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Tag "generation y"

The babes over at Pamflet zine write in defense of women behaving badly, and the stark difference between Julia Stiles’ snarky, defiant and rabble rousing character in 10 Things I Hate About You, and her Shakespearean predecessor on whom she was based in the Taming of The Shrew.

We demand, we assert, we argue, we’re unruly, we believe our opinions are as valid as our partners. We poke fun at them, boss them about, and it seems they love us for it. Life with a shrew will never be easy – expect tears, shouting, ominous silences, door slamming and probably regular existential crises – but it will never ever be boring. Life with a shrew means impassioned debates (whether about world politics or Mad Men Season 4), adventure, passion, a unique perspective on the world and much more besides. Smart men understand that if you want a quiet life, you go for a nice girl like Bianca, but if you want a roller coaster ride, always opt for a Kate. I’ve written before in Pamflet about how indie boys can be just as sexist as ‘mainstream’ blokes – just because they listen to Belle & Sebastian, that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re interested in your opinions, girlie! But there are men out there who are willing to embrace our shrewish tendencies – they’re as feminist as we are. Of course being a shrew shouldn’t mean being cruel, allowing a sharp tongue to wound just because you can, nor should it mean being intolerant of other people’s failings and frailties. It just means not being afraid to use your voice. So on this one, I have to say Mr Shakespeare, I think you got it wrong. Embrace your inner shrew.

Screen cap: Google

Hola Miley! I kid, I kid!

Photo: E! Online

What kind of blogger are you? A savvy networker? A blogger who substitutes their lack of personality or social life with an online persona and e-friends? This is a legit analysis people! They surveyed Myspace users! This is legit!

This kid could have it all. A Swedish couple have decided to keep the sex of their child unknown. Why?

“We want Pop to grow up more freely and avoid being forced into a specific gender mould from the outset,” Pop’s mother told the Swedish newspaper Svenska Dagbladet last spring. “It’s cruel to bring a child into the world with a blue or pink stamp on their forehead.”

Pop (a name used in the papers to protect the identity of the family) gets to wear both boys and girls clothes and play with both boys and girls toys. This might not sound any different to a normal child hood, and certainly not mine! Pretty sure I have a polaroid of my brother in a dress somewhere. The thing is, only baby Pop’s immediate family know the sex of their child. The Mamma Mia boards have been going crazy with comments, most not in favour of this style of upbringing. Whilst I think that placing equal emphasis on the signifiers of both genders (by giving Pop both boys and girls toys and clothes) and allowing Pop to decide choose what he/she likes best, the parents are taking the power away from gender based stereotypes. The important thing to remember is that Pop’s parents are not denying the sex of their child, but the gender. Society sees these as interchangeable, and I think that’s what the parents are trying to address. What do you guys think? How would you raise your children?

Hollywood’s fake teenagers – I remember watching Dawson’s Creek when I was 10 and thinking how cool and beautiful older people were. And by older, I mean 15-year-old, which is what the 20-something year old cast of DC were portraying. Unfortunately, when I got to 15, I was neither cool nor beautiful. Rebecca Sparrow over at Mama Mia understands me.

So the question is, why aren’t genuine pimply, gangly, awkward teenagers being cast as teenagers? Answer: Because genuine teenagers are often pimply, gangly and awkward. That doesn’t look good on camera. Adults playing teens is commercially a better proposition to TV networks.

When Skins came on Australian television in early 2008, I found it really refreshing to find ACTUAL TEENAGERS playing ACTUAL TEENAGERS. Unfortunately, I think that finding adults to play teenagers has a whole lot more to do with their acting abilities. An adult who’s been in the biz longer will usually have a stronger craft than a teenager who’s just entering Hollywood. Could they not, like, draw on zits or something? Or at least quit washing their hair?

Another score for Generation Y! As a member of the frequently disdained and pigeonholed “me” generation, I can whole heartedly admit to holding on to my job with an iron like grip. I have always been casually employed. Although highly flexible and with a low degree of responsibility, being casually employed is a little unnerving. You walk on egg shells around superiors for fear of getting on their wrong side. I’ve had bosses who’ve for one reason or another (and sometimes no reason at all) cut my shifts. Sometimes because my work wasn’t up to scratch, and being casually employed does not entitle me to any mentorship, and sometimes just because. As a casual worker, you’re replaceable. Which is why I, and many other people of my generation, will strive hard to prove themselves a valuable asset. Calling in sick is taboo. You have to work harder, longer, smarter, if you want to stay in the game. I think it’s a valuable attribute to have, but sometimes I wonder if my family and social life is sacrificed.

Photo: AAP

For those of you who were in awe of the feisty Gail Dines, here is another clarion call for a ‘perp-walk’. I have to admit, when I first heard of the SlutWalks, I was a little confused by the title of the protest. What about the girls who are sexually conservative, or sexually indifferent? Fatima Measham says it a lot better than I do.

