you were backed into a corner you used uneducated language and judgemental tones in an attempt to claw you way out. This is pathetic. This is just poor form.

Badham – “We can make jokes and it’s all jokes and oh yeah, they apologised and that’s fine but on the receiving end is the ludicrous proportion of women who do endure violence”.

Price – “I think you’re just being hysterical”.

You’ve already been made accountable in the media last week for those comments on the ABC. I don’t agree with your actions last Monday.  That is my opinion.  You are entitled to yours.

Yes, you’ve made an obvious career in forcing your right winged views across print and radio, and at times being a grumpy old bastard on TV.  Occasionally I’ve even laughed out loud when “Dorky Dad Steve” fumbled his way through understanding a Gen Y story on The Project. The tech world is not your area of expertise.

However, it was your response on The Project on the Tuesday night that infuriated me. You’re 61 years old and have spent over half of those years as a journalist and a broadcaster.  I’ve been in radio for 13 years. 7 of those years on air. In comparison, a fraction of your time in the media landscape.

This is what we need to address.

You’re an embarrassment to the radio and broadcast industry. The industry I have dedicated my career and my life too. The industry I believe in and one our listeners rely on. Daily. We are taught from the very beginning that we’re responsible for being the voice of the community and allowing the community to have a voice. This goes for anyone given the privilege to turn on a microphone or stand in front of a camera. You failed at both.

It is Radio 101. Interview with your ears, not your mouth.

Price – “The way I was ambushed last night was the producer said that question would be asked, (and) didn’t tell me that the person asking the question would be the victim of such horrific family violence”.

You’re telling me, your audience, the public that you are unable to adapt to the change in the conversation on Q & A?

Let’s be honest.  You couldn’t adjust to the tone of the conversation because it didn’t fit with your answer.  The answer you prepared hours earlier when you only had “some” of the information.  That’s selfish.  

You can be steadfast to an opinion, however, this cannot be at the mercy of your own arrogance and inability to be present in the moment.  A man had brutally lost his sister. Listen. Address the mood and the sympathy in the room.  Then add your opinion as an extension to the answer without detracting from the serious nature of the question.  Tarang Chawla added the Ice Challenge story as one example of the overall concern he has with addressing domestic violence in Australia.  You made the answer about Eddie McGuire and company. And when it all unravelled you decided to play the blame game.  You made it them against you. Us against you. You played the victim.

It was your clear need to get your pre prepared point across that revealed you as an unfit broadcaster. An unfit interviewer. An unfit voice for our community and its 2016 standards.  Perhaps age doesn’t mean experience.  Maybe, just maybe, we’ve outgrown you.

Please leave the keys at reception and show yourself out.

It’s not me, it’s you.

There are days I’m addicted to our next minute, alone.

The anticipation.

The escapism.  

But when we spend this much time together, you’re toxic to my creativity.  My thoughts are consumed by the next hour we’ll spend facing each other. You’re often the reason I race home at night and why I hit snooze in the morning.

You’re often the reason I’m sleep deprived and void of personal stories.  I’m choosing to recite the life you’ve given me rather than the life I am living.  My eyes fixated on every word that leaves your screen.  In Colour. In surround sound.

This is why we need time apart.

I need to find myself again.

It’s not me, it’s you.

Television.

When did my life become less interesting than Olivia’s ‘Scandal’-ous one?  When did understanding the minds on “Criminal Minds” become more important than understanding my own?

Why are the judges on the cooking shows more inspiring than discovering a new recipe in a book or a magazine and becoming the next above average cook in my own kitchen?  I can’t tell you the last time ‘cooking’ didn’t involve taking the lid off a salad or setting the microwave to high.

I am taking the public step in announcing that I’m limiting my screen time.

From now.  

This move is usually reserved for my sister in law controlling my boisterous nephews or after taking a “sick’ day to binge watch the latest season of Supernatural.  It happened once.  Years ago. Don’t judge me.  The Winchester brothers did give me a fever. Well, made me hot.

My life has become an addiction to the small screen.  I will log onto the television preview sites 5 times a week to see if a series has uploaded its latest episode.  I’ll indulge in new shows until midnight, seeking out a new show when I am up to date on a box set, to get my fix.  “It’s 9.30pm. Too early for bed.  Pass the family block of Caramello and undo the drawstring on my pj pants… mama’s diving into the world of ‘Stalker”.

