Who likes short shorts?

Okay, I'm feeling a need to lighten the mood around here, so let's get juvenile.


The phrase “in my pants” is a common meme-theme. You’ve probably seen it: “add the phrase “in my pants” to the first seven songs you hear on your Ipod”, add “in my pants” to your favourite movie quotes. But why try and spice up things that are already (in the scheme of things) quite poetic?


WHERE IS THE CHALLENGE IN THAT?

After attending a function a few years ago, it became completely evident to Indeed and I that a much more amusing application for the phrase “in my pants” was….





….government policy slogans.


So. Much. Funnier.

And also, so much filthier. Honestly, it's really about time the "in my pants" test was applied to more slogans, and then you wouldn't end up with clangers like the ones below.



So here are my favourite top five “in my pants” policy moments


1. Make it happen in my pants

2. New leadership in my pants

3. Know where you stand (in my pants)

4. To violence against women, Australia says no(t) in my pants*

5. Check your hotspots in my pants


Believe me, this is a game you can play well into the wee hours of the morning (or at least until your mobile runs out of batteries and you have lost your voice from laughing while your sister who is driving you home looks at you in grave askance).


* For maximum effect, this policy slogan should be read with hands on hips, and the following emphasis: "not in MY pants!"

These are the days of miracle and wonder, this is a long-distance call

I think I’m in a story-telling mood at the moment, but my GP’s reaction to my visit this morning was quite extraordinary, and I suppose it made me wonder whether other people had experienced similar things.

At the risk of over-sharing (always a danger in these parts), I went this morning to get a referral for a colonoscopy. This was not motivated by any particular urging, other than a genetic history that suggests that now is a time in my life when these things should start happening.

To explain, my mother had bowel cancer when a smidgeon younger than me, and her uncle also died after complications with bowel cancer (in actual fact, he died on the operating table, but he wouldn’t have been on the operating table had they not been trying to remedy the cancer).

Anyway, so my doctor asked me how old Mum was when she had been diagnosed. “Oooh, I don’t know – let me see, 28 or 29?”

He stopped typing into his whiz-bang referral data form and turned to me. “Gee – that’s young. This was in the early 80s? How on earth did they pick it up?”

Without thinking about it, I blurted “Well, they didn’t, at first.”

* quizzical look from GP *

You see, when my mother went to a GP, complaining of symptoms that might have been bowel cancer (but which, it should be noted, might also have been something else), she was duly sent on to a specialist. The specialist consulted with her and took her medical history. My sister had, at this stage, recently started school, and my mother had also had a miscarriage 12 months previously. Having undertaken no further tests, the specialist dismissed her.

“You’re depressed,” he opined. “Just go home and have another baby”

So my mother went home and reflected. She was pretty sure that she didn’t actually want another baby, observed that perhaps she was a bit lonely, but that she still had symptoms that she could not explain.

Then she burst into tears and called a friend to talk through what had happened. And this is where my mother’s slight tendency to over-reaction saved her life.

Her friend, let’s call her Beryl, who conveniently was a medical scientist, suggested she go back to the original GP and get a referral to a Melbourne specialist that Beryl knew.

A couple of weeks later, the diagnosis was proposed and confirmed. My mother had bowel cancer. She was put in hospital while they decided what to do with her. At this stage, re-sections (removing the cancerous part of the bowel and joining up the remaining pieces) were at best experimental, and the outlook for survival was pretty grim.

Her condition deteriorated, she kept losing weight and her Melbourne specialist grew concerned. She was flown to Melbourne, pending a further decision. My sister and I stayed with our dad, and after he arranged for us to move in with our grandmother, we went with her.

Perversely, for my part, this was a fun time. We went to the (old) museum almost every day, because mum's hospital was right next door. We saw our first ever movie in the cinema (The Neverending Story). We were staying with my grandmother, who we adored.

What was going on in the background though, was very serious. My mother’s specialist told her that she had two choices: try a re-section, and possibly die. One of the possible side-effects of the surgery was a colostomy bag. Or on the other hand, she could just get sicker and sicker, and probably still die.

Mum’s next response was, in retrospect, a little bonkers. My mother was firm with her doctor, with my father, and basically anyone else who would listen.

“I would rather die than have a colostomy bag. I mean it, I would rather die”

Luckily, that choice was out of her hands: they were unlikely to euthanise her because she didn’t like having her poo collected in a plastic receptacle. If she decided to have the surgery, she’d have to live with the outcomes, assuming that she did in fact live.

