Women Who Do Every Damn Thing

In the last couple of weeks, a prevailing theme has emerged from my interactions with other women… we’re all exhausted. Drained. Tired all the time. Rooted – and not in a good, covered in chocolate sauce and licked clean by Jason Statham way, either.

It doesn’t take rocket surgery or elaborate time and motion studies to work out why. We’re all scheduled within an inch of our lives, straining to meet unrealistic expectations.  And I’d love to insert the phrase “society is to blame”  here somewhere, but you know what? Ladies, I’m inclined to think WE’RE the ones to blame.

Look at men, bless them. For the purposes of this illustration, make him a fairly able-bodied and at least partially employed bloke. Having put in a day’s or week’s work, what does he do? Either he spends his leisure time amusing himself -  salsa dancing, mountain biking, re-imagining Aztec tapas in his gourmet kitchen, fishing – or he just plonks himself down in a recliner to watch his huge plasma screen until next called to gainful employment. He doesn’t agonise about whether little Johnnie needs a NINTH extra-curricular activity to round out his holistic development (note: Little Johnnie just started prep THIS YEAR). He doesn’t try to amend injustice, from tuckshop overpricing to the suffering wrought by the Haitian earthquake (unless he works for Red Cross, in which case he will address these issues… in office hours). He doesn’t keep in touch with 42 close friends and family members, and take it upon himself to make THEIR lives hassle-free and beautiful.

Nah, our bloke relaxes. Amped as a cattle dog or leisurely as a stoned koala, he knows the value of “me” time and the joy of unstructure.

Women can’t have it all, can’t do it all, can’t BE it all. And I don’t even care anymore. This is what I’m going to do about it… get more sleep. Eight hours a day, thanks, more if I can swing it. So don’t call me after 9 p.m unless you ‘ve  got a crush on  my answering machine robot and, unless either of my children is acutely unwell with more than just a sniffle or a graze – DON”T WAKE ME UP!

26 Responses

  1. I beat you to the cranky corner by at least 15 years.

  2. I like it here, Quokka – it’s very relaxing with all the pressure off.

  3. Am currently curled up in the corner, in the foetal position, sucking my thumb. Just throw freddo frogs at me if I whimper too loud.

  4. Nonsense, Catty. We may be decompensating in the cranky corner, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have standards.

    I’ll throw Boucheron elephant chocolates.

  5. Time for a nap, I’m conserving energy you know!

  6. That’s the spirit, Mayhem. Glad you’ve joined us.

  7. Have stopped whimpering – drinking nettle tea has left me voiceless with horror. Please! Throw anything that will take the taste away! Quick, rip off one of your socks for me to suck! I’d even gargle a slug! Maybe a gulp or two of castor oil?

    Gak! Hgnhk! Gaaaaaargghh!

    O.K. That’s better. NOW throw chocolate.

  8. Just wait until I stop retching at the mental image of a slug gargle…

    Okay… incoming chocolate!

  9. Wow. I’m truly impressed. A bag just arrived in the mail, full of Pink Lady white mints. The bag says they’re from my sister, but….

    Are you my sister in disguise, Madam Morgana? Or is this a twighlight zone moment?

  10. Catty, I wish you WERE my sister! My own sister has been subjecting me to withering scorn and explicit disapproval for the last 25 years or so.

    Plus, the only detail of your address I know is “Melbourne”. I suspect Australia Post need a bit more info.

    Must just be synchronicity. Sigh, anyone else have a schoolgirl crush on Sting? (back in the early days, he got a bit tie-dyed and soft later on)

  11. I loved him. but not as much as I loved David Bowie. Did I not melt when I saw him in Labrynthe? I did.

    Then I read that Sting was into tantric sex – eeeeeeewgh! My reaction was based on the picture that accompanied the article. He has gotten old and wrinkly and cranky looking. Not tantric sex material at all! But yes, in his Police days, I thought him eminently swoon worthy.

