I have a confession to make. It’s a big one; you might not like it. In fact, you might not like me—it’s that bad. You know how we’ve been hanging out for a while, spending some time together …? It’s just that, well, I’ve met someone else. And we’re in love. Well, I am. It was an accident, I never meant this to happen … really, you’ve got to believe me.
It’s not my fault, he’s just everything I’ve ever looked for in a man: charming, funny, erudite … rich. There’s just one problem.
His politics.
Dear reader, I have abandoned you and everything we stood for, because quite simply, I am in love. Rapturously, mind-blowingly, heart-thumpingly in love. With Malcolm Turnbull. I don’t know how it happened. I mean, I love Kevin. I do. I just don’t love him, if you know what I mean. But Malcolm; Malcolm leaves me breathless, giggling like a schoolgirl into my twinset and pearls.
There’s just something about Malcolm; maybe it’s the hair, maybe it’s those rounded vowels, maybe it’s the way he made even the word ‘battler’ sound like it’s dripping with luscious blue blood. I really don’t know, but what I do know is that if there’s any more TV coverage of this particular silver fox, I may have to toss out my leftist sympathies for good.
So what’s a girl to do? If the situation were reversed, I know exactly how things would go. Malcolm would burst through my study door. His hair would be tousled; he would look wretched, tormented. He would possibly be wearing breeches. He would look deep into my eyes and say, through gritted teeth, “In vain have I struggled. It will not do. You must allow me to tell you how much I ardently admire and … love you”.
Upon seeing his magnificent grounds at Double Bay, or wherever it is he lives, and after much ideological foreplay, I would relent. I would ascend to position of stratospheric power and influence to prove that class is no barrier to success in Australia. And he, under the influence of my socialist tendencies, would give away his money to the poor. Well, not all of it; or, at least, not enough to make a difference to us, anyway.
It'd make a great book, eh?
As things stand, however, I don’t have much ammunition on my side. I can’t afford my health insurance, see, so my bright eyes have a bit of a squint these days; with my ill-fitting clothes I’m probably not quite handsome enough to tempt him; I could perhaps get my maid to cook him a seductive meal of tofu, but it might be a little bland, as fresh veg is kind of costly right now. At the very least it will be by candlelight (this will help save on utilities, too).
It kills me to say this, Mal, but it’s just not meant to be. I love you, I do, but you’re living, as I once read in a particularly bad Tolstoy translation, ‘in cloud-cuckoo land’. This doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. I’d do anything for you, really, you have to believe me. You can have my heart, you can have my soul, you can have my body, you can even, tempter that you are, have my self-respect. But my life’s darling, heart of my heart, source of all meaning in my world; it pains me to say this, but you can never, ever, have my vote.
xox
Showing posts with label politics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label politics. Show all posts
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Saturday, June 14, 2008
A testament to pseudoephedrine
This week I have been sick. Sick, sick, sick. It's just a Belgian 'summer' (and I use the term advisedly, today it's been raining and a chipper 15C) cold, but I feel disgusting - puffy face, grotty nose, and my ears keep popping - all of which gives me the appearance of a slightly unbalanced, alcoholic garden gnome. Hardly the most clear-sighted perspective from which to weigh in on the battle of the sexes. Or to be thinking, really, but I love you guys so I'm going to give it a crack.
Now, what really got the brain bells buzzing on this was the somewhat unwanted comment from a male coworker on my new cold-induced and apparently 'sexy' husky voice. At the best of times, I am many things; at lesser times, I am a few; when I've just spewed something unmentionable into a tissue and broken into a sweat at my keyboard, I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, sexy (unless, perhaps, you thought that 'Two Girls and One Cup' posed a viable alternative to the recycled sewage debate). I have to say, this comment made me a little uncomfortable, and when the only response I could muster was, "I sound like a man, man", I did hope that my (apparent) lady-loveliness would be dimmed by a subliminal reference to The Crying Game. Yes, even in imaginary form, mine is bigger than yours.
