Published in On Our Selection News October 3, 2013

Talking to strangers is really hard work.

At a less than reputable “niteclub hotspot” I was seated next to a friend who was deep in conversation with a “cute Irish doctor guy”. Being the exemplary friend that I was, I decided to sit it out – I would not abandon my post. Bored, and sick of crappy music that was blasting through the air, I was more than happy when what seemed to be an interesting person fell on his back next to the felt cube I was perched on.

Surely, I thought, that if someone was at a point that they could lose their balance, they would be entertaining in conversation. But I was quite wrong to make this assumption. Straight away this fellow launched into a deeply serious conversation about his wearing of ear plugs.

Yep, da clubz get pretty noisy, so everyone should be wearing ear plugs. I understand that. I’d be pretty upset if the heavy sound vibrations from the freshest Pitball track caused the sound receptor hairs in my ear to break off or lay flat, rendering me deaf. But surely there are other things to going on. I tried to veer off topic, but conversation was abruptly steered back to the plugs. This guy had a serious agenda.

It was horrendous. I learned more about ear plugs than I ever hoped I would. As much as I tried to be polite and appear interested, there was a point where I had to break out the old “I cut my foot before and my shoe is filling up with blood,” equivalent line.

I had forsaken friendship and I did not regret a thing. But the whole matter got me thinking about small talk. What if I was just as bad? What if my conversation was just as boring? There are only so many times I can break out the classic “how about that local sporting team?” or “so, that current event hey?” before things dry up.

I’ve never had someone limp away from me with a shoe full of pretend blood, but now I was becoming paranoid.

I remember back in college, everywhere you went people had the same three small talk topics stashed up their sleeves. “Where are you from?”, “What do you study?”, and “What college are you at?” were about as unavoidable as having to wait for a port-a-loo and goon laybacks. Everyone had at least three trusty questions they could rely on, and while they were excruciatingly annoying, they did break the ice.

But now, out in the real world, approaching a stranger is a whole new kettle of fish. On several occasions people have come up to me with the opening line “I like your glasses”, and it never fails to knock me back. What does this person mean by that? What exactly are they hoping to achieve? Do they actually like my glasses or are they implying that I wear glasses not because I need them, but for the “nerd look”. I respond with “thanks, I need them to see,” which apparently is a massive shut down, because these people always seem to shuffle away.

Perhaps I’m judgemental, but strangers really are strange, but in the most boring possible way. Now I understand why parents tell their kids not to speak to them.

Published in On Our Selection News September 26, 2013

Published in On Our Selection News September 19, 2013

I don’t know if I’d say that I’m made of honour.

A couple of Fridays ago now, my second oldest sister popped round to the family home to casually mention that she was engaged. It was a nice moment, and we of course celebrated it they way most families would: by buying a few bottles of the most expensive bubbly we could find in Clifton at that hour (which was about 22 bucks from memory), and splashing out on $8 worth of hot chips to celebrate the date the proposal happened, being the 8th of the 8th month.

After the initial celebrations, when the riccadonna bottles were empty and I was on my way to bed, I realised that the whole betrothal was underpinned by sinister competition. With two other sisters also being asked to be bridesmaids, there was now an apparent deadly and dirty contest to be made Maid of Honour. And like any power hungry, control freak female who thinks that they have good taste, I wanted that title.

Not just because I’d have to yell at florists through a headset, wear a different coloured sash to the other bridesmaids, and get to plan a filthy Bachelorette party (which so far is set to consist of us watching Daddy Day Care and hiring a guy in a broccoli suit and a carrot suit), but because… I don’t know, I just wanted it.

I had already started campaigning for the job back in high school, making my sister promise to pick me, but now that there was a ring on the fing, I had to get serious. I was up against an older sister, and a very creative best friend who was also one year older – I had to bring out the big guns.

The engagement not only posed the challenge for me to find some poor schmuck to give me diamonds in two years time (or else she wins. Wow, maybe I am too competitive?), but the need to host a party of some kind. And this was my time to shine.