Meanwhile I have six half written blogs that sit on my computer desktop waiting to be created. Explored. Loved.   I can leave a legacy (or at least a humorous line about life as a 30 something non cat loving single in Geelong) and it’s something that I’ve created with my own two hands.  Well, fingers.  I’m a moderate two finger typist whose brain works four sentences ahead constantly.

We can get all psychological and discuss my inability to commit or my need for fulfilment or how I’m OCD in my work life so I compensate by relaxing my expectations in my home life.

Let’s don’t.

It comes down to two things. I’ve lost my confidence and my focus.

Those closest to me will argue that the above line it’s widely inadequate.  I’ve solo travelled around the world.  I have moved 14 times in 12 years across 4 states for love and for work.  I’m the first person to have brunch by myself because I want to try a new café and will not wait for an eventual invite.

Why don’t I ask someone to join me? Why do I feel the need to assume that friends have better things to do with their day than jump in a car and head north?  Because television has somehow convinced me that my life is uninspiring.  My company is not as exciting nor is it as entertaining as the lives of Winners and Losers or Grey’s Anatomy.  

The small screen has become an addiction.  

No more.  Down time does not require a remote. Relaxing does not need computer data.

I want to write.  I want to create.  I want to laugh with a person who sits across from me.  Not a person who was filmed in a coffee shop 6 months ago from the other side of the world.

I recently spent a long weekend on the Sunshine Coast and I stayed in the same house as a friend with a disability, her gay brother, her very charismatic father who recently remarried for the third time to a Chinese bride.  I couldn’t make this up even if I was JK Rowling.

There is a beautiful world outside my lounge room.  It’s offering new experiences, meaningful conversations and my own interesting stories to share.  

It’s not me, it’s you.

That is why we are having this break, Television.

Well, straight after I catch up on Madame Secretary.  

You've heard of the term “Quarter Life Crisis”.

With the abundance of work/ love/ life choices Gen Y can now pick n mix from (and later Gen X to some extent, as we parade around believing we are younger at heart than what that lying birth certificate keeps telling everyone), we reach a significant stage much earlier than our expected “Mid Life” aka “spend the kids inheritance” crisis.  We question who we are and what we want to achieve. You can be watching the death scene of Gwen Stacy in The Amazing Spiderman 2 at the cinema (oh, that’s where I was meant to write **spoiler alert**… soz!) and realising that life is short. This is when you decide you will carry your self-respect and march forward to a new beginning. It’s time to seize your passions today.

There’s a difference between happy (discovering there’s still chocolate in the fridge), happiness (sunset over your holiday resort) and pure joy (where your life feels whole). Call me Miss Hallmark 2014. I’ve learned recently that happiness is what you make of the now moments on your way to the destination. I took the leap of faith, deciding I wanted to chase my ambitious goals in Melbourne.  My last 6 weeks in Hobart brought a light-heartedness to my life.  I stopped being overwhelmed by all the opportunities I wanted to seek and enjoyed the people and the locations in the present. The decision was made and the right foot was placed in front of the left. Momentum was moving forward.

When this belated quarter life plan was put in place I knew that it would be tough financially, however it would only be short term.  Nothing, I repeat nothing, will ever prepare you for one particular change to your independence. I know I underestimated its life altering impact. I've lived on university campus’, with a partner, I've gone all Jason Derulo (Ridin Solo) and sync’d periods in share houses. I understand the consideration for hot showers, healthy cooking, housemates early bed times and one washing machine between 3 women. Now I’m back, living with the parentals.

When you move back home after a decade, it tests every independent fiber in your body.  I’m not an inconsiderate or insensitive person. I’m OTT because it’s been such a shock to the system.  While I get my life back in order, my amazing folks have given me a roof over my head.  I've not put my hand out since walking out the childhood door at age 19 and I will be forever grateful that they were in a position to help me. But the longest stretch I've been back home in 12yrs was 4 days over Christmas in 2012. It’s overwhelming and across the last month my tolerance levels have been tested.  I will be a stronger person because of the experience.  In the meantime, I can write about it… to eventually LOL about it.

