Sigh. It’s June, cold weather has set in and I have so much to look forward to in the second half of the year; a colonoscopy, blood tests and boob squishing. I’ve just had my breasts woman-handled and squashed into a metal contraption, some people call it having a mammogram. After I breathed and tucked my pancakes back into my bra, I googled ‘who invented the mammogram machine,’ and surprise, surprise it was a man.
In Latin, mammography means ‘humiliating but necessary torment,’ and I’m sad to tell you that poor men miss out. Such a shame that the diagnostic tool for testicular cancer is not a machine that squashes testicles to the shape of a flattened cane toad.
Holy hell I can’t believe a female scientist/inventor in the last 50 years hasn’t said, “I can do better than this torture machine that renders boobs flat, I’m going to think up a method that is less arduous.” Yes, checking boobs is vital, I’ve already lost two friends to breast cancer, I get it, but when we have 4D ultrasound to look at unborn babies, why can’t we do better than this torture machine for women? Why can’t we get out of work good-looking model type people to feel us up, I mean force our boobs into the machine? That would be a good start.
I hope I get a good score on my boob test, but after breastfeeding three kids for many years, I don’t think my bosoms are going to appear in the next Baywatch film. Feel your boobies girls, or find someone hot to do it for you.
I received an email yesterday:
We are worried about the future of your mortgage
What mortgage? I thought as I lay awake at 3am. Then I found out that there’s a name for the cause of my insomnia: housing poverty. I pay 65% of my income in rent every week. I’m not in debt but I’m about three pay days away from severe financial distress. So most nights I wake at 2am wondering how I’m going to manage and stay awake until 4am.
Housing poverty occurs when people who fall in the bottom 40% of wage earners put more than 30% of their weekly take-home pay into housing, which reduces their capacity to save money and thus their financial resilience.
According to an analysis by the Council to Homeless Persons, those paying rent alone on the average weekly wage for women would be priced out of all but one inner Melbourne suburb and even outer Sydney.
Jenny Smith, the chief executive of Council to Homeless Persons and chair of national peak body Homelessness Australia, said the situation for many single women was untenable and left them vulnerable to homelessness in the event of a crisis, like losing their job or a high medical bill.
“When you look at your average single woman on an average wage, you can see it’s very, very difficult to rent anywhere reasonable,” Smith told Guardian Australia.
“If you do, you are essentially putting yourself into a poverty situation.”
Sydney is a wonderful city, offering so much, but how can we revel in art and music and the joys of life when we financially stressed to breaking point? Single motherhood can be an exhausting cycle of taking time away from work to focus on motherhood, then overworking to earn enough money to pay back debt. And this is compounded when children have any kind of health issues. Maternity leave when kids are small and most need an involved parent impacts women’s ability to earn enough to support their children. My financial stress is caused by:
- Ridiculous Sydney housing prices
- Father who doesn’t pay for his children
- Working in the highly rewarding but low-paid arts sector for my entire career
- No politician with the balls to take on negative gearing/capital gains tax and make affordable housing a priority
Single working women on average wages in Sydney and most of Melbourne cannot afford to live alone. Men can. Does that seem fair to you Bernard Salt? I’m going to keep eating smashed avocado as I can’t pay for my own home with room for all my kids. Oh well. I could possibly live in a bus shelter when I’m old and it will be peaceful sharing with our cat.
“If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun,” said Katherine Hepburn.
This week I watched a pretty young gal take her clothes off on stage accompanied by a piece of ‘edgy’ music. She had great boobs and a tight little tush but since when did stripping, also called burlesque, become something to challenge society? It is not a subversive act to dress provocatively unless you have a brain and an opinion that matches your wardrobe. Call me old fashioned but I don’t believe that getting your tits out is an act of radical feminism, unless it’s coupled with the will to crush the patriarchy. We’re ravaging the environment in the name of money, women are dying from DV at the hands of their male partners and females still earn much less than their male counterparts; the male-power dominated world needs to change radically. I don’t see how a bit of T & A is going to change that. Please challenge me on this, I’d love to hear your thoughts.