    Speaking of sex, I am not very popular at the moment. I appear to have given the Boss food poisoning for Valentines Day. He has been losing fluid from both ends since last night, and is only just starting to come good. I’m a bit worried, as the only thing he ate that we didn’t, was jam.

    Your sister is a silly girl who needs a slap in the face with a wet fish. Halibut for preference, they’re nice and flat.

  12. Oh, poor Boss. Nausea is THE worst symptom and as for the rest *shudders*. Best wishes for a speedy recovery. It, erhm, wasn’t your homemade jam, was it?

    I did love Labrynthe, but I’ll see you DB and raise you Brian Ferry. What on earth did Jerry Hall think she was doing, ditching that suave young man for skanky old Mick Jagger? Taking the concept of a “bit of rough” one step too far, I reckon. And where did she wind up, in the end – ditched for some young floozy. Brian would have stood by her, no matter how she sagged.

  13. Oooh, yeah, the Jealous Guy himself. Yummy. Midge Ure was a major hottie too. But to be honest, my biggest, fattest, most shameful crush was on Simon Le Bon. (Shhhhh – I still have all the albums).

    I’m hopelessly jealous of Yasmin. Not because she’s married to Simon, though. My green eyed ire is because she’s had four children and looks like a goddess, whereas I’ve had four children and could easily give the saggy baggy elephant (or Jerry Hall) a run for their money.

    No, no homemade jam. I bought it at the deli, so I went back to complain. They were surprisingly unconcerned. They told me it’s European jam and my stomach probably isn’t strong enough. I told them that I wasn’t sick, it was the son of two European migrants who drink fat straight out of the fryer, eat mayonnaise with a tablespoon, and prefer their bacon raw. THAT bothered them. No, not the Boss’s stomach. They were bothered because his parents don’t buy bacon there.

  14. Crap.
    I just found your blog (scrolling through CBG) and suddenly, lightning appears.
    Will have to return later.

    Feel better Catty.
    Try the peppermint, its easier on the tummy.

  15. I have an evil sister too and one of her evil friends dated Simon Le Bon. And ditched her.
    Snigger…

    I have a hard time with this fantasizing about cute celebrity thing. Its like that cheap Easter Chocolate (deffo deffo can’t name it) – looks just as good as everything else but it lets you down on the first bite. somehow they always manage to open their mouth and demonstrate that there’s not too many neurons connecting in the engine room upstairs and that is the end of that.

    I do have a weak spot for musicians but so that I can maintain it, I try to avoid listening to them speak. Ever.

    I don’t think I have a romantic streak. I picture being trapped with the egomaniac artist till Death and Addiction Do Us Part and it makes me want to run like hell. There’s those rare occasions where I hear a man speak and its his mind that interests me. Anyone see Denton interview Richard E. Grant? The man ran rings around him, it was hilarious.

  16. Thanks, Quokka. I’m sure there’s a box of Junior Mints hidden in the teen’s bedroom somewhere. I might just have to tear her room apart so I can confiscate them when I stumble across them by accident.

    I’d never want to marry a musician, either. That would be, as Mike Harding’s grandfather used to say, like fancying cream cake and then having to eat it for the rest of your life.

    Still, it’s fun to perve.

  17. It’s the sad truth, ladies. I had a TERRIBLE run of bass players in my wild youth. Sure, they’re usually big men with big hands and a great grasp of rhythm, but still… musicians ARE the pits. Buy their tracks, wear their tee-shirts, but sleep elsewhere.

    Writers aren’t much better, though, I regret to report. Excessively talkative in bed, and their minds tend to wander to arcane topics at crucial moments. And then they often require a beautifully worded critique of their performance when you’d much rather roll over and go to sleep.

    In some ways the perfect man IS the one in your fantasies…. Richard E is hilarious, though, Quokka and I think Stephen Fry is delicious. Both, however, bat for the opposition, I’m sad to report.

    Catty, I think those deli owners need a Molotov lamington. Or a visit from the Jihad Kebab van… I’ll adjust their attitude via ballistic tabbouleh, if you like?

