Anyway, the other night the local Catholic school had a fundraiser for themselves, or the Catholic Church, or something.  So, I dragged my atheist public school teacher self along, all ready to attempt to answer some trivia questions. 

Of course, I had to have a couple of drinks before hand to ready myself for the ordeal.

So, we got there, and then I had a few more drinks.  And a few more.  I got one or two questions right in the meantime, and then I had a few more.  The girl sitting across from me kept ordering drinks and not liking how they turned out, so I had a few of those too.

Then my money was gone.

But the drinks kept coming!

Well, after that, we caught the bus home.  I vaguely remember having my head in my friend’s lap because I couldn’t sit up straight any more.  Thank goodness it was my friend sitting next to me, because at the time I couldn’t have cared less who it was, and the next day I couldn’t remember until someone told me.

Then I went back to my friend’s place – he wanted a few of us to come around for post trivia drinks, but I clearly wasn’t in a state to drink anymore (most of what I had consumed in the last hour decided it wanted out of my body and on to the front lawn.  Oops). So, the two who lived there went to bed, and there was me and yet another friend (who moved to town maybe a month ago?) left.

So, we laid on the lounge and chatted.  I don’t recall much of the conversation, I just know it went for a while.  I may have been a little intoxicated.

And he hugged me.  For something like two hours.

And he kissed the top of my head and stuff.

What is with that?

I spent the whole weekend after that working out what on earth that was supposed to mean.  Most guys I know either run screaming from a sick drunk girl, or they try to make a move.  None of them have ever just sat there and held one. 

And forehead kisses?  What are they supposed to mean?

Anyway, none of this made sense, so I went with the obvious (means nothing) option.  Then watched He’s Not That Into You just to make sure the message sunk in (I might have an irrational love of that movie).

Then it got to the end scene.

Then I cried.  Because it always makes me cry.

Watch what you write on essay feedback!

See, when I am marking, I sit down, I read, I write, I read a little more, I write a lot more… and I do this for a good few hours.  Your brain kinda sinks into this weird rhythm, and you write your feedback without really thinking about it.

And then you end up writing the following on a boy’s essay:

You need more length.

Sure, I should have qualified that.  Something like ‘You need more length in your response’.  Or, hell, ‘you need to write more’.  But, no, my stupid brain comes up with ‘You need more length’.

I don’t think I need to go into the crap Year 12 have been giving me all day.

Everyone has to start somewhere, right?  At least, that’s what I told myself when I signed myself up to a 3 year, $100 a month payment plan for a new camera (which thankfully came with 2 different lenses!). 

So, once a week or so, even if I don’t have time, I am going to take my camera out, and play with it.  Practise.  Read a little bit more on how to use it.  Eventually I might even be brave enough to try and tackle photoshop.

But for now, I’m sticking with the basics.  Trying to learn.

I was half decent at photography, once upon a time.  Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten everything I ever learned about cameras, framing shots, lighting, and everything in between.  It’s going to take a lot of practise and reading to get back to where I was.  If I ever do.

But I’m sure I can have some fun, at the very least!

I remember being so disappointed the first time I saw a river.  In picture books, they are always beautiful and blue… in reality, brown and muddy.  Oh well!

There’s also lots of dirt out here.  Sometimes it’s red, sometimes it’s brown, sometimes it’s grey, but it’s always dirty.

Sometimes, we all need rainbows!

Unfortunately, the performance of this cohort has not been as good as I had hoped.  Many of them are entering that awful ‘blah I hate school fuck the HSC’ period that seems to happen every year, which means they couldn’t be arsed actually, y’know, trying.  Some times I wonder what the whole point of the exercise is, apart from trying to keep me in a job.  It feels more about pushing the kids towards an exam than it is about educating them, and when it comes to marking time, it just makes me tired and grouchy.

I guess part of the problem is that the HSC has become so broad.  Once upon a time, you only really considered doing the HSC if you planned to go to uni.  If you wanted to do something else, you left at the end of Year 10 and got a job or whatever else.  Now we have kids in Year 12, studying at a higher level than they will ever need in their life, and it all feels so futile.

