I knew he loved me when he sprinkled extra chocolate on my cappuccino. Okay, maybe love is too presumptuous. I knew he knew I existed and that I had sweaty palms.

He's much older than me. Probably a bit more than double my age. He wears colourful skinny leg jeans and jaunty scarfs....And his hair, oh be still my raging hormones. His hair is a thick, grey delicious swirl. The kind you could spread your hands into and grip- should the moment require it. 

I'm not sure what his name is or what his life story looks like, but I know he is always chatting and listening to Aretha Franklin. I know he has a nicely shaped behind. I feel that he loves working on the bridge looking out at the river and the sky, being a participant in the day's move from dawn to dusk, rather than just someone who pops up halfway through or towards the end.

He seems to be from somewhere exotic like Brazil or Costa Rica; certainly not Australian towns like "Nimbin" or ""Mount Buggery". Though, it would be okay if he was from the New South Wales town "Rooty Hill", I guess. 

I think he might have a boyfriend. But this insurmountable fact is simply not enough to quell the beating of my heart on a cold, Monday morning as I walk past his coffee stand. It is not enough to stop the nervous, crooked, and yes, somewhat seedy grin I give as I pass. 

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There's a lot of really good things about being a grown up. For instance, I no longer eat ants or have crushes on boys purely based on the thickness of their eyebrows. I don't have to be forced into team sports or be called "Hope the Dope" or "Hope does the Pope" daily. 

One key good thing is how my relationship, understanding and deep respect for my mother has evolved. While she still very much wears the pants (e.g. can nag me into submission), we've become best friends without us consciously realising it. 

Convinced we have a psychic link, Mum's passion for creativity, learning and fairness are values I've adopted for my own. 

But one of the things I want to narrow in on is how she never takes anything for granted. She savours life. She sticks herself into it and feels it all with humour and grace. 

I think it's this complete immersion with life that gives her the ability to notice things no one else does; she notices the little bird in the long grass and she reflects on herself and others with eerie accuracy. Things become joyous or deeply relaxing or moving or intensely irritating but never bland, never lukewarm, never meh. 

As a result,  Mum isn't one for small-talk. She wants to talk about whether God exists, the history of musical instruments or the importance of consumer rights. 

With Mum, reading a book to you becomes a production, cups of tea hold a place of almost religious fervour, facial expressions to show yumminess or displeasure are like face-gymnastics. 

My personal-yoga, my best friend, my inspiration, my editor, my soul mate. It is not just on mother's day that I feel a big lump of gratitude in my chest for Mum. It is every day. 

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Five things learned in the last week

1. Buy that blender, buy those 300 denier tights, buy that fair trade mango chutney and those colourful blinders. They might not pass the infamously tricky "Do I NEED it" test, and your not-so-inner-tight-arse might take offence, but there are some things that are an exception to the rule. Figure out what they are and stick to it.

2. This book can slide into top ten and have you wanting to read it all over again just to soak in the words. 


“I wanted to tell the book thief many things, about beauty and brutality. But what could I tell her about those things that she didn't already know? I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race-that rarely do I ever simply estimate it. I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.” 
― Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

3. Poached eggs. You'll do them fine, but when you start reading articles about how to do them, they'll take on a whole new tension and you'll mess up the yolk evermore. Stick to instincts when it comes to things like boiled water and eggs. 

4. Your skirt is tucked up into your knickers again.

5. Knowing that someone else knows what you think more people SHOULD know is a reassuring thing. Like this expert in violence found in mining towns really uncovers a side of the resource boom in Australia not openly acknowledged but instead meekly accepted.  

Today, my plans to go on a ski trip in February were foiled by work scheduling. That's alright with me, really. I feel damn lucky that I could have gone on a ski trip in the first place- sounds awfully fancy. 

And now my savings for the trip are still sitting, but my options have been  thrown wide open.

You know what I'm thinking? Costa Rica.

I like the sound of it. They have no army, rely almost fully on renewable energy and drink a lot of coffee. 

What the hell, Costa Rica, you've really got your shit together! 

I've also been day-dreaming about America: the place of canned pumpkin. 

Looks soooo good. 

Oh or maybe Hong Kong, because it is intense, tropical and mystical there.

