A beef with restricted lunchtimes.

 Lunch breaks used to be leisurely one-hour affairs, now, in the name of efficiency, many workplaces have trimmed it down to half an hour. This poses a dilemma – where to go and what to eat in such a short time.

 If you work in an office building or in the city, the half-hour lunch time usually goes something like this: sprint out the door at 1pm; walk briskly to the food court; wait to get served; search desperately for a seat while balancing a plate of stir-fried beef and rice; find a table and start making inroads on the rice mountain and beef tower. No matter how much you eat, the pile of rice will refuse to go down. Chew like a madman, to no avail. The rice mountain will expand and the beef tower will rise. Another five minutes of concentrated eating and the voice in your head starts: “You should be close to finishing by now.”

 “You have 10 minutes to eat that beef, don’t worry about the rice, then clear your plate and start making your way back to the office. Ten minutes. I very much doubt you’re going to make it.”

 Your supervisor’s office sits opposite the door so he/she can see people coming in. There is nowhere to hide if you are late. It doesn’t matter how long you take for lunch when you reach a certain level – but when you are in a subordinate position, every minute is noted.

 You check your watch again. Twenty-five minutes has elapsed – how can that be? You push most of the food to the side of your plate so it looks like you’ve eaten more – you don’t want the nice ladies behind the counter to think that you didn’t like it. You push past the tables, motor through the door, up the steps and down the street; cursing everyone for walking in slow motion. You cross against the lights and narrowly avoid being mowed down by a Mercedes sports car. The driver beeps his horn.

 You reach your building, throw yourself through the double doors and hurry to the lift, with two minutes to go. The stir-fried beef is repeating on you like an FM radio playlist but at least you are in the building. Trouble is, you are on the ground floor and you need to be on the 11^th. You are willing the number to light up. Come on, come on. You tell yourself that your watch is sometimes fast but you know for a fact that it is on time. The lift doors finally open. It is packed but you force your way in. This is a matter of life and death. It slowly creaks its way to the 11^th floor.

 You reach your floor, race out of the lift like an Olympian, swipe your card to open the door and collapse in front of your computer as the clock ticks over to 1.30pm. Your head is spinning, your heart is beating and your digestive system is protesting strenuously. It doesn’t matter.

 The great lunch race is over. You now have 24 hours to get your strength back, rest up, take some heartburn medication and do it all again tomorrow. Then again, you could just bring a sandwich.

Abortion is none of Justin Bieber’s business (online blog).

