Harriet Archer - Girl Reporter

Can you remember....

2007-11-25T16:33:00.000+11:00

The bloke of the house and I were having a discussion the other day about the humble mobile phone.

Now, I was a relatively early adopter of this technology - I justified mine as I needed to be contactable when my father was very ill. My parents were even earlier adopters - they had one of those Bag Phones... Gigantic and cumbersome, the size of a rather large shoebox - but for the parental units who liked to go off the beaten track - quite a practical, and really awe inspiring device, despite the need for both of them to stand on the roof of the 4WD - one to hold the bag and one to talk on the phone - in order for them to get any reception at all...

It was a lot better than having to leave messages at umpty dozen caravan parks in the (usually) vain hope they would call in there for a shower on their way to somewhere else wild and savage.

My first phone was a lot more modern... Mine was a flip phone, it was small enough to fit in my pocket and I didn't need to stand on the roof of anything in order to use it! The main problem I had with mine was its tendency to go flat if I made or received more than three calls; accidently changing the language to Norwegian when I was on holidays (but my housemate had the same phone, so I could call him to get instructions to change it back); oh, and my housemate having an identical phone to mine and neither of us realising for two days...

But I sure felt special, I tell you.

There are indeed some benefits to having a mobile phone - if you break down in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night, you don't need to walk for kilometres in the dark and knock on the door of some freaky potential serial killer's house and ask to use their phone. And you don't need to walk back to your car with the certain knowledge that the aforementioned freaky serial killer has just cancelled your call to the auto club and is right this very moment stalking you down their very long driveway. Oh, and you're not getting wet, either, because it is in the rules that cars must break down in the middle of the night when it's raining.

It doesn't matter that I don't have a specific work number - I have a mobile, so can be contacted on that if there's anything wrong with the kids. And when my dad was ill, I stressed less about being away from home for any length of time, and thus uncontactable.

I remember sitting at home, waiting for a call, for hours and hours when I was an angsty teen ager (and I have the hand-written angsty teen diaries to prove it... "why doesn't he call me? I know there's a phone at the cricket club. I'm sure he's got 20c to make the call. I'm not going to drive down there..." I guess if I was a teen today, I could send him progressively angrier text messages, whilst I messaged my girlfriends on MSN. Or just plain go out and if he called, he did...

Now, though, my leaving the house litany is "purse phone keys" assuming I am alone, of course. Otherwise, it takes me ten minutes to reel off my list of "must haves" when I walk out the door - kids, nappies, snacks, toys, change of clothes, hats sunscreen wipes purse phone keys. I rarely leave the house without that tiny, pocket sized anchor to the rest of my life.

I rarely use it for "emergencies", most of the calls I make are "darling, how much milk do we have?" or "can you bring the washing in?" and not forgetting the "where the hell are you?" call that I was not able to make when I actually was an angsty teen instead of the mature and responsible adult I am now.

Except sometimes I forget it...

And you know what?

It feels good, it feels free...

And really really naughty.

Just a little wafer thin mint...

2007-10-18T21:15:00.000+10:00

Just one little thing.

It will only take a minute.

Really.

A minute of your time is all that it will take.

So you feel compelled to say "ok", because it really is only a minute and it really is a little thing.

But hang on, wait a second... What about that little thing you're doing for Fred? And that one for Mary? Not to mention that wee five minute job you said you'd do for Tom in your lunch break? Then, that one little thing gets added to a pile of other little things and all of a sudden you're facing a mountain of tiny little jobs that will indeed only take a minute or two. EACH. And that five minute job? Well, yes - the actual job takes five minutes, but it takes 15 minutes to get there, 10 minutes waiting to be seen and another 15 minutes to get back to work - and there goes your 45 minute lunch break.

Why can we not just say NO to a request for a minute of our time? Is it because we fear being seen as unreasonable and stingy - what's a minute, anyway? Sixty seconds, what can you do in sixty seconds? Not a lot, so surely it's no bother to help out...

Right now, on my desk, I have a little pile of paper - "You're here til 5pm, can you just call this person for me" No worries, a phone call will indeed only take a minute - but there's some follow up, a fax to receive, check that it has the right information, call back and confirm receipt of said fax and that yes it indeed does say what it needs to say. Then it needs to be handed off to the person who asked you to make the call, explanations need to be made and that one minute phone call has turned into an hour of your day.