  18. Musicians AND writers are duds? Oh, dear. Madam Morgana, did I happen to mention I’m a songwriter? I’m hoping it’s one of those Simpsons things – where only the males in the species have the affected gene.

    Oh, no, Madam, don’t get rid of my deli! They import all my favourite Belgian chocolates!

    Quokka, it’s fun to look at pictures of our teen idols and compare them to how they look now. It’s surprising which ones have let themselves go. Have you seen Adam Ant lately? Hilarious! But also a little bit creepy, so this is a game best played with martinis. Or those elephant chocolates you mentioned earlier. Coté Dor makes them, if I remember rightly? I’ve been meaning to contact them to complain – why don’t elephant chocolates come in jumbo sized boxes? It’s just not right!

    Oh, bugger. Now I’m hungry. Why oh why did I finish all the mints last night?

  19. Oh yes, Catty – it’s present company excepted and exempted. Did I mention I’m a fiction writer – umpteen short stories, just finished the second draft of my first novel?

    I would be loathe to wreck vengeance on any source of Belgian chocolate, it’s true. But I still think the “Your weak Aussie stomachs just aren’t strong enough for our sprauncy Euro jam” response lacks both empathy and accuracy.

    They are Cote d’Or, I think… and only come in a box of five, barely enough to satisfy me when the moon is waxing. let alone during PMS season. Let’s start a petition – how many WOULD be enough for a jumbo box of elephant chocolates?

  20. Um, sixteen? Maybe they could to a special PMS edition, too. That one could have 24.

    When do we get to read your novel? What about the short stories? I looooove short stories.

  21. I’ve just been reminded that I only have two months to finish four assignments. Bugger! I usually only get one finished every three months or so. Where does the time go?

    So I guess I’m on a deadline. Sucky, but it means I’m going to have to use my computer time for assignments instead of blogging with the most interesting and entertaining people I’ve ever not met. That’s you ladies, by the way. Getting back here as soon as possible will be a good incentive to work faster.

    See you all soon!

  22. Right back at you, Catty.

    Well, get cracking… but when you need a break, there’s a short story up for you.

    Better you than me – my brain doesn’t work well enough for assignments anymore

  23. Richard E.G.?
    Noooooo!!!

  24. I’m sure I’m wrong… just ignore me. It’s hard to tell with those effete British theatrical types – even the heterosex addicts come across a bit “Brideshead Revisited”.

  25. Have you seen the Wah Wah diaries?
    The story of him growing up in Swaziland (on memory) – Gabriel Byrne plays his alcoholic father and its just wonderful, a great tale of dysfunction and you get to see how he came to love theatre and found an escape in it.

    Somewhere on the DVD there’s a copy of the interview that he did with Denton, and he just ran rings around Denton. Every time Denton asked him some sort of personal question he deflected it by asking Denton one of his own. REG really put him on the rack about why he’d left his spouse for 6 months. Turns out he’d done his research and probably knew more about Denton than Denton knew about him. In response to Denton’s ‘I don’t think anyone will find this interesting’ attempt to turn it around, REG basically said ‘Well, that’s how I feel, and I have to talk about myself all the time and my life is really rather dull, I think yours is really much more fascinating.’

    I gather the audience agreed.
    Well worth watching, if you haven’t caught it.

    Oh and isn’t the resident Narcissist being an arse this week back at the Camp?

  26. “The latest batch of imbeciles all lack a Y chromosome?”

    His mother must be so proud. Okay, it’s a bit annoying and a bit hurtful, but if they’re not interested in what women have to say, I’ll just leave them to it.

    Probably the married ones are the only men who have been within cooee of a woman in the last decade (other than professionals) anyway… I used to be such a militant feminist, marching on the streets of Brisbane, proudly wearing a green and purple “Nice got me nowhere” t-shirt. Now I’m busy with the kids and life, and too tired to bother.

    Stuff ‘em. I’ll see you here or on Mayhem’s blog, Quokka. They’ll miss out on more than we will!

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