 FOR one glorious moment last week, I became a Justin Bieber fan. And then, with the same haste in which Greg Norman changes wives, my infatuation soon faded to a distant memory. It was the pop star’s assessment of Lady Gaga’s over-the-top arrival at the Grammys that prompted my temporary conversion to Bieber mania.
 Amid the commentators seeking to feverishly analyse the subtext of her red-carpet entrance while “incubating”, the Canadian had a refreshingly simple take on the attention-seeking stunt. “People say it’s artistic and stuff,” he later remarked. “I’m just like, ‘You’re an egg.’”
 While not exactly profound, it was an observation more astute than most in piercing the slavish pop-culture reverence that usually surrounds the one-woman publicity machine known as Gaga. “It’s enough to make me actually like the guy,” I begrudgingly told Kathy McCabe when she filled me in on Bieber’s uncharacteristically insightful comments. But in less than 24 hours it was all over.
 Drawing on his considerable life experience (IE: not very much) and extensive knowledge of family planning (IE: even less), Bieber has aired his opposition to abortion in Rolling Stone. “I think [an embryo] is a human,” he said. “It’s like killing a baby.” Hardly surprising coming from a devout Christian who was raised by a single mother who shares Bible verses with her Twitter followers and ensures a pastor is among the entourage whenever her son is on tour.
 Yet he with the allegedly dreamy good looks didn’t stop there. When asked if exceptions should be made when an unwanted pregnancy is the result of rape, he revealed his naivety in all its adolescent, sheltered glory. “I think that’s really sad, but everything happens for a reason,” he replied. “I guess I haven’t been in that position, so I wouldn’t be able to judge that.”
 After feeling the heat once the magazine hit newsstands, Bieber’s management heavied Rolling Stone into admitting the interview included an “incomplete quote”. Turns out what Bieber really said was: “Well, I think that’s really sad, but everything happens for a reason. I don’t know how that would be a reason. I guess I haven’t been in that position, so I wouldn’t be able to judge that.”
 While rape victims may be slightly less insulted by the acknowledgment that there’s not always a perfectly good “reason” behind a violent crime, it fails to dilute the breathtaking ignorance of his remarks. As others have noted, Rolling Stone’s clarification only served as proof of the clout of Bieber’s minders rather than absolving the baby-faced crooner for mouthing off on things he patently knows nothing about.
 As he himself admitted, he’s in no position to judge rape victims faced with an unenviable choice. But it’s not only rape victims who deserve his compassion. Bieber is in no way qualified to judge anyone faced with an unplanned pregnancy, irrespective of their circumstances. None of us are.
 Like Bieber, I’ve never found myself in that position either. But plenty of women do, and fortunately their right to access safe, legalised medical care should they opt to terminate their pregnancy is not in the hands of a pious 16-year-old. This is the problem with what passes for “debate” over the issue of abortion. The most vocal of opponents tend to be the very people least qualified to comment.
 Religious zealots convinced a higher power is on their side. Self-righteous teenagers certain they already know everything there is to know about life. That’s what separates being pro-life from pro-choice. Being pro-choice doesn’t equate to advocating abortion. Most reasonable people would be in agreement that the lower the termination rate, the better.
 But for those who find themselves faced with unplanned or unwanted pregnancies, legalised abortion must remain an option. It’s a decision very few women – or couples – take lightly, but one that is ultimately only theirs to make. That’s pro-choice. Pro-lifers, however, seek to impose their one-size-fits-all beliefs on everyone.
 That Bieber – an immensely privileged, overprotected teenager – felt it appropriate to comment on matters so beyond his understanding is characteristic of this arrogant disregard for the complexities of each individual case.
 Bieber would do well to remember it’s really none of his business. Unless the subject matter happens to be Lady Gaga, he’d be wise to respond to all future questions with a polite “No comment.”

Long stretches away from your family aren’t a bad thing.

 We all look forward to the holidays because it’s time to relax and share with our families. But would I be a bad person to suggest that, sometimes, as much as you miss your family, long stretches away from them aren’t necessarily a bad thing?

 Family can be a bit like a big bowl of creamy Carbonara. You crave its comforting warmth and rich, fulfilling flavour, but after a generous serve, you’re bloated, uncomfortable and swearing you’ll only ever eat it in small doses. Some of us may be feeling the same way about our loved ones at the moment. We miss them when we don’t see them, but it usually only takes one family holiday to reduce them to small-portion status for the rest of the year.

 Why is it that I can function quite well in the real world, but when I’m seated at the family table, I suddenly revert to the disgruntled 13-year-old who cant wait to go up to her room and listen to music? Maybe it’s because, under the blanket of unconditional love, relatives have an access-all-areas pass to comment on every aspect of our lives.

 And you can never win, because the flippant appraisal of your situation swings both ways. One year, it’s, “You’re too thin, you’re wasting away,” and the next it’s a raised eyebrow and “Should you really be having a dessert?” Then there’s the chorus of aunties analysing why you don’t have a boyfriend, only to corner you in the kitchen the following year (leaving your new squeeze awkwardly alone at the table) to tell you, “You can do better than him, darling.”

 Family have an uncanny knack of cutting to the bone and drawing out a lifetime of insecurities. I mean, can you imagine a colleague saying, “What are you thinking, wearing that dress? It does nothing for your shape.” No, because the most honest of remarks are reserved for the people who love you the most.

 That’s what makes dealing with in-laws tricky. They sit in that strange middle ground, where there’s a lot of biting your tongue and forced politeness. While you can tell your mum to go easy on the dressing, you have to swallow every mouthful of your mother-in-law’s coleslaw with a smile, despite the lumps of curdled mayonnaise gathering in your throat. And when your partner abandons you to play cricket with his brothers, you’re left batting away a barrage of questions from his aunts while his five-year-old nephew attacks you with a BB gun.

