Mother of Invention

Y’know, sometimes when I have worked myself into a blinding rage about the way that some men behave towards women, I do my very best to inflame the situation further. I’ve actually been known to wonder to myself:

“Do these blokes have mothers?”

That just makes more incensed. Because the obvious answer is that they do. And yet, their attitude to women just plain stinks. I often worry about the mothers of these men, thinking that perhaps their home was not a very nice place to be. I can’t imagine what it is like to be surrounded IN YOUR OWN HOME by men who think they are better than you and who minimize your contribution at every turn.

Of course, let’s not assume, however, that mothers are necessarily feminist. I know from my experience with mothers (other than my own) that in fact they are not always so. And surely one of the roles of mothers IS to teach our children (regardless of gender) that they are wonderful. But we must also teach them that they are responsible, and have a duty to consider the views of others.

But it’s one thing to have a genuine debate on gender roles and the changing nature of our society. It’s another thing entirely to:

- degrade women for the sake of their gender

- imply that women have got to where they are just by sleeping their way to the top

- hold only women responsible for the shifting patterns of parental work

- justify your abuse and assault of women on the basis that they stepped outside the narrow bounds that you have “set” for them (like you have any right to do that in the first place

I’m not going to link to any of the web sites which do exactly what I’ve referenced above, just reading them for myself was infuriating enough and I won’t inflict it on you too.

As the mother of a boy, this is something I worry about every now and then – that the son of a feminist turns out misogynist in order to rebel against his mother.

Destination Anywhere

Last weekend, I had a couple of hours to myself. I used this time to go to the supermarket. Now, you might well argue that this is a stupid thing to do with precious little time to myself. By rights, I should have been swanning around the garden looking glamorous or attempting through massage to remove the massive knots now ever-present in my shoulders.


But I went to the supermarket. I was there for over an hour. I spent $300.


Believe it or not, this lengthy trip to the marche had been some time in the planning. Apart from the fact it was getting hard to justify not buying a new can opener, I also wanted to interrogate the labels of things that I either regularly buy or intended to buy. How much sugar is in that tomato sauce*? Which cordial has the highest fruit juice content? Which fruit juice is hiding vegetables in it? Do I really believe Ribena's claims to now be as chock full of Vitamin C as any other drink? Why can't I think of non-beverage examples?

Really though, my main source of disgruntlement motivated by my increasing concern about "food miles". Being astute about the distance your food has travelled before entering your shopping trolley is an increasingly popular way of taking personal responsibility for carbon emissions. My SiL recently said she had stopped buying the most fantastically lip-smackingly beautiful Danish butter. Her reason? "Whoa, check out the food miles on that sucker!".

So as I pushed my trolley around, I looked for foods that haven't travelled that far to get to me. Now there are some inherent problems here. The first is that I was shopping at a major chain store. This means that I'm going to get the produce they buy on a national scale, which in all likelihood has not come from, say, the apple farms down the road. However, I have also discovered that even our local greengrocer is a little guarded about the source of their produce. I resolved to rethink my fruit and veg shopping and stick to non-perishables.

I started in the organic aisle. I didn't stay there for very long, because while organic food might be as great as all get out, I was immediately hit with a new quandary: in a battle to the bitter end, should locally produced food triumph over organic content? Much of what was available in the organics aisle was imported, from significant distances, and I wasn't sure what to make of that. I bought a couple of things (100 per cent fruit chews, for example) and then moved into the remainder of the aisles.

I learned some very interesting things. For example, I discovered that the only tinned tomatoes made wholly from Australian tomatoes (that were available that day) are canned by Ardmona. I was about to eschew the French jam I would normally buy in preference for one named after a small town in North East Victoria. Then I discovered that despite its name, it uses "imported ingredients". Buggered if I know where they come from, so back on the shelf it went. And let's not even start on peanut butter. Can you see now why I didn't do this with a five-year-old in tow**?

Another reason I didn't do that particular shop with Grizzlewick is the fact that, well, he is somewhat fussy. I'm not talking "tantrums in the aisle because Mum bought Ardmona", but he has particular tastes. Some of these are distinctly food-mile unfriendly. Watermelon in the off-season, for example. Bananas post-cyclone. What's worth more - the inevitable death of the planet, or Grizzlewick eating a meal without complaint***?