Given the occasion, the event had to be more than a carton and cobbloaf affair (although cobbloaf is a wonderful food- group. I’m still hopeful that someone will start up a drive-thru cobbloaf restaurant), so I had to step it up a notch.

I came up with decoration ideas, I pledged balls of deep fried risotto, I informed a friend in Townsville of the date immediately to allow her to book flights, and spent at least an hour in Lifeline choosing mismatched jars for vases.

All of this probably looked like I was just being a good sister, but the sinister scent of hidden agenda was lingering – it was like I was K-Rudd announcing his support for gay marriage a few months ago (which I applaud, but I am suspicious of the timing of that announcement). While there were no spotlight ads or horrible theme songs, I became ruthless in my campaign; I conspired with Grandma to make bunting out of offcuts from various Aunties’ bridal party dresses.

Sure, I was eventually given the envelope that contained the words “Maid of Honour” but I couldn’t help but wonder is was I an honourable maid? Had my guerilla tactics been ethical?

But I guess that’s exactly what got me the different coloured sash-noonewantsyoutobeethicalwhenyouyou’redealing with a bride who was delivered frangipanis instead of peonies?

Published in On Our Selection News September 12, 2013

I found out about the election result from the pulled pork guy.

It was a bittersweet exchange, as my friend had just managed to barter two rolls down to the price of one discounted roll, but the news didn’t slide down my throat as well as a smokey glob of meat (that’s right, the sarcastic young female with feminist leanings who likes to recycle is NOT the biggest fan of Tony Abbott. I’m just as shocked as you are).

Yet, regardless of the outcome, I’m glad for the conversation. There I was – a slightly intoxicated youngster having a political discussion with a stranger. Ahh, democracy is a beautiful thing.

I know what you’re thinking, “just what the world needs, another plucky young journo pretending to know things about politics. Please, tell me all about your ill-informed subjective opinions.” Well, kind reader, that is a fair comment to make.

As far as political awareness goes, I’m relatively new to the scene. In the stages of political development, I’m probably at a Year 1 level – it’s as though my brain has just begun to function somewhat intelligently to be able to process the 123s and (the slightly left-wing) ABCs of politics and I’ve only just mastered the art of controlling my bowels. But I’m getting the hang of it.

However I get confused when people complain about the election and applaud when it’s over so that they can “stop talking politics and get on with it”. Maybe it’s just my childish naivety, but I thought the whole idea of democracy was that the people were supposed to participate. I was under the impression that the political happenings in our country should by discussed all year round, not just once every three years.

I know that we elect politicians to represent our interests in the Senate or the House of Reps (see, I’m learning!) to do the political bidding for us, but that doesn’t mean that we should be passive about the whole thing and ignore politics altogether. We all complain about politicians not doing their job, but how many people consider that they, as citizens, have a job to do as well? We’re supposed to actively put in our two cents about the decisions that will affect us. There have been countless opportunities for people to comment on controversial projects or policies when people cant be bothered to fill out a simple survey. However when this policy comes into play, people are quick to complain. Sure, be cross with the Government, but if you don’t contact your MP or write a letter, then you sir, should be cross with yourself. If you don’t use the political system, don’t abuse it.

Why is politics considered a taboo topic when talking about politics is necessary for democracy to function? As long as it’s civil and doesn’t involve vision of earwax being eaten, it should be welcomed at the dinner table, especially when opposing sides are breaking bread together. We as a society need an idea and a counter argument of that idea to discuss in order to reach new conclusions and to progress.

That’s why I think there’s something important in talking politics with a stewed meat vendor. Because if we as citizens don’t get involved in political debates, then we won’t be considered in political decisions.

You learn a lot about your level of self control when you have an armpit to the face.

Over the weekend, I embraced my inner athlete and participated in an early morning fun run. But that is not what this article is about. The saying goes the life is about the journey, not the destination – so I’m writing about my journey to the beginning of my journey.

Part of the fun run experience means joining the thousands of keen runners making their way to the starting line at 4am. As participation scores you free public transport, most competitors decide to take the train.