 But you know that, despite all the grief and frustration that come with family gatherings, by next summer, you’ll be yearning for heated debates over how to cook chops on the barbie. You’ll even be missing the cousin who never lets you forget that Gremlins scared you so much, you wet the bed.

 They’re family and you love them. After all, who else would let you fall asleep on the couch after lunch, with your belt undone, remote in hand and a bowl of ice-cream on your lap?

There goes the neighbourhood.

 We have very good neighbours. Ah yes, but what makes a good neighbour? Someone who’ll help you in a crisis? Certainly. Someone who greets with a cheery ‘How’s it going?’ on those rare moments you bump into each other out on the street? Probably. Someone who pops around uninvited to see what you’re up to? Release the hounds!

 I’m proud to be suburban and I like where I live at the moment – quiet retirees on both sides.  But years ago I lived in a unit and I found living in it to be hard. I lived on the ground floor of a unit for about eight months. The people above me were quiet enough, except when they expressed their love for each other, if you know what I mean. Also, unfortunately, the teenage son of the next-door-neighbour kept his car in the front yard. He liked reggae music so much that he turned his car into one giant boom-box. Whenever he was short of petrol money, he would stay home, polishing his pride and joy with Bob Marley thumping out of the car’s monster speakers, the bass turned up to 11, sending out shock waves which shook the paintings off my walls. I reckon all that vibration works its way out to sea and is the reason whales beach themselves – they want to get down to that reggae beat – man! It’s as good a theory as any; ask a marine biologist.

 I thought we’d found the ideal home a couple of moves back. It was in a quiet street and was apparently peaceful. It wasn’t until we moved in that we realised just how many children lived next door – seven. They were actually well behaved and only acted up when their mates came around.

 But when they moved out, I was delighted to see a young couple move in. OK, there’d probably be a baby crying in a couple of years, but it had to be quieter for a while. It was...until they got the German shepherd. This beast could bark for Australia in the Olympics – and I’m talking the long-distance, marathon barking event. When they were home, their dog was happy and only barked if he was over-excited at feeling so loved and included. But when they went off to work every day, he barked at every movement until they came home again. This couple couldn’t believe the dirty looks their new neighbours were giving them – particularly the bloke across the road who worked nights and was trying to sleep.

 There’s no doubt that noise pollution is one of the biggest stresses of city living. People living outside capital cities would be blissfully unaware that the people living under the airport flight paths make as much noise moaning about the jets as the planes make themselves.

 I guess we all have to live and let live. If you want to be able to buy a litre of milk and a bag of chips at ten at night, you have to put up with the downside of city living. Anyway, I reckon the kid across the road who plays a drum kit in his garage is actually starting to get some rhythm. Fingers crossed he doesn’t start a group, because if they’re a Bob Marley tribute band, I’m out of here!

Privacy is key to sex in public.

 Sex in public can be adventurous, daring and exciting. It is exhilarating and liberating, but beware - it is also illegal. If discovered or reported, you can be charged for indecent or obscene behaviour, so choose your location very carefully. Repetition spells boredom and often long-term couples struggle to introduce an element of surprise or novelty to recharge the passion. While comfortable, the bedroom can become too familiar and stale. Sexual desire and arousal can be triggered by venturing into unfamiliar surrounds.
 Sex in public spaces changes the usual sexual script and repertoire. Depending on the setting and props, it generally demands adjustment, adaptation and, of course, a different position. Foreplay may have to be expedited depending on the location and setting. Alternatively, some locations, if private and secluded, may enable you to prolong the foreplay and love-making.
 Sex is fundamentally a sensual activity where we tune into our sensations. Taking sex outside will augment most of our senses: sight, hearing, touch and smell. The wind or cool breeze against our skin can feel wonderful. So, too, can the warmth of the sun. The sound of waves, water lapping or rustling leaves can be very sensuous, and the sight of the moon or other scenery can be enticing. The smell of the salt air or scent of surrounding trees can also heighten our ecstasy.
 Sex outside is often spontaneous, so again this adds another dimension to the escapade. Public space is there for all to utilise so let your imagination go. Some parks may become relatively secluded and private once evening falls. But it must be late with no one around. You don’t want to risk being caught and prosecuted.
 Unsurprisingly, it is often the underlying risk of being caught that increases the adrenalin and thrill. Secluded beaches or rocks can also be mesmerising, but again, ensure that you will not be interrupted by fishermen or others walking along the beach. If unsure, it is always best to have some sort of cover. Some people seek more daring public spaces such as carparks, lifts, planes, trains, cars and amusement parks; or activities such as swimming, sailing or skiing.
 Some of us may have experienced wild trysts at the office - although hopefully not an affair. Sex with a work colleague can be a definite career-limiting move and even more so if caught in the act.
 So your sex life - whether in a long-term partnership or embarking on a new relationship - may revel in changing the norm, but remember that sex in public is prohibited. Enjoy it but don’t get caught!

