If I am to be completely honest, I must admit that I am a judgemental bitch. I have absolutely no qualms about passing judgement on the lives and choices of others. Alongside this lovely facet of my personality is the virtue, or perhaps the failing, of having absolutely no problem letting people know when I believe they have made an error of sorts – regardless of whether or not these choices are actually any of my business.
I know it’s wrong. I know a better person would stand by silently, acknowledge that the choices of others’, even best friends’, are not up for critique. Perhaps if I was a better friend I would be able to simply empathise with those I love, and acknowledge that when they come to me they seek support, not a solution. Unfortunately, I am by nature a seeker of solutions. I have never understood the desire to complain about a situation if you are not going to actually attempt to resolve it. In my mind, if there is an aspect of your life that is not working for you, then by all means have a whinge, but then do something to change it. If you don’t, odds are, whatever it is you are complaining about is actually working for you to some extent.
It angers me to see those I love living lives that I believe are hurting them or perhaps, more accurately, living a life of compromise, missing out on what should be theirs, on the existences they should be able to live, simply because of the failings of the men or women they choose to share their lives with. When I see friends in relationships that fail to provide them the love, care, respect and attention I believe they deserve I feel frustrated and occasionally and no doubt ironically, I even find myself angry at these same friends for accepting a life for themselves that I cannot accept.
I acknowledge that at the base of this issue is an assumption that my friends desire the same sort of lifestyle I aspire to, and rationally I know this may very well not be the case. I try to remind myself that the lives I presume to be hurting them or limiting them or frustrating them may in fact be the lives they desire. Perhaps the reality is, the only one their lives are really frustrating is me.
My judgements are based on the assumption that everyone I know and love has similar values and basic desires to mine. I presume that all those I perceive of being similar to me in some way, also share my belief in the value of owning their own home. I presume that they also seek a partner who supports them emotionally, mentally and financially. My judgements are based on the assumption that all parents I know also believe that education is the most important gift they can ever give their children and that dressing up, putting on a spot of lippy and a pair of killer heels makes every woman feel sexy and better about themselves – even if only for a moment. My judgements are based on the assumption that everyone finds the identical attributes worthy of respect and admiration. I am learning that this is very much not the case.
Hubby, hunched over his computer, working late into the evening to ensure he is good at his job, is not a factor which would cause all wives to flush with love. Some would resent the hours he puts in, the endless discussion which centres on our working lives. Some would say that often we pay more attention to our students than our own biological offspring, and at times, they would be right.
I have many failings, but perhaps one of my greatest is that I assume that what I believe is ‘the right way’ is indeed ‘the right way’. We talk about cultural sensitivity, and how as a global society we, in a more tangible way than ever before are willing and able to embrace and respect the multitudes of traditions, values and beliefs that colour our world. And we do. For those who are visibly different, and reside in a world that is clearly alien to us. I would never dare bring my assumptions to some woman living in a mud-hut in Africa with eleven children and a goat. That would be presumptuous and insensitive. But for some reason I have absolutely no problem imposing these same assumptions on my friends living down the street, around the corner or in the very next suburb.
And so, to those I have judged based on my own assumptions regarding what I believed you should want out of life, I apologise. I promise to try to adopt the old “live and let live” adage. But, I give fair warning, come whinging to me about your life and I will tell you the truth... as I see it.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
Kitchen Nightmares
Hubby considers himself quite the chef, and to be fair he does do the majority of the meal planning, preparation and cooking in the household. While he is obsessed by the Lifestyle Food channel and can watch the likes of Jamie Oliver and Rick Stein for hours, the one small aspect of cheffing life that has not been picked up by his culinary radar is the cleaning of the kitchen. For some inexplicable reason he does not get that good chefs, real chefs, understand that a clean kitchen is a fundamental aspect of the whole cooking thing.
And while I greatly appreciate the home-cooked meals I and our children are served most evenings, the fact that he seems incapable of actually cleaning up after himself drives me insane. He seems to enjoy using every possible pot, saucer and spoon he can find. Oil splatterings on the backsplash are a specific area of expertise, as are vegetable peels left in a heap on the counter. Perhaps he is waiting for them to grow legs and walk themselves over to the rubbish bin. However, keep in mind that even if this miracle were to occur it would only be of limited assistance as the rubbish itself would have to work out a way to take itself out. No matter how full the bin is, as far as Hubby is concerned, "There's still room".
