Author: Sandi Sieger

First published in Onya Magazine on June the 18th, 2010.

Overnight, I heard of the Queensland State Government’s plan to issue $100 on-the-spot fines for swearing.

What the f&#k?

My thoughts exactly.

Under new public nuisance laws, police will have the power to issue tickets for swearing in public – despite having no specific list of words to follow. The fines, it seems, will be issued on the context they are said in, and the environment they are said in.

The State Government claims such fines will free up the court system but experts, rightly, fear that police will become “ticket happy”.

And I can’t help but agree. In yesterday’s piece in the Courier Mail, University of Queensland ethicist Bill De Maria said “empowering police to bypass the courts and make their own judgment on something as “subjective as context” was concerning. Entrusting police on the beat to determine context asks unfair decisions to be made.”

Language expert Roly Sussex said the acceptability of swear words had changed significantly over 50 years.

“Having police decide on the spot what swearing is would be quite difficult,” Professor Sussex said. “In fact, a decent lawyer in most cases couldn’t let a swearing case stand up.”

I have a big problem with this new law. Which stems from a problem the entire country is suffering from – political correctness gone mad.

I’m not advocating swearing. In fact, if you’ve ever heard someone utter the f-word every four seconds when talking you’ll realise that there’s nothing more off-putting. But I simply cannot understand why the Queensland Government has decided to adopt such a law. If someone can kindly explain a reason to me other than revenue raising rubbish, I’ll gladly listen.

The suggestion that it will free up the court system is hilarious. I might be uninformed, but until I have a list of names of people convicted in court for swearing in public, I won’t be anywhere near convinced.

In a country where drug dealers and murderers are offered police protection, and are raised to a platform of sometimes fame, it seems kind of odd to me that a twenty-one year old wandering the street will be fined for cursing.

Oh, don’t be silly, that wouldn’t happen.

Ok then, when will it? With no defined list of what swear words are considered ‘fine-worthy’ and with no defined area of where swearing is ‘fine-worthy’, I ask, is it seriously expected that we leave the decision in the hands of a collection of people riddled with corruption and more power hungry than an energy plant? Will it be ok to swear at a NRL match but not at a park? At a café, but not at the soccer? Outside the supermarket, but not inside it?

Perhaps, if the Queensland Government is struggling with swearing in public, they should invest more money into education – and values. Values that mainly begin at home.

I grew up around swearing – my dad swore, my uncles, my older brother – not constantly, but they did. I spent my holidays on building sites around burly men. I went to football games and all sorts of sporting events where people are renowned for ‘going off’.

I never swore a great deal growing up – I was taught to not repeat ‘bad’ words. Some people, parents particularly, believe if their child doesn’t hear a swear word, they’ll grow up not using them. On the contrary, from the array of people I’ve met, I’ve found the worst offenders often come from the primmest of families.

Swearing is a part of language – like it or not, it is. And like all the evils parents fear in this world – alcohol, violence, predators and drugs – it’s best children are aware of them, best they are educated about them, rather than not know a single thing. Just because a child knows of the effects of a drug, it does not mean it is going to run out and use it. Likewise, just because your child hears a swear word, it does not mean it is going to use it. And if your child does, it’s your job to police it. Not the police forces.

Whenever we take power and education away from families, things, mind the language, fuck up.

I’m still no clearer on the intentions of this law. What disturbs me most, however, is that when I voted in the Courier Mail’s poll: Should You Be Fined For Swearing In Public, I was in the company of 52.71% of people agreeing that it was silly – but 47.29% of people thought it was a great idea.

I don’t believe issuing a fine for swearing will increase respect in the community. I don’t believe it will do any more than create more of a divide between the public and the police. More anger, more power, more niggling, more attitude, more, more, more.

I really wish authorities would start to focus on less – how to prevent less, things that occur less, creating ways to encourage less – instead of always wanting more.

First published in Trespass Magazine on March the 4th, 2010.

When you’re the Editor of your own publication, or of a publication that is not your own at all, or probably even a boss or leader, or maybe someone who just has to work with people, there’s one particularly awful, recurring thing you have to deal with: ball breakers.

Despite being a woman and not having balls, I sometimes feel as though mine are busted beyond repair. I never used to feel this way, but lately it seems as though ball breakers are in the numbers; whiny, self-obsessed and with every petty problem you can think of, there they are; breaking people’s nuts one email and phone call at a time.

I’m trying to pinpoint exactly when people got all high maintenance. I’m trying to remember when the tide turned, but I don’t think people have changed much at all.