So in the next week, my mum became one of the first people in Australia to have a successful, extensive bowel re-section. When she woke up from the anaesthetic, the first thing she did was to sweep her hands along the sides of her body to check for a colostomy bag. Twas nothing to be found.

At that point, dietitians were still trying to figure out what to do with people with significantly less bowel, so they had mum on a diet of apple juice for the best part of a week. “I wouldn’t mind,” she says now, “Except they brought it under one of those silver plate warmers, so it always seemed like a cruel joke when they lifted it off with a flourish and there was just a glass of apple juice standing there”.

Her recovery was long, she remained the wrong side of emaciated for some time, can’t stand apple juice, and she has a massive blue scar the likes of which is rarely seen.

I am pleased to say that since my mum’s surgery, recovery rates for bowel cancer have improved dramatically. But still, two of my friends have lost their fathers to bowel cancer.

So while this post is a celebration of my own mother’s luck and tenacity (and the great fortune to have the kind of cancer that can be cut out and promptly forgotten, just like a celebrity marriage), it is also a tribute to the bravery of my friends’ parents and the bravery of their families.

I am lucky every day to have my mum, even if she sometimes drives me mad. And I’m determined to spend as long as I can driving Grizzlewick mad too.

Prevention is better than cure, that’s why I’m off for a good old probing.

And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my mum, it’s that nothing: not colonoscopies, not even a colostomy bag, is too high a price to pay for seeing your kids grow up.

Update: This story was supposed to be about my mum and her stupid specialist, but for some reason it's turned out to be about me. Thanks to those of you who have contacted me in concern (you know who you are) but if you ever needed any more proof that I was a story-slut then surely it's the fact that I have turned a completely pedestrian doctor's visit into blog fodder. Yes, my life is really that boring.

By leaving we don't stop living you know

Last week, I went to lunch with one of my friends. She is many things to me, but one of the labels that might be useful in considering this story is that she also happens to be a single (and awesome) mother to one of Grizzlewick’s little friends.

Recently, she has been struggling a bit with what to do with her life, and pondering her direction for the future. After looking for work for some time, at the beginning of the year she managed to find a difficult and poorly paid job. The job required a huge learning curve, was reasonably depressing and without many opportunities for advancement, when and if that was what she wanted to do. But she rationalised that she was doing some night-study, and she has a mortgage and bills to pay: in short, she needed the work. The workplace didn’t miss a chance, despite offering her the job, to remind her how poorly she was performing. Nor how much of a privilege it was for her to have the job at all.

She has stayed in the job though because she is acutely aware of what it is to be a single mother drawing a pension and relying on child support. She fights hard against the judgement she feels from others in her life: that as a single mother she is a lesser mother. She has worked steadily to ensure that her home is one of care and welcome. For his part, her former partner is committed to their child, and to this point their care arrangements have been genial.

A few weeks ago however, she applied for and was offered a much better job. The job she was offered not only utilised her many skills, built up over 14 years of experience, but also offered significantly more money. Like many good things that come to us, there was a catch: the job was full-time.

Feeling pleased to have gotten the job, but concerned to keep her former partner informed, she wrote him an email to let him know. She outlined in detail her reasons for taking the job, and the advantages she thought it had for she and her child.

Ten minutes later, he phoned.

Not to congratulate her on an ace new job.

Not to share his concern about what might need to be put in place, and work through the changed need for childcare arrangements.

But to accuse her of being “selfish” and “uncaring”.

I understand he managed to resist the temptation to call her a bad mother. I hope he doesn’t expect too much praise for his restraint.

At the heart of his argument about her new job is that she has a responsibility to provide maximum care (measured in hours) to their child.

Acknowledging that he had a right to be concerned about the child’s care arrangements, she suggested that if he were concerned about the amount of hours their child spent away from its parents, he had the kind of job in which it was possible to work a smaller time-fraction, should he choose to do so.

Ah, no.

Apparently, it’s inappropriate to ask men to reduce their work-time to look after children. And anyway, this wasn’t about him. And apparently, despite the fact that his debts are lower and his wage higher, he can’t afford to work less than full time.

I don’t mind people having strong opinions about the care of children. But I do mind “all care, no responsibility”. For the past five years, he has relied on my friend to be the full-time carer for their child. He has enjoyed a respite from primary care, and has not suffered in the advancement of his career, something which has come at least in part, to her detriment. Despite their long-term separation, she has committed to this whole-heartedly, with good grace and good humour. She, like most mothers, loves her child and enjoys parenting, despite the difficulties it sometimes presents.

