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."
Sunday, November 13, 2011
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?
 |
| 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.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Ruby Slippers
I am in the midst of some serious work, preparing thirty young men for what many consider to be the most important examination of their young lives. And yet, I cannot concentrate. Sure, it could have something to do with the fact that at 1:30pm I have already downed three bottles of Hoegaarden, but I actually believe it has more to do with the fashion fever that descends on Melbourne this time every year.
I have a confession to make. This teacher and mother is a complete and utter shop-a-holic. I have the capacity to spend a mortgage repayment on a handbag and not only not think twice about it, but also rationally and logically (in my world) justify it. And so, in my drunken haze, and to avoid marking one more Language Analysis, I present you with the most recent (and possibly entirely unnecessary purchases) of the Neighbour's Wife.
And so, while the truly fashionable and fabulous get to sip Moet and watch the pretty horses (and I don't mean SJP) run by, I sit, still in my pyjamas, listening to the musical wonder that is the Dora the Explorer theme song and trying to explain via email why with less that 48 hours to go to the exam, it's really worth starting to pay attention, and dream about all the chic places I can wear my new purchases.
Somehow, I don't the the English exam will cut it.
I have a confession to make. This teacher and mother is a complete and utter shop-a-holic. I have the capacity to spend a mortgage repayment on a handbag and not only not think twice about it, but also rationally and logically (in my world) justify it. And so, in my drunken haze, and to avoid marking one more Language Analysis, I present you with the most recent (and possibly entirely unnecessary purchases) of the Neighbour's Wife.
 |
| An uber-cute Spencer & Rutherford number. Great size and awesome summer colours. |
 |
| I Love Billy Great price ($79.95) and too cute. Not to mention ultra-comfy. |
 |
| Nine West I love orange! Thick elastic bands also means summer comfort when your feet start to swell. |
 |
| Wittner. I admit it, I did not need these. But the colour! It's like having your feet wrapped in a Tiffany's box. |
Somehow, I don't the the English exam will cut it.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
A good wine
This afternoon I had to put a wine glass in the dishwasher. Granted, this is not the most taxing job I have ever had to do. I’m aware that there are women across Africa compelled to walk great distances carrying water on their heads in order to ensure their families do not perish of dehydration and in light of this fact, my complaint may seem comparatively bourgeois. However, there is a reason why placing this wine glass in the top rack of my dishwasher has me so peeved. There is a reason why I seethe at the injustice of that relatively small act.
The reason is this. That glass was my husband’s wine glass. That glass was the one he drank his Merlot out of at last night’s dinner. That was the glass I reminded him to put away last night before I went to bed – after doing most of the other dinner dishes. That was the glass I commented on this morning, before I went to work, wondering why he could get it to the kitchen counter, but found the extra foot to the dishwasher such a vast, insurmountable distance to cross. I was quickly told he would “get to it”. I should have known then. “I’ll get to it” is the kiss of death as far as Hubby is concerned. It is a blatant assurance that he will never, ever do the job in question.
At the beginning of relationships we ignore our mate’s small flaws, their idiosyncrasies. These attributes may even be part of their charm. However, over time these minor aspects of their personality can begin to mildly irritate. They can in fact lead to long-held grudges and at times quite vocal arguments. Eventually we may find ourselves frothing at the mouth over a Riedel crusted with red wine sediment.
I’ve often contemplated what it is that ultimately tears a marriage asunder. I wonder how often it is the little things that takes a loving couple and turns them into bitter and spiteful archenemies, willing to break any and all moral codes in order to gain their revenge. How often is it the dirty socks and undies abandoned on the bedroom floor, the wet towel dumped on the floor, the snooty tissues left on the bedside table, the breakfast dishes forsaken in the dining room? How often is it the incidentals that finally cause a partnership to dissolve into a vindictive slinging match? How often does one too many dirty wine glasses being left on the kitchen countertop lead to lawyers being called in and a breakout of the age-old battle of “this is mine, that is yours”?
So I advocate not letting those little things build up. Don’t stifle the resentment. Express it. Tell him he has the housekeeping skills of a blind Viking slumlord. Don’t pick up those dirty socks and undies silently. Call him a pig and throw the offending y-fronts at his head. Get all Medea on his arse for failing to pick up his own wet towel. You’re not being a bad wife – you’re saving your marriage from potential disaster.
