Ringing in the changes – phones are for texting, not talking.

  I don’t want to talk on the phone anymore. I used to love it, and in the past there were periods when I only got off the phone for meal breaks. Police would have given my description as “Caucasian, female, about 175cm tall with a black mobile phone attached to her left ear”. But that time is now over. Now I text.
  “See you in five” – done. “What time are we meeting up?” – tick. “Lol…got it” – simple! Convert any of those text messages to calls and I am losing up to 12 minutes of my day. A quick survey tells me that this is the new status quo. Unless it’s an emergency, you text. And to be honest, if triple zero actually accepted SMS as an SOS, I’d do it in an emergency. There’s been a revolution and girls love it.
  Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell men this. Guys make phone calls. I know this because they’re the only ones who still call me. Even if I text them, they call back. “Hi Salvatore, any chance you might be able to swing by this week? Our television is playing up again. Thanks! M.” RRRRRIIIIIIIINNNNG RRRINNNGGG!! Nooooo! A quick “Sure, no problem” would have made my day. But a call-back? I have to talk? This definitely was not the plan. I have a to-do list to focus on and two celebrity chef judges counting down from ten to zero in my head all day long. Why do you want to spoil things and have a conversation?
  And really, what do you need to tell me anyway? Surely just knowing the TV isn’t working properly pretty much covers it. Finding out why the TV could be kaput is information I’ll never retain. You might think girls are listening as you explain things like this, but we’re pretending. Trust me. And while we’re at it, you call me on my landline? What century are you from?
  So, why do men insist on using their mobile phone as an actual telephone? Well, firstly, it’s polite….I suppose. Secondly, guys love explaining things. And thirdly, guys are up for a chat. They’re like My Kitchen Rules judge Manu Fieldel, who comes into the kitchen to see how things are going. This is a classic men are from Mars, women are from Venus moment. The guys seem genuinely pleased to see him; they’re ready for a good old chinwag about the poaching time of their twice-cooked spatchcock.  The woman are silently screaming, “Get out of my kitchen, s’il vous plait.” The producer who thought up that idea is either clueless, or male. Women are time-coded during business hours. Our lives are planned to the minute. Texting is the magic wand that makes the Manus in our world go away.
 I can text and do; I can’t talk and do. Make no mistake, I do use the mobile phone for actual conversations, but it’s generally at 10pm and always preceded  by a text to my friends saying, “Got time for a chat?” And there’s the clue. It’s the end of the night, no interruptions, and no lists. Besides, it’s about really important stuff like food and Mad Men and even Manu. It’s never about anything that involves fixing stuff.

Indie-pendent spirits have their own jam.

  EVERYONE knows teenagers are a different species and need to be studied if we are to find a way to eliminate them. So, in the interests of science I will therefore seek to provide an understanding into the teenage mind. This will hopefully fulfil the twin functions of expanding the horizon of human knowledge and putting an end to parenting columns once and for all.
  Anyway, ladies and gentlemen I present Tess and Ocky. Tess is 15 years old and a neighbour of mine. She is kind of like an indie but her friend Ocky - 14 years old and by Tess’s analysis not as mature - thinks that maybe they’re just wannabe indies, which is to say windies.
  When they are not doing anything they are not chillin’ anymore, they are illchin’, which is like chillin’ but different and doesn’t rhyme with “like Bob Dylan”. Tess and Ocky are quite preoccupied with emos, which are kind of like goths. Some of them are stoners. Some of them make little cuts on themselves. They are called emos because they are rather emotional, which explains the little cuts.
  Not everyone can be an emo. There are wemos, which are wannabe emos, and memos, which are mistaken emos. The latter is someone who is not an emo but is confused for one. I can’t personally explain how this happens but apparently it does.
  There are also lads, who are, to quote Tess, “like mainstream guys and wear, like, the polo shirts”. There are also wiggers (white guys who think they are black) and chiggers (Chinese guys who think they are black). But Tess and Ocky are in no way racist. “We sit with the cool Asians,” they tell me. These are called hasians, which is short for hot Asians.
  There are skinny guys, who suffer from manorexia, and browned up girls who suffer from tanorexia. These are known as tandooris. The feral pretties at Tess and Ocky’s school, for example, are tandooris. It is reassuring that the 14-to-15-year-old demographic does not approve of drugs – apart from the occasional emo stoner. Cocaine, although never sighted, is referred to as the devil’s dandruff. How this comes up in conversation I do not know.
  If they care a lot about something - “I care about the music,” Tess assures me - they might say “this is my jam”. Something particularly good is a breeze of brill, something bad is flag. I do not believe this is an anti-patriotic statement but with kids today you can never be sure.
  They also employ a large amount of French, which I naturally find disturbing, but this is largely used to describe bad things, as in the phrase tres tragique. An unattractive person might be referred to as fugly but I am assured they are never unkind enough to say this to someone’s face. When they are experiencing high self-esteem the girls consider themselves to be indie-credible. I asked them to put this in a sentence and they said: “Tess and Ocky are indie-credible, fo’shizzle.” I am yet to clarify this further.
  On less positive days they wonder if perhaps they are just windies but on reflection Tess is more certain of her status. “We’re on the indie train, platform one coz I’m number one, sucka,” she explains. I had been under the impression that the term juicy was also used to describe something good, however it turns out this is a brand of clothing - albeit, I am informed, a good brand.
  The girls are also philosophical. Holding forth on the interplay between inner beauty and the aesthetic demands of an image-driven society, Tess observes: “You can’t polish a turd.” Asked to expound further, she says: “You can’t make somebody ugly look pretty. I never say that but. I’m not that mean, I’m a pretty cool chick.”
  Should you find Tess and Ocky at a soiree, you might see them crumping. This is a form of dance, as Tess explains: “It’s like in, um, like rap videos.” If you see them you might want to say “What’s the hap?” When you depart, you simply inform them “I’m outie”. I asked Tess and Ocky how normal people were ever supposed to understand them and both agreed they never would. This is, according to Ocky, because “we are the rulez” although Tess thought it was also perhaps due to the fact that “I am a free spirit”.
  But it was Tess’s final words that will stay with me forever, dancing around my mind full of promise and hidden meaning.
“Merc” she said, “make sure you publish my thoughts bee-yatch”.

