The Age of Ineptitude

I've given up sending emails to The Age directly about their inept subbing (for which I blame staff cuts, not the actual sub-editors for the most part), and will now collect examples of "for f**k's sake, even a monkey could do better, I swear I'm not being a pedant" stuff ups from The Age.

How's this one?

The Pun 2009

It's been almost a month since I updated, but for a change there's a good reason. The Melbourne International Comedy Festival kicks off today, and I've been happily absorbed in putting together a great publication. This is the third year we will have published The Pun, and I'm really pleased that after our break last year we're back stronger than ever. As well as being the third year I've published The Pun, this is my fifth year making magazines about it (two years of MICF editions of Rabelais at La Trobe University), my seventh year of reviewing shows at MICF (including two insanely busy years reviewing around three shows per night for Beat) and, most excitingly, my ninth year attending the festival.

In my first year at MICF I saw Greg Fleet (who I had seen do a solo show at Fringe Festival the year before) Tripod, and a group show that I can't recall the performers from. That was 1999. In the years since I've loved getting more and more involved. I've produced shows, programed a venue, written thousands of words about hundreds of shows. My passion for the festival has never faded, though I'm pleased I took a break last year. That year off (I saw only two friends shows, and Daniel Kitson) gave me a chance to feel like I was missing something, and to remember how good it feels to be in the thick of that festival buzz. Which I stand on the precipice of right now.

Check out the website as myself and the team delve into the festival, reporting on all the buzz that makes the Melbourne International Comedy Festival one of the top three comedy festivals in the world, and the biggest festival in the southern hemisphere. I'm looking forward to the next 26 days with pure anticipation and joy. It's been a while since I had such a positive feeling towards MICF, mostly because the amount of work it drains out of me is so huge. This year, it will be similar, but I am happy to be right in the thick of it.

Of course, I wouldn't be myself if I didn't encourage you to SEE LOCAL SHOWS, especially the amazing FEMALE comics we are lucky enough to have in this country. My first Top 5 list is dedicated to ladies who will make you laugh, so get out there and see them. It's a tough road for women in comedy, with the usual sexism and stereotypes rearing their heads.

The women I love

It's International Womens Day today. It's a day I didn't really think about until I ran an IWD event. This was when I worked at a local council in event management. One of my key events during the contract was a breakfast for the community in celebration of IWD. We had a great event, fantastic speakers, so many door prizes it wasn't funny. And no-one came. Well, next to no-one. And I was bummed about it. Why weren't women my age interested in celebrating IWD? Why didn't we gather to appreciate and commemorate the women who have come before us, making some of the most important inroads towards where we are today? Why didn't we take the time to remind each other how much support, or inspiration, or joy we get from each other?

I've wanted to run an event of my own for IWD every year. Unfortunately, time and other commitments have meant it hasn't happened. But I do mark the occasion by taking the time to connect to other women in ways that I find meaningful. This year I'll do the same. I've just been reminded though, that I really do know (and love) some exceptional women.

One of my dearest friends has just been accepted into the NYU Stern Class of 2011. This is no mean feat. And frankly, this is probably not the most remarkable of her many achievements. Another of the girls I love most is just about to embark on another solo show in the Melbourne International Comedy Festival. She's made choices in her life that other people wouldn't have dared to make; she's had an 'it' job that looks great from the outside, but it didn't fulfill her. So she followed her heart, and she's doing something she loves and working hard at. In a man's world, no less. I watched a talented, gorgeous friend come out at our homophobic all-girl's religious high school and hold her head high despite other people wanting her to hide or be ashamed. Women I admire have gone out on a limb to produce magazines and media which has challenged the current landscape and offered a unique creative outlet for themselves, but always others. We all benefit from their work, but they do it for the work, not the kudos or the limelight.