Beer in the twin-tub.

 Fondue sets, twin-tubs, Kevin Rudd. They have something in common. They were all something we thought we needed and now we don’t. I’ve been feeling a bit green lately and it’s not just due to mould. I’ve noticed that we’re becoming a throw-away society, whereas some old household items could – with a bit of imagination, plenty of gaffer tape and a total disregard for safety – be put to good use.

 Before you try any of these suggestions yourself, please note that I accept no responsibility for severed limbs, melted power circuits or lost pets. Here are my thoughts in no particular order of importance. If you have any better (funny) suggestions, let me know. God knows I could use a good laugh.
The fondue set.
 If it still works, it can come in handy when you’ve got a cold. Fill with water, some Vicks vapour rub, simmer, then breathe in the steam with a towel draped over your head.
Jaffle-maker.
 Such beautiful craftsmanship shouldn’t be thrown away just because the electrics are so shot that the street lights dim when you switch it on. Use it as a really shallow jelly mould. The resulting jelly is ideal for putting in the kids’ peanut-butter sangers. Isn’t it what the Yanks do? Alternatively, use it to make your own giant ravioli. Four ravioli pillows serve four hungry people.
Twin tubs.
 These are ideal ice-buckets for big entertainers. Simply put beer in the washing tub, wine in the dryer.
Tumble-dryer.
 The perfect piece of exercise equipment for an over-active hamster. Or an electrically operated lettuce-dryer for really big salads.
Fridge.
 Always wanted a dishwasher, but never had the space? Move the fridge to a well-drained area in the backyard. Punch a hole in the back big enough to take the diameter of a garden hose, put the hose through the hole and attach the sprinkler attachment. Now stack your dirty dishes inside, sprinkle some dishwashing powder in the butter compartment, close the door and turn on the hose. You may need to use some packing tape to secure the door properly. And it’s not suitable for glassware, crockery or anything breakable. But your Tupperware will thank you.
Video recorder.
 Your two-year-old was right. Once it’s packed up, the VCR is only good for shoving stale bits of toast into.
The Hills Hoist.
 Don’t throw away the old one just because it’s a dirty old aluminium one and won’t fold up. Make a bit of a tower for it nearby, then cut off the main post near the ground. Now take the whole hoist, turn it on its side and mount it on top of the tower. You’ve got yourself the makings of a windmill. Add a few old pairs of tracky daks to catch the wind, some cogs, a magneto and you’ll be selling electricity to the national grid. Or mount it on a board, have the kids write some prizes on bits of old card, peg them to the line and they can play Wheel Of Fortune (top-dollar saving there!).
Television.
 If you’re lucky enough to have one of the old timber-veneer TVs, dump the workings in the bin and you’ve got a rabbit hutch, ant farm or any pet container you fancy. You’ll need chicken wire and/or glass if you actually want Floppy Ears to stay put. If it’s a portable telly, better still. This means you can take the cat to the vet in it.
Lawnmower.
 If you really can’t get any more happy hours of mowing out of it, bury it under its favourite tree.
The washboard.
 If Gran’s still got one of these hanging around, you can be a fifth of a Zydeco band (you know, that foot-stompin’ swamp music from New Orleans). Grab yourself a few thimbles, sit the washboard on your lap, make like you’re scratching your belly, and bingo, you’re listening to the sound of music.


 So next clean-up day, I don’t want to see anything but an old mattress on your nature strip. (Once their springs have sprung, the only good place for them is in the dump. On second thoughts, better hang on to it for now and I’ll get back to you.) And start saving string – you’re going to need a lot of it.