Stepping onto the platform, I wasn’t aware of what I was in for until I met a friend who was at the 21st I attended the night before. While I made a strategic early exit, he continued on with the festive shenanigans. My kind observation that “you smell like you had a big one,” was not taken well. “I didn’t brush my teeth,” I was informed between his groans.

About a minute later, an already overcrowded train arrived and we carefully wedged ourselves in the small gaps between the existing passengers, positioning ourselves to try to avoid a full frontal facial blow of morning breath. But sometimes we all try to no avail. Now, as luck would have it, it was unseasonably warm for that time of year at that time of morning, so a cloud of musty perspiration was already lingering in the air. This was somewhat unwelcome in the small confines of our carriage.

Usually, I would start making angry sigh noises and shooting the stinkeye at strangers in this situation, but my disposition remained uncharacteristically socially acceptable.

With my feet pointing one way and my neck twisting to face the other, I cursed my slightly shorter than average height as I found myself head-on with a woman’s unshaved armpit (good on you for going against the commercial ideals of female beauty lady, but it’s ironic for you to be shoving your own feminine ideals in a sister’s face – even if it was unintentional). But did I curse that lady? No.

I was privy to some of the most boring, douchey conversation about Coles politics, but did I roll my eyes? No.

At one point, a girl was standing two centimetres in front of me, whipping her ponytail against my face each time she looked from left to right (which was every 20 seconds). Did I violently rip out the pony tail and scream at her that “there is nothing exciting to look at this damn train! What kind of sadistic human being are you?!” I wanted to, but no I did not.

As more people squeezed onto the train, I contorted my body to make way for the unwelcome visitors to my personal space. I held on to the handles dangling from the ceiling and held my tongue, despite the situation being like a vertical version of Twister (right foot: wedged between the legs of a stranger).

It appears that I have matured to a point where I can look like a perfectly pleasant human being, while thinking evil thoughts and plotting heinous acts.

Today I took a picture of a man cuddling a lamb carcass.

One of our local butchers had a win in a butchering competition, so I met him to do a story and grab some photos. Naturally, this resulted in a few awkward poses with a skinned lamb hanging on a hook, as well as some entertained co-workers and customers.

As I am writing this, I still have blood stained fingers, as I made the fatal error of shaking the young butcher’s hand after the shoot was done. But as I look down at my hand (with slight disgust), I’m inflated with a sense of hope. Not only do I have a good “I’ve got blood on my hands” anecdote, but I’ve got more evidence of a young guy who doesn’t suck at life.

Despite all the chat being thrown at young people, here’s a guy who’s doing something he likes and giving it a red hot go.

As he was rattling off all the various ways he “value added” a lamb in six hours, it was clear that this was a guy who really enjoyed what he was doing. This guy has found his “thing” and that “thing” is slicing up animals for a living.

The common narrative that I see in opinion pieces written by my young amigos out there is that job satisfaction is as elusive as a unicorn who vomits up gold and cupcakes. Us young guns love a good complain. A good venting session is therapeutic, and it’s fairly entertaining to read/listen to. But after a while, it gets pretty deflating and many young people are losing confidence that they can actually find a job that they will enjoy.

I can’t talk – I’ve got a pretty sweet gig. I have business cards, I occasionally get to be the “celebrity guest judge” at the local primary school’s Book Week Costume Parade and someone actually prints my opinions each week. As far as jobs go, mine is quite fun.

At a party of current and past students, I was confronted with the bleak job prospects they faced. Two friends who had heaps of experience were still unable to land a job. As such, I’m constantly reminded of how lucky I am to have a job that I actually enjoy. While I wouldn’t put it down to just luck, I do agree that I am lucky. I worked and do work hard to be where I am, because writing is my slicing of meat – it’s my thing. And I worked at it because that’s what I wanted to get paid to do. However, I think it’s luckier that I discovered that writing is my slicing of meat – it’s my “thing”.