An old woman found an empty jar which had lately been full of prime old wine, and which still retained the fragrant smell of its former contents. She greedily placed it several times to her nose, and drawing it backwards and forwards, said,
“Oh most delicious! How nice must the wine have been, when it leaves behind in the very vessel which contained it so sweet a perfume!”
The moral of this story:
‘What memory clings around the instruments of our pleasure.’
This is not necessarily an autobiographical fable
CURRENT RELATIONSHIP STATUS:
Sleeping in the corner of a queen-sized bed with a fidgety cat, a feral child who sleeps mostly after midnight and mangy old teddies. When my kids ask me if I want to get another pet I think, ‘well they’re messy and difficult to keep and I haven’t really looked for one, but eventually I may want a man around the house.’ I’ve got five minutes remaining on the libido setting of my biological clock, so when I discovered the Oxford Dictionary has a word husbandable (it means fit for cultivation) I realised I should hunt for a man who is already house trained. Our life is such an attractive proposition for a man to join in: yelling pre-menopausal financially stressed mother, swearing teenager who throws things at her sisters, smart arse middle child and mental youngest. Why wouldn’t a good-looking man want to move in and help me raise my kids?
I have a big crush on someone who is possibly unsuitable for me, but I can’t wait to find the next man I’m going to break up with. I have to admit I am jealous of women with husbands. No one tells you when you become a single mother you’ll resent happily married couples calling each other cute pet names. They are revolting. Single mothers find out fast who our friends are; some women think you want to steal their husbands. These are usually the women with husbands who aren’t worth stealing.
During my seven years as a single mum I’ve had a few imaginary husbands. My next husband will audition in front of a judging panel of my harsh girlfriends, I haven’t got a clue. One honest friend said, “You’re a bad picker, and if you insist on wearing make up you wore in 1995 you are responsible for the tragic men you pick up.”
Old age dating can be fun. Hormones can make us make babies with any old trash, but I don’t want to breed with my next husband. He doesn’t have to worry about me getting pregnant. I’m not going to write off his car or stop him going to work. I want him to go to work.
I’ve made so many attempts at finding dream stepfather I can’t remember all the men I’ve been out with. After looking for so long, I ended up in a meaningful long-term relationship with Mr Potato Head. I try to choose quality over quantity, I’d like to get back on the horse but I’m not desperate, I have a new motto: I don’t chase them, I replace them.
Glamorous staying home mother duties with my kidlets means I’ve found more delightful feminist lyrics from modern music while trawling through the dark tunnels of the interwebs late at night:
You’re a discontented mother and a regimented wife
This song is addressed to a desperate mother who would like to trade her boring existence for the jet-setting hedonistic lifestyle the song’s narrator has led. Even though she has, “been to paradise,” she’s ultimately failed to find self-fulfillment, “I’ve never been to me.”
Because of course being a wife and mother is the only way a woman can be complete.
Paul McCartney wrote a lovely song about murder with a hammer, which John Lennon described as “more of Paul’s granny music.”
But when she turns her back on the boy
He creeps up from behind
Bang, bang, Maxwell’s silver hammer
Came down upon her head
Do do do do do
Bang, bang, Maxwell’s silver hammer
Made sure that she was dead
And it’s not just songs from the Paleolithic era that have life-affirming lyrics
Usher wrote a lovely song called I Don’t Mind
I’m just tryna cut her up, tryna bust a nut
Tryna take somebody bitch, turn her to a slut
Tryna fill my cup, tryna live it up
Throw some hundreds on that ass, walk her out the club
And also this delightful tune Ayo from the Australian visa-denied girlfriend basher himself Chris Brown
I’mma take her ass down when she bring her friend around
Fuck ‘em both like ayo
I’m a bougie ass nigga left the roof at home
We popping like ayo, ayo, ayo
But don’t be acting like I need you
Who is up for a feminist sing along?