I think it’s me who has changed.

I think I’ve reached that point where I Just. Don’t. Care.

When I read Mia Freedman’s autobiography Mama Mia, I distinctly remember a certain section where she discussed losing patience and how, over the years, her patience gradually decreased to the point of having very little at all. And I remember how she said that her job started infiltrating her life, so much so that she began chatting with friends in the same manner as redesigning the layout of Cosmopolitan with her Arts Director.

Regardless of not wanting to be so, I can’t deny that I do see myself acting in the same manner, every now and again, and I more than understand exactly where she is coming from. And whilst I manage separating work from socialising quite well, it’s the patience metre I’m severely depleting. In work and life.

For me, this self-revelation has come as quite the shock. I’ve spent years thriving on interaction with people and helping people and bending over backwards to please. And I’ve probably been spoilt by working with a lovely little collection of friends and colleagues, the kind of people who are easy and breezy like me. Truth is, I’m a pretty cruisy kind of person. I wouldn’t know how to be high maintenance if I tried. Just ask my hairdresser. I’m understanding. And flexible. And I always want to be.

But now all of the above – all the understanding and flexibility and breeziness – comes with a clause; just don’t fuck with me. Just don’t bore me. Just don’t argue with me. Because I Just. Don’t. Care.

Perhaps it’s due to having too much swirling through my brain, or perhaps it’s being increasingly busy, or maybe it’s because I’m much more aware of pleasingmyself than others, but I’ve reached a level – that contains a slight amount of arrogance – of what I’ll allow in my brain and what I can be bothered with.

More particularly, who I can be bothered with. And I can assure you ball breakers are not on that list. I’ve had my fill of them. Closely related to the knob, and in some cases the exact same person, a ball breaker is not someone I even consider anymore.

So what’s the difference now? I’ve made a clear decision to not put up with them. I’m not giving in to their whims. I’m not listening to their rubbish. I’m not allowing them a free pass. Or much of an opinion*.

If a ball breaker shares their opinion on what I should be doing with my business and how I should be doing it, they usually hear a reply to the effect of, ‘oh, you think so? Ok, well how about you go and start your own magazine?’ Or if one offers a suggestion regarding my wedding planning, they are usually greeted with a friendly, ‘hmm, how about you go and plan your own wedding?’

Despite my apparent aggression, I’m still a relaxed person – I’ve just decided to not be that person, or boss, with everyone. And I’ve realised an opinion is only ever valid when it is asked of you. Truth be told, not every idea is a good one. Not every suggestion needs to be adopted. Not every person needs to be catered for.

That’s what makes a good leader. The ability to distinguish good from bad. The ability to make changes, but at your own pace. The capacity to adopt ideas only if they suit. And the ability to tell people to pipe right down when required.

Life is here to be learned, and no one is born already being so. And what I’ve recently learned is the only thing worse than being a ball breaker is allowing one to go on. And on. And on.

So from on now I won’t be. And I can’t tell you how liberating it feels. In a world where being selfish is considered terrible, egotistical and downright inconsiderate, maybe we need to change our thinking and realise we’re wrong.

We all need to be a little selfish. Otherwise we’ll find ourselves worn out, jaded and with two severely bruised and busted nuts.

* This clause is only valid for ball breakers.

First published in Trespass Magazine on February the 18th, 2010.

I was watching ‘Brothers and Sisters’ on Monday night when Kitty Walker’s character, played by Calista Flockhart, announced to her family that she had cancer. Later in the episode, in a discussion with her husband Robert, she declared that she ‘didn’t want her life to be defined by cancer.’

And it got me thinking about what defines our lives.

Most things I read or watch tell me I shouldn’t be defined by my career. Or my car. Or my shoes. Or my postcode. Most people tell me they don’t want to be defined by theirs. People don’t ever want to be defined by an illness, or a misfortune. And no one wants to be a victim, or misunderstood.

But if it is not our career title that defines us, or the scars that mark our body, or the label stamped on our soles, then what does?

The truth is, I don’t know.

It’s possible that what defines us is both interchangeable and intangible. And I’d like to think that what really defines us is the thing that matters most in our lives; our attitude. Our integrity. The way we treat people. The way we expect to be treated. The way we want to be remembered.

And I believe that something challenging in life, such as Kitty Walker’s cancer, can’t not define us. We are our experiences. Just like your job cannot not define you. It does. Because it is a part of you. And we are what we do. But I still believe that what matters most is how we act doing it.