My mother has faced, and overcome, breast cancer twice in the last five years. My grandmother, who passed away just over a year ago, defeated breast cancer with a mastectomy, survived a brain tumor and dealt with Alzheimer's bravely until she was unable to anymore. My aunt lost her infant to SIDS, but went on to have two healthy, happy daughters that she is able to love wholeheartedly and without reservation. She works a job she doesn't necessarily love to give them the education she values and to make sure they never grow up in the poverty she did. A high school girlfriend gave birth to a healthy baby girl last week, taking on the challenge of a highly demanding career and motherhood combined. Another of my oldest friends is a single mother who has just completed her PhD while raising the most centred, happy four year old I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. I have two sisters-in-law. One is an artist of amazing talents, who continues to create and express herself regardless of her MS or the challenges of juggling mothering, creativity and daily life. The other is happily childless by choice, following her career path with gusto and constantly amazing me with her down to earth supportive, practical involvement in everyone else's life whether she agrees with their choices or not. My cousin is the first, and only, accredited female glazier in Australia and has just taken time off after the birth of her daughter.

The women in my life are strong in the face of mental and physical illness and disability. They work, study, volunteer, support their spouses, extend friendship, manage families, nurture others, keep their creative sparks alive, follow their dreams and support other people's dreams. They inspire me. Not to compete or measure myself against them. Just to keep believing that even with all the obstacles in our way, we should strive for equality on all fronts. For ourselves and others. We shouldn't be discouraged, because individually and collectively, we're amazing. Sometimes it's easy to feel detached, but really, I'm part of this community of women, and I'm prouder of that than I am about anything else I can think of right now. My mother doesn't think she's a feminist, but she instilled in me every value that makes me proudly identify as feminist. It may sound corny, but just this one time per year, I like to remind myself that I am part of a community of women, and we stand together.

Thanks to the many female bloggers who help me to feel part of their experiences, and to participate in a community of women who help me to face my own challenges*. From the Hoydens to The Dawn Chorus, Blue Milk, Sorrow at Sills Bend, Eglantine's Cake, Audrey Apple, Kate Harding, TigTog's Feminism 101 Blog, The Rachel Papers, Bye Bye Pie, Mel Campbell, Jess Friedman, Courteney Hocking, Amoir, Blossom Creations, One Red Robin, Ink & Spindle, Hollabee, Meet Me at Mikes, Mizu, Instinct & Grace, Polka Dot Rabbit, Green Renters, Boobook, Postcards From Insanity, Busy Intersection, Mallee Native Plants, and One Good Thing to mention but a few of my daily doses... thank you. I admire each and every one of you. Thanks for keeping me inspired.

Thus ends the sap. I'm so not a sappy person, but I get like this about these women. Sometimes you just have to share the love, y'know?

*It must be stated that I am a serial lurker, and find it difficult to introduce myself in the comments sections of blogs, so many of these women probably don't even know I read them every day. I do. I've probably also read their entire blog from the very beginning, just because I'm obsessive like that. Not stalker style. Just curious about other people's lives. That's my excuse, anyway.

I shouldn't be ashamed, I haven't done anything wrong.

When reading this post over at Dawn Chorus I could feel the anger boiling up inside. Not just for this poor bloody woman (who was pregnant, wrongly accused of shoplifting, made to take off clothes inside the store to prove she wasn't hiding alcohol), but because it raised my own feelings of shame and embarrassment. I've been going out of my way to hide a recent experience of mine, because I was convinced that it was something to be ashamed of.

I've been accused of shoplifting; quite recently in fact. I'd never bothered to 'know my rights' in this area, which is ironic given I was an editor of Rabelais (the magazine which published an article banned and subject to various court cases regarding its instructions on shoplifting). Since the incident, I've struggled with feeling as though I have actually done something wrong, despite the fact that I know I haven't. Like when you're going through customs and you get that nervy feeling like they're going to think your nail scissors are actually a weapon you fully intend to use. You know there's nothing in your bag to worry about, but sometimes you can't help but jump when they ask you to step out of the line and explain an item in your luggage. So here's the abridged story...

After having a coffee in a coffee/bookstore I went to leave, forgetting that I had put books on top of my other shopping in a green shopping bag, which I intended to purchase. When stopped outside the store I was embarrassed, but happily returned inside to to pay for the items. Then I was told that I would have to wait for the police. I stood there, aghast, and reiterated my earlier apologies and intention to pay for the items... nope, the police were called. I still waited, thinking the issue would be easily solved when they arrived. I'd made a mistake. It was simple. They would see that.