Hubby's cleaning regime consists of shoving whatever can fit into the dishwasher, and whatever can't fit in, he deems to be in need of 'soaking' - code for leaving it filled with water until I get so sick of seeing it there I wash it myself. Hubby has yet to develop the understanding that if you leave a dirty cooking implement lying on the kitchen counter you will at some stage need to actually clean said counter. Cleaning the oven, stove top, microwave, toaster, is, in Hubby's world, an optional extra. Yet, he laughs furiously while witnessing Gordon Ramsey going through shockingly dirty commercial kitchens, totally unaware of the irony.
I am completely aware that in my last post I contended that I am in no way a domestic diva. And I'm not. At 2:01pm on a Saturday afternoon none of the beds in my home are made and 'The Saturday Age' is strewn across the dining room table. My mother is appalled by my lack of interest in cooking an array of traditional Jewish dishes and bemoans the fact that her most valuable treasure - her secret chicken-soup recipe will die with her (mostly because she prefers that to the idea of passing this family secret on to her Irish-Catholic son-in-law). My mother-in-law is just appalled. But that's a whole other story. I stand by the fact that I do not enjoy cleaning out the family fridge or scrubbing the insides of a grease-coated oven. I can think of many activities I would prefer to participate in . But I do these things. Not because I gain any pleasure out of them, but because they have to be done. Hubby just does not see the necessity. In fact, until I raised the issue he was not even aware that toasters have a crumb-tray.
Foxtel programmers and executives, allow me to suggest a new program for the Lifestyle Food channel. I like to call it, 'Clean the Fuck Up After Yourself'. I want to switch on and see Jamie teaching male viewers how to clean the roasting tray after roasting a "pukka" chicken. I want him to explain how leaving the tray filled with greasy water for 17 days to 'soak' is NOT a precursor to cleaning and will have an adverse effect on your sex-life. I want Rick Stein to explain that when one barbecues a whole bunch of shrimp for a Christmas lunch, it's really important to remember to take out the rubbish. And if you fail to remember to do so, it is totally reasonable for your wife to be very upset with you. I want Gordon Ramsey to start doing home visits, telling men who have been taken in by the 'Masterchef' phenomenon that their kitchens are disgusting, liberally using the 'F-Word' as he does so.
Now that is a cooking program I would watch.
And while I greatly appreciate the home-cooked meals I and our children are served most evenings, the fact that he seems incapable of actually cleaning up after himself drives me insane. He seems to enjoy using every possible pot, saucer and spoon he can find. Oil splatterings on the backsplash are a specific area of expertise, as are vegetable peels left in a heap on the counter. Perhaps he is waiting for them to grow legs and walk themselves over to the rubbish bin. However, keep in mind that even if this miracle were to occur it would only be of limited assistance as the rubbish itself would have to work out a way to take itself out. No matter how full the bin is, as far as Hubby is concerned, "There's still room".
Hubby's cleaning regime consists of shoving whatever can fit into the dishwasher, and whatever can't fit in, he deems to be in need of 'soaking' - code for leaving it filled with water until I get so sick of seeing it there I wash it myself. Hubby has yet to develop the understanding that if you leave a dirty cooking implement lying on the kitchen counter you will at some stage need to actually clean said counter. Cleaning the oven, stove top, microwave, toaster, is, in Hubby's world, an optional extra. Yet, he laughs furiously while witnessing Gordon Ramsey going through shockingly dirty commercial kitchens, totally unaware of the irony.