At drinks that evening, one of my friends pointed out that there is a new "virtually direct to the public" meat outlet in our town. Well, the food miles on that gear must be low, so I resolved to check it out. And came up with a new quandary for myself. The outlet in question is a notoriously bad employer. In a "bye hon, looking forward to seeing who we can borrow money from this week to supplement your horrendously inadequate wage, and hope you don't die at work!" kind of way. What is my responsibility here? Do I continue with my refusal to buy from that producer, knowing how they treat their staff? Or do I put global issues first, and buy the locally produced product?


And while we're on the subject, what about Fair Trade products? Does it matter if the coffee I buy has winged its way several thousand kilometres to get to me? How do I balance my responsibility to emerging markets in which people are trying desperately to claw their way out of poverty, with my desire to be ethical about the environmental costs of food production? We're already paying more to buy Fair Trade items, in recognition of the need for people in emerging economies to earn a living wage. Would we be happy to whack another two dollars onto the price of a block of chocolate if we knew our environmental concerns were also being met through carbon neutralisation?


I'm well aware that this is, at least in some ways, a privileged conversation to be having with myself. While I did wince at the additional cost of some of the items I bought last week, the reality is I can afford to meet those costs. If was earning $20,000 a year and supporting a family of four, my decisions regarding food might be a lot simpler. But why is this fair? Why should environmental sustainability (or subsidising a reasonable standard of living for developing nations) be beyond the reach of people who don't earn as much money?

Anyone who can give me a formula to decode these myriad competing lefty priorities will become my new muse.

And in answer to Big Fromage's question about whether or not vegetarians can consume the placenta of their recently born child - straw poll of mothers I know tells me that many do, but also in thinking about it, I realised....

......"whoa, the food miles on that sucker must be.....non-existent"

* In case you're wondering, the answer is "heaps".



** And no, I didn't apply this level of CSI-style evidence gathering to M and M minis. On some days they are my only saviour, and I'm happy to carbon trade to keep them in my trolley.

*** This is a question I prefer not to ask after 6:30pm at night, because at that particular time, I know the answer.

Good Charlotte

An advertising consultant analyses the advertising campaign commonly known as Charlotte's Web.


Introduction

In an early demonstration of billboard advertising, company (known as “Charlotte”) engages in a broad yet somewhat deceptive social marketing campaign to win reprieve from slaughter for client (known as “Wilbur”).

The Company

"Charlotte" had little or no experience in advertising or marketing. Her success in this instance could be considered a fluke, and was certainly not the result of experience on high level campaigns. However, her instinct proved successful and was no doubt the precursor to the success of other low-budget campaigns such as 'Free Hugs'.


The Client

"Wilbur" sought increased brand recognition and identifiable niche in increasingly competitive “death avoidance for young porcines” market. It should be noted that the client's commitment was inconsistent throughout the campaign and the client was particularly susceptible to external criticism.


The Campaign

The campaign was time-limited. Advertising company personnel may have invested too much time in the production of campaign materials, which could have been outsourced.

No focus group testing of phrase "Some Pig". This tagline should have been more thoroughly researched with a range of key market segments.

Although the company succeeded in its campaign, the campaign resulted in the death of key personnel in the company.


Future Projects

New personnel will take some time to skill up to founding partner’s level. New personnel may fail to meet high expectations due to founding partner's insistence that they are her "magnum opus". Strong possibility that next generation does not possess the instinct of founding partner, and may trade on founding partner's name while possessing no discernible talent.


No new projects envisaged.

So why must it always come down to some unseen contender? I don't know

More random thoughts:

I would feel better about the revelation that ANZ had cancelled its sponsorship of The Footy Show had that news not coincided with tonight's screening of said show.

I have been having a running discussion with several friends for some weeks now about the nature of public/private partnerships. There seems to be a pervasive notion that they are almost always bad. But Tate Modern was a PPP. So as long as you don't need heart bypass surgery (unless you're happy to have it done by Christo) that's an awesome example of a PPP. And now I'm going to stop using that acronym, before my head explodes.