Police arrived, asked if they could search the remainder of my belongings. Again, knowing that I hadn't done anything wrong, I consented. Amid the rest of the crap inside my handbag there was a small pair of wire twisters, along with framing tacks, a card and receipt from picture framing I had done the week previous. All of a sudden, the police attitude changed from courteous to suspicious and aggressive. One minute they seemed to understand the incident was a mistake, the next they charged me for shoplifting and coming prepared to shoplift. Apparently the wire twisters are classified as some kind of tool for shoplifting. By this stage I couldn't believe the nightmare unfolding. I kept trying to explain the connection between the wire twisters and the other picture framing stuff - I'd been working on the frames, had to transport the glass and alter the frames at my parent's factory, chucked all the stuff in my bag - but nope, that was it. I kept repeating "but I haven't done anything with them, they're just in my bag! And this is the reason..."

The whole incident was so surreal. I was loaded into a divvy van, taken to the station, fingerprinted, interviewed, charged and released. Even now I can't believe it. I have a mug shot. Through the whole incident I kept thinking, if I just co-operate, they'll understand I'm just a normal person who made a mistake, who forgot to go back to the counter after her coffee. The officers kept asking "but how could you just forget" and practically scoffing at the idea that I could have a legitimate reason for having wire twisters in my bag. They completely derided the idea that they were in there along with the rest of the items which were used to assemble the frames and glass I had bought, even though there was no way that I had even attempted to use them to do anything!

I have enough trouble explaining the concept of 'brain fuzz' to sympathetic ears, but to someone who doesn't even believe in the concept of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, it's impossible to be taken seriously. I can try to explain that even making a cup of tea takes an unbelievable amount of effort to remember what steps to do everything in; get cup, fill kettle, boil kettle, put teabag and sugar in cup, put boiled water in cup, stir, add milk, stir again, remove teabag. Most days I have to stop and ask myself with conscious thought "what comes next?" My hope of getting these people to understand how I could just 'forget' that I had taken the items off the table when I was reading a magazine with my coffee in the store, put them on top of my other stuff so I had room to read and drink, then fifteen minutes later think "I'm finished", get up and leave, is near impossible.

In hindsight, of course, I keep thinking I should have just told the original girl who stopped me to just take back the books and walk away. But I wasn't even sure I was allowed to do that. I honestly thought that by staying, explaining to the police, co-operating, I was doing the right thing, that it would show I had never intended to take anything without paying. How bloody green am I?! The attitude of security and store workers (let alone the police) is so intimidating that even when you know you've not set out to do anything wrong, you still feel like you need to go along with whatever they want you to in order to show you're not shoplifting.

So now I have no idea what happens. Apparently I'll receive a summons to appear in court, but it's been months and I've heard nothing. Already though, it's had huge repercussions on my life. For example, my foster care application? Down the drain. A recent charge for shoplifting doesn't exactly put you in high standing. And you try explaining "it was a mistake!" It sounds so damn soft. But instead of letting myself get embarrassed into feeling like I've done something wrong, I want to write about it publicly.

I think part of the reason I didn't act within my rights and leave the store instead of waiting for the police is because I didn't truly think something like this could happen. That you could be charged over an honest mistake. I wasn't hiding anything; the items were in plain sight, I provided an explanation of how/what/why I had forgotten to go back to the counter before leaving, I co-operated fully by coming back into the store and agreeing to the staff checking my bags, by waiting for police (so they could check and confirm I had no prior record).

I know, in hindsight, that it was the point where they saw the wire twisters that things escalated. Before that, the police were pretty bored. After that point, they were convinced that I had something to hide. And if I had acted like I was guilty; refused to be searched, refused to stay, refused to provide my details and identification, left immediately... I'd have no problem right now! So, lesson learnt. No more co-operating with police or security in store. No more assuming that they are only interested in people actually doing something wrong. No more acting under the false assumption that an honest explanation will clear up a mistake you have made. No more assuming that a jewellery-appliance like a wire twister is just a wire twister. From now on, take all the precautions a guilty person takes and refuse to co-operate with anything asked of you in a store.