Or maybe I’m just glum because I have a good 10 hours (at least) of HSC marking ahead of me.  It’s going to be a long, sleepless week…

Not literally.  That might get you arrested.  Or at the very least, people will find you scary.  Embrace the concept, people, not the stranger’s child.  The concept!

On the other hand, we have people, usually childless, saying that some places are outright not appropriate for children, and that we don’t want to see children everywhere we go.

It really is a contentious topic.  Unfortunately, it’s one of those topics that immediately gives you that nasty sick feeling in the stomach – I really believe option B, but I know that option B makes me sound like a heinous selfish bitch (also – anti-feminist, anti-motherhood, anti-female, anti-everything in the known universe), so I’m going to go with option A, because feeling bad clearly means option B is wrong.

Well, not for me anymore.  I’m going for the Veal Defence* with this one.

I do want to have my child free spaces.

I could argue that, after a day of working with children, the last thing I want is to deal with children in my personal time.

Except, I think I’d still want child free spaces, even if I worked solely with adults.

So, yes, I cringe when I see a sign at work saying ‘Staff drinks at the pub.  Families and children welcome’.  Unreasonable?  Probably.  But it’s how I feel, regardless.

When I go out to the pub, I want to relax.  I want to let my hair down and enjoy myself.  This means I might not be especially appropriate for a child audience.  I swear a lot when I drink.  I make crude innuendos.  I talk about inappropriate topics.  I drink a lot.

I don’t want to do those things in front of children.

Sure, the parent might not mind if their child is exposed to that sort of thing.  However, I don’t feel comfortable exposing other people’s children to that.  So I just don’t do it.  Which means I have a night that was meant to be fun and relaxing turned into a night that was repressed and awkward.

I also don’t want to have to deal with your child when they are being ‘playful’.  I’m an awful, child hating horrible woman.  I don’t coo.  I don’t play.  I scowl a lot.  I probably should have had my ovaries confiscated at birth (at least, according to every woman who enjoys telling me how un-female I am for not wanting to pop out a kid or two).  If I’m trying to relax and unwind, I’m not going to appreciate your child launching itself at me with a toy.  And I’ll tell it so.

(Nicely.  I’m not a total monster.  I only make children cry at Christmas.)

Of course, I don’t expect everywhere in the world to be a child free zone.  The street, the park, the beach, the supermarket… of course you are going to find children there.

But for the love of Pete, can I please have the pub be a childfree zone?  I don’t want your 5 year old hearing me dropping the f word.  I don’t want them seeing me make a crude gesture, or hitting on someone in a drunken manner.

*The Veal Defence:  Veal is all about ethical and emotional problems.  It’s a baby cow!  It’s cruel!  They do horrible things to them!  But, you know what, I happen to find veal really tasty, so I’m going to eat it anyway.  Even if it does mean I’m ‘evil’.

I’m Angela.  I’m a young, single, atheist woman living on her own in a small country town.  I don’t intend on getting married, at least not for a long time yet, and I don’t ever plan on having children.  Somehow I don’t think we are ever going to be besties, but that’s OK.  We can still have an intelligent discussion.

I’m writing this because some of the things I have seen on your Twitter feed have been worrying me.  I’m concerned for you Wendy.  I’m worried that people are feeding you misinformation.  I’m worried that your sources are a little… well, dishonest.

So, today, we are going to talk about this tweet here.

There really is a lot to delve into here.  I guess I’ll start with the obvious.

So, having gay parents dooms you to being fucked up, depressed, and wanting to kill yourself?  Gee, I’m glad that my parents were a straight couple then… must be why I turned out so normal as a teenager (oh, wait… no, I was depressed and wanted to kill myself.  Hmmm).

I’m no expert on marriages or teenagers.  I don’t have children.  I’m not married.  I’m not even in a relationship.  I’m certainly not an expert on psychological issues.  So, let’s refer to someone who is.