Some people can go through life not knowing what they actually want. They may flit from job to job without any clear idea of what they want to do.Young people heading into the workforce probably have reason to feel anxious, but it’s not a lost cause. You need to find the thing that makes you happy, and you need to find a way for your “thing” to make you money – this can get tricky. Maybe your “thing” is hard to get into or doesn’t make you much at the start, but it is worth holding on to and sticking it out. So if you’ve found something you like, you cling on to that metaphorical lamb carcass representing your dreams.

Published in On Our Selection News August 21, 2013

Why do cleaning product ads only ever feature women?

I don’t watch a lot of TV these days (I prefer to spend my time looking at funny pictures of dogs on the internet instead, which is much more constructive…) but when I do deign to turn to pick up the remote, I can’t help becoming enraged.

This is generally the premise of most cleaning product ads you’ll see: there’s a woman and she’s either looking lovingly into a shiny toilet bowl; or cuddling her dishwasher; or looking determined with a bottle of bathroom bleach; or looking at the clean clothes she’s just pulled out of the washing machine/ dryer as if it was part of an amazing magical trick, much like a rabbit being pulled from a hat.

It’s getting a bit ridiculous. I’m not saying that these products and their effects aren’t amazing, but I am saying that it’s not only those human beings with uteri who use these products.

That’s right hotshot television advertising people, who probably aren’t reading this article! You guys are doing it wrong! Why are you people still portraying the view that only women clean things, when it is in fact not true?!

As a kid, I used to watch the CLR ad in pure amazement – I looked at how that magical grey bottle would clean things in seconds and was completely blown away! But this isn’t because of my ability to bear fruit from my womb, it’s because I am one of those people who like things to be clean. And these people come in all shapes and sizes, with varied private parts.

Cleaning is not a gender-determined role. I know lots of guys that are avid cleaners (unfortunately, these guys do not happen to be my roommates), and lots of girls that detest cleaning.

I recently went camping and had to two male friends fretting about how untidy the campsite was – yes, even with all that testosterone pulsating through their bodies and stubble on their chins! I also have female friend whose room constantly looks like she’s only just moved in because of all the filth on the floor. The thing is that some people are clean, and some people don’t care for that sort of thing.

I think we’re all aware that it’s not just mothers who do cleaning. Men DO chuck in some powder and press the “on” button on a washing machine, men DO clean the shower, men DO turn on the dishwasher, DO vacuum the floors. In fact, there’s probably a man doing one or more of those things in the exact moment that you’re reading this.

Instead of having boring, fifties-esque ads with mothers prancing about cleaning surfaces, we could have funny, exciting ads about cleaning products with different groups of people cleaning. Who wouldn’t love to hear a male voice singing in of those delightful Ajax Spray and Wipe commercials? Or see a group of young, sharehouse dwelling uni students attacking a mess as their post-party recovery?

We are missing out on fantastic cleaning product ads because the world of television advertising is deluded, and that really leaves streaks on my glass.

Decisions are hard.

Send me into a grocery store to pick up lunch, and you’ll be waiting for at least half an hour. I’ll be fretting in the aisles because I can’t decide what I feel like. I pick up stuff, put it down, then pick it up again, all while muttering to myself and making sudden changes in direction as I dart from shelf to shelf.

This can be pretty excruciating, particularly for anyone who is accompanying me. But most of the time, I end up being satisfied with my choice. This is because while I’m choosing between ketchup or catsup, I’m reasoning with myself as to why I would or wouldn’t want either option for lunch. It’s not easy, and it’s definitely not quick, but it usually does result in post-lunch satisfaction (the best kind of satisfaction).

I try to be a creature of reason, applying this to most decisions I make, even the trivial (although I rarely consider lunch choice “trivial”) ones. This was why I was so taken aback when I asked my Grandma about who she was voting for and why.

“Because I’ve always voted for them,” she told me.
This got me thinking about loyalty, and how we let it get in the way of the decisions we make. Yep, I said it (or rather, it was a typed implication) – loyalty can sometimes be a bad thing. Loyalty can start off passionately – you may strongly believe in that particular person/group/idea, but eventually loyalty can become more of a habit. It may become a mundane, subconscious tendency, and you stop thinking about why you’re following who you chose to follow.