I am completely aware that in my last post I contended that I am in no way a domestic diva. And I'm not. At 2:01pm on a Saturday afternoon none of the beds in my home are made and 'The Saturday Age' is strewn across the dining room table. My mother is appalled by my lack of interest in cooking an array of traditional Jewish dishes and bemoans the fact that her most valuable treasure - her secret chicken-soup recipe will die with her (mostly because she prefers that to the idea of passing this family secret on to her Irish-Catholic son-in-law). My mother-in-law is just appalled. But that's a whole other story. I stand by the fact that I do not enjoy cleaning out the family fridge or scrubbing the insides of a grease-coated oven. I can think of many activities I would prefer to participate in . But I do these things. Not because I gain any pleasure out of them, but because they have to be done. Hubby just does not see the necessity. In fact, until I raised the issue he was not even aware that toasters have a crumb-tray.
Foxtel programmers and executives, allow me to suggest a new program for the Lifestyle Food channel. I like to call it, 'Clean the Fuck Up After Yourself'. I want to switch on and see Jamie teaching male viewers how to clean the roasting tray after roasting a "pukka" chicken. I want him to explain how leaving the tray filled with greasy water for 17 days to 'soak' is NOT a precursor to cleaning and will have an adverse effect on your sex-life. I want Rick Stein to explain that when one barbecues a whole bunch of shrimp for a Christmas lunch, it's really important to remember to take out the rubbish. And if you fail to remember to do so, it is totally reasonable for your wife to be very upset with you. I want Gordon Ramsey to start doing home visits, telling men who have been taken in by the 'Masterchef' phenomenon that their kitchens are disgusting, liberally using the 'F-Word' as he does so.
Now that is a cooking program I would watch.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Unbounded Domesticity
Recently I have become friendly with two fellow kinder mums. Both are lovely, honest and genuine women. There is absolutely no bullshit about either of them, and believe me, that is not easy to find at a Jewish day school kindergarten. However, while I value my friendship with both of them, what has become abundantly clear is that compared to both of them I am completely and utterly inadequate in the home-making department.
Domestic Goddess is exactly that. Her two daughters' snacks are always home made and it is absolutely nothing for her to whip up a dozen perfectly pink-iced mini donuts for a play date. She cleans out her pantry and fridge once a week and I have never seen any dirt in her house - unless one of my children has dragged it in. Entertaining guests with an array of dietary restrictions and allergies seems to not phase her one tiny bit as she creates artful gluten-free wraps bursting with yummy fillings. This contrasts greatly with my handing over of a slightly bruised apple with an apologetic smile. I could handle all this if Domestic Goddess did not actually work as well. But she does. Granted, not full-time in the traditional sense, but she is a manager at a large company who handles corporate phone-calls on her mobile with ease while breakfasting with Sunshine Cleaning and myself without dropping a speck of her bagel and skinny hot chocolate on her perfectly pressed suit. Thanks to her flexible job she is able to work into the night, after she has tidied up the entire house, made tomorrow's lunches and put her daughters to bed. Her husband has a busy job of his own and as such all domestic tasks fall firmly to her, and she does them. Not only that, she seems to enjoy them.
Sunshine Cleaning's house is startlingly clean. Seriously. It's so clean it's blinding. And she has kids. Two boys. Twins. She also works. She also maintains a vibrant social life, always going out with friends to dinner, having throngs of guests over, kids over to play with her kids - all with this amazing smile on her face. When I first met her I assumed she must be medicated, but once again I have discovered, that she enjoys doing all these things. She enjoys getting down on the floor and playing pretend with a hoard of four year-olds, she enjoys cutting up fruit and presenting it in a way Donna Hay would be jealous of, she enjoys being a mother and wife and everything that goes with it. Apparently she also really enjoys vacuuming.
My pantry on the other hand looks like the 'before' shot - half open pasta packets, flour bags closed with random clothes pegs, and of course an assortment of highly processed snacks for hubby to throw into lunchboxes in the morning, because if he were to rely on me to do it, our children would end up going to school with half a bottle of flat diet coke. There is also always onion and garlic skins around. I don't know why and I don't know how. I have learnt to keep my pantry door firmly shut when Domestic Goddess and Sunshine Cleaning visit.
I would love to be like these two women, who live in homes where the beds being made is a rule, rather than the exception. And there are some days when I come close to being somewhat like them, when I manage to throw out that piece of mouldy cheddar that's been lurking at the back of the fridge. But I'm pretty sure I'm not smiling about it. And I'm very sure I'm not enjoying it.