So yes, a pregnant woman being humiliated in public and asked to bare all in the middle of a store does make me angry. And it doesn't surprise me. After my own personal experience I strongly believe that it's regular people with nothing to hide who are the suckers most at risk. We're the ones prepared to stop when asked to. We're the ones who want so badly to show we have nothing to hide that we co-operate with the requests to search us, or have our belongings searched. We're the ones who don't bother to learn, or assert, that we do not have to consent to bag searching when we leave a store. We do not have to stay and wait for police if accused of shoplifting. We do not have to give our details to shop assistants or security guards if asked to. Having no criminal record, not having CDs tucked under our jumpers, being genuinely embarrassed when we do something wrong in error... none of it matters. Security guards, shop assistants, shop owners, police will all ask you to waive your rights and submit to humiliating processes where you are assumed to be guilty unless you can prove otherwise.

Sense of humor. I has none.

The heat has sapped away any and all sense of humor I may have once had. Until I found a link to this story in the Telegraph. It's a letter of complaint to Sir Richard Branson:

Dear Mr Branson

REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008

I love the Virgin brand, I really do which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit.

Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at thehands of your corporation.

Look at this Richard. Just look at it: [see image 1, above].

I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, which one is the starter, which one is the desert?

You don’t get to a position like yours Richard with anything less than a generous sprinkling of observational power so I KNOW you will have spotted the tomato next to the two yellow shafts of sponge on the left. Yes, it’s next to the sponge shaft without the green paste. That’s got to be the clue hasn’t it. No sane person would serve a desert with a tomato would they. Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in.

I know it looks like a baaji but it’s in custard Richard, custard. It must be the pudding. Well you’ll be fascinated to hear that it wasn't custard. It was a sour gel with a clear oil on top. It’s only redeeming feature was that it managed to be so alien to my palette that it took away the taste of the curry emanating from our miscellaneous central cuboid of beige matter. Perhaps the meal on the left might be the desert after all.

Anyway, this is all irrelevant at the moment. I was raised strictly but neatly by my parents and if they knew I had started desert before the main course, a sponge shaft would be the least of my worries. So lets peel back the tin-foil on the main dish and see what’s on offer.

I’ll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy Richard. Now imagine it’s Christmas morning and you’re sat their with your final present to open. It’s a big one, and you know what it is. It’s that Goodmans stereo you picked out the catalogue and wrote to Santa about.

Only you open the present and it’s not in there. It’s your hamster Richard. It’s your hamster in the box and it’s not breathing. That’s how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this: [see image 3, above].

Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s more of that Baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It’s mustard Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month. On the left we have a piece of broccoli and some peppers in a brown glue-like oil and on the right the chef had prepared some mashed potato. The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird.

Once it was regurgitated it was clearly then blended and mixed with a bit of mustard. Everybody likes a bit of mustard Richard.

By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycaemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it’s baffling presentation: [see image 4, above].

It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn’t want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above.

I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was relax but obviously I had to sit with that mess in front of me for half an hour. I swear the sponge shafts moved at one point.

Once cleared, I decided to relax with a bit of your world-famous onboard entertainment. I switched it on: [see image 5, above].

I apologise for the quality of the photo, it’s just it was incredibly hard to capture Boris Johnson’s face through the flickering white lines running up and down the screen. Perhaps it would be better on another channel: [see image 6, above].

Is that Ray Liotta? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I’d had enough. I was the hungriest I’d been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen.

My only option was to simply stare at the seat in front and wait for either food, or sleep. Neither came for an incredibly long time. But when it did it surpassed my wildest expectations: [see image 7, above].

Yes! It’s another crime-scene cookie. Only this time you dunk it in the white stuff.

Richard…. What is that white stuff? It looked like it was going to be yoghurt. It finally dawned on me what it was after staring at it. It was a mixture between the Baaji custard and the Mustard sauce. It reminded me of my first week at university. I had overheard that you could make a drink by mixing vodka and refreshers. I lied to my new friends and told them I’d done it loads of times. When I attempted to make the drink in a big bowl it formed a cheese Richard, a cheese. That cheese looked a lot like your baaji-mustard.

So that was that Richard. I didn’t eat a bloody thing. My only question is: How can you live like this? I can’t imagine what dinner round your house is like, it must be like something out of a nature documentary.

As I said at the start I love your brand, I really do. It’s just a shame such a simple thing could bring it crashing to it’s knees and begging for sustenance.

