Yearly Archives: 2013

Politics, apathy and me

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2013-australian-federal-election-300x199Nine years ago, I left Australia because I had the shits about who had just been elected prime minister.

At the time, as you can probably guess, I was a very socially-aware beastie who also often reported on Australia’s political parties during my day job as a left-leaning journalist. I remember writing long-winded and heart-felt monologues about what was fundamentally wrong with John Howard, Brendan Nelson and especially Tony Abbott.

Fast forward a decade and I don’t think I have ever been so apathetic about an election in my entire life. In fact, the difference between my astuteness from then and now is almost like I have morphed into a completely different person. Maybe I’ve just grown up? Or perhaps I just don’t like either of the choices that our major parties have to offer? I’m thinking it is the latter.

And it does seem that I am not the only one. A news report a few weeks ago explained that Generation Y was also very apathetic about Saturday’s Federal Election. According to an Australian Youth Affairs Coalition spokesperson, many politicians thought that just because they could take a mean “selfie” or just had a Twitter account that meant that they were engaging with younger voters.

“So many MPs use social media as a means of pushing out their thoughts almost as advertisements, rather than using it for meaningful dialogue,” the spokesperson said.

“They feel obliged to use the technology but it’s only a very small number (of politicians) who manage to make the most of Twitter.”

But no matter what the medium, the latest wave of eligible voters won’t play a part in democracy if Australia’s current guise of governing continues, the peak national body for youth said at the time.

But my apathy is not because the major parties are not using social media to their best advantage. In fact, I have a Twitter account which I use only spasmodically to promote this blog and little else (oops, that sounds very much like what politicians do).  No, I think my apathy is because as a single, childless, professional woman, my life is unlikely to change no matter which party wins on Saturday. That’s a cold hard fact.

And if I was to have a purely selfish (actually is that where the word ‘selfie’ comes from?) and economic view about it all, then I would probably vote for the party which my father has long espoused as being the best for a certain demographic.

Dad and I have regular debates about the pros and cons of both sides of politics on both sides of the Tasman. He never changes his mind and nor do I, but we (mostly) listen to each other’s opinions and then discount everything that each other has said and sublimely move on to talking about me.

This election period, I have not watched one debate, I have read no more than half a dozen news articles – one of which was showing photos of “hot” politicians when they were younger – and thankfully I haven’t been anywhere near a shopping centre when either of the main players were on the hustings.  The last bit is quite important you see as I happen to live in the prime minister’s electorate.

But even though I haven’t been overly-interested in this campaign to date, on Saturday when I head down to the polls very early it is highly unlikely I will vote any differently than I have for many years.  My politics are my politics, regardless of who is leading the party, and I’ve always believed in egalitarianism above everything else.

Maybe I’m just not as passionate as I used to be about anything. Or maybe the day-to-day hum-drum of life has overtaken my once overt political awareness. Or maybe I should just throw my hat in the ring instead of whinging about the lack of choice from my ivory tower of privilege.

Pet cemetery

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Pet cemetery pic

I was recently at my friend’s house when I innocently asked my godson: “Where’s the guinea pig?” My godson, who is two and a half, replied equally as harmlessly: “In the hole that daddy made.”

Some people should have pets and some people shouldn’t. I think I am in the latter. I do have a cat called Trixie McMoo Moo who some of you may have even met when she actually lived with me. These days she is domiciled with my mother and step-father in semi-rural, outer Brisbane and has a life of such sheer indulgence that she no longer even acknowledges my presence when I pop around to visit. No more waiting at the front door with eager feline anticipation for me. Nope, Trixie McMoo Moo just generally ignores me these days and probably even pisses on my car tyres in some type of pussy pay-back for her ridiculous name when I’m inside having a cuppa.

But I didn’t give her up because I couldn’t care for her – even though the days she did big poos just outside the cat litter box (I’m sure on purpose) were both highly annoying and stinky at the same time. I transferred ownership to my mum and step-father because being stuck inside an apartment all day is not much fun for anyone let alone a cat who I’m sure in a previous life was actually a pharaoh in Egypt who had geckos for servants as well as for dinner.

I saw Trixie yesterday, and apart from an unfortunate period when she lost half her fur and literally looked like a bald pussy, her life is much better than it was with me – even though I do miss her especially in winter when she like an alive, hot-water bottle under the covers. But even though I miss her, I have no desire to replace her – except perhaps with a boyfriend who is a little better toilet-trained.

Now I’m not saying that my friend mentioned above, let’s call her Julie, and her family should not know the unselfish, forever love that comes with pet ownership either, but generally speaking the menagerie of animals that they have semi-reared over the years have all ended up in a hole in the ground.