Some of the nicest people I’ve ever met, and I mean genuinely nice people, have been the biggest bogans I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. Some of the funniest people I’ve met have been the most disadvantaged I’ve encountered. And those people I’ve come across who are bursting with hope are usually the ones that need it most. So while I believe that we are defined by the material goods cushioning our lives, and the titles on our business cards, I still can’t shake the idea that what matters most is how we act, and how we make people feel.

I’m a writer and an editor. I inhale words and books like oxygen. My best friend is dyslexic. He never reads. In fact, he can’t do so very well. He rarely writes. And when he does, spelling is not really a consideration. We work in two entirely different fields. We have very different backgrounds.

We are the two most unlikely of friends, on the surface. But once you peel off the superficial layer, we’re exactly the same. The way we think, the way we feel, the way we communicate. He is 90% to blame for the fine lines forming around my eyes – it is his fault that I laugh too much. My point? That had we allowed all of the above – the careers and abilities and backgrounds – to define us, we would have limited ourselves and never allowed the most pure of friendships to form. Maybe I wouldn’t have fine lines around my eyes, but I wouldn’t have had one of the best people I could ever know as a major player in my life either.

I still don’t really know what defines us – my idea of it is just that, my idea. But what I do know for sure is that you shouldn’t ever allow yourself to be defined by things like titles or roles or cars or postcodes or soles of shoes – sure, they may be nice, they may be important – but they are also limiting.

Be the person now that you want to be remembered for; kind, talented, happy, intelligent, trendy, hilarious. And define others by the way they make you feel. Anything else is just interchangeable and intangible.

First published in Onya Magazine on February the 12th, 2010.

Last week I wrote on the intensity of planning weddings. And I don’t take back any of it; it is intense. But what I failed to write, and only briefly mentioned, was that when it comes planning weddings there’s a whole lot of joy and fun to be had.

You can learn a lot in a week. And the past week has taught me that no bride will ever succeed in planning a wedding she’s pleased with if she’s not organised. So, it may have taken me a week, but I did it. I got organised. I sorted through my Post-it notes. I took control of my diary. I replied to the 100 emails in my inbox that required a response, and I opened and addressed the 114 that were sitting there, glaring at me. I’m happy to report that I’ve managed to remain on top of my inbox, and I’m determined to never let it spiral out of control again.

It’s amazing how much better you can feel, and how much smoother the track of life is, when you’re in control and organised. The thing with wedding planning is that it canbe all consuming. I’ve done a mighty fine job of ensuring I’ve never, at any stage, been all consumed by my impending wedding. I’m just not that kind of girl. But there does come a time, usually in the months approaching the wedding, when the heat is turned up and you’re required to start spending a lot more of your time planning stuff. And heading to appointments. And picking things up. And thinking of things. And I suppose, in all honesty, I just wasn’t prepared to deal with that, on top of everything else. I’ve always been so all consumed by my career, or calendar, or my not-for-profit organisation, that giving too much brain time to a wedding seemed almost selfish.

When you work with people that are ‘disadvantaged’, or help people who have very little, or share wisdom with teenagers that have surreal life stories, you can have a very realistic view of the world. And sometimes that realism doesn’t involve the magic of weddings. What I’ve learnt, over the past week, is that just because someone else’s life is in ruins, does not mean you have to send yours in the same direction too. I don’t have to apologise for planning an amazing day, just because someone else in the world is less fortunate than I am, and is unable to do the same thing too. And more than anything I’ve realised that when you work hard, you deserve to get everything you can ever possibly want.

I want to have an amazing wedding day. And I’m going to. And in order to do so I’m reminded of the key to it all; being organised. I always have been, but as I said last week, renovating, wedding planning and operating a business is more full on that I ever could have expected. But I’m kicking its arse with organisation.

It’s quite the paradox; if you don’t want to be stressed, you need to get organised. But in order to be organised, you need to deal with a little stress, and some rushing around. However, if you push through, you’ll be left with a diary full of dates you can meet, a to-do list you can cope with, and some extra time to sit back, maybe with a cuppa, or even with a hair mask on in the bath, and think about just how lucky you are. And why you deserve to be so. Guilt free.

*Weddings, Parties, Anything were an Australian indie folk rock band formed in 1984 in Melbourne, that continued rocking until 1998. Their name came from The Clash song Revolution Rock. I’ve decided to use it as the name for this weekly column because I was born in Melbourne in 1984 and love Australian indie folk rock. And I’m having a Wedding, Party, Anything in 2010.