The “look at me” strategy again turns attention to women’s behaviour rather than men’s responses to it. If the spotlight of blame has been on women, then the only way to correct the injustice is to turn it away from them and onto men. Get men to say how disgusting they think it is for other men to make excuses for their crime. Get men to say they feel ashamed as men when their fathers, brothers and uncles treat women with contempt. Get men to say that rape lessens you as a man.

FiFi Box and Erica Bartle have a fear of commitment – Don’t we all? I feel that younger generations are taught that not only can they have everything, they must also be everything. We’re also more accustomed to performing more than one task at a time, so when we’re forced to choose just one ting, it’s like our brains are going “Hey! Does not compute!” I know I definitely channel my inner Varuca Salt occasionally. I’m horrible to dine with, I annoy those behind me in the line at the gelato bar, and I probably spend a good 10 minutes stairing into the fridge before I shut the door and continue doing the same with the pantry. Whereas as Erica says her indecision is more to do with her conflict over what is the right or wrong thing to do, I feel that my indecision concerns my chronic FOMO (fear of missing out). Is everyone else the same? Or are most driven more by their morals?

Media Maven and all round Fierce Bitch takes one for the team. This honestly makes me so, so happy that more mainstream figures are coming out to rally for marriage equality. I wonder who’s next?

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KoTuA_CwuBA]
This week I contributed a story to Rachel Rabbit White’s blog post about Romantic BFF relationships. I won’t tell you which one is mine though! I also love the sweet valley high cards she uses! Too cute!

Oh and by the way – I got into Curtin! I start early July, and I’ve been given a zillion extra credits points to I’ll be starting from second year, second semester. JUMPING UP ON KEYBOARD EXCITEDLY! JFSIFHDFGIOUW9#$T^@#$%YSFNMSDFLKJ!!!%*E$

I’ve also introduced a new section to this blog – Lady Luvva of the Week. Each week I’m going to find a bad-ass blogger and give her a spot on the homepage so everyone can see how killa she is. Sound awesome? This week it’s Jetta from The Radical Uprise. Have a look to your right. Check out her stuff. She’s truly inspiring. And kind of sexy.

Have a rockin’ Sunday party peeps. Peace x

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Photography: Camilla Peffer

Today, I worked. Tomorrow, I am not working. To some, they may call this ‘bumming’. Or ‘bludging’. Or ‘slacking’. My mother calls this ‘relaxing’.  Sometimes she chucks a ‘man’ in there, just to sound hip with her lingo, you know? I call this ‘chilling’. Whatever you want to call this non-urgent mellow state of doing nothing in particular or anything extraordinary, it’s basically the same thing. However, whereas I think my totally indulgent me time is highly beneficial for my sanity (and the lives of others – angry princess bitchface gots claws!), some people – actually, a whole lot of people – think this state of just being is a very, very bad thing. Same shit, different connotations. Sitting on your ass is a big no-no in this here Brave New World. And it kind of sucks.

For those not in the know, I just moved from the hustling, bustling Australian business mecca of Sydney, over to the not-quite so fast-paced Perth. With a lifestyle more suitable to retirement, I usually get met with looks of shock when I tell people I CHOSE to move here. You know the look. It’s liking telling people you’re spending schoolies in a convent. With one of those scary leg braces that Opus Dei use. That’s how people look at me. The thing is, I kind of actually like it here.

So the bars close early. So I don’t actually live near a bar. So I no longer live above a brothel in the gay capital of Australia. So I have free time occasionally . Woop-de-freakin doo!

For the past couple of years, I’ve worked non-stop. On top of my studies, I’ve completed highly beneficial internships, worked in bars, cafes, department stores and for my university’s magazine. I’ve lived out of home, so earning a certain amount per week was imperative in order to pay the bills. Some of us do have to commit to working a little extra than others, and I truly resented those who still lived at home and enjoyed the blissful reprieve of free accommodation. But whilst I kick it with dear old Ma and Pa and enjoy access to a laundry, two wide screen televisions, wireless internet and A CAR, I’ve found myself with a whole lot of free time, and a heck of a lot of gratitude for basic human needs which I did not have before. I admit that I am a very lucky girl for being able to pack up and leave. It’s an option not a lot of people have. It’s an option I didn’t used to think I had either. But I truly do think that if not doing something is a huge relief, then maybe you’re not supposed to be doing it.