And I have four of them, in varying stages of completion, that I have to check on becase I said "Sure, I'll do that for you" And that work I have to do, regardless, gets rushed or pushed aside; and instead of leaving work calmly at 5pm, I'm running out the door half an hour late to pick up the kids, there's a mountain of unfinished work to deal with in the morning and you just know that because you're running late now; nothing is going to help you catch up - short of taking a leap through the gap in the space-time continuum or some judicious use of a transporter beam - your well-oiled evening routine goes completely out the window because you only took a minute to help someone out (because, ironically, they chose to leave work on time...)

Why can we not ask someone else for a minute of their time? Because we know damn well it's not actually a minute we're after and would feel guilty for offloading something to which we are committed. At home, it's even worse, because you know that you could nag, beg, cajole, bribe, yell, scream and/or plead with a family member to pick up their socks or put their dishes in the dishwasher - but it only takes a minute to actually do it (rather than the three hours of nagging), so you do it yourself. Multiply that minute for the washing, that minute for the dishes, that minute to take the bins out, that minute to find the lost whatever it was that wouldn't be lost if it's owner took a MINUTE and put it away... by the number of family members you have, though and all of a sudden, you have lost half a day. You still have the same amount of jobs of your own to do, but less time in which to do them.

And where does that extra time come from? Your time. Your time to relax, unwind, watch your favourite tv show is eaten up by doing something for someone else that will just take a minute...

Remeber that scene in Monty Python's Meaning of Life where the waiter offers the gigantic man "just a little wafer"...

STAND BACK!!!

I think she's gonna BLOW!

Pandora's Box

2007-10-14T13:23:00.000+10:00

This piece was written as a creative writing exercise for a Literature unit I took at University last year. It is supposed to be read as a monologue, and was written as a response to a question regarding prejudice.

For your reading pleasure, may I introduce to you "Everymother and 'Pandora's Box'"

PANDORA'S BOX

A nursery.

There is a cot; a change table with a pile of washing, mainly small baby clothes and cloth nappies etc. There is also a rocking chair with a small chest next to it. A woman enters and starts to fold the washing. When the washing is completely folded, she upends it and starts again. On the wall is a clock, it’s about ten to three. There is a lamp on the small chest and it is turned on.

I am so tired, you know that? I don’t think I have ever been this tired in my entire life. It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning, and I should be asleep. He’s asleep. He’d sleep through an earthquake. And the baby is asleep, too, finally. I didn’t think I’d ever get the baby back to sleep tonight, and now I’m still awake.

May as well fold up this washing.

You know, THEY never tell you about this, the bone crushingly aching exhaustion that comes with having a child. I suppose if they did, people wouldn’t do it. But THEY like to tell you about everything else. Everything you’re doing wrong, everything you’re doing that’s different to what they did…

But especially everything you’re doing wrong.

There’s a time between when you first find out that you’re pregnant and when you first start to tell people, that it’s all shiny and new and precious. When you hold that tiny glowing jewel of knowledge close to your chest, when you catch yourself smiling at nothing, and dreaming of what may be.

Then, you start to tell people, let them in to your small, glowing world and it starts.

Oh. You’re pregnant are you? Was it planned?

That’s a bit sudden isn’t it?
So, you’re going to get married now?
What doctor are you going to? Oh him… I could tell you a thing or two about him. My cousin’s best friend’s sister’s aunty...
At your age?

And this is from the people you know and love and trust and expect to at least be pleased for you. Everyone is an expert on pregnancy; even strange old men on trams.

Especially strange old men on trams.

When you start to show, it’s as if your face disappears. You’re just a belly with legs, nothing more. No one seems to look you in the eye any more, they can’t take their eyes off your belly. And you’re no longer an individual. You no longer have a separate identity. People call you “mum”. Health professionals, friends, relatives…

And how’s Mum today?
I don’t know; I haven’t spoken to her yet. But I’M fine, if you’re interested…

Your body is no longer your own. Total strangers, who normally would not even make eye contact with you take the sight of your pregnant body as carte blanche to touch you, rub your belly like the Buddha, incarnate.

I know someone who groped her groper back. This woman, a total stranger to my friend, started rubbing her belly and saying how lovely it was; so my friend reached out and copped a feel of her chest (makes action like polishing a ball with her hands). Talk about outrage! This stranger was so mortally offended that my friend invaded her personal space, invaded her privacy, that she started talking assault…

Yes, I know, ridiculous, isn’t it? This woman gropes my friend then cries foul when she’s touched in return?

And people feel compelled to comment on your appearance. It’s like pregnancy is the last bastion of political incorrectness… I mean you wouldn’t go up to a really fat person and say “MY GOD, you’re HUGE. If you eat that cup cake, you’re going to EXPLODE” It’s not nice. It’s not polite. It’s just not done. But hey, if you’re pregnant… anything goes.