First published in Trespass Magazine on February the 11th, 2010.

“Thanks for your letter, I take it everywhere with me. Sometimes I put it in my bag absentmindedly, other times I just try to think of one of the beautiful lines in it. And not only the ones about me. That letter is one of the great things about being alive. I cherish it.”

And so begins a letter written to me from my then boyfriend, now fiancé, in reply to a letter I had previously sent him. I’ve kept that letter, with many more, in the drawer of my bedside table, and every now and again I will pull a letter out and read it. Every time I read a letter, I find something new within it. Something I had not noticed before. And every single time, without fail, I am transported back to another time in my life; back to memories so vivid if I shut my eyes I can see and feel them.

That’s what I love about letters – the way they speak not only the words within them, but of history too. History that cannot be erased with a click of the delete button.

I’ve never kept an email. Sure, I’ve saved some, I’ve even filed some away. But they’ve always eventually been deleted – when I’ve upgraded computers or had a purging attack. I can’t say the same for letters. My parents’ garage is filled with boxes and boxes of memories from my childhood and teenage years that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to part with. I’ve got letters from friends and crushes – tiny bits of paper with scribbles that can only be understood by me. And, on the exceptionally rare occasions when I sift through those boxes, I’m so happy it hurts, because they are all glimpses into my life; a culmination of who I am, and ever wanted to become.

People don’t seem to treasure things anymore, let alone letters – life is all about detoxing and streamlining and minimising – and I get that. But there’s something kind of wonderful about collecting move ticket stubs and train tickets and shoelaces and brochures from museum foyers. I still do. I write where I was going and who I was with on the back of train tickets – and I can assure you they provide more insight into the world than just how much the cost of public transport has risen over the years. It’s the lack of collecting being done that has made me encourage, with serious gusto, my nephews and niece to collect. And I love nothing more than taking them to an exhibition, or a fair, or a park, to then see them artfully pack away their goodies at the end of the day – pamphlets, and booklets, and wrappers, and twigs. Things they will see, maybe ten years down the track, and things they will remember. Cherish even.

People don’t cherish emails. Or maybe they do and I’m just old-fashioned and don’t really know. But in the age of Facebook, Twitter, MSN, texting and everything else, letter writing is truly a lost art. And there is an art to writing a letter. Despite what anyone says I will always believe that, like a car that’s routinely serviced and looked after, relationships run better when fuelled, every now and again, with an old-fashioned love letter. And I’m not the only one that believes that.

When the Sex and the City movie screened, it featured a book that, at the time, was non-existent in the real world. Love Letters of Great Men was a book created by the producers of the film for a scene within it where Carrie reads some letters to Big. Naturally, filmgoers believed the book existed, and when they discovered it did not Pan Macmillan cleverly released a book of the same title, featuring the same letters that Carrie had referenced, plus more. And I was one of the people that bought it. And originally searched for it. It’s a book that features letters from men such as Mark Twain, Oscar Wilde, John Keats, Victor Hugo, Henry VIII, Napoleon Bonaparte, Ludwig Van Beethoven and many more. And it’s a wonderful, romantic,beautiful selection of real letters from real men toreal women all featuring one theme; love.

I read one of the letters, by Robert Browning to Elizabeth Barrett on the morning of their wedding day in 1846, at a wedding of a dear friends’ last year. I doubt I would have ever read a copy of an email at such an event. Or an MSN transcript. In 2010, letters are grand gestures. Grand gestures that are not terribly hard to create.

My great man, my fiancé, may not have his letters published in a book, but he does have them tucked away in my bedside table, and every so often they are read, and I find something within them that I never noticed before. I am reminded of memories so vivid that if I shut my eyes I can see and feel them:

“You constantly remind me, I see it in others too, that life is love. Constant, un-diminishing love.Every bit of love I have is for you. One day I’ll find that last inch of it and finally be satisfied that I did the best I could for you. There are so many moments that send me deeper in love with you, I don’t know how far it goes. It’s such that I grow, swell even, looking in your eyes. You lift me.”

And I get so happy it hurts.

First published in Onya Magazine on February the 4th, 2010.

Planning a wedding is intense.

Made more intense when you pair that with trying to get a small business and publication off the ground and running well, and renovating a house. All three of which I’m currently doing. How successfully I’m travelling, I’m not sure.

With three months left until my wedding day, there’s something important I’ve realised; there will never be any pressure greater than the pressure a bride places upon herself.