I found out yesterday that the reason that a person in our extended circle has been avoiding me despite my attempts to engage him is because he "just hates working women". This is either very comforting or very vexing. On the plus side, at least it means that he doesn't dislike me personally, he's just completely prejudiced. On the down side, he does hate me and almost everything I stand for. So, you know, swings and roundabouts. Either way, as my friend Indeed pointed out this evening, "no need to invite him over for dinner...EVER AGAIN". More room at the table for others, then.

Has anyone else had to fight the urge not to slap people sharply upside the head and remind them that the Federal Budget is not their own personal, guaranteed win on the pokies? I'm feeling slightly irked at the "what's in it for me?" or rather "what isn't in it for me?" that seems to be dominating conversations around me lately. Sure, I personally believe that a balanced budget is all that is necessary (so My government would have had a lot more money to spend - the whole surplus, basically) but what do people really mean when they say they "missed out"? They didn't get rewarded just for being alive? Last time I checked, that wasn't the purpose of a modern welfare state, but perhaps I've missed an update on that one too.

And am I the only one who feels that Stephen Fielding could have retained a little bit of decorum in that pensioners' rally? Not that I disagree with the rally per se (you know what a fan I am of public participation in democracy), I'm just struggling to understand why it was necessary for him to strip down also. Maybe after the 7:30 Report were mean about his grocery stunt he felt a need to one-up them.

Spongebob Squarepants: it's quite amusing. Even after several thousand viewings. Certainly it beats Bindi Jungle Adventures or somesuch. I'm a particular fan of the following exchange:

Spongebob: Why are you mad, Patrick?

Patrick (frowning): Eargh! I can't see my forehead!

Comedy gold.

One bourbon, one scotch, one beer diddle de diddle de diddle DA DA DUM*

In what can only be described as a victory for the Australian Hotels Association in the public relations war..................................


I went out to my favourite local on Saturday night with two girlfriends.

I got drunk.

I got chatty.

I got happy.

I got a ham, cheese and pineapple jaffle.

I got no hang over.

I got up with Grizzlewick at 6:45am the next morning and have not been happier in ages.

I feel the balance has been restored.



Who knew that filling myself with depressants was in fact the much-needed circuit breaker to what was really starting to feel like depression?






NOTE TO CHILDS: this is not a recommendation of drinking**, and let's not forget the alcopops*** are evil, m'kay?


* this is how I imagine a 12 bar turn around would read if you wrote it down. If you sing the title to this post it is a lot more interesting. And no, I'm not still drunk.

** although it really looks like one, doesn't it?

*** Sorry Eleanor.

Never say I don't ask the big questions

If God can make a sandwich too big for Him to eat, could He eat it?


My mother says 'yes'.


What say you?

Hieronymous I walk with you/When I'm sleeping

You know your workplace culture is suffering (or that you’ve made a huge mistake) when you can go 90 minutes without anyone commenting on the fact that you’ve had six inches of length removed from your hair. NINETY MINUTES. Maybe they thought that I’d been sacked and another girl with shorter hair and yet the SAME CLOTHES had come to work at my desk.

Facebook is starting to weird me out. There is a woman I went to high school with who has become friends with one of my friends. I’m not sure how they know each other, but worlds are colliding. Facebook also seems to consider my surname some kind of fragment of other people’s surnames, which is disconcerting. Even more disturbing, I had an email on Facebook from a guy who claims I am “famous” (oh Lord, how I’m not). That was somewhat flattering if completely baseless.

There is something about gorgeous year-old boy-children (this one the son of my friends MW and Buddy) reaching out to be held by you when they haven’t seen you in three months and rightly shouldn’t remember you at all that makes one yearn. But I’ve learned not to confuse a vague sense of exhaustion and mild discontent with the desire to be pregnant, and will satisfy myself with the cuddles of my own and our nearest and dearest.

In the words of Juliana Hatfield, I miss my sister (again - no doubt long-time readers will consider this a recurring theme). I know she is having a rough time of it at the moment and wish I could do something to make her feel better.

