A complex question of bovine citizenship

This whole cow story has got me thinking: http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2011/05/31/3231665.htm.
Throughout, the animals in question have been referred to as 'Australian cows'. And yet the were exported to Indonesia, which I suppose means they were s-o-l-d. What is clearly a red-hot issue of discussion today across the ether has prompted me to ask a few questions:
i) Do cows have passports?
ii) Has the Australian embassy in Jakarta offered consular assistance to cows at risk in Indonesia?
iii) How many Australians have enjoyed a beef rendang in Bali?
iv) Would we care if the cows were Afghan, or would we assign their treatment to a third party nation state?
I suppose I am trying to make a point, and the point is twofold:
i) At present we seem a hell of a lot less interested in the treatment of the people we are planning to export to Malaysia who will have no meaningful legal or economic protection and no assurance of a future or outcome (although I suppose they are less 'Australian' than the cows in question), and:
ii) Perhaps we should stop lying to ourselves that the meat we eat is happy meat that has been killed in a humane way, and ponder that it is in fact a dead animal that has been specifically bred for us to panfry. Maybe we should stop obsessing about the means and accept that the end is the end, everyone who eats meat is complicit in this.
One answer for those up in arms - vegetarianism.

NB. I resisted giving this post a title that involved any 'beef' puns and it was hard.

I got some fire in my belly today my friends!

I shouldn't watch Q&A - it gets me so worked up. In the first two minutes I was screaming obscenities about what it means to live in a democracy and my couch partner duly took leave and retired to bed. I am so grumpy with Australia at the moment and this whole 'debate' about what to do to create a sustainable future for people, land and society. What to do indeed. It's a big question. Yet the whole nation seems to be up in arms about Cate Blanchett making an ad. Who gives a shit? (Although I must say that the ad was directed my very good buddy - woop woop to him and it has certainly got people talking). But people are talking crap. People like Jackie goddamned Kelly. Who wheeled her out from the Penrith Plaza foodcourt? The woman has no credibility and I would have thought that following her shameful and completely lame pamphlet-gate affair, she would be content making lunches at the school canteen for her post-political life. Desperate times for Q&A panel-balancers this week!
And then there is Tony Abbott. Tones - don't you realise that as a potential leader, you should be advocating that we all live in 'eco-mansions', as you so amusingly called them? Living such a life is not a negative - it's what we aspire to. There's a little part of all of us that wants to be rich and famous, it was a little bit silly to trivialise it as a lifestyle choice.
And to the devastating impacts of a carbon tax - COST JOBS, RAISE THE COST OF LIVING etc etc. What exactly will the impacts be if we leave this to the private sector to sort out over the next 50 or so years? Are they considering the plight of Australian "working families"? I doubt it. The outcome will be a drastic reduction in resources, unregulated price increases on the depleting stocks and no investment in alternative technologies. The poor will lose, lose, lose.
And anyway - this is about everyone because we all use this stuff, we are all dependent on it and we all live in the world and want a nice life. We are all connected by this and we need to do something. We are all going to be impacted in some way by the next phase in history; Cate will have to pioneer less cutting edge theatre and make more ads, I will have to force my family to catch Action buses (sorry in advance), Jackie will have to sell one of the Falcons and switch to recycled paper for the lunches, Tony will have to buy private shares in one of the last remaining coal mines and Australian "working families" will just have to work harder to keep their not-insignificant wealth.
And one final point - what about everyone who is not a "working family"? Do they live in a parallel utopia that requires no meaningful engagement in political debate?
And another final point - people need to stop thinking about 'what this means for me' and they need to start realising that making history now is a collective process that is so much bigger than all of us. I just hope we don't balls it up.

Something about tectonic plates

I have found that when I read anything postmodern, it pays to stay focused for moments of clarity are rare and short-lived. 

A moment ago I read and understood this:

The tactile and tectonic jointly have the capacity to transcend the mere appearance of the technical in much the same way as the place-form has the potential to withstand the relentless onslaught of global modernisation.

And then I had to have a conversation about ironing and clothes dryers.

Puff! 

Farewell brilliant idea.

Lesson: Domestic issues and comprehension of postmodern urban analysis are natural enemies. 