In “researching” this blog, I asked Jules how many critters were now lying a few feet under the surface of what appeared to be a normal suburban backyard. Well, she said, there’s the two guinea pigs, two chickens, a blue-tongued lizard (which wasn’t really a pet but used to just hang out being all chilled and, you know, reptile-like by the pool), and a cat which they inherited from the old bloke next door. What about the cat Lulu, I asked. No, she just ran away and never came back she said. Hmm, methinks there is something more literal in that statement.

But before anyone goes all RSPCA on me, the vast majority of these animals have died because they were old. And to Julie, and her parents, a pet is a pet but it’s also just an animal. So what this means is that they have always fed and watered them and even played with them too. What they have never done is indulged them. No trips to doggy day-spas for any of their creatures, nor any sojourns to pussy pampering pet motels where they can get their nails clipped or whiskers plucked and preened. Nope, the most they can hope for is a bowl of Whiskas, maybe some left other fish, and probably a pat on the head.

They do take them to the vet if they’re sick. They even worried about one of their cats being embarrassed in public because its name was actually Ball Bag, so they gave him a false, much more inoffensive name, like Tinkerbelle, whenever it was time to get his shots done. Ball Bag is dead now too but he was also very old when he finally went to the great cattery in the sky.

So while I might make fun of the fact they have various animal carcasses and skeletal remains littered a few feet under their well-tended garden, at least they have always known that pets are for life and not just for Christmas. Their pets just better not expect any type of toy or pressie when the Yuletide season next rolls around.

Beware of the SWB

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I once held the moniker of the second-most scary woman in New Zealand. It was probably the first time in my life that I didn’t care that I wasn’t in the number one position. One of my best friends held that salubrious distinction.

But these scary women tags were not because of a team-entry into some kind of bitch quiz or competition. No, my friend’s husband used to openly furnish us with these adjectives thinking it was dead funny.  In April, his marriage to my friend was officially over. I guess she (and I) didn’t find being labelled as a founding member of a Scary Women Brigade (SWB) that funny after all.

My reflections on scary women (which actually is an unintelligent synonym for assertive in my opinion) has been heightened of late due to having one too many experiences with a BOUA (Bunch Of Useless Arseholes) which made me trumpet my SWB membership card with pride and more than a little prejudice.

If the Scary Women Brigade did actually exist, not only would I be a member but I’ve come to realise so would a number of my girlfriends.  I guess it makes sense that women of a certain ilk – that is self-assured and confident – would congregate together in a posse of pro-activity. And it’s no secret that I have never had any time for wet blankets or eunuchs for that matter.

My recent experiences where the level of customer service was so abysmal that not only did I repeat the phrase: “I really am flabbergasted” over and over in a car showroom to some poor unsuspecting newbie, but I also staged a sit-in on a repeat visit so that four months after paying a deposit for my first-ever, brand new car I actually had some small chance of finally receiving it.

Likewise, at about the same time, I encountered incompetence on such a grand scale that I got legal advice to try to get out of the situation. Thankfully my friend, and housemate, is a lawyer and also a card-carrying member of the imaginary SWB so I was able to baffle them with enough big words and legal jargon that I’m sure in the end they agreed to let me out of the agreement just to get rid of me. Plus I think they knew that I knew they were crap.

What I’m so astounded about is that I’ve had a better level of service from a lowly-paid chick in a cheap frock shop than I did with assets that were worth tens of thousands, and then hundreds of thousands of dollars. Were they taking the piss or did they really think that customers are of nil importance in such significant transactions? Or perhaps my penchant for looking like a broke hippie confounded their expectations of me?

It’s strange, though, that my exposure as a scary woman to unsuspecting salespersons has filled me with no joy whatsoever. In fact, I generally try to be nice because I generally am nice. Indeed, my boss told me the other day that I have an extraordinarily-long frustration lever, which he said meant it took me a very long time to get frustrated and then I generally did something about it.

My house-mate, who only lives with me part-time, is definitely a member of the SWB. She once argued loudly with a sunglasses salesperson for about 20 minutes after taking over from her husband – who is also a lawyer so is no shrinking violet – because he didn’t seem to be able (in her opinion) to engineer a replacement pair of sunglasses.

The problem was they hadn’t kept the receipt. After feeling the full force that is my friend, even though she is only five feet tall on a good day and in high heels but she also is Italian, the salesperson threw up her hands and ordered a new pair of sunnies. The day her husband went back to pick them up, the salesperson said: “I’m so glad you didn’t bring your wife with you”.  Seemingly this is a regular occurrence with her husband regularly saying to customer service reps that “you can either deal with me about this, and try to resolve it amicably, or you can speak to my wife and you really don’t want to put yourself through that”.

But as the stress from dealing with a bunch of dickheads, and marvelling at their extraordinary level of ineptitude, starts to fade, I have found myself appreciating every relatively genuine smile from the young bloke in the deli of Coles just that little bit more. And I’ve come to realise that being a member of the Scary Women Brigade is probably not so bad after all – you don’t necessarily have to have testicles to have balls it seems.