My gut reaction to his reaction is that it’s an extremely privileged response, and creates mothers as the only possible carers, and certainly suggests that they are the ones best placed to make sacrifices for their kids.

However, as a mother who has shared, almost down to the hour, the care of her own child, I am firmly of the belief that some people have the kind of jobs where they can make a choice about participating more actively in parenting. And certainly my friend’s former partner is one of these people. Some choose to take this option, some don’t.

Is it that he just doesn’t want to?

Or is it not so much that he doesn’t want to, but that he wants her to feel obliged to do it more than any parental desire he himself feels?

Is it, as one friend claims, that he feels that her relative financial security will “leave him out of the loop”, or somehow diminish his power?

Everyone makes choices, and it’s clear in this instance he doesn’t like her choice. But with equal (in fact, given her new job, more) capacity to solve this problem, why does he not see it as equally his problem to solve?

Given that there is no disadvantage to him in what is being proposed, that he has the capacity to solve this “problem” and will not, is this just a case of sexism and adherence to gender roles?

Or am I just a careerist shrew who thinks all men should get back in the kitchen where they belong*?


* NB not what I really think, however I will admit to having a hankering for awesome home made meat pie.....

* winks at Mr Fix *

A timeline for the modern dating experience, expressed in community development jargon

1. Environment scan

2. Stakeholder engagement

3. “Quick wins”

4. Development of horizontal relationships

5. Improved vertical relationships

6. “good news stories”

7. Difficulty maintaining goodwill

8. Population flight

9. Land-use change

10. Social exclusion

I see a boy I know/his hair's on fire

UPDATE: OH MY GOD WHAT HAPPENED TO THE LAST WORD OF THE THIRD PARA? NOW FIXED.

Or why sometimes it's worth arguing, and sometimes it's not.

Over the last few months, I've been somewhat disappointed by the tone of some of the discussion/blog comments conversations I’ve been reading.

Then, in a freakish coincidence, Audrey wrote a very thought-provoking piece about the nature of blogs and comments, in particular the kind of communities they create. I’ve been prompted to post this piece (which has been in the hopper for some time) after thinking a lot about Audrey’s piece and the responses to it.

One of the things I’ve reflected on is my own response to comments. I often try to tackle issues on DIHT in which my own opinion is a complicated and nuanced* beast – just as likely to sprinkle me with fairy dust as it is to bite me on the bum. Having accepted this, I find I am sometimes equivocal in my thoughts and in the way I express them.

This is not peculiar to my blogging “persona”, I’m like this in real life too. Just ask my colleague who quizzed me the other day about GetUp. I’m not sure that this equivocation is clear to readers though: it might be something that exists only in my mind. Along this line of thought, I have to wonder if equivocation is always the worst of our sins, or if it leaves room for other arguments to play out. Or perhaps equivocation stifles debate, because there’s nothing concrete to respond to?

I enjoy using a forum such as blogging to develop and extend the capacity for rational argument. The same also follows with internet discussion sites, which can occasionally provide readers/post-ers with the opportunity to be presented with an alternative view of the world that they had not yet considered.

But, I think the underlying tone of some of these forums leaves a lot to be desired. It’s not a catch-all argument, by any means, as plenty of discussion sites and blogs are very well moderated and well run. But, as I said in my response to Audrey’s piece, perhaps the negative stays with you longer. She calls anonymous trolling “anonymosity”. It’s an excellent term (although I will admit to having to re-read it several times before getting it).

Mr Fix, for example, is currently participating in a forum where some nameless bloke is suggesting that people might like to fundraise to send him overseas to have sex with a high-profile woman, because "she clearly needs it". This level of charm is just not something I experience in everyday life. However, I know that the tone of that particular forum means that were I to weigh in, I would be accused of similarly needing a good rogering and that there were many willing to give it to me. Either that, or I'm a lesbian who can't take a joke.

I've watched with some dismay the way in which some blogs have been systematically trolled, by people who no doubt possess the capacity to formulate a reasonable thesis, but who choose nonetheless to take a cheap shot or resort to abuse. I sometimes wonder what work meetings would be like if this is how we behaved:

CEO: David has suggested we move forward with our export strategy to China

Senior Manager: Well, David would think that because he loves China and wants to have ten thousand of its babies. Also, he is a doofus.