Compound Blues

I'm not loving compound life at the moment, and the feeling is growing. Every morning as I sit down to start work with a view of the garden, I tell myself that on some level that I am fortunate to have these riches – I find repetitive positive affirmation exercises help. However, at the moment all I can see is the fence, razor wire and security gates and when I try to engage in upbeat self-talk, I fail. All that comes out is girlfriend – you are in jail. And just as I start to ponder the implications of the view on my sanity, the guy with the leaf blower comes into frame - same time, same place, every day. I'm ready to scream at him "JUST PICK IT UP!!", but I don't want to feed crazy-white-woman-locked-in-cage-stereotypes. 

There has been much turbulence beyond the razor wire over the last week or so, and that's just the stuff I know about - a few big-ass car accidents, some more alarming car jackings, tribal fighting … the state of origin - staying home really seems like the best option. My captor has become my saviour - I think I must have Stockholm Syndrome. 

And why oh why is it times like these, when you are vulnerable and on the edge of snapping that little people seem to know how to exploit your weakness? Last night my angel awoke at 2.30am and I made the regrettable mistake of checking on her. Doing this meant I had a toddler rotisserie in bed with me for another hour and occasional limbs in my face before I resorted to an adventure downstairs to get milk for all. Back upstairs, back in her room, more pats, more bloody twinkle twinkle, and finally my soothing voice and pats resulted in a consenting angel back in her bed and tucked in ready for sleep. As I lay down and exhaled deeply, the screaming began. More self talk … push through girlfriend, it’s the only way … I know the drill. There’s always a point about five minutes in where she chooses to go one way or the other, and in this instance she chose to go all the way. The screams became unbearable, so I went and got her with the heavy awareness that I would have to repeat the above again for another 1.5 hours. It wasn’t quite that bad, and as I felt her breathing and body become still and sleep-like I finally let sleep come back into my world – it was 5am.

For some reason, this morning I expected an apology. I kept sulking and giving her looks, but she was oblivious. In fact, she went the other way. Scattered the UNO cards all over the loungeroom, refused breakfast, bit me, pinched me and did some huge body slams on my slightly sensitive preggers belly. And just to really hurt me, she kept asking me when her “Nanny” was getting here. I couldn’t agree more though – it was the break we both needed. When they finally left for a walk I retreated to bed.

And it was about that time that the leaf blower started right outside the bedroom window. Another day in the compound, same as before, same as the next.

Read read read.

Another week of reading and writing awaits me. I'm officially running out of puff, ideas and motivation. And so I am turning to the internet. Fashion blogs have a particular appeal, and sadly no relation to utopian urban planners. In my travels today, I came across this collection of articles which have served as an ideal distraction (and don't leave me with the same dirty feeling as too much online fashion).

http://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2011/05/nearly-100-fantastic-pieces-of-journalism/238230/

Read like there's no tomorrow! It's almost not even a waste of time.

Mucus and a bun.

I know I should be studying, but the last abstract had equations in it, so it lost me at (I). A part of me feels betrayed by journal articles like these ... I didn't sign up for mathematics! Just as I have been on the run from Excel for years in the workplace ('I just thought it would work better as a Word table'), I too bid a hasty exit from the vaguely mathematical when it pops up in my social sciences context.

Oh the essays are a big heavy burden at the moment. If Amazon doesn't deliver my books tomorrow, my scratchy essay is on a one way track to being a big messay. And that's just the one due this week. As for the others, but a remote thought at the moment. Remote but close. More study seemed like such a good idea at the time ....

The whole fam is sick at the moment, we are all covered in each other's mucus. It's absolutely disgusting.
Although I could barely see on Sunday due to puffy runny half-closed hayfever-ravaged eyes, I did catch the late afternoon light bouncing off the little snot trails all over the doona that our little lady had left throughout the course of the day. Linen change: essential. When the hell do kids learn to blow their nose? It's not one of the milestones you really give much thought to but gee it matters. Because until then - it is unregulated mucus flow. When the poor little one wakes after a whole night of runny nose - the sight is alarming/remarkable and requires lengthy attention to remedy. I've given up trying to explain it is for the collective good ('it' being me and the constant tissue hovering around the baby nose) and now resort to the more straight-forward (but emotionally fraught) pin down and restraint. The girl can kick.