Fashion

  If I had to come up with one word to describe my fashion style it would be “comfortable”. Others have more unkindly described it as more like “homeless chic”. The sad thing is, they are probably a little closer to the truth. I have to be honest sometimes when I venture out of the house the only thing separating me from the permanently-dwelling-challenged is a cardboard sign that reads: “Will tell jokes for food!”
  Forget accessories like watches and handbags, the only thing most of my clothes would accessorize with would be some cymbals between my knees and a couple of ice-cream containers to play as drums. Fashion experts say the way you present yourself says something about you, even before you speak. I think most of my outfits normally say either: “Keep me away from children” or “Would you like to buy The Big Issue?”
 When some people choose clothes, they dress to feel sexy, fashionable, or stylish. I like to dress to feel…comfy. Put it this way, I have never met a pair of tracksuits pants that I didn’t like. Forget the debate about whether the high waist or the low waist is in this season; I only care about the elastic waist. I don’t care about “the new black” I care about “the new track (ies)”.
  My problem with John Howard (former Australian Prime Minister) was never that he wore the Wallabies tracksuit when he went on his early morning power-walks. My problem was that he didn’t wear them all…the…time. When all the world leaders came to Australia for APEC, forget the Akubras and Drysabones I would have liked to see them all decked out in the Green and Gold trackies. I bet everyone in the room would have been a lot happier and in the mood to negotiate if after a long official lunch they didn’t have to let their belt out a couple of notches.
  You see that’s the thing about tracksuit pants, they are forgiving. If you buy a pair of skinny jeans and put on a couple of kilos, your legs end up looking like someone is trying to squeeze icing onto a cake. Tracksuit pants don’t even notice if you have gained weight, they are like the best friend you will ever have.
  Whether you need them for a jog or yoga, nursing a hangover, or getting over a broken relationship sitting on the couch eating icing sugar and crying at Sorbent ads…they will be there to support and comfort you. And tracksuits pants don’t demand much in return. They don’t need to be dry-cleaned, or steam-cleaned, or hung or folded like some “needy” clothes. Just pick them up from the floor where you left them the night before, give them a quick sniff test and away you go.
  I have to be honest, I think I love trackies so much, I would even consider getting married wearing them. Of course the only downside to that master plan being if you are the sort of person who thinks it is okay to wear tracksuit pants to a wedding…nobody is ever going to marry you. But really, suits and dresses may look good, but they are bloody uncomfortable. Nobody has ever said: “I’ll join you out on the couch in a minute…but I just want to change into my 3-piece Armani.”
  Personally my idea of getting dressed up is putting on my good tracksuits pants (the ones that have the rope tie at the waist as well as the elastic) and making sure they don’t have any suspicious stains on them. Unless you work at home I think there are only two jobs where it is okay for you to wear trackies all the time: professional sports person or professional drug dealer.
  Clearly tracksuit pants need a PR campaign and slogan. And so I thought I would come up with one: 

They are comfy, and dependable, and I think they’re cute. This is my ode to the humble tracksuit:

They are warm, and yet stylish, there is nothing sinister, worn by humble workers, sports stars, and even Prime Ministers. And if you are worried, they make you look crapper, then just add some bling and they become gangsta rapper. You can wear them all day, and there will be no dramas, and then wear them to bed and they become pyjamas. You can wear them while sober, drunk, awake or asleep, oh, and did I forget to mention, they are bloody cheap. They really are super to the humble tracksuits, if combined with some thongs or even Ugh Boots…
  So whether you’re Carl Williams or on So You Think You Can Dance? Let’s all stand and salute the wonder that is trackie pants!