The Loud Chewing

There’s a correlation between hearing and chewing. It seems that as you age, you need to confirm you’re still disintegrating the food in your mouth to a mash that the digestive track can swallow. The older your parents become, the bite down on the biscuit becomes more dramatic.  The soft rice you are having with your chicken turns into concrete bullets crunching between the molars. I've now timed my dinner to a new track record and my PB allows me to be up and doing the dishes while they are still eating.  The distance between table and sink allows me to hear my inner thoughts again.

The Over Exaggerated Kitchen Clock

Apparently you need to hear the kitchen clock from the other end of the house. Every loud second that ticks by taunts me. As it’s ticking away, it’s reminding me I’m 31, living with my parents and the “Sex and The City” lifestyle that fits my personality so perfectly is slipping away from my grasp. We’re back to the folks diminishing hearing loss again. The older you get the more you purchase homewares that make noise. I’m assuming this assists in locating the items if the house is ever audited… or if you forget where you put them down.

The Trundle Bed

My parents weren't expecting this long term family guest, only accommodating the occasional overnight visit. In preparation they supplied me with the world’s safest form of contraception.  The trundle bed. There is nothing sexy about a single bed on a foam cushion with 26 springs (I passed on sheep one night and counted the coils cutting into my thigh). The cocoon of the well-worn mattress wraps me up like a womb. Thankfully I have the bed, because no man will keep me warm on one of these contraptions.  They will take one look and pass out from lack of oxygen after an extreme episode of laughing. The only time I want to be this low to the ground and sleeping is at a taxi rank while waiting for the next available cab to take me home.

The Itinerary

I have a bad memory on my best days. When people are Instagramming their food I’m taking photos to ensure I don’t eat the same meals 24 nights in a row. By moving back in with the parentals, I’ve had to keep a list of my daily activities. They play their own version of 20 questions called “Completely Random 20 Questions”.  I have to recite which way the breeze was blowing at my nephew’s house or the ingredients in the sauce on the salad I had for lunch. They want details. I better save another section on my iPhone notepad for the details on writing this blog.

The Preparation Time

When you’re preparing for a night on the town with your besties, you allow enough “me” time to execute all the required pampering.  The washing, the straightening, the plucking, the deforestation! All to ensure you’re the smoothest version of you. The constant interjection of questions and the “oh, that’s what I was meant to tell you” onslaught cuts into this time if you have not planned accordingly. Standing in the bathroom mid under the arm shave having mum tell me that “such and suchs husband’s brother went to that pub you’re going to once and ordered the parmi…” The end. Yes, I will even follow up with… “And how was the parmi?” because surely there’s a reason for bringing up the feast. No reason. No answer to the question. We don’t know.  That was the end of the story.  

The Different Excitement Levels

Moving back home is more daunting for me than my family. Their lives have not altered course.  They have their familiar homely walls, their Tuesday night routine.  I have to fit in with my parentals nightly habits while maintaining my own forms of sanity.   There’s no denying, my parents are excited to have me.  They’re happy to have someone to talk to other than themselves. This excitement has turned them into “Space Invaders”. The time I consider precious and recharge my batteries (aka quiet time) they use to invade my hearing space with random chatter about how “you should always buy butter each shop so you never run out” or “what we should have for dinner” when you haven’t even devoured breakfast.  Every night it’s the same comment about “that reality tv shit”.  It may be “shit” but I've heard the opinion consistently for the first 3 weeks. The cycle of repeating my answer rewards them. So I’ve stopped responding.  Give me a new thought, I will thrive. Give me a repeated thought and I feel like I’m on a Ferris Wheel.  Pass the fairy floss.

Portion Control

Is that enough? Do you want some more? Is it just me or are those two questions actually the same question and you've just asked them in a different way.  I have been cooking for myself for 12yrs. I know what I can consume. Surely if it was a no to the first question the second question won’t change my response. “Why yes, now you've repeated the question I have change my answer due to your persuasion”. My body is far from being confused on the street as a shadow. In an hour if I am still peckish I will take my 31yr old legs, my 31yr old arms and I will make myself toast.  This 31yr old brain recognises hunger pains.  I may be unemployed but I’m not inept.

