Something has festered and I can no longer deny it.
It’s time for the next chapter.
Something has festered and I can no longer deny it.
It’s time for the next chapter.
Nothing stops me being completely delighted when I hear news that any lovely person is to become a parent. Obviously then, I was quite stoked upon reading the news Jacinda Ardern, the New Zealand PM, is expecting her first baby.
I knew of her before 2017, but it wasn’t until her rather superb smackdown of this dicktwat that my opinion of her was elevated. When it was put to her that women should inform their prospective employer of any plans they have for a family, she pushed the fuckoff button good and proper.
I knew exactly where she was coming from and I suspect many other women would nod their heads in agreement. I’ve had ‘that question’ sneaked into my own job interviews. “Just married, oh great!” It’s been said to me.“Oh, um, any problems with travelling interstate?” (BTW, the job had no interstate anything at all involved in the job description whatsoever. It was a thinly veiled attempt to simply to find out if I had family commitments and might need to run late because of day-care drop offs, take days off due to sick children and so forth. How many men get the same sneaky questions?). And you might say there are laws against discriminatory behaviour, but we all know it still happens. There’s still the lingering judgement of women being judged for what they are, (a womb on two legs) and not who they are. Meritocracy is not entrenched yet.
Now some might argue that Ms Ardern has no idea what she is getting into and might be surprised how much pressure parenthood and primeministership place on her. Of course she has no idea what she’s in for – but nor does any first time parent. Others might argue that Ms Ardern will be tired and hormonal and this might affect her ability to govern. This is yet another example of us all being labelled as the weaker, more delicate sex and it is complete and utter bullshit.
On the other side of the coin, women can’t fucking win either way, really. Julia Gillard was accused of being deliberately barren and some commentators suggested that given she wasn’t a parent herself she didn’t really get the costs involved in the baby bonus scheme (such rubbish). Recently, Theresa May’s own rival Andrea Leadsom actually came out and suggested that being a parent made her a better potential leader: ‘“I feel that being a mum means you have a very real stake in the future of our country, a tangible stake,”. So not being parent makes you indifferent to future generations? I have huge problems with that comment.
I cannot recall a time ever where the same comments have been leveraged against a man in a government leadership position. It’s old fashioned bullshit from the era of MadMen and before, and I am for one stoked that our PM is going to be a parent and a PM. After all, the blokes have been doing it for years. It might just show that we really are capable of anything.
To be used: when you have to go straight from work to office party and you need a quick spruce up generally so you look less like a faded corporate pawn and more like someone who looks like they are enjoying themselves.
Objective: Look tidier.
Timing: You should be able to complete the zschush in under 11 minutes. Anything more is overdoing it and then work people will then think you dressed up for them. And we really don’t want that.
Remember, you aren’t going to a black tie wedding. (How shit are those though, while we are on the subject? Expecting your guests to either a) have formal evening wear readily available, or b) rent said formal wear which costs an arm and a leg, is the biggest load of wank I have come across). This is an office party! A quick squick of the old dove gradual moisturising tan the night before is more than adequate. You don’t need to head to Sadie’s Sunshine Salon for another $60 spray tan. And a further reminder: this is also not the time to try anything new. For pity’s sake. The long wearing tangerine lipstain is a great idea when you have hours to correct any mistakes, but you don’t have that right now.
Right, to begin. Try to go to the quiet ladies’ room the other side of the floor, where you won’t be annoyed by nasty whiffs and Paula from the pod over talking about her premature arthritis and sciatica. Yes I know you hate that office bathroom lighting but I hate to tell you this, it’s accurate. However tempting it is, resist slapping on too much coverup – it’s still daylight outside and you don’t want to look like Ru Paul when you step on out the street.
Ok, foundation on, now a quick curl with the eyelash curlers and reinforcement of mascara coverage. DON’T EVEN THINK about applying silly things like falsies. This is outside of remit of Office Zschush.
Bit of a sweep with the highlighter, leave it there for a minute while you quickly apply a bit of eye shadow – keep it light with colours you know and trust. Multitasking very much the buzz word here.
Rub highlighter in to the highlight areas. Quick outline of brows.
Add some cheek colour / bronzer.
Add some very quick lip colour. You don’t have time to do the lip liner and bow. Just a quick slash of gloss and you’re done. Blot that stuff as well – makeup on teeth is bad.
Right – now your hair has been in office appropriate do today. You don’t have time to do anything elaborate or straighten it properly. Grab some dry shampoo, let it settle a moment, brush it out then stick hair in fashioned top knot. One of these is bloody useful. Check from the back to see that it’s tidy enough. Enough is ever the catchword here.Don’t start again cos it’s not perfect.
Last step – quick spray of light perfume. Again, don’t overdo the midnight passion eu de pong. People in the office have sensitive noses.
By all means quickly step out of office attire and into your civvies. Again! You must not wear anything you are saving for actual special occasion, e.g. friend’s birthday. Overdoing it defeats purpose of Office Zschush.
Now – go! And drink your company’s bartab until it runs out! You deserve this.