Yours Sincererly

XXXX

Each time the author writes 'Richard', my giggles reached a new level of earnest (or some might say manic) cackling.

What she said...

You know when you have an issue that bugs you, or an idea that you just can't encapsulate your thoughts on? It happens to me frequently, especially with my extended brain-fuzz. Last week there was that great post on bluemilk regarding maternal desire, this week it's Lauredhel at Hoyden About Town with ambient intimacy and assisted devices. Both captured an issue I've found a personal struggle, but have never been able to articulate with any degree of clarity.

In regards to Lauredhel's post, I couldn't agree more with her attitude to the internet as a social assistance tool. I have relationships which exist entirely online, some which were formed online but have developed into face-to-face relationships and some where I have meet someone in person only to have a relationship which continued (often flourished) online. I'm comfortable with the idea of the internet as a place where I can develop relationships. I have friends who are not. They see any/all online relationships as a form of internet dating. They don't see any space for 'real' connection. I don't doubt that for them, this is true. It would be very difficult for them to have relationships which were not face to face, because of their own communication styles or preconceptions. I do, as Lauredhel expresses so aptly, resent their assumption that my own online relationships are not 'real' or worthwhile.

Without the internet to connect me, I cannot imagine my current life. I'm very lucky with regards to my CFS at the moment. I'm going through a relatively positive patch; one where I am able to work intermittently, socialise occasionally, live daily with bearable aches and pains and have the oh-so-pleasant experience of my brain joining the party and offering clear thoughts at least some of the time. Golly gosh I'm also managing to have a relatively acceptable sleep pattern! To me, that's positively heaven. Even though I'm able to view all of that as positives, it is still with the basic acceptance that I am pretty much housebound much of the time.

I have to work from home, there is no possible way I could have a job outside my house. The transport alone would kill me. My social life is basically inside my house. I went to my sister-in-law's house for a BBQ yesterday and fell asleep on the couch in the middle of our family and friends mid-way through the day. That means so far I've fallen asleep when going to the movies with friends (and it wasn't boredom, trust me), halfway through a board-game, during Christmas lunch, between a wedding and the reception... the list goes on. If my idea of a social life (or social outlet) was what I could do in person, I'd be very lonely. And a very bad friend.

My online relationships are vital to my sanity. Through the internet I can chat to my not-really-geeky friends on facebook (even my relatives are on facebook now), my overseas friends via messaging and my industry related friends via twitter. That's just maintaining the relationships I already had from 'IRL'. These tools allow me to keep in the loop on the most mundane of things happening in my friend's lives. How many times have I seen a status update about some one's mood, or what they're doing the next day, and been able to chip in with a quick message? If it took a social occasion or phone call (which I find very draining and difficult to concentrate on), I'd miss so much. I can see photos of special occasions I had to miss, watch babies I barely get to see grow up or just maintain a casual relationship with a friend it's been hard to catch up with. It's informal and easy.

Then there are the communities I have joined or people I have met who keep me sane and offer a new social outlet. There are message boards, live blogging and most notably my twitterati. These are people I'm happy to have a relationship with completely online. If it develops in person, that's great, but it's not the aim, nor does it really even matter. As I spend the day at my desk, twittering away, I have the kind of people contact that others in office (or just able bodied) environments take for granted. I can discuss current affairs, what happened on television, the weather or politics. It doesn't have to be in-depth, but often a discussion will evolve into this, too. By blogging, or participating in a blogging/commenting environment, I can add my thoughts when my brain is willing to join me. I can read a post, put it aside and come back when I have the energy to contribute to the debate or conversation. I don't miss out because I can't keep up with all the people talking, as often happens when I'm having dinner with friends. The internet allows me to dip in and out when I can.

Key to all of this, is that my online relationships are almost always more manageable than face-to-face ones. I can 'hang out' with a friend, messaging backwards and forwards online, in my pyjamas. If I'm not up to contributing to the conversation, I can come back to it later. The flexibility of being able to socialise with people when I feel well and jump online, rather than making plans in the hopes that I will be okay at a mutually acceptable time at some point in the future, is invaluable. Then there are the people, like Lauredhel, who I know only as an online handle, who have helped me discover more about my own illness, or how to cope with it. Herself and others have made it so much easier to come to terms with this experience. It should have been no surprise to me that it would be via Hoyden, a predominantly feminist blog, that someone would manage to express how I feel about this social life I live online, which is no less vital than the life I have in the flesh.