Thank You Captain Obvious.

If I’m ever struck down with a temporary case of amnesia, my mum and dad will be there to remind me the basic words I’m searching for.  I’ll be sitting at the kitchen table with the Herald Sun when I hear “oh, are you reading the paper?” I’ll be having my breakfast with my morning coffee when the commentary comes over “oh, are you having your muesli”.  This is while standing beside me, anticipating a response. This does cross over to Space Invader syndrome. Other than “yes” (or duh, as I’ve been tempted to do on several occasions), how does one respond to the statement? I work in an industry that uncovers peoples past lives or discovers their plans for success in personal interviews. If I wear a cape I want to save lives from a burning building not reply to Captain Obvious statements.

Where living with Best Friends and Family Differ

When you vent to your bestie, they say “what a dick”. You crack another bottle of wine and you move on to the next first world problem. My friends know I have a solid, engaged, level head on my shoulders however occasionally I want to break out my inner 14yr old and have a good ol’ fashioned bitch.  No advice, no realistic outcome.  I already know the answer but I just want to be a cast member on Home and Away for 5 minutes. Family want to feel they’ve molded you into the woman you are today. I know the mature response. I’m 31. Yet my parents have to tell me their 3 experiences from 30yrs ago and how in time I’ll learn it too. I haven’t lived in a bubble all this time.  Just listen. Not every story needs you to be a Mr Miyagi to my grasshopper.

It will get easier.  Once I find my place again in society, secure my dream job, and rebuild my path I will be patient again.  I will have greater events to focus on. For now I will sit on my hands when my mum asks me “if you’re cold, why don’t you get into bed?”

Tinder. It’s that dry, flammable material used for lighting fires. Yep, that could be a euphemism. Today, it’s also the modern day “Hot or Not”. By swiping right, you’re winking at your next possible date.  You’ve started the awkward get to know you, finding out his height, common interests and SnapChat name. Now we’ve already progressed to the modern day swapping of phone numbers. Why text you my ideas for how we’ll spend Friday night when I can show you in a 4 second photo.

With income at a standstill due to my self-inflicted “permanent holidays”, my current time waster is sorting through the talent on this virtual wingman. I’m already finding the matches (aka everyone in my 20km radius) can be categorized. If you aren’t on Tinder, you’ve pestered your bestie to open hers up so you can live vicariously through her; leaning over her right shoulder to press yes on a man you would approach if you weren’t already attached. If you are on Tinder, you know what I’m talking about.

The Silhouette

This takes “International Man of Mystery” to another level.  Unless you’re Peter Parker or Kal-El you have no reason to hide your identity on Tinder. You are either too lazy or too inept to load a simple photo from your already linked Facebook folder. If you are a silhouette, you’re on the run and I would be placing all my efforts in evading the AFP rather than finding a Bonnie to your Clyde.

The Duck Face

Besides this trend being “sooo 2013”, on a man it comes across as though we have interrupted your time on the porcelain throne. The major ass-umption is that you’ve paired up the pout with a generous lathering of fake tan, hair gel and muscle bound mates at the most recent music festival. Stop kissing the trouts, it’s not flattering on you.

The Middle Finger in the Air

We’ve all dated a bad boy in our time. That guy who made our heart race and “that” motor run.  This is not you.  When you place those middle digits in the air you’re not declaring “screw you society”.  You are being an obnoxious prat.  That milkshake doesn’t not bring all the girls to your yard.  Oh, look. I just swiped left with my middle finger.

The Car

If I wanted to date a transformer I’d go on CarSales.com.au. You’re either over compensating for an area that only your car can hide or you have poured such an incredibly large amount of money into that toy that you are now its bitch. If you’re convincing us you’re a “Hot Rod” or “can rev our engine” you can tow that pile of junk to the closest second hand dealer. I’ll walk.

The In-The-Crowd

We all enjoy a game of Where’s Wally however I don’t want to guess you out of a line up. We’re delusional to think that appearance doesn’t play a part in first impressions.  We have to sense a spark in “that look” to draw us in. When you post 3 photos that each contain 7 – 10 mates, you are tricking us into swiping right when we assume it’s your blond mate we want to buy us a beer. In consumer terms that’s misleading advertising. We just want you to make your terms and conditions clear before we proceed with transaction. We don’t want to ask for Wally and end up with Waldo.