Maybe I could put my savings towards a particular KIND of journey like this yoga retreat, or this trip for quilters, or this program to learn about international development. 

What's on your list of places to visit? 

Irony Culture

Quick comebacks to mean comments is not a talent in my possession. Mainly, I just get so surprised and so hurt that I become momentarily adrift.... Then there's the lasagne-like layer of emotions that follows: dizziness, guilt, the stomping-walk-while-thinking-of-a-comeback-days-later. 

Fortunately, people being mean doesn't happen too often at all. But I have noticed a similar reaction in me to "ironic" sexist jokes. There's that same feeling of an inability to respond and  'tightening of chest' so often described. This of itself is surely evidence that these jokes aren't harmless. 

You know  those "jokes".  You've heard and read them. Usually, they go something like, "That awkward moment when a woman leaves the kitchen without permission". 

Kelsey Wallace explains that this kind of 'joke', "... hinges on the assumption that “no one thinks this way anymore” and therefore it’s funny, like making a joke about horses and buggies or something. It allows for sexist comments under the guise of being sooo far above them, and it’s a lot harder to call out than non-ironic, old-fashioned sexism".

So yeah, I find myself forcing a smile, a bit of a tight laugh or often I opt for the pretending-that-I'm-angry-but-not-actually-angry, when I am in fact, angry. 

Pissed off and hurt, in fact. 

I don't believe that we have reached that stage of enlightenment that we can crack ironic jokes about gender inequality. 

Irony is defined as: The use of words to express something other than and especially the opposite of the literal meaning.

From this definition, "ironic jokes" depicting sexist beliefs about women in the workforce aren't ironic at all until women are not severely underrepresented in leadership positions in virtually all sectors of paid workforce. "Ironic jokes" about women making sandwiches is not ironic until the role of primary caregiver, a traditional role of women, is largely respected.*

In order to be an ironic joke, there has to be evidence that these are not reoccurring issues; that the meaning of this joke is not actually reality.

The impact of these jokes has been explored. Smith states that, "It allows people to express actual sexist ideas, and maintain sexist social structures, without having to be nakedly open about it. It’s just as harmful for everyone involved... but it’s more insidious, because it’s harder to pin down and challenge".

While weakly disguised, discriminatory beliefs are nothing new, the ability to quickly locate  numerous discussions on this type of conduct is new, important and empowering. It provides the tools and strength to fight back. 

For starters, I now have my comeback ready should someone suggest I'd be better off in the kitchen. And this is it, "I'm not going to polite laugh at this to save you embarrassment. That is not clever irony. It is degrading, thinly-veiled sexism. You need to reflect on this. Let's change the topic". **

* I couldn't find an ironic sexist joke about men. I am sure they are out there, but not amount of "the awkward moment when a man" google searches would uncover it. Though these statistics on domestic violence towards men is worth checking out.
** Perhaps this comeback is too long. But the thought-out comeback often is, so let's see how much I can say in a situation. 

To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

- Mary Oliver 

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Desire

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about time. In fact, I’ve posted about time, read books about it and watched documentaries on it. Lately, I haven’t felt as if I’ve had much of the stuff. Between my new full-time job, keeping up with friends, life stuff e.g. cleaning/cooking, and relaxation time, I don’t seem to have much left for creative past-times like I did as a student.

Or so I thought, or so I told myself.

It’s far harder to acknowledge that I’ve had no desire; haven’t felt compelled; to pick up those knitting needle or half-written poem and tie together those loose ends. 

All of a sudden it seemed an effort.

In fact, if we are speaking candidly, I actually have more free time with a full-time job. Study done well takes time. And a job around study takes even more time.

Yet, my study was not fulfilling some of my most cherished values, so I needed to and did find other means.

So I find it kinda funny that the very reasons I love my new job, the meaningfulness, the absorption, and the ah-ha moment, are the very reasons I am lacking the desire to do other creative projects.

It could be that I’m just like a car in winter now, and it takes me a bit longer to heat up early in the mornings and late in the afternoons. 

Or it could be that I need to know which other values are not being met as fully as they could with the day-to-day, and work on those instead.

Or maybe I just need a work-out clothes motto like “No excuses” or “Never ever stop”. Though, I do hate those smug t-shirts with the fire of a thousand suns...

I digress.

Do you have any advice about juggling creative passions with work? 

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