Grizzlewick had his first ever night terror on Tuesday, and woke up screaming that he wanted to go home. He wouldn’t be convinced that he was already home, and wailed for Mr Fix. When Mr Fix came to comfort him, he wet himself, standing on the bedroom floor. When I stripped him to change his clothes, he tried three times to get into a dry bath, which we eventually ran for him. We were so frightened we called “Nurse on Call” because it seemed to us that he might well be in the throes of some deeper delirium. He told me this morning that he had a dream that he “had some keys and he was at home, but he couldn’t see the car and he didn’t know where you and daddy were”.

Do you ever have those days when it becomes patently clear that the only reason someone doesn’t like an idea is because you thought of it? I have assisted in the design of a functional, inclusive, warms-the-cockles campaign for work recently. One of our usual partners didn’t sign on for it. So now, any opportunity they get, they run it down. That is one thing. But does it explain why, when I emailed them to ask for the details of their campaign (which is not in competition with ours) so that I could PROMOTE it for them, they just….never got back to me. I don’t got girl germs (no returns). WTF is their problem, that’s what I want to know.

I am actually ahead of budget this pay period. I don’t know how that happened, but it did. Were that it was always like this. And now that John Brumby is going to pay me not to move back to Melbourne (or so he claims) I am so totally set.

Grizzlewick presented me with a gift this afternoon, which was weird considering he's been on a present-receiving jag of epic proportions. He had hidden my gift under his bed, and made me play an elaborate game of "hot" and "cold" to find it. When I opened it, it became clear he was supposed to save it until Sunday, but what a bumper collection of kids' craft! I received:

1. A laminated poster of his handprints, along with a picture of me (with short hair! He's a fast learner!)
2. A teapot shaped card with a small pocket inside containing a tea-bag and a message reminding me to "have a break"
3. A red self-stapled envelope with "Mum" written on it in Grizzlewick's own hand which held a mini Crunchie and a mini Picnic
4. A notepad with a photo of Grizzlewick on the front, and more decorations
5. A bookmark with curled ribbon attached and another picture of the young GW's head

Awwwww. Cute.

I see some one has the bright idea that live organ donation is not just a Monty Python sketch. Ha ha ha – anyone who thinks they want my kidneys is welcome to them. Also – dearest reader who came here wondering "what a double-kidney infection means"…if you have to ask, you don’t have a double-kidney infection. Believe me, the incontinence and searing pain abdominal pain are pretty hard to miss.

I might come up with something more coherent than this by the end of the week. Then again, I may not.

Shut up! The footy's on the radio and you're a chick so you don't know what you're talking about...

The Federal Government has asked the panelists on The Footy Show to rewrite its careers information, based on their extensive knowledge of the capacity of each gender.

Jobs for blokes:

1. Journalist
2. Footy Show panelist
3. Footy Player
4. Footy Coach
4. Footy Club Board Member
5. Prime Minister

Sam's message for young men: Just remember dudes, you can do anything you like. Anyone who says you can’t is kidding themselves. Don’t listen to Ben Cousins’ fervent apologies for his behaviour, as he is not a role model, he is a footy player, and a confused young man. Sam Newman on the other hand has the wisdom of years of experience, and can clearly see the world for what it is.

Jobs for chicks:

1. Weather girl (as long as attractive)
2. Slapper (see above)
3. Scrubber (of toilets)
4. Something with kids or animals
5. Marketing

Sam's message for young women: Hey there sluts! Don’t think you’re going to have a meaningful existence, lord knows you’re only kept around because you look pretty and occasionally fulfill a PC requirement that some feminazi from EOWA dictates. You might be successful in business if you sleep your way to the top, but if you think you know the difference between a Sherrin and Sheridan, you’re sorely mistaken.


gigglewick notes:

Now I'm confused....

If women can’t "run" footy clubs….

Can they run successful businesses?

Can they run banks?

The country?

CAN THEY EVEN BE TRUSTED WITH OUR CHILDREN????

Just what is it that you think women can be trusted to do, Sam Newman*?


* There has been some conjecture this morning, that this is all a calculated attempt to get women "such as" myself to get irate and feminist and seething, in a bid to build controversy. I don't much care. Anyone who thinks that women of gravitas and experience have no place on a footy club board clearly has no idea not only about the role of women, but also about good corporate governance and attracting the right mix of skills and experience to ensure your footy club's survival.