Suffice it to say whenever I am doing or planning one project, I am still thinking about the other. So if I start writing about plumbing or wiring or decorating, I do apologise, but scattered is something I have become. Unwillingly.

Let me paint you an honest picture of my life right now, of my thoughts in this moment, without craving sympathy in any form, and with the pure intention of being honest:

· I have Post-it notes and pieces of paper scribbled with appointments and ideas and thoughts all over my desk. And floor. And bookshelf. And kitchen table. I literally do not know where to start in deciphering them, let alone organising them or attending to them.

· I switched off the voicemail feature on my phone because having to retrieve the constant stream of messages started making me act a little too much like John McEnroe on a bad day.

· I envy people who have the time to wash their car. Or even vacuum the interior of it.

· I have woken up, on more than one occasion, in the middle of the night, bolt upright, with an idea that then gets listed in my BlackBerry memo pad and someday transferred onto a teeny tiny bit of paper and added to the pile on my desk. Or floor. Or bookshelf. Or kitchen table.

· On some occasions, during some days, I have forgotten to eat lunch. And I’m all about the food, so that’s saying something.

· I have 114 unopened and unanswered emails in my inbox. And about another 100 opened emails to attend to.

· On any given car trip I am collecting items as varied as shower bases, shoes, toilets, jewellery, light fittings, beauty products and wine.

· I could go on, but I do fear you’d judge me, and some of the actions I’ve taken.

So when I, like today, stand in a newsagency and flip through bridal magazines and skim articles related to weddings and stress and magic and wonder, and how it’s all roses and butterflies and sugarplums on clouds, I have a very real and intense feeling of pure and unbridled anger.

Because I’d like to meet the people that plan a wedding, and renovate a house, and run a business, thathaven’t washed their hair twice in the morning because whilst in the shower they were thinking about something else, and then couldn’t remember whether they had in fact washed their hair, so they washed it again. Or shaved their already smooth legs for a second time because they were planning their Order of Service in their head.

And I’d also like to know when we’re going to stop being fed utter rubbish from magazines and websites and sales assistants? Because so far, in all of my research, I’m yet to discover some ‘REAL LIFE WEDDING TIPS’ that are actually useful. Or good. Or real. Brides to be, here’s a tip – whenever a magazine suggests a ‘budget’ idea, drop the magazine and run. It will most likely be something horribly ugly and cheap. Hence the budget aspect of it. My suggestion is to be inventive and create your own tips. Or chat to other ‘REAL LIFE BRIDES’ that you know.

And I’m yet to miss out on purchasing or ordering what I need. Despite some sales assistants insisting that if I don’t “buy it nowwwwwww,” or “order it immediatelyyyyyyyyyy,” the entire world may just run out of them.

When you’re planning a wedding and renovating a house at the same time, it’s a wonderful exercise in reality. Because you know there’s something wrong in the world when a single rose crafted for your wedding cake is quoted at the same price as your entire bathroom vanity unit. Which wasn’t cheap.

All I wish is that someone would just write the truth; that planning a wedding is intense. Sometimes stressful, sometimes overwhelming, sometimes confusing, sometimes filled with too much information to process at any one time. I wish people would realise it’s okay to say that, and doing so does not take away from the process of it being exciting, or enjoyable.

Quite seriously, Post-it note overload and voicemail deletion aside, I’m actually enjoying the entire planning process. It’s the only time in my life I’ll be planning a wedding and I’m making every moment count. And in doing so have somehow decided that means documenting the process through photographs and journals and keepsakes. Because I didn’t already have enough to do.

And there’s that issue about pressure. It’s all through my own doing. I’m not even planning all of the wedding or the renovation alone, but for some reason I’m acting as though all of it is balancing on my shoulders. Which is entirely untrue and completely self-inflicted. Brides, I’m afraid, are their own worst enemies.

My intention for this column was to document how easy, or hard, it was to plan a wedding by utilising Australian businesses, and it still is, but I think I’ve found my other focus; to be honest, really honest, about the wedding planning process. All everyone ever seems to focus on is having the perfect day. No one bothers with having the perfect lead up. I’m going to try.

Let me just write that on a Post-it.

*Weddings, Parties, Anything were an Australian indie folk rock band formed in 1984 in Melbourne, that continued rocking until 1998. Their name came from The Clash song Revolution Rock. I’ve decided to use it as the name for this weekly column because I was born in Melbourne in 1984 and love Australian indie folk rock. And I’m having a Wedding, Party, Anything in 2010.