The endless search for a happy medium.

 Someone shrunk the Weet-Bix (Aussie breakfast cereal). And the chocolate bars (NOOOOOOOOO!!!!). And the number of sheets on the toilet roll (GGGRRR). I’m starting to feel like Gulliver in Lilliput, my giant bratwurst fingers fumbling to pick up teeny tiny things. It’s a case of sizus extremis (great use of the Latin language there huh!?).
 Everything seems to be getting smaller. Or bigger. There’s no happy medium anymore. Take one of my favourite things – alcohol. A bottle of spirits has shrunk from 750ml to 700ml, while a stubby (bottle of beer) has evaporated from 375ml to 330ml. In the wonderful world of wine – and this is actually a good thing – Lindeman’s has reduced the alcohol in its latest Sweet Seasons range by 25 percent.
 Micro salads are sprouting, ideal for the emaciated supermodel (“I simply couldn’t eat another micro lettuce leaf! I’ll bust out of my size 0’s!”). Meanwhile, the new iPod Nano is almost microscopic. A US comedy show has cleverly unveiled the iPod iNvisa, prompting a fictitious Bill Gates to declare, “The iPod iNvisa has no clothes!”
 Then there’s the other end of the spectrum, where bigger is better and biggest is the best. The Hummer. The Qantas A380. McDonald’s has the curious honour of holding records for both big and small. It created the “super size me” phenomenon, then shrank its Big Mac. Now that’s irony. What about coffee? “Would you like large or grande? Piccolo or macchiato?” the Starbucks attendant asks. “Err I just want a medium.” “Righto, one ‘tall’ coming up!” he beams. I guess Starbucks is an oxymoron anyway.
 Fortunately, some giant trends have gone the way of the dinosaurs. Remember the Seinfeld episode where Kramer creates a coffee table book that actually flips out to become a real coffee table? Ballina’s Big Prawn is boarded up, but Byron’s Big Bong just keeps on keeping on.
 It all makes me wonder: why do we change the size of things instead of improving their functionality? The principal of “form follows function” doesn’t seem to apply to everyday life. Where is the easy-to-open olive jar, the non-shrink-wrapped child’s toy, or the flatbread that doesn’t tear when you roll it up? But maybe it’s all about perception.
 One friend reckons things aren’t getting smaller: we’re just getting bigger. Maybe we’re in a parallel universe like in the old TV series Land Of the Giants? She also claims companies are making things smaller so we feel bigger. That would explain mobile phones and clothes. “I feel so tall and powerful holding this flimsy phone. I could crush it with my massive hand! But I won’t, because I’m waiting on a call from my hairdresser.” And so on.
 Anyway, I’m off to find some tweezers to extract the wafer-thin Weet-Bix from their shrunken box. Ahhh, the sweet joys of consumerism......

The ugly truth.