You may not have even made that choice to follow what you follow or believe what you believe, but you still get that niggling feeling that you should be following to it.

Ask yourself why you follow the footy team you follow. I like the Broncos – they’re a great side, but I doubt that I would have barracked for them if my family was into another team. There’s nothing wrong with that, but the fact is that I didn’t actively choose to follow them – I followed suit.

I wonder how many people follow a political team for that same reason. How many people consider why they support a party? Loyalty, from what I’ve seen in movies set in the middle ages, means supporting your party/team/king regardless of what they ask you to do. Your loyalty is non-negotiable.

Don’t get me wrong, loyalty is mostly good; it’s just that when you don’t question why you’re following that party or ask yourself if you actually agree with a policy that party is putting forward is when things go bad. Loyalty should be earned.

As easy as it makes the time at the polls, being loyal for the sake of being loyal is not only lazy, but incredibly foolish.

We should be asking questions. We should be having debates. We should be considering the point of view from the other side. Most importantly, we should be questioning ourselves.

Loyalty to Loyalty can be dangerous (however, it’s also a pretty good album), but blind loyalty can destroy a nation.

Published in On Our Selection News August 1, 2013

I hate bugs.

Not the beetle kind of bugs, they aren’t bad guys at all; it’s the stomach bugs of the world that are the real menaces.

I say this with a fresh sense of hatred off the back of festivites over the weekend. I, like many of my footlose and fancy free peers, headed along to the Splendour in the Grass music festival near Byron Bay.

On the second night I was jovially strolling into the festival without a care in the world, ready to drink in the goodness of Empire of the Sun and The National when the blessed stomach bug struck. And oh Lordey did it strike fast.

Within minutes of feeling as though I was “in a bad place”, I was on my hands and knees violently emptying the conents of my stomach onto the muddy ground. Unfortunately, the phrase “once you pop you cannot stop,” (a phrase made famous by Pringles, which coincidentally, I had been enjoying earlier in the day) and the great stomch emptying continued into the night. As the National was reaching the climax of “Mr November” (youtube it and then you will know how devestating it was that I missed it), I was writhing around on a jacket that some kind soul had laid over the mud so I could sit as I dry-reached.

It wasn’t until the next morning, when I discovered that I couldn’t hold down toothpaste and was shaking like a leaf, that I was advised to go to the medic tent.

This was a place that I never hoped I would end up. The medic tent was a place for hardcore pill takers and people who jumped off poles into a crowd of waiting security guards, not for little old me. I was a dignified person and I did not belong in a medic tent. Or so I thought.

It turned out that this was no time for dignity; alas, I believe my dignity was on left in a chunky puddle in the festival the night before. After stumbling in and crying to the red frogs volunteers, it turned out that I was in exactly the right place.

(Incidentally, I found out that I wasn’t the first small town journo who drunk fluids with my veins. Either us rural news hounds have  really know how to party, or we have terrible immune systems. I suspect it was a lot from Column A and a little from Column B.)

I was told that I had picked up a severe bug that had been going around the campsite, was promptly put on a drip, and immediately regetted not bringing my phone to photograph the evidence of this experience.

From this low point of my life, I took in a few lessons. Lesson Number One: anti-nausea drug maxolon works fast (I could pinpoint the exact moment that my stomach stopped churning and it was glorious); Lesson Number Two: music festival medics are greatly appreciative of patients whose ailments are not drug or alohol related; and Lesson Number Three: there is such a thing as a “gastro drawer”.

With a renewed sense of appreciation for the medical advances in our society, I sprung back to the campsite and headed into the festival, sporting my taped-on cottonball like a badge of honour.

Bugs are indeed the worst; they strike at the least convenient moments, they steal your dignity and they essentailly turn you into some kind of sub-human. But this is where Lesson Number Four comes in: if you can find the silver lining to losing most of your stomach lining, you can still come out on top.