The American Psychological Association sound OK?  After all, they are the largest and most respected body of psychologists world wide.  I guess they may have some knowledge of psychological issues.

The APA have a wonderful article on their website (the article is published in one of their scholarly journals) entitled ‘The Kids Are Alright’.  This article discusses a study undertaken on children in gay families, and children in straight families, and looks at the differences between them.

You know what?  The differences weren’t that extreme!

Having a gay or lesbian parent doesn’t affect a child’s social adjustment, school success or sexual orientation, say researchers.

Well dang.  Gay isn’t catching! Fancy that…

Children of gay and lesbian parents reported closer ties with their schools and classmates. However, says Patterson, the difference was small and needs to be studied further.

And these kids can make friends too!  I sure hope you are feeling a case of the warm fuzzies here Wendy, ‘cos I am.

While the sexual orientation of the parents in Patterson’s study did not predict the adolescents’ social adjustment, the quality of the parent-child relationship did.

Hmmm.  Did you know that parents have to do a decent job parenting, regardless of sexual orientation?  And there you were thinking the kid with the alcoholic straight parents would be less messed up than the kid with the gay Dads.  You learn something new every day!

OK, I think I’ve made my point here.  But please, feel free to point me to those scholarly articles you’ve been reading which prove the APA wrong.  After all, I am always interested in reading evidence from both sides of an argument – that’s how we make informed judgements, after all.

Lots of love,

Angela.

Wendy Francis is a politician for the Family First party.  She is currently running for Senate.  You can see Wendy’s opinion on atheists, homosexuals, and all other sorts of things that don’t fit Family First’s view of the world on her Twitter page.

• Work has been somewhat monstrous, with nasty comments that a friend and I have been making about the staffroom bully getting back to said staffroom bully.  Bound to be awkward and messy, but it serves me right for not following what I tell the children – stop your bloody bitching about one another!
• Tax return came through, huzzah!
• Tax return rapidly spent on bills.  Still haven’t paid off all of said bills, but I guess it’s a small chunk out.
• I found $35 in my PlayStation Network wallet, so I spent it on old old games I remember from my childhood.  I foresee a relaxed afternoon in my future.
• Juggling social commitments in order to not disappoint anyone merely leads to you having a boring stressful night.
• People should not have BBQ’s, have everyone start drinking, and then announce when we are half drunk that ‘Oh, the boyfriend’s family is all coming out too, so you know’.  Would be fine if two of the boyfriend’s siblings weren’t my students.  Awkward.
• I have bleughcy* regrowth.  I look like a skunk.
• Kamiko and Socks are getting along wonderfully.  They are playing outside as I speak.  Now I just need to get Suki to be happy and I am set.
• It’s my Mum’s birthday today.  I called her, and she sounded very cheerful, which was nice.
• Only a week to go until I get a week off have to go away for training for a few days.  I’m looking forward to it, kinda.
• Apparently my boss is planning on leaving at the end of the year.  I am slightly excited.  I am also slightly terrified that the staffroom bully will become my new boss.  Can’t win no matter which way you look at it! (unless, of course, I get the job hehehe.  Highly unlikely).
• I can’t afford to go to Blizzcon at this point.  This makes me incredibly sad, but I guess it is high time I grew up and was sensible about something for once.  The thought of being sensible isn’t doing much to cure the sad, however.

* also a word.  Shhhh.

Why the hell DO we have a bedsheet thrown over our knees, anyway?  I am sure we have all seen our own lady bits before – at least as much of them as you can see lying down, anyway.  You KNOW that the doctor or nurse is having a good look in there.  Having a sheet there doesn’t change that.  Unless, of course, it is so we can’t see their horrified expression at the state of your bikini line.  Or, perhaps, so you can’t see those weird looking instruments that are always STUPID amounts of cold being stuck in you.

Anyway.  There I was.  With bedsheet.  Grinning and bearing it, knowing that the nurse was probably pulling horrible faces at my untended nether regions.