I’m not sure however that Hubby would agree with my advice. There is at least one thing Hubby and I can agree on. Every now and again we all deserve a good wine… Or whine…
The reason is this. That glass was my husband’s wine glass. That glass was the one he drank his Merlot out of at last night’s dinner. That was the glass I reminded him to put away last night before I went to bed – after doing most of the other dinner dishes. That was the glass I commented on this morning, before I went to work, wondering why he could get it to the kitchen counter, but found the extra foot to the dishwasher such a vast, insurmountable distance to cross. I was quickly told he would “get to it”. I should have known then. “I’ll get to it” is the kiss of death as far as Hubby is concerned. It is a blatant assurance that he will never, ever do the job in question.
At the beginning of relationships we ignore our mate’s small flaws, their idiosyncrasies. These attributes may even be part of their charm. However, over time these minor aspects of their personality can begin to mildly irritate. They can in fact lead to long-held grudges and at times quite vocal arguments. Eventually we may find ourselves frothing at the mouth over a Riedel crusted with red wine sediment.
I’ve often contemplated what it is that ultimately tears a marriage asunder. I wonder how often it is the little things that takes a loving couple and turns them into bitter and spiteful archenemies, willing to break any and all moral codes in order to gain their revenge. How often is it the dirty socks and undies abandoned on the bedroom floor, the wet towel dumped on the floor, the snooty tissues left on the bedside table, the breakfast dishes forsaken in the dining room? How often is it the incidentals that finally cause a partnership to dissolve into a vindictive slinging match? How often does one too many dirty wine glasses being left on the kitchen countertop lead to lawyers being called in and a breakout of the age-old battle of “this is mine, that is yours”?
So I advocate not letting those little things build up. Don’t stifle the resentment. Express it. Tell him he has the housekeeping skills of a blind Viking slumlord. Don’t pick up those dirty socks and undies silently. Call him a pig and throw the offending y-fronts at his head. Get all Medea on his arse for failing to pick up his own wet towel. You’re not being a bad wife – you’re saving your marriage from potential disaster.
I’m not sure however that Hubby would agree with my advice. There is at least one thing Hubby and I can agree on. Every now and again we all deserve a good wine… Or whine…
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
I'm Sick
I’m sick of picking up after other people.
I’m sick of being the only one in a house of five able to scrub toilets and showers and wash out bathtubs.
I’m sick of the juggle – of working out who need to pick up and drop off which kid where and when. Less planning goes into a NASA launch than into your average Monday at my house.
I’m sick of our bank account running out of money on the day I need a haircut.
I’m sick of obnoxious, overly-coiffed sixteen year old girls who think that the world begins and ends with them and that they have the right to treat those they deem less attractive, less popular, less anything as sub-humans. A Year 11 girl justified her indifference to the suffering in the world with, “If it doesn’t affect me, why should I care?” I wanted to punch her in the face.
I’m sick of working for people who are no more intelligent or capable than myself, but who are far better at politicking. I’m sick of bad people managers being put in charge of large groups of staff and then wondering why there are staffing issues. I’m sick of there being so few female role models in the workplace – women who successfully juggle motherhood and positions of responsibility without being a complete bitch – mostly to other women.
I’m sick of idiots running countries.
I’m sick of people claiming that global warming is a myth. They claim many of the events we have seen over the recent past are bound to happen every hundred years or so. Funny how these once-in-a-hundred-years events have all been happening at once.
I’m sick of stay-at-home mums with all their kids in school or day-care complaining about how busy they are.
I’m sick of explaining to my husband how only having sex once a month will result in him only lasting 90 seconds.
I’m sick of advertisements and shop signs with incorrect punctuation. I’m sick of representatives of educational institutions and their various volunteer groups sending out emails without even bothering to do a simple spell-check.
I’m sick of everything in my wardrobe being stained, ripped or missing a button. I’m sick of kids with Nutella all over themselves rubbing their face in my white quilt cover.
I’m sick of ‘Home Beautiful’ telling me that these $4 million dollar homes they feature are full of “vintage finds”. I’m also sick of replica Eames rockers, tulip tables and all other manner of design frauds. I’m sick of white kitchens and faux-Hamptons in the middle of Melbourne. I’m sick of French provincial and anything whitewashed. And people stupid enough to paint their hardwood floors white should be shot.
I’m sick of working hard and getting nowhere. I’m sick of the fact that because my husband is so good at his job he will never be promoted because they can’t find anyone to do what he currently does.
I’m sick of running out of money three weeks into every month. I’m sick of the growing credit-card debt I can’t control. I’m sick of the fact that what is on my VISA is school fees and kinder fees, health insurance and OT payments.
I’m sick of marking papers till midnight and then being told how lucky I am to have all those holidays. I’m sick of the world not realising what teachers do and how hard it can be. I’m sick of lazy, shit teachers giving the rest of us a bad name.
I’m sick of not having a room of my own. Virginia Woolf claimed eighty-two years ago that women need space. She was right. Fuck open plan living.