The Friend of a Friend

Why have we not met before? We have 4 mutual connections and the same in shared interests. Why has my friend kept me from you? Maybe it’s not you… it’s me? Do they not trust my taste in men? This is probably the reason they have kept us apart.  If these questions arise from a simple photos then it’s best we don’t meet.  There must be a logical reason. You could be a nightmare in Vans.  In that case, my friend can keep you.

The Body*

The whole body, the 6 pack or as demonstrated by two separate men inside 3 swipes, that appendage.  It’s what these guys aren’t showing that has me intrigued… and not in a good way.  Congrats, you have mastered the sit up but have you failed to learn how to brush your hair? You’re so tall it’s impossible to get your head in the frame so you have decided to forgo the main feature that will help us spot you at the crowded coffee shop. There may be a few women who are in it for the “lights off, all hands on brail” connection to get over a relationship however it’s best to offer up a few head shots… so you’re not the ex that we are actually trying to get over by getting under someone.

The Gun Lover

I feel uncomfortable making ANY passing judgement on this profile.  You are holding a gun, after all. All I will say, is that if you stroke me like you stroke that gun… I’ll just swipe left and continue on my way. Please. Thank You. Nothing to see here.

The In-A-Mirror Selfie

This applies to the men who take the photo into a bathroom or wardrobe mirror or the reflection in the lift. Where are your friends? You aren’t comfortable telling your crew that you are having a crack at this Tinder thing so you’re sneaking in a quick selfie from either a direct or slightly below angle to emphasize your chest and arms muscles. I am definitely not opposed to the selfie.  When I travel to countries solo, often there are times I cannot asked the person next me if they can take the shot, out of fear they’ll take off with my 100 buck digital camera. When my friends and I want to capture the moment the one with the longest arms will take the shot and share it on Instagram so we can then all regram it.  When you have waited until you were alone in a lift to take “that” shot for your Tinder profile, you are hiding your movements like a crack addict. The first step is to admit it… and ask your friend to take a good shot of you.

The Gym Selfie

You’re DAMN PROUD of yourself for making it to the gym for the 623rd day straight. Good on you. Pat yourself on the back. In fact, take a photo of yourself patting yourself on the back while at the gym and post that as your Tinder profile photo. This will show your flexibility and your exquisite muscle definition. Step to the right and you’ll be closer to the 50kg plus weights showing me exactly how much you can lift.  Unfortunately for you, you can’t pick up on my sarcasm until you read this line. This is similar to the In-The-Mirror selfie however you are trying to prove your masculinity. Chances are we will see the same photos on your Facebook, Twitter, Instagram profiles, which is where I’m quite happy to leave you.

The Smoker

Thank you for your honesty. I don’t want to date a smoker.  It’s your choice to inhale just like it’s my choice to not want a possible partner whose life span will already be half of mine due to the habit. It doesn’t make you a bad person. However placing photos of you with ciggie in hand is careless. Smoking doesn’t define you however it’s not attractive. This profile is not common thankfully. Unless they are silhouette, unable to take a photo of yourself because you have a smoke stick in hand. 

The Unexpected Anomaly

This is the one that got away.  We can blame the men above for the slip in concentration. In the routine of pressing no to the above “types” it’s become unconsciously repetitious. You’re finger hovers over the red X and with the excitement of tapping that (and the green heart) you forget to move the finger across. BAM! You press no instead of yes losing all chance of that future you’ve built in your mind. Fingers crossed fate plays a part and you actually had that illusive mutual friend who will one day introduce you.

I understand the concept of Tinder.  This is not the last desperate search for my Prince Charming to sweep in with my glass slipper, place me on his trusty steed and ride me off into the sunset. I gave up on fairy tales when I was 12 years old.  The premise of Tinder will not change despite the creator twisting our perception on why he pressed “publish” on this app (or whatever one does to make it active). I’ll occasionally log on, see who’s around. It will give me the confidence to say I still have a little toe in the dating pool. In the meantime, I’ll let my attached friends do the selecting for me while I sip on my latte and look around. The real world has more to offer.