Should you bubble-wrap your kids?

  Ok, so you’ve heard about the parents who attempt to bubble-wrap their children to protect them from every sniffle, skinned knee and bump on the head. I will never be one of them. Instead, I often look at teens and wonder  and secretly hope they’ll have at least a few impressive scars, scrapes and illnesses they can exaggerate into near-death experiences to relate at ”Who can top that?” dinner parties.
  I mention this because the Australian Medical Association, hardly known for its risk-taking behaviour, says the federal government has gone too far with an announcement that, in essence, seeks to ban snot and dribble from the nation’s childcare centres.
  For fear that kids spread their germs about like an infectious willy-willy, it has been judged there will be no blowing out of candles on shared birthday cakes; hand sanitiser will be used before and after the sandpit and there will be daily washing of cushions, toys, door knobs and floors. Ummmm…WTF? As if childcare workers don’t already do enough work?! And I am a childcare worker and have been for 18 years now, so I’ve seen it all and been through it all, and that is absolutely not the way to go.
  The AMA has ridiculed at the new regulations. ”It’s normal and healthy to be exposed to a certain amount of environmental antigens that build up our immune systems,” said its president, Steve Hambleton. Too late. Our governments have already caught the incurable ”zero-risk” disease spread by insurers and bio-corporations. All those writhing, nasty germs. KILL THEM!
  For years the pushers of disinfectants, deodorisers and antiseptic wipes have portrayed 99.9 per cent of household germs as an animated swarm of unsavoury critters you can actually see partying on your kitchen bench. Apparently you can whack them with a spatula if you’re quick enough.
  When it comes to playground safety, there are also hundreds of strict regulations for childcare centres: bouncy materials underneath climbing frames for a ”soft fall” and safety gear for tricycles – kiddie helmets that must be immediately doused with chemicals and incinerated (sorry, sanitised) after each use.
  At one parenting website I've seen, it’s recommended that there should be NO unsupervised play date with any animal, even a cat or bird, to avoid a dreadful scratch or peck. Heaven forbid if your kids come home after a malicious gnawing from next-door’s feral guinea pig. It’s fascinating to look back at the sweep of human history and seeing how our expectations have evolved…or devolved.
  Drop any bubble-headed modern parent into a traditional hunter-gather society and they’d be decking out their little ones with an asbestos jumpsuit and accessorised fire extinguisher. Bear Grylls would be a childcare worker.
  Recently, in an article in Newsweek, the US scientist and Pulitzer-prize winning author Jared Diamond wrote of the ancient societies he has observed for the past half a century in Papua New Guinea. ”Young children were considered to have responsibility for their own actions, and were allowed to do pretty much as they pleased,” writes Diamond. ”For example, if a baby was playing next to a fire, adults did not intervene. As a result, many adults in that society had burn scars, which were a legacy of their behaviour as infants.”
  In many such communities young children were regarded as ”autonomous individuals whose desires should not be thwarted”. They were allowed to play with sharp knives, hot pots, and fires, reports Diamond.
  Eeek! Surely no adult would let a child blunder into a burning fire. (I admit, you can’t always trust the observations of US anthropologists. In fact, just this week the indigenous leaders in West Papua have demanded an apology from Diamond for what they say is his portrayal of them as ”Stone Age” people in his latest book.)
  But, Diamond finds much to admire in the way hunter-gather communities raise their kids and suggests we can learn from their 100,000-year history. ”Other Westerners and I are struck by the emotional security, self-confidence, curiosity, and autonomy of members of small-scale societies, not only as adults but already as children,” he says.
  Children do gain their independence early but as babies are constantly stimulated, held, and in not one of 90 such societies he surveyed were mothers and babies sleeping in separate rooms.
  The Efe pygmies in the Congo leave their babies to cry for no more than 10 seconds before being attended to. Skin-to-skin contact with mothers is extraordinary by our standards – the Navajo carried their infants 70 per cent of the time to the age of six months. And then there are the number of ”allo-parents”, (non biological care-givers) who pass even newborns from hand-to-hand to be kissed and bounced – it can be up to 14 adults who share the baby-love over short periods of time. These parents talk to their children much more than we do. My favourite observation is that the Indian children of Peru take almost half their meals with other families. To have a wide network of supportive adults keeps us sane, Diamond concludes.
  No modern parent would dream of taking the risks with their children these ancient societies did. However, in seeking to eliminate all risks, we risk raising fearful children.
  I have a friend who has a ragged ”ouch” scar over one eye, from when she ran head-first into a barbed wire fence during a midnight game of chasey. And you should look at the scar on her big toe when she was chopping wood with an axe at age nine…and missed. It’s a story she’s fond of telling at dinner parties.