You’re so big,
Are you sure you’re not having twins?
What have you got in there? An elephant?

Judgement Day doesn’t end with the pregnancy, either. Once you actually have your baby, there’s another Pandora’s Box of expert opinions just waiting to be unleashed upon your world.

Breast is best and if you feed your baby formula, you’re dooming it to a life time of stupidity and disease. And what if you can’t breastfeed? Well, you’re obviously a failure as a mother and they should call the baby snatchers straight away. What if it’s not so much a case of not being able to do it, as not being able to…? To breastfeed your child, you need to be comfortable with your body because no matter how hard you try to keep yourself nice, that helpless little infant will do its damnedest to keep your clothing off his dinner.

Which leads to the whole out and about with the baby thing – some people just cannot deal with you breastfeeding your child in public and want to shuffle you off to a dim, dark corner somewhere; and while there are laws – we’re just too well brought up to create a scene. So effectively you’re damned if you don’t breastfeed and banished if you do. Breastfeeding is all about “YOU”, because you’re the only one that can do it, particularly at 3am.

There’s a group of breastfeeding advocates out there, let’s call them the Militant Bosom Ladies, shall we? They would have you think that breast is the only option and that if you dare think you’d like to be away from your baby and alone for a minute, you probably should have just got a dog. These are the women who, if you dare mention you’re considering not breastfeeding, will shove mountains of literature in your face and refer you to sites on the internet to convince you. Because you absolutely must breastfeed; making breast milk is a superpower after all. But if you try to convince one of these Militant Bosom Ladies that there are choices and options and breast is not for everyone – they are outraged. But they don’t think there is anything wrong with forcing you to their will, because Breast is Best, you know.

When your baby is a month or so old, you get matched up with a group of women who have babies the same age as yours. This is great, you can bond together and compare notes and tips, and even better, your kid has someone to play with.

Right.

At first, you talk about your babies and bond over a coffee and cake, but after a while it’s “Oh, isn’t he crawling yet?”; “What on earth are you going to do about the shape of her head?” and “My baby’s been sleeping through for ages” and before you know it, you and your baby are competing in the “Baby Olympics” - Motherhood has become a competition. Little Tarquin is signed up for violin and Japanese, and plays three different sports while you sit back, feeling inadequate because your child is barely walking, let alone running for Australia in the under threes. It’s as if children aren’t allowed to be just little kids any more. If they’re not participating in every activity known to human kind, you are a failure as a parent and obviously don’t care about your child, or its future.

And don’t even think about going back to work to pay for all these extra activities. That involves putting your child in child care and letting someone else care for your precious child. Being a mother is a full time job, but it’s really not all that stimulating. And when you’ve spent years getting an education or building a career, you really don’t want to discard it to stay at home with your kids.

Wrong.

Again.

By not staying at home, you’re going to make your kids turn into delinquents, into latch key children who run amok defacing the neighbourhood. Better to stay at home making cakes and being ready to take them to all these after school activities you’ve signed them up for.

Everyone has an opinion about how you’re raising your kids, and for some reason they feel justified in telling you, even if they don't know you or your parenting style... Old ladies will point and comment just loudly enough for you to hear about how things were different in their day when your kid has a head banging tantrum in the middle of a shop. You’re too permissive if you let them run around; and too repressive when you keep them under control. Everyone has an opinion and 20c worth of advice for you. And you better take that advice because it worked for them!

And it’s women who do this to other women – women who look down their noses and whisper behind their hands about what you’re doing and not doing with your child. Women. The very people you’d expect to give you the most support and understanding are the ones most likely to criticise you and demean you and belittle your decisions in the name of friendship and the sisterhood.

A baby starts to cry.

The baby’s awake now.

The woman walks over to the cot and picks up the baby. She sits in the rocking chair and starts to feed it.

There’ll still be washing tomorrow…

Park at your own risk

2007-10-14T13:04:00.000+10:00

SOME EXPLANATION IS NEEDED TO START OFF WITH:

I live and work in a large, regional city. As with most cities, parking can come at somewhat of a premium.At the start of the year, it wasn't too bad. Then the City Of Digging Stuff Up and Knocking Things Down (CODSUANKTD) gave building approval to build not one but TWO further lots of apartments on two of the remaining reasonably central carparks AND allowed a major shopping development to take place on the other one; and as a result more than 1000 car parks were lost. And lost permanently (unless the shopping centre brings back the Early Bird all day parking for $5 thing; which I seriously doubt.