For the record, I'm perfectly happy to admit that not everyone shares my views. But I’m also not a purely political/public arena blogger, that is to say I blog almost as much about my own petty grievances as I do about macro-level ones. I wonder if this blurs the lines a bit: in reflecting on my own life or that of those around me, I invite a level of personal connection which then spills over into any subsequent analysis I might make of public events, figures or theories.

However, in less comfortable surroundings than these, I often find myself offering not only my take on what is occurring, but also possible reasons for it – as a means of justifying the gulf between our points of view. For example, while I might be inclined to think

"Tony Abbott does X because he is a right-wing dingbat doped up on the smell of his own bicycle seat" (which I think we can agree says as much about me as it does Tony Abbott)

I'm more likely to say

"Tony Abbott advocates X because he is motivated by economic rationalism. However, Abbott's stance fails to address the key issues of Y and Z. While I agree that these are issues which need to be tackled, there is a strong need to ensure that the community owns these decisions into the future, something not fulfilled by the current process".

Which makes me seem like I should be working for DEMOS**.

What I have found about these types of arguments is that I spend a lot of time accepting the opinion of others…and acknowledging the truth of their arguments (if there is a truth to acknowledge). What I get back is this though:

"Well, if you weren't a supporter of numbskull policies like that socialist (insert swears and name of politician) or worse the communist (insert worse swears and other, leftier politician), perhaps you'd be able to see that government meddling is a big fat joke. Full stop."

This, after I've spent five hundred words explaining what I think is the legitimate role of private enterprise in a capitalist democracy***. I suppose on some levels I'm all for a bit of blind vitriol. But when I've spent some time crafting a legitimate alternative argument, and backed it up with evidence or at least considered theory, I wonder if it's really playing fair to resort to calling me a commie d-ckhead.

I mean, I read PJ O'Rourke too, people. And laugh! I own almost his entire catalogue, even if much of what he writes makes me very cross. And yet, I'm being accused of being a lefty crackpot****?

Certainly it’s no more fair than, say, referring to a Federal MP as the mother of demon spawn, or accusing an entire group of people of being unable to care for their children. So perhaps my idea of what is socially acceptable is a bit skewed.

I was talking this over with a friend last week, and her response was this: “Yes, but that’s how you would behave. That doesn’t mean everyone would behave that way.” Frankly this makes me feel like I’m some kind of social puritan, trapped in an Enid Blyton novel, except without the spankings or midnight feasts.

And another thing I’m wondering: are blogging and discussion sites a vehicle for the socially frustrated, who feel their views get no other airing? Is the medium stacked against rational discussion because of the dangers of mis-reading some one’s contention? On the other hand, does a good airing of ones’ views in the interwebs stop us from ranting til 3am at our partners or children (my experience suggests it doesn’t, but then I can be a bit shouty)?

I can't promise this is the last time I'll blog about this.

* did I say nuanced? I meant “confused”.

** All offers gratefully accepted, so long as I get paid in pounds sterling and some one finds a job for Mr Fix.

*** Don't ask.

**** Sometimes I wish I was more of a lefty crackpot, I really do. As long as I don't have to wear a beret.

The Action Is Go

What's the worst way this sentence could end?





"And I came to you, Gigglewick, because you're the go-to person on....."







a) hormonal hair growth



b) detailed comparisons of the reportage of the pregnancies of the Spears sisters



c) where to find a chicken parma as big as your head



d) malingering

Women: listen to your mothers/don’t just succumb to the wishes of your brothers

From The Age web site


The fact that there are only two "hollow women" in the series, the PM's senior media adviser (Jacquie Brennan, City Homicide) and the unit office manager (Nicola Parry, Thank God You're Here), reflects the real-life gender imbalance, says Cilauro.

"I've always been of the opinion that the women that succeed in politics have probably got more male chromosomes than they'd like to think," Cilauro says. "They compete almost as males; they almost have to get rid of a bit of their femininity and be a bloke in many ways to survive in the place."

Dear Santo Cilauro,

I’m intrigued by your recent observation that “women that succeed in politics have probably got more male chromosomes than they'd like to think”.

Have you been misquoted? Is it really your position that women, now, in this day and age, have to remake themselves as men in order to get ahead in politics?