And speaking of little people - we have another one on the way. Never been a better time to expand the brood! I'm sure I'm not the first person to note the difference between the first and second-subsequent pregnancy/babies. This time around, life is not stopping so I can put my feet up, demand a massage and read some more preggers literature. Life is going on, as it always does and our no. 2 little creation is very very quietly doing it's thing in the background. Baby names, pram brands, car seats, etc etc ... the baseline knowledge is there and it's already been done. It's kind of nice, different, but more relaxed. Definitely has made me realise how truly unique becoming a parent for the first time is - it's a massive ride that I am only now able to look back on and see with some perspective. Am so glad that I have made the adjustment now, and I understand the deal. No need to ask that my loved one refrains from alcohol as a show of 'support'*, just have to insist he breathes in a different direction when he does. No need to expect the rest of the world to be pregnant too - it isn't, and it doesn't matter. No need to insist on my own space in these last precious moments before the baby is born - that was surrendered last time around and I now I want to share stuff with my gang (except showers - the audience of two in the ensuite while I shower "..I just followed her in here" is probably one example of me still needing some space). No need to expect lots of pregnancy sympathy on the homefront (as I have learned that it is best to present a stoic collegiate front, and this will warrant sympathy I pretend I do not want/need - it's all about adapting strategies!). In sum - it feels much easier, and adding to the gang is giving both of us big warm fuzzies.

And finally - I can't believe Australia is arguing about a Carbon Tax. It's a no brainer.
We are part of the world.
The world is running out of stuff.
We have a lot of stuff.
We are rich enough to tax it.

I really hope this one doesn't get ballsed up!

*We say 'support' but really we mean 'shared misery'.

The big J and the dancefloor.

I think the kid is getting brainwashed. The big J(esus) is starting to feature a hell of a lot in her day-to-day thoughts and priorities. Generally 19 month olds don't have too much on their minds, but in the case of ours, she is always pointing out how much J loves her and wondering when we can go to church. This shift in focus seems to have come from nowhere.
This morning I returned from my swim to the big sound of the vacuum cleaner. But over the vacuum I could hear the unmistakable and tinny sound of Christian rock belting from a cheap Nokia, and around the corner ran our little angel with the phone in her hand. The penny dropped. So this is how the house is vacuumed and kid remains occupied when I am out. I tried to talk to her, but we couldn't hear each other speak over the little black box. I removed it from her hand, placed it on the book shelf and immediately scrambled for some hip-hop, it was only 9am but it seemed that we needed to hear about some 'bitches' immediately to counter the vibe. I was being polite, and while we sat there trying to read, hip-hop competed with Christian rock ... and lost. I took the phone into another room and placed it down in such a way as so say "please don't ever give this to my kid again". I hope the message got through.
Maybe I am biased. As I self reflect, I'm sure I wouldn't mind if the message of the big J was being transmitted (albeit behind my back, which is another issue altogether) in the form of awesome gospel. It's probably a genre thing. I cannot stand Christian rock, it sounds like rock (kind of) and then drags you in to thinking it is something else, but really it is all about the big J. There are no illusions with Gospel, and it absolutely rocks (in a non-Christian rock way).

***

We went to a charity ball over the weekend. I must admit that it is quite nice to have reached a stage in life where I attend charity balls with my dashing partner. The last time I was in a remotely similar situation, I was 17 and as soon as we arrived my 'date' asked me to conduct a lady-wide survey to find out who (if any) of the girls there thought he was hot. This time around there was no after party with bad drinks and shenanigans in parks, just a lot of awesome dancing with fun people to not-that-exciting hits performed by a very good covers band. Is it just me, or is dancing to Brian Adams akin to saying you have absolutely given up on life and in turn, standards? I can't do Brian and I'm okay with that. There was also some 'entertainment' built into the night and I watched, captivated as 6 young fit things tore up the stage with singing/dancing cabaret stuff. It was all very 'corporate entertainment', especially when the sexy lady picked out the middle aged guys (*cringe*, but all the same eyes remained glued to spectacle) to dance. There may have even been some bump and grid involved. Later the professionals appeared in civilian clothing on the drunk and pumping dancefloor and frankly - their perkiness and ridiculously professional moves had no place there. Anyone in arm's length was at risk of losing an eye. 

***

When was the last time you had a massive belly laugh? I ask as when I did recently, I realised it had been a long long time between drinks. I have two recent examples ... one - the Sting impersonation my not-husband launched into seemingly out of nowhere (very good and hilarious) and two - hearing the angel say "tosser" and then burst into laughter. How did she know?? Perhaps it was me. Seems slightly easier to stomach than the big J obsession ... oh the bias of parenting!

Family fun times

April has been hectic, weddings, easter, work, the books ... the dreaded mid 30s. Some snaps ...

the easter frock

couch love

funny 

canberra wedding

the pea coat

family walk at 0800 on a sunday

independence

buggered