As you can imagine, the consequences of the loss of 1000 carparks in the CBD has been an influx of cars parking on residential streets. And the residents are Not Impressed. They cannot get a park outside their own houses, and if they happen to get one, are virtually stuck there for the day, as they wouldn't be able to get a park within a block when they get home. Now, part of this problem is caused by the aforementioned CODSUANKTD allowing people to knock down the old weatherboard house with off street parking for 2-3 cars and replace them with lots of three or four units with parking for 1.6 cars per unit on site. When the workers complained - the CODSUANKTD responded by telling them that if they lived in the Big Smoke, they'd have to park miles and miles and miles away... Now, I don't know about everyone else, but I choose to live in a regional city for a reason, and this town is NOT the Big Smoke. So the CODSUANKTD decided that in order to be fair, they would implement a Park 'n' Ride system at a carpark roughly 2km from the CBD and run a bus every 15 minutes for a cost; and in addition they would convert half the off street parking within a 2km radius to 2 hourly parking and charge the residents for parking permits... Yup, charge the people who are paying inner city rates an additional $40 per car park for the privilege of parking out the front of their own homes.

Anyway, this brings me to the purpose of my tale.

I live just over 2km from the CBD, my kids go to childcare about 1.5km from home, and a smidge under 1km from work. The Park 'n' Ride would mean having to leave home 30 minutes EARLIER in order to maybe meet up with a bus, and end up having to walk 20 minutes to work. (Please note: it's not the walk that bothers me, it's the time factor). It also means travelling the same distance as driving HOME, so I'd be better off dropping the car off and walking from there! So with much calculating and experimentation, I have discovered that if I park at daycare and walk from there, it actually takes less time than driving and parking elsewhere, and I end up walking maybe 100m maximum more than I was previously (see, told you I didn't mind the walk).

The added bonus of this is that because my fine young son is a slacker, and objects to walking further than he absolutely has to whilst carrying his brother's daycare bag; it means I can generally get him revved up enough in the morning to be early so we get a "good" park. Now, there are roughly seven or eight (depending on size of car and parking skillz) car parks out the front of daycare; and there is a very strict albeit unwritten "ettiquette" to parking, particularly for the first three cars:

Car #1 MUST park as far forward as they can, because
Car #2 has to allow for getting kids out of the car around a telegraph pole that would be in the middle of the back door if they were parked further forward, which means
Car #3 has to park right up the exhaust pipe of car #2 in order to not block the driveway.

So, as long as Car #1 parks as far forward as possible, there is enough room for three cars in one strip. It works, we've worked it out, and it works every single morning. We normally get Park #2 or 3, but this morning, relegated to Park #5! And why?

Because a DAD DROPPED OFF IN PARK #1.

You do not DROP OFF in the parks out the front; drop offs are done in the carpark! And at 7.30am, the carpark is NOT congested, so there is no need to upset the day of at least three Working Mothers who have undoubtedly (at my house, anyway) already been up for hours and have spent the majority of that time yelling at assorted children to get ready and may or may not be caffienated to an adequate level to accept any degree of change in the morning. Not to mention the simple fact that preschoolers and toddlers are creatures of Routine and do not like changes thrust upon them, particularly when mum hasn't had enough coffee.
And he parked badly, so when Car #2 and Car #3 filled behind him, then he left, there was only room for a very little car in Park #1.

I tell you what, if I get my hands on him...

Latte darling.

2007-09-27T21:15:00.000+10:00

This tale is completely true.

My sister used to live in inner city Melbourne - a place where coffee is king. There are a myriad number of coffee places - from the gigantic chains, and the ubiquitous Aunty's place...all the way to the tiniest hole in the wall barista plying his (or her - but normally his) trade.

The inner city is also home to The Pretentious Wanker (aka The Suit). You know the type - Zegna suit, flashy tie, surgically attached to his mobile phone... Master of his Universe

Picture this...

A tiny hole in the wall cafe; has two stand up tables, serves perfect coffee every morning, then shuts for the day around 11am.

A small, old, perpetually angry Italian barista.

The Suit.

jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj

The cafe is crowded, roaring trade at 8am, people waiting patiently for their coffees. The Suit swarms into the cafe, elbows his way through the patiently waiting throngs, talking loudly on his mobile phone, slams some coins on the counter and demands "Latte"

The barista hands him his latte and The Suit takes a gigantic and manly swig.

The Suit: (spitspitspit) THIS IS JUST MILK!!!!

The Barista: (shrugs) You order latte. NEX'

The Bean of Life

2007-09-27T20:52:00.000+10:00

The groovy cool cafe near work is Very Rude to fat people (unless they are very cool) and prior to Christmas, I got seriously ignored.Two of my friends still get ignored there; and refuse to darken their door and fatten their till with their hard earned cash. So when I have break with them, we go to a chain of coffee shops named after someone's aunty. BUT Groovy but Rude Cafe has MUCH MUCH MUCH better coffee, the best florentines I have discovered so far, AND, now I am comparitively thin, they can see me and therefore give me good service!