Perhaps this is less about my inadequacies, my inabilities and more about what I choose to expend my energy on. I suppose I could stay up till midnight vacuuming and cleaning out all those bits of onion and garlic skin, but the reality is, I would far rather be watching a DVD with hubby in my less than meticulous bedroom. Sure, it feels great when I know the house is sparkling clean, but with three kids and two parents working full time and just trying to make things work, that particular pleasure is a rarity. So, I'll take advantage of the joys that happen more often - my three-year old daughter sneaking into bed with me at 6am for an early morning cuddle, my ten-year old son kicking my arse at 'Just Dance 2' and my seven-year old telling me I'm the best mum in the world because for a special treat I let him have a chocolate-chip cookie and that half a bottle of flat diet coke for breakfast.
Domestic Goddess is exactly that. Her two daughters' snacks are always home made and it is absolutely nothing for her to whip up a dozen perfectly pink-iced mini donuts for a play date. She cleans out her pantry and fridge once a week and I have never seen any dirt in her house - unless one of my children has dragged it in. Entertaining guests with an array of dietary restrictions and allergies seems to not phase her one tiny bit as she creates artful gluten-free wraps bursting with yummy fillings. This contrasts greatly with my handing over of a slightly bruised apple with an apologetic smile. I could handle all this if Domestic Goddess did not actually work as well. But she does. Granted, not full-time in the traditional sense, but she is a manager at a large company who handles corporate phone-calls on her mobile with ease while breakfasting with Sunshine Cleaning and myself without dropping a speck of her bagel and skinny hot chocolate on her perfectly pressed suit. Thanks to her flexible job she is able to work into the night, after she has tidied up the entire house, made tomorrow's lunches and put her daughters to bed. Her husband has a busy job of his own and as such all domestic tasks fall firmly to her, and she does them. Not only that, she seems to enjoy them.
Sunshine Cleaning's house is startlingly clean. Seriously. It's so clean it's blinding. And she has kids. Two boys. Twins. She also works. She also maintains a vibrant social life, always going out with friends to dinner, having throngs of guests over, kids over to play with her kids - all with this amazing smile on her face. When I first met her I assumed she must be medicated, but once again I have discovered, that she enjoys doing all these things. She enjoys getting down on the floor and playing pretend with a hoard of four year-olds, she enjoys cutting up fruit and presenting it in a way Donna Hay would be jealous of, she enjoys being a mother and wife and everything that goes with it. Apparently she also really enjoys vacuuming.
Both of these women have pantries that look like some sort of Tupperware Mecca.
 |
| Tupperware Mecca |
I would love to be like these two women, who live in homes where the beds being made is a rule, rather than the exception. And there are some days when I come close to being somewhat like them, when I manage to throw out that piece of mouldy cheddar that's been lurking at the back of the fridge. But I'm pretty sure I'm not smiling about it. And I'm very sure I'm not enjoying it.
Perhaps this is less about my inadequacies, my inabilities and more about what I choose to expend my energy on. I suppose I could stay up till midnight vacuuming and cleaning out all those bits of onion and garlic skin, but the reality is, I would far rather be watching a DVD with hubby in my less than meticulous bedroom. Sure, it feels great when I know the house is sparkling clean, but with three kids and two parents working full time and just trying to make things work, that particular pleasure is a rarity. So, I'll take advantage of the joys that happen more often - my three-year old daughter sneaking into bed with me at 6am for an early morning cuddle, my ten-year old son kicking my arse at 'Just Dance 2' and my seven-year old telling me I'm the best mum in the world because for a special treat I let him have a chocolate-chip cookie and that half a bottle of flat diet coke for breakfast.
Fantasy Report
The other night at dinner the Great Pretender mentioned how my recent blogs have been lacking the tales of students I started off with. Recently The Neighbour's Wife has been devoid of cutting remarks about the stupidity of select young people and their parentage. Did this mean that all my students this year had been perfect?
I must admit, I have been lucky this year. Most of my students, particularly my Year 12 bunch, have been absolutely wonderful, a truly beautiful group of young men who have reminded me why I do what I do. However, do not fear. Some of the young ladies I have had the pleasure of encountering this year, while not entirely atrocious, certainly do provide fodder for my devoted readers. And so, it currently being that most hideous of times - report writing time - I have decided to indulge myself and write the report I would really love to pen and send home to a parent... or two.