What is it about politics that is, to you, inherently gendered? Is it possible that if politics is nasty or backstabbing or careerist or whatever else you think it is that in fact these are just negative character traits, not gendered ones?

And what does “they compete almost as males” even mean? I’ve been turning that over for a little while now and I can’t seem to figure it out. Do you mean they run around with their tops over their head and do a little fist-pumping dance? That they chuck a whammy and blame the umpire when they don’t win? Or do you merely mean that “they compete”, and that this in itself is distasteful?

I agree that it is, sadly, appropriate to include less women than men in a program which features the political process. But I would observe that other films/programs which have sought to depict the experience of women in politics have not fallen into the trap of believing that some women – by virtue of their biological make up – are UNABLE TO PARTICIPATE unless they grow some extra male chromosomes.

Is it also your position that men, in order to be nurses or aged care workers or childcare workers or any of those other jobs that have traditionally been held by women have to "get rid of a bit of their masculinity" in order to perform at a competitive level? I'm just curious.

Honestly*, it’s 2008, not 1958.

It’s a bit disappointing to me, frankly, that a program which is supposed to be revealing something true of politics and the process seems to be operating from the premise that if women “get rid of a bit of their femininity” then they’re somehow untrue to themselves. You are of course assuming that the way some women may or may not behave in the workplace is the sum total of their being, which is about as appropriate as claiming that the only thing that defines women is motherhood.

With best wishes for your reconstruction,

Gigglewick



* You wouldn’t believe how hard it was not to type “dude” just now.

I go out at night/but after you it doesn't seem right

This week, much to my disgust, I have found myself thinking things like “after this week I’ll be less tired”, “by Friday I’ll have this sorted and I won’t have to worry myself with it for a bit”. I’m not sure if I’ve taken on too much or if I’m just recovering from the adrenaline of running training sessions at night (which usually means a long drive to a small town and no dinner). Two more weeks and that part of it is finished.

The other thing it means though is half-a-day off in an otherwise uneventful week, on Grizzlewick’s childcare day. I have become a holidays hog, there is nothing else for it.

---

Speaking of holidays, we booked one, this week. Well, kind of. I have to go to Queensland to speak at a conference later this year and it was decided that this was as good a time as any to introduce Grizzlewick to waterslides and being pooed all over by native birds.

---

Possibly other people don’t sit down on a quiet evening after work and pore over Kmart catalogues. Young Grizzlewick and I have made it our mission to compare and contrast the available toys from a variety of local stores, hence our avid readership. However, this week I was astonished (and somewhat irrationally excited) by the prospect that I can take out a personal loan to buy

THIS

It’s really worth visiting Lego.com to get the full experience of spinning the ship around and indulging your nerdiness. Of course, what Grizzlewick doesn’t realise that were we ever senseless enough to pour so much money into Lego, he would not be allowed to play with it. Ever.

---

I attempted to have a rational argument with a free marketeer this week. It was a dismal failure. Let it be known that should you be, essentially, a supporter of the concept of the welfare state and try to take on some one who believes that the minimum wage is crippling the country, you'll likely be patronised as a silly young thing who doesn't know what she's talking about. You can quote as much research as you like. You can do so in a respectful way. And you can expect that not one of your arguments will be given credence, because clearly you are a tax-hungry red-ragging femocrat, mad with power. Or maybe that's just me.

---

Ah, Viggo Mortensen. What a strange, strange man. Am I the only person who finds him disturbing? Is it his choice of roles? Is it the beard? I can’t be sure.

---

Slightly in love with the following:

1. Ewan McGregor
2. Fresh tomato and brie on water crackers
3. Mongolia
4. Corroboree/Waiata by Split Enz
5. Nosey in Newtown

---

I recently heard ‘Always something there to remind me’ by Sandie Shaw and was amazed by how much I liked it. Slap me down in front of a player piano and curl my hair up high – this is a naff song par excellence. However, there is something just hypnotic about it. My dad had a 10 album compilation of British music from the 1960s (pre-the love-child era) which included another sentimental favourite of mine, ‘Windmill in old Amsterdam’ by Ronnie Hilton. We didn’t have the Wiggles in those days, we had to make do with nonsense songs. And make do we did.

---

FYI (because I like to keep my promises) I have written the piece on the s-xualisation of children, but frankly am unhappy with it. I am awaiting the loan of a suitably authoritative tome to increase my confusion.


UPDATE: I'm not sure if all you new visitors are Star Wars fans... Hope you're not disappointed.