Photography: Daniel Weiss

At first, it was daunting. SO. MUCH. FREE. TIME. What on earth was I going to do with all these extra hours? The feeling of being energised after 10 hours sleep, rather than guilty, and of not working myself into a fatigued frenzy of emotions were foreign feelings. I’d been operating at the 100km/hour speed that the Sydney lifestyle requires, and I’d come to an abrupt halt. I feel asleep to the sound of crickets rather than main-street traffic. Cats loiter outside my door, a huge change from the usual drunken crowd of King Street, Newtown. I was used to automatically and unconsciously stressing about paying rent, finding time to do assignments, feeling guilty about not socialising, and who on earth was to buy toilet paper next. Upon moving to Perth, my over-analytical and highly strung self was forced to suddenly relax.

Initially, I felt guilty. When working 30 hours a week whilst studying is the norm for some people (who are occasionally only too happy to boast about their work-a-holicism), having time to dedicate myself to more creative endeavours seemed a little lazy and pointless. I mean, I don’t want to be a professional trapeze artist, so why take up a circus course? But if it makes you happy, why not take up cross-stitch, or fire twirling, or race toy boats?

I think dedicating yourself to some deliciously self-indulgent you time is a must. Whilst studying is an investment in your career, and working is an investment in not living off of Mi Goreng, having spare time to just be is an investment in one’s sanity.

So, I have a double dare for ya. How about you dedicate a little more time to the number one asshole in your life (hint: yourself), rather than working like a dog for the man? Be your own hero – be a chillionaire.

P.S: Challenge!

Photography: Jesús Pérez Pacheco


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I think I’ve been in Perth for almost a month now. To be quite honest, I think the parents saw it coming.  I used to be able to hide everything from them. Nights spent smoking in my closet with my best friend (yes, really!), forbidden facial piercings, secret lovers…Like most teenagers, I was a Pandora’s box to my parents. Nowadays, I have a lot less energy. They’re far from Yogis, but I think I dropped a number of not so subtle hints to dear old Ma and Pa regarding my inability to act like a Big Person. After two years of phone calls which usually began with the impression that I was a good, loving, smart and compassionate daughter, but more often than not ended with something along the lines of “Don’t tell me what to do! Just send money!”, I conceded defeat. A bitch called Life = 1, Camilla = 0. With my tail between my legs, I packed up all 23 boxes of my worldly possessions and hauled a suitcase half my body weight over to Western Australia. A place I swore I would never call home. A place where the majority of shops are closed on a Sunday. A place where the public transport system is only used by those who are too young too drive, or those who can’t afford to. Is there life on Mars?

Two years ago, my parents decided to retire to Perth. It’s a great place to recuperate, take stock, relax and think in retrospect. I always looked forward to my vacations away from the hustling, bustling, work-yourself-into-a-frenzy lifestyle pace of Sydney. But Perth was never really a place I thought suited me. Like most young 20-somethings, life is sweet when you’re when you take advantage of the drunken stumbling distance home from a boozy night out. Life is even better when you celebrate this fact by rendering yourself physically unable to walk home, despite living 5 minutes walk away (thank you, Vodka!). This was Sydney life for me, in a nutshell. I was born in Sydney, I was bred in Sydney. The 1994 bush fires, Mariah Carey’s brief visit to Westfield Miranda, the 2000 Olympic Games, the Cronulla Race Riots – I was there, man. But I kinda just fell out of love with ‘ol Sydney. And I really grew disenchanted with the whole lone wolf life-style I was leading.

Living out of home was definitely a learning curve. And it gives you boasting rights over your friends who still kick it with the parentals. You’re that cooler, wise-beyond-her-years, independent friend. You can bring home one night stands, you can decorate your home with 80s cardboard cut outs and ash trays in the shape of a pistols, eat ice cream for dinner. Ah, freedom. It smelt like a heady mix of cheap wine, a leaning tower of empty pizza boxes and unwashed sheets. It’s a delicious feeling as you triumphantly march past piles of dirty dishes and overflowing floor-drobes. Nobody to tell you what to do and if you’re lucky, your flat mates have the same shoe size as you.

Eventually the novelty wore off. Bills go unpaid, mould builds up in the shower, laundry goes unwashed, flat mates move on and leave you with an unfurnished apartment and no ADSL. Juggling landlords, real estate agents, internet connections, building managers, contracts and sharing living space with others is stressful. Especially whilst studying. On top of fighting over whose turn it is to buy toilet paper, you’ve got assignments, exams, work commitments and the stress of juggling it all whilst remaining classy. It’s not fun. It’s enough to drive a gal up the wazoo. Stress brings out the worst in people, and I definitely brought out Ugly Princess Bitch-face one too many times.

Which is why I decided to give sunny Perth a go. After four weeks, I finally feel at home. I might not be within somersault distance of the nearest bar, but I do have a sweet flat screen TV, access to a free laundry, a car, broadband internet and my own bathroom. Oh, and I guess the support of a loving family counts for something too. I’m a Boomerang Kid, and after a large helpful of humble pie, I couldn’t feel happier.

All photos taken by moi, in and around Perth.

 

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