I’m sick of my two sons wrestling each other at every opportunity. I’m told this is normal behaviour for two males. And we still let men run the world.
I’m sick of sports-people being declared role models. Has Shane Warne and Brendon Fevola taught us nothing?
I’m sick of lazy people who believe the world owes them a living. I’m sick of people who are totally capable of getting off their arses and going to work, sitting home watching daytime television and collecting government benefits. I’m sick of people making excuses for themselves and others. Suck it up and get a fucking job.
Mostly, I’m sick of feeling undervalued and unappreciated. I’m sick of allowing this lack of appreciation to impact on my own self-confidence. I’m sick of the overwhelming self-loathing and the constant fear of being exposed as a fraud, a fear based solely upon how I perceive others view me. I’m sick of feeling compelled to constantly question my own abilities, and I’m sick of my need for external positive reinforcement. I want to be the strong, independent woman I was always promised I would be.
I guess mostly, on some level, I’m sick of me…
I’m sick of being the only one in a house of five able to scrub toilets and showers and wash out bathtubs.
I’m sick of the juggle – of working out who need to pick up and drop off which kid where and when. Less planning goes into a NASA launch than into your average Monday at my house.
I’m sick of our bank account running out of money on the day I need a haircut.
I’m sick of obnoxious, overly-coiffed sixteen year old girls who think that the world begins and ends with them and that they have the right to treat those they deem less attractive, less popular, less anything as sub-humans. A Year 11 girl justified her indifference to the suffering in the world with, “If it doesn’t affect me, why should I care?” I wanted to punch her in the face.
I’m sick of working for people who are no more intelligent or capable than myself, but who are far better at politicking. I’m sick of bad people managers being put in charge of large groups of staff and then wondering why there are staffing issues. I’m sick of there being so few female role models in the workplace – women who successfully juggle motherhood and positions of responsibility without being a complete bitch – mostly to other women.
I’m sick of idiots running countries.
I’m sick of people claiming that global warming is a myth. They claim many of the events we have seen over the recent past are bound to happen every hundred years or so. Funny how these once-in-a-hundred-years events have all been happening at once.
I’m sick of stay-at-home mums with all their kids in school or day-care complaining about how busy they are.
I’m sick of explaining to my husband how only having sex once a month will result in him only lasting 90 seconds.
I’m sick of advertisements and shop signs with incorrect punctuation. I’m sick of representatives of educational institutions and their various volunteer groups sending out emails without even bothering to do a simple spell-check.
I’m sick of everything in my wardrobe being stained, ripped or missing a button. I’m sick of kids with Nutella all over themselves rubbing their face in my white quilt cover.
I’m sick of ‘Home Beautiful’ telling me that these $4 million dollar homes they feature are full of “vintage finds”. I’m also sick of replica Eames rockers, tulip tables and all other manner of design frauds. I’m sick of white kitchens and faux-Hamptons in the middle of Melbourne. I’m sick of French provincial and anything whitewashed. And people stupid enough to paint their hardwood floors white should be shot.
I’m sick of working hard and getting nowhere. I’m sick of the fact that because my husband is so good at his job he will never be promoted because they can’t find anyone to do what he currently does.
I’m sick of running out of money three weeks into every month. I’m sick of the growing credit-card debt I can’t control. I’m sick of the fact that what is on my VISA is school fees and kinder fees, health insurance and OT payments.
I’m sick of marking papers till midnight and then being told how lucky I am to have all those holidays. I’m sick of the world not realising what teachers do and how hard it can be. I’m sick of lazy, shit teachers giving the rest of us a bad name.
I’m sick of not having a room of my own. Virginia Woolf claimed eighty-two years ago that women need space. She was right. Fuck open plan living.
I’m sick of my two sons wrestling each other at every opportunity. I’m told this is normal behaviour for two males. And we still let men run the world.
I’m sick of sports-people being declared role models. Has Shane Warne and Brendon Fevola taught us nothing?
I’m sick of lazy people who believe the world owes them a living. I’m sick of people who are totally capable of getting off their arses and going to work, sitting home watching daytime television and collecting government benefits. I’m sick of people making excuses for themselves and others. Suck it up and get a fucking job.
Mostly, I’m sick of feeling undervalued and unappreciated. I’m sick of allowing this lack of appreciation to impact on my own self-confidence. I’m sick of the overwhelming self-loathing and the constant fear of being exposed as a fraud, a fear based solely upon how I perceive others view me. I’m sick of feeling compelled to constantly question my own abilities, and I’m sick of my need for external positive reinforcement. I want to be the strong, independent woman I was always promised I would be.
I guess mostly, on some level, I’m sick of me…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)