I don’t really enjoy these occasions.  There’s something rather awful about having a cold plastic contraption stuck inside you, and someone attacking you with a pipe cleaner.

However, I can usually deal with it – I can choose to look away, it’s over in 5 seconds, and I get to leave with the comforting notion that my vagina isn’t accumulating cobwebs, bats or nasty diseases and cancers.

Fast forward to this morning.  My trip to the dentist.  I have a horrible horrible fear of dentists – something to do with getting all my baby teeth ripped out as a child, I suppose.  Or it could be because of the following

- OMG FACES right near mine!  I’m a huge personal space person – I don’t like feeling like people are standing on top of me.  Having your face a whole few centimetres away from mine?  Staring at me?  Get me the hell out of there!

- OMG TWO faces!  That’s right, two of them!  Because one isn’t enough…

- Metal Things Do Not Go In My Mouth kthxbye.  At one point there was five metal contraptions poking around in there.  I felt like an earlier failed version of Edward Scissorhands, where I get to cut off your tongue instead of merely scratching your face the minute we get to do something intimate.

- Hands Do Not Go In My Mouth Either.  Simple, right?

- Needles which feel like they are poking around everywhere and taking forever.  Again, no thanks.  I think the dentist found it amusing that I have piercings everywhere, but cringed when she said I’d have to have a needle.

Thankfully, I only had a rather mild panic attack (the poor women probably wondered why my legs and arms were shaking uncontrollably).  When I was younger I was more prone to hysterics and asthma attacks at the dentist, so this is a vast improvement.

Given the choice?  Yep, I’ll go into the gyno’s office, happy to drop my pants and endure that slight weird feeling of violation before I’ll ever set foot in a dentist’s surgery again.

If you are interested, by the way, the dentists were actually rather lovely and very professional.  I broke a tooth on my tongue ring the other week, so they had to drill it down a little and then build it back up.  Apart from that, my teeth got the A-OK (amazing considering my diet!).  Now to avoid going back there ever ever ever again.

And no, I’m not telling you what I already listen to.  That might ruin the whole ‘expanding’ thing, because you’ll all subconsciously tailor it to suit what I like.

Fire away!

So, here’s what you do.

Sift the flour into a bowl, and throw in the salt and sugar.  Then make a well in the centre.

Pour your bottle of beer into the flour mix.  That’s right, the whole bottle.  The recipe calls for light beer – I used a mid strength, since it was the lightest I had in the fridge.   People out this way are firm in their belief that light beer is for sissies.

Grab a sturdy wooden spoon and start mixing.  Or, if you are lazy like me, use the dough hook attachment on your bench top mixer.

Take that dough out of your mixer.  Knead it on a floured bench.  Then split it into two and knead it some more.

Throw the dough into your pregreased loaf pan, and into your preheated oven.  Cook it for about 50 minutes.

And there you have it!  Mine isn’t anywhere near perfect – next time I’ll coat the top with sesame seeds, and you can really notice where the two halves joined together (much more like bread rolls than anything else).  But, it did taste wonderful!  I found it to be a very dense bread – this may be the way I made it, or perhaps it is meant to be dense.  Who knows!

Beer Bread

Preparation time: 20 minutes
Cooking time: 50 minutes

Ingredients

3 1/4 cups self raising flour
2 teaspoons salt
2 teaspoons white sugar
375ml bottle light beer

1.  Preheat oven to 180C/160C fan forced.  Grease 14x21cm loaf pan, line base with baking paper.

2.  Sift flour, salt and sugar into medium bowl, make well in centre.  Pour in beer all at once,; using a sturdy spoon, mix to a soft, sticky dough.

3.  Knead dough on floured surface until smooth; divide in half.  Knead each half; place in prepared pan.

4.  Bake, uncovered, in oven about 50 minutes or until bread is browned and sounds hollow when tapped.  Turn on to a wire rack to cool.  Serve warm or cold.