I have so many contacts I know by a name they chose to display themselves by, whom I consider my connection with as vital as anyone I see in person. I consider my CFS, political, feminist, television-watching, media, gardening, sustainability and family mini social circles as a part of that. Each allows me a space to connect to others that I just can't reach face-to-face. Online I can play scrabble with a friend I haven't seen offline for three years, get expert advice on how to save my poor vegetables from this awful heat wave, chat about the inauguration of a president, compare notes on Big Brother, show my partner a piece of art I want to buy even though he's working interstate, discuss the state of our media landscape with someone I went to a conference with two years ago. Without the internet, none of this would happen on a daily basis. My communication with the world, at the moment, predominantly exists online. And I think that's great.

Melancholy

This little girl is making me very happy. She's settled into our home well and other than the usual puppy fun (like cleaning up puddles and eating plants) it's all going swimmingly. Having dogs, the cute baby kind and the semi-grown up kind, is great. The companionship, the weird and funny things they do, the relationships you develop with them. Unfortunately, not even a puppy can quell my maternal desire. It's not something I talk to people about a lot, but I've wanted children for a long time. I have been pregnant before, and miscarried, and while children weren't something I obsessed about prior to finding out I would be a mother, once I welcomed the idea into my life it was impossible to let go of. I've looked forward to the day I could have children.

I was so pleased to read the ever-inspiring Blue Milk and her post on maternal desire. I've often been on the receiving end of judgement by admitting to my own biological drive, which I am happy to admit is overwhelmingly biological. It's innate, and I don't think I could turn it off even if I decided that kids didn't suit my lifestyle or other plans became more important. I think the desire would still be there, regardless of my decision that it wasn't going to be part of my life. I'd still fight it or deal with it. For many of my friends and associates, having kids just isn't cool. It's an end to personal freedom, or becoming a 'breeder', or taking the road more ordinary. I agree, in part, with all of those points. But it doesn't add up to enough to make the prospect unattractive enough that I don't want to do it.

Sometimes it seems impossible, as Blue Milk's post captures very well, to explain that maternal desire to people who don't have it. I think that I have a pretty realistic expectation of motherhood and pregnancy (as much as you can without having gone through it). I'm not picturing sunshine and rainbows, I know it's hard work and sacrifice and a lot of sleepless hours. I can see how that's not attractive to plenty of people. But to me, that's all worth the upsides that I see in having a family. Family and children, to me, are essential to the idea of life. We're just a bunch of animals running around with biology and imposed social structures and a soul. We're unique, and exactly the same. We're driven by urges to fit in, or stand out, or find shelter, or form communities. I love human interaction and I love that we all find different meaning in everything around us.

Having a child is participation in one of our most basic purposes, procreation, and I think it's an exciting exploration of our abilities and potential experiences. I don't really buy into the idea that children are our way of living on and creating our own immortality; I don't care if my kids are biologically mine or not, though I would mourn the loss of experiencing pregnancy if that didn't happen. I do think it gives us a chance to redefine a world that we sometimes feel we've pretty much got sorted out by the time we hit our 20s and 30s. It opens up whole new aspects of life, or takes us back to things we've forgotten, and I think that's amazing. I also love the minds of little people, before they are taught how the world works they have a fascinating way of creating or assuming their own meanings and interpretations. That inspires me. Expanding my life to include all those experiences is exciting for me.

But who knows what life holds? Maybe I'll never have children, but I'd be very disappointed if that was the case. Which is why I'm disappointed that we've hit a snag with our foster care application. Long story, involving things I don't want to get into, but essentially the plan is on hold and we don't know how long for. Foster care is a way I can live up to one of the adage I strongly believe in. It takes a village to raise a child. I have a home, and the instinct or desire to mother, and no children. If I can assist someone else to raise theirs, then I see that as completely positive. But alas, it's not to be at the moment. As is having a biological child. But it was nice to have an analytical discussion of that desire, and this aspect of my life, out there in the blogosphere. I've often held back on discussing or describing it, so having it articulated for me (and so well) helped me put mull over my own ideas on the topic.