Caterpillar Contemplations

"What the caterpillar calls the end, the rest of the world calls a butterfly." Lao Tzu


Hi, my name is Alex and I’ve been facebook free for over a year now

Facebook sucks!

That’s right. You read me. It sucks. Impersonal crock of shite!

First, there were email cards, which essentially say ‘I like you enough to put minimal amount of effort into finding a pathetically animated card and posting it to you at no expense to me and with little forethought.’ I delete them. Usually I can read what the sender has written, the only part of the card which has any meaning, as it appears in the email and then I delete it.

Then, or perhaps simultaneously there were chain emails. Not just the kind where if you don’t send it on you’ll die in the next 3 hours, but ones that profess to be gathering signatures for a ’cause’. Nothing says I’m fighting for my beliefs and really making change in the world like a signature email. That’ll show them – those people! Yeah, high flying corporates, take that email and that email and that email and see, they’re filled with typed names, how do you like them apples?

At some stage in our techno-evolution it was perfectly acceptable to invite people to events or parties via text and email. I’m not opposed to this form of invitation but I often get the feeling that I’m just a click of a button, not specifically chosen. I like to have my ego boosted occassionally by a specifically addressed invitation.

Then, there was Facebook. Which is essentially all of the aboves rolled into one, with a side of crap.

Status updates:
You’re hot? cold? hungry? at work? on holidays? just ate a big donut? just saw a dog piss?
I don’t care! I don’t.
I originally thought that facebook would be a good opportunity for me to really know how my friends were doing (the lazy way). But since I have a predisposed issue with being superficial, I found that status updates often made me gag on my frustration.
Aside from the innane, useless updates of the perennially bored, there are the natural entertainers who must update their statuses with contrived wit. Witty status updates have undisclosed side effects. One, they set up an expectation that the author cannot replicate daily. Two, they disempower the less witty. And three, when overused, they get boring. Oh yes, your incredible wit is sooooo last week.

Sure, I’ll join your group that is against killing dolphins. Phew! I’m so glad I did that. It’s so satisfying to know I’m really making an impact on the planet. After all, facebook groups-like chain emails-really punch those bullies where it hurts.

I wrote on your wall. Therefore I don’t need to make any meaningful contact for another month, at which time, I can write on your wall again. Better still, it’s your birthday so I’m going to write on your wall, just so you know how important you are – this of course, will remind all those other people-who don’t honestly give a shit about you but have you as a friend to up their numbers-to also wish you happy birthday.

Being exceptionally good at lowering my self esteem, photos of other peoples lives is a real downer. Of course, when people post photos, generally speaking, they only post ones where they look good. On the flipside, people can post photos of you where you don’t look so good. This causes two reactions for me. One, I hate how I look in photos so I don’t really want to post them for the world to see. And secondly, I spend loads of time looking at how good other people look in their photos.
Suffering a breakup? Just pour on a little photo salt of your ex out enjoying him/herself surrounded by hot (or at least decent looking) wo/men. Trust me, it’s therapeutic.

You want to be my friend? Ah crap! Saying no may offend someone in my 6 degrees of seperation and saying yes then affects my ability to say I am an honest person. Ah hell, why not, it’s not like I have to have a meaningful relationship with you, it is facebook afterall.

Zombie bites, hugs and presents:
The only zombie game I want to play is one where I get to shoot them.
The only hugs I want to receive are ones with arms involved.
The only presents I want to get, are in a physical form that I can touch, smell, feel, taste or hear. And don’t you dare, ever, send me a virtual plant for my virtual garden. I believe in dirt, sun and water. You can shove that virtual plant where the sun don’t shine, that’s right, the spot where my facebook page used to be.

If it’s an important event, then I ain’t coming unless it arrives with my name on it in my letterbox. This is even more enforced if there is an expectation of an awesome present.

Note about the author: Alex suffered from Facebook fever for a year before coming clean. She now has positive meaningful interactions with people she actually likes.


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Designers be damned!

Fashion. I’m over it!
It’s definately up there on the things I like least in the world.
What better way is there to make an otherwise relatively confident woman (albeit a few kilograms over the desired skeletan formation) feel bad about herself?
I know – lets go shopping! Lets fit some gorgeously cut fabrics in scrumptious colours and slip them over those voluptuous curves. Ba Bowwww! <-Think game show 'got it wrong' noise.