 Remember when your parents used to tell you all those funny but fictitious tales, such as eating bread crusts makes your hair curly, or if the wind changes as you pull a face, you’ll be stuck with it? Or how about that classic, most far-fetched one of all: that beauty comes from within.
 What? You didn’t know that was a myth? Don’t worry, neither did I, for a long time. But, as with the tooth fairy, I finally faced up to the truth. Beneath our highlighted hair and behind our designer sunglasses, we want to believe that beauty comes from within but, sadly, everything in our society indicates otherwise. From the airbrushed pages of magazines to the Botox parties sweeping the nation, we’re obsessed with how we look.
 As children, we’re socially conditioned to see beauty from a particular visual viewpoint. Culturally, we’re aware that our focus on looks is warped, but correcting it seems a tougher challenge than shifting grout from a shower recess. Where did it all go wrong? We could point the finger at that intimidating piece of plastic named Barbie; or the freakishly neutral Kate Moss; or perhaps Marilyn Monroe. While we’re at it, I hear Medusa was a saucy piece in her day too.
 If beauty evolves with the eye of the beholder, today’s beholder appears to wear tinted lenses, because we like everything bronzed and tanned. Now, I consider myself quite confident in my own skin, but there are times when I curse my Italian lineage and wish my grandmother had run off with a Greek fisherman to add a little olive to my paleness.
 Luckily in our superficial world, Greek ancestry is only a spray away. In fact, it’s astounding how easy it is to alter your appearance. The other day I overheard three women talking about erasing lines on their faces with the kind of casualness you’d reserve for getting stains out of clothing. We think we aspire to natural beauty, but we’re determined to make beauty fussy and time-consuming.
 A few years back it was suggested I get fake nails to ‘elongate my arms’ for a friend’s wedding. Hoping people would fall for this remarkable optical illusion; I sat for two hours while a nail technician glued fake nails to my healthy ones. I say glued, when in fact I should say welded, because these talons were stuck to my fingers for months. When I finally peeled them off, my nails had withered and softened so much, they were brittle and bended backwards with the slightest touch. I had to hide my hands in gloves for about 3 months before they were back to normal.
 In the pursuit of beauty, pain is the big winner – from razor cuts and waxing trauma to scalp-burning bleach and peroxide. This theory was heightened recently when a friend’s cousin found herself in hospital after suffering a severe allergic reaction to a spray tan. People had always told her she looked better with a tan and, as she lay there blistering in her hospital gown, she wondered how they’d think she looked now.
 Under the influence of painkillers and feeling sorry for herself, she told her cousin that she started to hanker for those childhood myths – the magic of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny – and as she watched her skin peel away, she desperately hoped beauty wasn’t skin-deep, after all.

Bad sports.

 Even though summer is in full swing here in Australia, the panic to shape up for swimwear is on. And in the lead up to summer, spring turns into an end-of-year stocktake sale for the body - everything must go! Kilograms, cellulite, and any enjoyment you get from food – all gone. And while you’re slogging away, trying to sell off your unwanted stock, it’s a buyer’s delight for gym owners, who are reaping the benefits and adding extensions to their homes.
 Unfortunately, I signed up for a binding gym membership during one of those hysterical bouts of optimism when I believed I was going to compete in triathlons and enter ‘hard bodies’ competitions for the rest of my life. I’m pretty sure my grandchildren will be paying off that membership one day. But while we’re all stuck at the gym, crunching and squatting our way back to the beach, can we agree on a few basic rules of conduct? Don’t get me wrong, well done dragging your tired body through the gym doors – that’s an achievement in itself. But it’s hard enough grimacing through push-ups without having to endure certain unnecessary behaviours.

 First, let’s all wipe down the equipment after using it. Even though five litres of sweat on the rowing machine may be greeted with enthusiasm by the CSI team, it’s much less impressive to the person who gets to sit in a puddle of your perspiration. Next, 30 minutes max on the treadmill please. The ski machines, cross trainers and elliptical trainers are just space fillers; we’re all there for the treadmills. So, if a queue is forming behind you, maybe run a few blocks, instead of the entire New York City Marathon.

  Let’s have management move those stepper machines to the rear of the room too. Maybe it’s just me, but the elite athletes who use these hell machines for more than three minutes without passing out should be banished to the back, out of sight. I don’t need to see people excelling at difficult activities as I read magazines on the stationary bike.

  And now to the exercise benches: it’s not school, so putting a towel on a bench doesn’t ‘bags’ it while you walk off to stretch or check yourself out in the mirror (guys, you know who you are). Your towel isn’t a bike lock, so if you don’t take it with you, I may have to dob. When it comes to the fans, it’s simple. Leave them on! In a room with more body odour and sweat flying around than in a footballer’s shorts, ventilation is key. I know some people like to sweat half their body weight off during a workout, but I’m pretty sure exercising in a sauna is on the UN’s top-10 list of crimes against humanity.

 And, finally, the change rooms: I’m all for sisters feeling comfortable around each other, but if you look anything like Miranda Kerr, please keep your clothes on at all times. The rest of us don’t need to be reminded that we could run on a treadmill for the rest of our lives and never have your gazelle-like limbs. Be mindful that we mortals are trying to leave the gym with more self-esteem than we came in with, not less.

 Now we’re all happy with those basic rules, let’s continue torturing ourselves at the gym, without irritating each other. But then again, who am I kidding? If there was nothing annoying at the gym, we just might start enjoying it, and where’s the sport in that?