_____________________
"Blonde Bogan is a very well groomed young lady. She should be - she spends more time surveying her split ends then she does looking at her work. Her technological understanding is of a superior quality, as is demonstrated by her continual perusal of her own image in her Mac's PhotoBooth and her incessant checking of her Facebook account on the brand new iPhone you purchased for your princess. I am sure however that this gift was bestowed upon her after you were informed of her many achievements. Granted, these triumphs have absolutely nothing to do with this subject, as blowing members of the First XVIII at the back of the bus is not explicitly taught in this particular subject, but no doubt this talent will serve her well in future years.
Her writing talents stretch from the "Blonde Bogan loves cock" which she has artistically etched onto her own pencil case, to the "Mrs Math Teacher is a fucking cunt" lovingly carved into her desk. Her creative talents truly know no bounds. This is no doubt owed to the vast amounts of literature she possesses a detailed understanding of, including but not limited to, Jersey Shore, Gossip Girl and the classic Jackass trilogy.
Blonde Bogan is also an exceptional debater. Her most recent debate with a classmate on the topic of "'Oh my god, you are like, so hot!' 'No! You are!'" proved to be a bastion of philosophical thought; Socratic dialogue at its best. Her generalised comments about 'wogs' and 'asians' demonstrate a deep cultural awareness. In particular, her oral presentation on, 'Jesus was white, okay?' showcased her insightful understanding of historiography and the vagaries of religious belief.
What she lacks in subtlety, Blonde Bogan more than makes up for in eloquence. Her recent observation that "There is no such thing as a good looking fat chick" is only surpassed by her inquiry, "What's so bad about having an eating disorder? You get to be, like, super thin!" Her eye-rolling is expert and her inability to keep her legs together despite the brevity of her skirt is the stuff of porn stars.
It has been truly torturous having Blonde Bogan in my class this year and I wish her the very best of luck for a STI-free future."
I must admit, I have been lucky this year. Most of my students, particularly my Year 12 bunch, have been absolutely wonderful, a truly beautiful group of young men who have reminded me why I do what I do. However, do not fear. Some of the young ladies I have had the pleasure of encountering this year, while not entirely atrocious, certainly do provide fodder for my devoted readers. And so, it currently being that most hideous of times - report writing time - I have decided to indulge myself and write the report I would really love to pen and send home to a parent... or two.
_____________________
"Blonde Bogan is a very well groomed young lady. She should be - she spends more time surveying her split ends then she does looking at her work. Her technological understanding is of a superior quality, as is demonstrated by her continual perusal of her own image in her Mac's PhotoBooth and her incessant checking of her Facebook account on the brand new iPhone you purchased for your princess. I am sure however that this gift was bestowed upon her after you were informed of her many achievements. Granted, these triumphs have absolutely nothing to do with this subject, as blowing members of the First XVIII at the back of the bus is not explicitly taught in this particular subject, but no doubt this talent will serve her well in future years.
Her writing talents stretch from the "Blonde Bogan loves cock" which she has artistically etched onto her own pencil case, to the "Mrs Math Teacher is a fucking cunt" lovingly carved into her desk. Her creative talents truly know no bounds. This is no doubt owed to the vast amounts of literature she possesses a detailed understanding of, including but not limited to, Jersey Shore, Gossip Girl and the classic Jackass trilogy.
Blonde Bogan is also an exceptional debater. Her most recent debate with a classmate on the topic of "'Oh my god, you are like, so hot!' 'No! You are!'" proved to be a bastion of philosophical thought; Socratic dialogue at its best. Her generalised comments about 'wogs' and 'asians' demonstrate a deep cultural awareness. In particular, her oral presentation on, 'Jesus was white, okay?' showcased her insightful understanding of historiography and the vagaries of religious belief.