Yes, readership of three, I know it’s been awhile. But you know, life and that. So, thinking in terms of value to audience, have compiled a quick list of some possible blog post topics. Vote now!
Some expected outcomes out of bloody long walk training…
And some unexpected ones, including:
Feel free to donate here (to the cause, not the ladybits)
Yesterday was Sunday, and after three false starts, Moulder and I finally honour our training schedule and meet up to train for bloodylongwalk.
The bloodylongwalk, you see, is exactly that. A walk from the Yarra Bend in the east of Melbourne, around the Yarra, through the city and all the way down to St Kilda. 35 k all up.
Back story: The things that seem a good idea after a bottle of wine, eh? Like moving to Ireland for a year. Or quitting law. Or using a home bleach kit. 35k is, after all, a bloodylongway, but I am a good walker. I do over and above the WHO mandated 10,000 steps day most days, and for me there is nothing nicer on the weekend than strolling up the creek, listening to a nice relaxing crime podcast and then picking up a latte. 35k was rather somewhat of a stretch target but hey, why not eh? Good cause too, (being mitochondrial disease, which I hitherto had no idea about), which is important. But there is an element of whatthefuckhaveIgotteninto. Too late now Bwidge.
Sunday dawns lovely and sunny but windy. Nose reacts predictably and starts leaking on cue. Do chores, get shopping, drop the Husband off to his mate’s house for annual Baffhurst festival and head into town, armed with sunscreen and new brooks walkers. Nofuckinproblem.
Find Moulder at Flinders St. Find coffee. Start striding up Swanston st. Debrief on week that’s just gone; interviews (me) and creative stuff (her). Buy bottles of water. Snark at bloody people walking bloody slowly on footpaths on their bloody androids. Feeling positive. Always nice to have a good catch up with Moulder. Chat chat.
Talk turns to goals for today.
‘We should aim for 20 today.’ She means kilometers, guys.
‘We’ll take it slowly though right?’ I say, anxiously. My legs are at least a foot shorter than hers.
‘Yes of course’ she says. This will be an interesting test of our compatibility as walking partners.
Up we go to the pretty Carlton Gardens, past the expensive looking SLRs and tourists. Through Gertrude Street and up Brunswick St, past trendy people having their second bloody Mary of the day. Ah the labour in vain, that was awhile ago. On to Edinburgh Gardens, table-tennis and hipsters and French bulldogs and cider stubbies. From there up the Park St trail and the exact spot I stacked my bike years ago. Hello what is that beacon of hope I see on the horizon? I see a pub! Could it be? The Terminus Clifton hill! YES. What a great joint. I’m not allowed to go in though, which is probably fair enough.
‘You know what we should have at the end of this?’
‘And fries from lord of the fries’
‘And BURGERS. OMG I am getting hungry’.
This is nice actually. Where are we? We’re at 8k by this point and feeling good. The wind’s a bit blustery but the sun is pleasant on our arms. Only way to get to the trail is cross over and go past my old house. Was it always that small? And look there’s a pot plant in my bedroom window. I need to wee, I wonder if my key still works?
Busy part of the trail now. Many joggers and cyclists. We start to go into single file. Memories emerge, I used to walk along here every weekend. What a lovely part pf the world. The city emerges from behind a hill. Oh we must be on home stretch now. Halfway, please?
Feet check. Not bad. Shall we stop?
Stop for wees and rice crackers and a stretch at the Convent. Granola would have worked better as nourishing snack but we’re doing ok. Sit on grass, feeling the ache of underused calves.
Set off again. It really is very pretty on the trail, walking along the river and the greenery. Notice wattle tree. Too late, breathe in lungful of yellow nastiness and cough like someone in a tb ward. Yucky!
Puff on inhaler. ‘You’re alright, let’s press on!’ I feel like the fat kid in Stand by me.
See fleecy sheep at the children’s farm. He looks very hot in his thick wool jacket. I do hope someone is helping him out soon.
‘Ok, so once we hit 20, we find the nearest pub.’
‘No, we are going with plan a, and getting burgers.’
‘Awwwwwwwww’, I say, probably a bit like an 8 year old.
‘We’re doing it. Don’t moan’.
‘Here, have the rest of these rice crackers’.
Sidle along Yarra and climb up to Bridge road, and we’re on the final bit now, taking that bullet road back to town. The normal creeping feeling of nostalgia I get in Richmond is tempered by the soreness in my hips and knees. “Jokingly” suggest stopping for a beer / getting tram but get laughed at. Moulder begins to edge ahead and I begin to feel like my hips are creaking like they have rust in them.
Finally, we find ourselves at the last set of traffic lights. That’s 20k! We’ve done it. We (me) limp into Grill’d, order burgery and beery goodness. Stone and wood never tasted so good.
What’s the moral of this story? Take more than rice crackers. Be prepared for soreness and whingeing. And remember there is always a beer at the bottom of the rainbow.
*not baby-led weaning, that’s a blog for another day.**
**hahah kidding. I’d rather poke my nipples all day with a fork