Clearly I’m in the wrong industry – yet again. I’m betting there is a multitude of women, who have tits or perhaps an ass, or maybe some thighs who just don’t fit into the clothes hanger designed pieces of loincloth on display.
There is a market – not for the plus 14 sizes – thank you very much. But for women with shape GODDAMMIT.
I’ve got boobs and I’m proud of them. These amazing devices gave my son a damn good start in life! They at least deserve the priviledge of bras that fit comfortably and clothes which don’t make me look like a medievil barmaid.

But what shits me most about this issue, is not the sizes available. Clothing stores actually have far-reaching clothes racks that extend to size 16 or 18. What really burns my boiler and makes my eyeballs sizzle is the fact that the designs they have on display (no matter the size) only suit people with a skeletal frame. Looks friggin fantastic on them. I’m not doubting the designers finesse to make women who have no shape, LOOK like they have shape. What I’m doubting is ANY designers ability to take a woman with curves and give her clothes to brag about.

And this is not about weight, thankye very much! Although that in itself deserves a suitably acid rant about societies imposing views and the detrimental affects of commercialism on women’s self esteem.
No – this is purely about the clothes which are meant to drop from the shoulders, accentuating a subtle A or B cup to titilating effect, which, even in a size 12, drop like a primarly school pinafore off C cup boobs or bigger.

And what is with ruffles? I don’t need frigging ruffles. I HAVE BOOBS. Boobs that have their own divine curvature and don’t need ruffling up!

Don’t get me started on puffy sleeves. Aside from the fact that they well and truely died in the 80’s and there is absolutely no way they could be made hip again, they make the majority of women look like merigues or wannabe grid-iron players.

I want several clothes chains to focus on the curves of women. All the curves! I want a shop that is divided by how well the clothes fit our bodies. I want a section for those with bigger hips. A section for those with boob-zookers. A section for those especially tall. Or those who have larger arms (because they work out – or not).

I want designers to honor women. To love women. To love the fact that they get older and their metabolism goes a little awire.

It can be done. I know it can be done. I have a few items of clothing in my sparse wardrobe that actually make me feel ‘okay’ when I’m going out. And by a few, I mean, one winter outfit, one summer outfit and one I’m not quite summer or winter outfit.

And please, don’t mention this quaint little shop here or there that does fantastic clothes for shapely women (ok, you can mention it ‘after’ you’ve said you understand). I don’t want a quaint shop in fucking Brunswick. I want to be able to walk down the street, in a nice convenient way and go to some easy-to-find shops that sell clothes that look good – on me!

The thing is … I need a pick-me-up sometimes. I occassionally want to go out and spend money on clothes and items that are just for me, to make me feel good.
I want to climb into some clothes when I go shopping and say “God damn, I look good.”

Instead, I walk home dejected. I pick up some chocolate, wine, a fresh book or gardening magazine and wallow in self-pity.

Stuff marketing, I don’t read trashy magazines for the fashion pages. I don’t give a shit about societies perceptions. And I don’t watch models on the catwalk. Quite often I’m fine with my weight, with it’s heaviness here and pudginess there. The fault lies with the designers and makers of clothes. Designers need to create clothes that honor mothers or ‘will be’ mothers and that celebrate the renaissance.

Give me a wardrobe that accentuates my good bits and I’ll give you a changed woman!

With time, money and patience, I’ll start making my own clothes again. Just need a decent pattern or two.

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Cussing in my cocoon

As the label suggests, I’m going to be cussing.

I’m going to cuss things that may well be close to your heart.

I’m going to bandy my thoughts and opinions around like they’re about to go off and I need to get rid of them so I don’t feel wasteful.

I’m going to rant and rave about stuff that you may or may not care about.

If you DO care and want to cuss right back at my opinionated ass, then go right ahead, but do it in your own damn cocoon. I don’t mind if you want to comment on my opinions in a concise manner with a link to your blog, but just so you’re aware from the getgo, I won’t accept long comments.

If you don’t care then hopefully you’ll find my explosions about relatively unimportant things entertaining.

Let the cussings begin