What she lacks in subtlety, Blonde Bogan more than makes up for in eloquence. Her recent observation that "There is no such thing as a good looking fat chick" is only surpassed by her inquiry, "What's so bad about having an eating disorder? You get to be, like, super thin!" Her eye-rolling is expert and her inability to keep her legs together despite the brevity of her skirt is the stuff of porn stars.
It has been truly torturous having Blonde Bogan in my class this year and I wish her the very best of luck for a STI-free future."
Saturday, November 5, 2011
A-Ha Moment
Yesterday I had what Oprah would call an "a-ha moment". Well, to be completely honest, it was more of an, "Oh my god, I am so pathetic" moment. I sat in front of Tiffany's (normally a space of serenity) and cried. My credit card had been declined by a smarmy, leggy salesgirl. I had overdrawn the family savings account by $99. I was metaphorically smacked in the face by the very sad fact that my shopping is no longer the occasional dose of retail therapy. It is a full blown addiction.
I am Victor Gruen's dream. I enter a shopping centre and the rest of the world melts away. Faced with the sparkling lights and the shiny, stylish window displays, I can no longer recall the details of what I was meant to be doing that day. Clearly I can also no longer remember the fact that I have no money. Time itself stands still. The thrill of a new purchase is an orgasm. Better than an orgasm. It gives you a high, a thrill nothing else can. And then there is the follow-up, the unpacking of the item once you get home. I used to think that I was the only one who relished this particular moment, but thanks to the wonders of You Tube, I have discovered that the joy of 'unboxing' is not something I alone revel in. The sound of that tissue paper, the decision of where in your wardrobe you will hang your new treasure, the first time time you wear it... There truly is nothing in the world quite like it.
As my friend and fellow shopping enthusiast Design Queen has commented, "You have champagne taste". She's right. Unfortunately I have a cask wine budget. I am an avid reader of 'Vogue' and 'Harper's Bazaar'. I routinely fantasise about buying a $6000 Prada coat, so paying $350 for one at Veronika Maine one seems frugal, insignificant even. I mean, seriously, how is $350 going to buy us a bigger house, or a family holiday? So why not purchase myself a little fleeting joy?
But I do not want to be that woman. I do not want to be the woman who ends up putting her family in so much debt, that they lose the house and are compelled to live in their car - especially since my husband's automobile of choice is a 1998 Mitsubishi Magna.
After my cry-fest in front of the world's most famous jewellery store, I came home and handed over my visa and store cards to a quietly frustrated husband. This morning I added up all that I have spent since April 2011 on my addiction. The final tally ladies and gents (minus cosmetics, skin care, undies, stockings, bras, the occasional accessory and other 'necessities') is.... wait for it... $5,357.27. And while I internally excuse myself, knowing full well that my final count is less than the cost of that incredibly cute Prada coat, I also acknowledge that the real cost of my spending is far too great.
While I can pardon myself, blaming an obese mother who could not understand how elastic-waisted jeans never did anything for an adolescent girl's social status, the stark reality is I need to stop. It's going to be a challenge to be a fashion-obsessed non-shopper and honestly, I am not convinced I can do it, but I am convinced that I need to try.
And so, I will attempt to get to December 31st, 2011 without buying any clothing or shoes for myself. As any addict knows, the only way to kick the habit is to tackle it one day at a time. Eight weeks seems achievable. Besides, Boxing Day sales were never really my scene.
I am Victor Gruen's dream. I enter a shopping centre and the rest of the world melts away. Faced with the sparkling lights and the shiny, stylish window displays, I can no longer recall the details of what I was meant to be doing that day. Clearly I can also no longer remember the fact that I have no money. Time itself stands still. The thrill of a new purchase is an orgasm. Better than an orgasm. It gives you a high, a thrill nothing else can. And then there is the follow-up, the unpacking of the item once you get home. I used to think that I was the only one who relished this particular moment, but thanks to the wonders of You Tube, I have discovered that the joy of 'unboxing' is not something I alone revel in. The sound of that tissue paper, the decision of where in your wardrobe you will hang your new treasure, the first time time you wear it... There truly is nothing in the world quite like it.