So I have a moral dilemma - do I spend my $20 a week elsewhere; and sacrifice the wellbeing of my tastebiddies for the greater good of society?

Or do I say - To Hell with you all! The Coffee is what's important! And the Florentine!

So far, I am leaning toward the coffee and the florentine overruling the moral imperative to support my chunky sisters. I am indeed a shallow and trivial person. But man, after a few cups from GbRC, the Aunty's offering is shall we say... Thin. Watery. Insubstantial. Basically crap. They had a guy there briefly who made a GOOD cup of coffee. In fact, that's when I really noticed the difference - that their normal offering is indeed pretty wishy washy, and generally quite unsatisfying. The girls both drink weak coffee; I think it's about the socialisation for them; a chat and a warm drink.

Whereas for me it's about the bean. It's ALL about the bean.

I drink coffee because I like the taste of a well brewed drop. When I was pregnant, and couldn't drink it; I was devastated. I MISSED it. In fact, of all the foods I wasn't allowed or physically couldn't eat - coffee was the only one I was sad about. Oh, I missed chocolate as well - but nothing like the degree to which I missed coffee. I would sniff at Other People's Cups and lurk around coffee grinders which is hard to do secretly when one is 11 and a half months pregnant. I like my Arabica, I order a cafe latte (because I do not want a cup of warm milk, thank you very much); given a selection of cafes to purchase a coffee, I will decide based on the bean served (Fan of Lavazza, Vittoria, Illy... Not a fan of Aurora or Mio); and if I were not so lazy, would grind my own beans freshly each day.

I Like Coffee.

Instant just doesn't cut it in the coffee stakes any more. I do still drink it to be polite and to have a warm drink with a chat - just a splash of milk, thanks. No sugar. But life's too short for bad coffee!

Fashion Police – Arrested.

2007-08-25T22:56:00.000+10:00

I have a very firmly held belief that if I can remember wearing something the first time, I am too old to wear it the second time. This makes me a fully paid up member of the fashion police.

I cannot honestly say I am a particularly stylish person. I am definitely not a fashionable person. I am not a shape that’s ever been fashionable (even in my ultra thin period, I wasn’t fashionable. Because then, curves were the *in* thing, of course. Thin with curves.) I like to wear clothes that fit me well, that are slightly tailored. I like clothes that have a shape, and accentuate the positives of *my* shape. I like suits and button shirts for work; and jeans and t-shirts for play.

I have just spent five or so years being fat, pregnant or both. I am finally neither. I am still in need of work, but that’s what the gym is for. So I am excited; I am a decent shape, I am of a size where I can shop in the normal sized shops, I haven’t really bought clothes in – well, five years. I no longer have to scruffle around in the fat chick sizes looking for something that is decently made, actually designed for a larger person and made in a decent fabric.

Credit card in hand, I hit the shops. And they hit back! Then I look around me… and see what people are actually wearing. And wonder if they’re wearing those clothes because that’s all there is? What makes someone think they look great in something that doesn’t look all that appealing on a store mannequin? Or are they truly wearing them because they like them?

Surely not!

Smocks don’t look good on anyone. If you’re not pregnant, you look it. And whilst some people don’t mind looking pregnant… I DO! Smocks are not attractive garments. It wasn’t that long ago when smocks were for pregnant women to hide their bumps. Remember Princess Dianna and the horrendous outfits she wore? There was outrage, there should be pride! Pregnant women should display their curves and humps with joy. So fashion dictated that pregnant women can look stylish whilst being comfortable at the same time.

According to the fashionista’s – smocks are the most uber fabulous of all fabulous garments – they skim over unsightly bulges and make everyone look all slinky and delightful because you know, wearing oversized clothes totally does make you look thinner.

So what’s happened to all the smock makers from twenty years ago? Have they been lurking in back rooms, secretly plotting and planning the revival of the smock? Have they been collecting the most appalling and hideous prints and the most unattractive fabrics that are guaranteed to start pilling within two hours of wearing the garment? Has some hideously fat muumuu wearing fashion designer decided that they can finally get their revenge?

Smock in psychedelic paisley, lace trimmed leggings (and I remember wearing them in the 80’s), gigantic sunglasses (circa Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis after a really big night out) and thongs. Mmm mmm.

This is fashion.

This is fashion that looks lousy on 20 somethings. I’m a 40 something. And I have NOTHING to wear.