Now, after the ick factor of having the 's' word mentioned at work had subsided, this comment got me thinking about gender roles in this day and age. I have to say, I don't worry about being female too much myself. While we seem to be rather lacklustre about supporting feminism in Australia, I do believe that it has a place in current Australian society, and am mystified by women who think that the mere discussion of equality will entail their forced submission to a compulsory razor buy-back scheme. Three words, ladies: Paid. Maternity. Leave.
That said, on a daily basis I don't find the life of a woman of comparative leisure that difficult to cope with, and indeed, the only times I ever really think about it are when I'm flirting my little bluestockings off, or if, as posted below, some little ferret decides to show me his wares on my evening walk.
However, I have worked primarily in either female dominated or 'knowledge' industries, so presumably my relationship to gender in professional terms is generally relatively easy to negotiate. But what if this wasn't the case? What if I had desperately wanted to be an engineer, or a miner, or, let's say citizenship and the desire not to link myself with an economic and moral black hole wasn't an issue, to run for the American presidency? In relation to the issues of 'racism vs sexism' that the US democrat campaign has barely contained, Waleed Aly has argued that while, "Obama discovered the acceptable black man [...] Clinton could find no acceptable way of being a powerful woman".
This made me think: if I was willing to take responsiblity for the lives of more than the small collection of fungi in my shower, what version of myself would I have to present to be a contender? Would I need to start calling the cloudfree sky of rural Australia deliberately barren? Would I be perpetually worried about the contents of my 'fruit bowl'?
I'll be very interested to see how the media portrays Rudd's female cabinet powerhouse now that the honeymoon period is well and truly over. I wonder, how restrictive are our understandings of Australian women in power, anyway?
Now, what really got the brain bells buzzing on this was the somewhat unwanted comment from a male coworker on my new cold-induced and apparently 'sexy' husky voice. At the best of times, I am many things; at lesser times, I am a few; when I've just spewed something unmentionable into a tissue and broken into a sweat at my keyboard, I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, sexy (unless, perhaps, you thought that 'Two Girls and One Cup' posed a viable alternative to the recycled sewage debate). I have to say, this comment made me a little uncomfortable, and when the only response I could muster was, "I sound like a man, man", I did hope that my (apparent) lady-loveliness would be dimmed by a subliminal reference to The Crying Game. Yes, even in imaginary form, mine is bigger than yours.
Now, after the ick factor of having the 's' word mentioned at work had subsided, this comment got me thinking about gender roles in this day and age. I have to say, I don't worry about being female too much myself. While we seem to be rather lacklustre about supporting feminism in Australia, I do believe that it has a place in current Australian society, and am mystified by women who think that the mere discussion of equality will entail their forced submission to a compulsory razor buy-back scheme. Three words, ladies: Paid. Maternity. Leave.
That said, on a daily basis I don't find the life of a woman of comparative leisure that difficult to cope with, and indeed, the only times I ever really think about it are when I'm flirting my little bluestockings off, or if, as posted below, some little ferret decides to show me his wares on my evening walk.
However, I have worked primarily in either female dominated or 'knowledge' industries, so presumably my relationship to gender in professional terms is generally relatively easy to negotiate. But what if this wasn't the case? What if I had desperately wanted to be an engineer, or a miner, or, let's say citizenship and the desire not to link myself with an economic and moral black hole wasn't an issue, to run for the American presidency? In relation to the issues of 'racism vs sexism' that the US democrat campaign has barely contained, Waleed Aly has argued that while, "Obama discovered the acceptable black man [...] Clinton could find no acceptable way of being a powerful woman".
This made me think: if I was willing to take responsiblity for the lives of more than the small collection of fungi in my shower, what version of myself would I have to present to be a contender? Would I need to start calling the cloudfree sky of rural Australia deliberately barren? Would I be perpetually worried about the contents of my 'fruit bowl'?
I'll be very interested to see how the media portrays Rudd's female cabinet powerhouse now that the honeymoon period is well and truly over. I wonder, how restrictive are our understandings of Australian women in power, anyway?
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