As my friend and fellow shopping enthusiast Design Queen has commented, "You have champagne taste". She's right. Unfortunately I have a cask wine budget. I am an avid reader of 'Vogue' and 'Harper's Bazaar'. I routinely fantasise about buying a $6000 Prada coat, so paying $350 for one at Veronika Maine one seems frugal, insignificant even. I mean, seriously, how is $350 going to buy us a bigger house, or a family holiday? So why not purchase myself a little fleeting joy?
 |
| Prada Cotton Blend Coat |
After my cry-fest in front of the world's most famous jewellery store, I came home and handed over my visa and store cards to a quietly frustrated husband. This morning I added up all that I have spent since April 2011 on my addiction. The final tally ladies and gents (minus cosmetics, skin care, undies, stockings, bras, the occasional accessory and other 'necessities') is.... wait for it... $5,357.27. And while I internally excuse myself, knowing full well that my final count is less than the cost of that incredibly cute Prada coat, I also acknowledge that the real cost of my spending is far too great.
While I can pardon myself, blaming an obese mother who could not understand how elastic-waisted jeans never did anything for an adolescent girl's social status, the stark reality is I need to stop. It's going to be a challenge to be a fashion-obsessed non-shopper and honestly, I am not convinced I can do it, but I am convinced that I need to try.
And so, I will attempt to get to December 31st, 2011 without buying any clothing or shoes for myself. As any addict knows, the only way to kick the habit is to tackle it one day at a time. Eight weeks seems achievable. Besides, Boxing Day sales were never really my scene.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Love at first sight...
Ladies and gents, I am heads over heels in love. And to make it worse, it's that new flush of love period where all you can think about is the object of your affection. An image pops into my head and my heart skips a beat, my loins surge, I melt into a puddle of cliches.
The subject of such devotion?
I have already imagined myself, filing me papers in this beauty, slinging it over my shoulder, allowing its subtle sequins to catch the light. Hmmmm... no man has ever aroused such desire...
The subject of such devotion?
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| The new Chelsea Boucle Satchel from Coach |
Thursday, November 3, 2011
THAT Line
Today I said farewell to a group of young men who I will miss a great deal. While there were of course, as with all groups, some individuals less amazing than others, on the whole they were one of the finest cohorts I have ever had the pleasure of teaching.
I fell in love with each of these young men a little bit. I fell in love with their youth, their humour, their energy. I fell in love with the way I felt when I was in their company. And I feel wary about admitting that, knowing full well that suspicions do arise when teachers and their older students become 'too close'. And while I know there was absolutely nothing untoward about my relationship with any of these wonderful young men, I am also aware that for some teachers and their students, THAT line does get crossed.
Let me be the first to state that for an intimate relationship to develop between a student and a teacher is an abuse of power. It is wrong. It should never happen. There is absolutely no excuse and the teacher, as the adult, as the one who holds the balance of power, is totally, completely and utterly responsible for any breach of their professional duty. I would love to say that all teacher-student relationships are pure and innocent and that the suspicions which befall teachers are unjust and a product of media sensationalism. However, I can't say that. I can't say that because THAT line does get crossed. I have seen it happen. And it will continue to happen. And this is why.
The physical differences between an eighteen year old boy and a younger man is negligible in most cases. And when disparities are apparent in their physique it is normally the older man that is on the wrong side of those differences. We are bombarded by the media with images of lust-worthy, washboard stomached men, with chiseled cheekbones covered in designer stubble. And in all honesty, the latest Calvin Klein model bears a far more striking resemblance to the captain of a high school football team than to the man who lies next to me every night farting in his sleep. The same goes for the opposite sex. Eighteen year old girls are, on average, far more physically attractive than a thirty-five year old woman, stomach riddled with stretch-marks, thighs dotted with cellulite and boobs sagging from breast-feeding three children. We are programmed to find that youthful confidence and strength attractive. And let's be honest, no matter how much we love our partners, no matter how devoted and faithful we are, there will always be moments when we just want to fuck someone new, someone different. Not because we no longer love our better-halves, but because we want to fall in lust again. We want that first kiss, that urgency, that desperate, aching need to feel those hands. Just for a moment we want more than the once-a-week, I-suppose-we-should-do-it-because-you'll-have-your-period-next-week sex.
High schools are hot-beds. Hundreds of teenagers, hormones raging. They are places of action, of intensity. High school students are for the most part, creatures of the immediate, living today for today. Many are hedonistic, acutely aware of what the years can do thanks to the images of their parents, and determined to devour as much pleasure as they can. Most of the time the teachers are not part of that. But then comes those blurry lines.
A colleague told me the other day that every high school boy has, at one stage or another, had a fantasy about their female (or in some cases, male) teacher. So there we are, the object of lust. Most who become teachers are not accustomed to occupying the role of the desired. At heart we are nerds, geeks, who often have painful memories of being the sullen semi-goth at the back of the classroom, ignored by the opposite sex, unless it was for the purposes of torture or torment. And in some cases we are vulnerable, vulnerable to our own weaknesses, our own desires, vulnerable to the charms of a good looking young man paying us greater attention than we've had in years from our partners.
But that is the line. Crossing over that very fine but very precise line is where a good teacher can go bad. It is one thing to be flattered, to blush, to even at the very extreme have a fleeting thought of 'what if', but stepping over that line is a whole other story.
I fell in love with each of these young men a little bit. I fell in love with their youth, their humour, their energy. I fell in love with the way I felt when I was in their company. And I feel wary about admitting that, knowing full well that suspicions do arise when teachers and their older students become 'too close'. And while I know there was absolutely nothing untoward about my relationship with any of these wonderful young men, I am also aware that for some teachers and their students, THAT line does get crossed.
Let me be the first to state that for an intimate relationship to develop between a student and a teacher is an abuse of power. It is wrong. It should never happen. There is absolutely no excuse and the teacher, as the adult, as the one who holds the balance of power, is totally, completely and utterly responsible for any breach of their professional duty. I would love to say that all teacher-student relationships are pure and innocent and that the suspicions which befall teachers are unjust and a product of media sensationalism. However, I can't say that. I can't say that because THAT line does get crossed. I have seen it happen. And it will continue to happen. And this is why.
The physical differences between an eighteen year old boy and a younger man is negligible in most cases. And when disparities are apparent in their physique it is normally the older man that is on the wrong side of those differences. We are bombarded by the media with images of lust-worthy, washboard stomached men, with chiseled cheekbones covered in designer stubble. And in all honesty, the latest Calvin Klein model bears a far more striking resemblance to the captain of a high school football team than to the man who lies next to me every night farting in his sleep. The same goes for the opposite sex. Eighteen year old girls are, on average, far more physically attractive than a thirty-five year old woman, stomach riddled with stretch-marks, thighs dotted with cellulite and boobs sagging from breast-feeding three children. We are programmed to find that youthful confidence and strength attractive. And let's be honest, no matter how much we love our partners, no matter how devoted and faithful we are, there will always be moments when we just want to fuck someone new, someone different. Not because we no longer love our better-halves, but because we want to fall in lust again. We want that first kiss, that urgency, that desperate, aching need to feel those hands. Just for a moment we want more than the once-a-week, I-suppose-we-should-do-it-because-you'll-have-your-period-next-week sex.
High schools are hot-beds. Hundreds of teenagers, hormones raging. They are places of action, of intensity. High school students are for the most part, creatures of the immediate, living today for today. Many are hedonistic, acutely aware of what the years can do thanks to the images of their parents, and determined to devour as much pleasure as they can. Most of the time the teachers are not part of that. But then comes those blurry lines.
A colleague told me the other day that every high school boy has, at one stage or another, had a fantasy about their female (or in some cases, male) teacher. So there we are, the object of lust. Most who become teachers are not accustomed to occupying the role of the desired. At heart we are nerds, geeks, who often have painful memories of being the sullen semi-goth at the back of the classroom, ignored by the opposite sex, unless it was for the purposes of torture or torment. And in some cases we are vulnerable, vulnerable to our own weaknesses, our own desires, vulnerable to the charms of a good looking young man paying us greater attention than we've had in years from our partners.
But that is the line. Crossing over that very fine but very precise line is where a good teacher can go bad. It is one thing to be flattered, to blush, to even at the very extreme have a fleeting thought of 'what if', but stepping over that line is a whole other story.
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