Adventures in Budgeting

 

I’ve never been very good with money. Or, more specifically, at saving money – I’m very good at spending it. In fact, money seems to spend itself very quickly and easily on my watch. It’s like it doesn’t even really belong to me – I’m just the temporary guardian who watches with interest as it happily marches off to do whatever it wants, after which I gladly return to pondering the mysteries of the universe or patting the cat or whatever.

This is kind of surprising though, since I come from a long line of strong budgeters and classic tight-wads. My father – the king of budgeting and close-fistedness. My mother – the silent saver who is utterly unfamiliar with the word “excess”. My grandmother – a bonafide Matriarch of extracting a comfortable living from the scent of an oily rag. 

And then there’s me. In this swirling gene pool of financial prudence and common-sense, a genetic enigma was born; someone so alien to the concept of steady financial management that I have only just started using rudimentary envelopes made out of colourful scrap paper to allocate my upcoming expenses. I display them gleefully to my long-suffering house mate, who affirms my cleverness with a patience bordering on saint-like.

My father introduced me to a new concept on the weekend. When I say new, what I really mean is that what he has been incessantly bashing away at for fifteen years finally sank in and produced a mutually welcome light-bulb moment: it isn’t how much you earn that’s important, rather,  it’s how much you can save.

Since resonating with this simple yet profound logic, life has taken on a completely different meaning for me.

For example, when I enter the supermarket, I now have a set amount of money that I am willing to spend, and then shop accordingly.

Moreover, I am more aware of prices and costs, and am starting to compare prices in order to get a better deal.

This affects the quantity and quality of what I buy, and determines what kinds of items I purchase. Instead of purchasing whatever items I feel like regardless of cost, I now only purchase items that fit into my budget.

Something completely crazy happened today: I didn’t buy a hot drink when I was out, because it didn’t fit into my budget, and I realised I’d had more than enough to eat and drink this morning, and didn’t need it.

This budgeting business is frigging blowing my MIND.

And, according to the budget which I have set for myself, I will end this pay cycle in surplus, instead of spending all of my money simply because I can.

As my mother communicated to me this morning in a text message filled with relief and pride, “It’s better late than never.”

Indeed. And along that vein of thought, I am aware that there are many children who possess better budgeting prowess than I do, but I don’t care. I’m entering a new phase in my life – the phase of budgeting adventures – and while I doubt my innate capacity to fall into the category of tight wad, I’m kind of hoping that the future might bring with it the words, prudent or financially astute bandied around in my direction.

I really don’t think that’s too much to ask. You can’t imagine the thrill I get when I picture all those people who have said about me, “Wow, that girl’s crazy,” instead saying, “Wow, that girl’s financially astute.”

It’s all about setting achievable goals, and planning for success. So I’m getting ready for a future where my financial prowess is lauded.

Watch this space.

 

 

How To Charm Police Officers

 

Ladies, this one’s for you.

I’ve my share of run-ins with the boys in blue, usually all in the form of getting hauled over for some sort of vehicle infringement. I’ve never copped a fine or had an altercation, although there were plenty of times when it was warranted.

I put it down to an innate knowledge of how to subtly manipulate a situation to the advantage of both parties.

Some of this advice might offend or strike you as being shameless and outdated, but please bear in mind it works.

How to charm (male) police officers:

1.       Always, always, ALWAYS be polite: mild and unassuming works best. Smile like you’re happy to see them.

2.       Adopt an air of slight confusion – look enquiringly into space as they ask when your last trip to the mechanic was. Don’t be afraid to mention the words, I think my father…

3.       Be wide-eyed and ardent – of course I’ve paid my registration. I just forgot to put the sticker on. If the sticker is still in its envelope in your car, they’ll slap it on for you.

4.       Make the most of your femininity and all the opportunities that come with it – wear a helpless little smile when you confidently tell them you will certainly change your busted headlight at the next available service station. They’ll do it for you.

5.       Act dumb and concerned. No, I wasn’t aware that there is a minimum legal tyre tread. How do my tyres look? Oh (look crestfallen when they inform you your tyres are illegal).

6.       If you are wearing a knee-length dress or skirt at the time– hitch it up a couple centimetres.

7.       If you have long hair and you’re wearing it up at the time – shake it out.

8.       Visualise that you are the most wholesome, innocent person in the world – this inner conviction will shine through your face.

9.       Don’t be afraid to say any of the following when they ask how your day has been: baking, sewing, fundraising, dress shopping, cooking, vacuuming, gardening, visiting parents.

10.   Exude an air that says, “Oh, thank goodness you have pulled me over! Without you, I might never have known there were so many dangers with my car. Thank you, officer. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re my hero. I’ll follow your directions to the letter.”

And it goes without saying that you must always wish them a pleasant day once they’ve let you go with a warning and a fatherly shake of the head.

Everybody wins. They get to be the hero and you get to spend your money on more important things, like shoes.

And that, ladies, is how you charm police officers into never issuing you a fine.

Google Nights

We’ve all been there: clambering  aboard the crazy, zigzagging Google train to nowhere in the early wee hours of the morn, pursuing indiscriminate topics that would be difficult to explain your interest in come the light of day.

Personally speaking, these bouts of mass data gorging usually coincide with looming assignment deadlines. I get the most persistent urges to find out about the most pointless stuff when I’m supposed to be studying.  Like now. I have also managed to trick myself into believing that blogging about it will assist my assignment in writing itself, despite history repeatedly suggesting otherwise.

I’ve had a lot of questions answered by my dear friend Google over the past week – answers to questions I didn’t even know I had until my eyes saw the Google logo. It doesn’t help that I’m interested in, well, nearly everything.  Some examples of my most recent Google searches:

·         What attracts gay men to each other? (queried with sincere ignorance, respect and curiosity)

·         If stars are so far away from each other, how come they all appear roughly the same size?

·         Evidence of time travel throughout history (with surprising results)

·         How do blind people think? (ie, they cannot visualise their thoughts)

·         How does 7^th Heaven end?

·         Why did Shannon Doherty leave Charmed?

·         Are we players in someone’s dream?

·         What the fuck is wrong with people?

·         Examples of spontaneous human combustion

·         Is the dress in Pretty in Pink meant to look bad?

·         Molly Ringwald teeth.

And so on.

Procrastination disguises itself in a number of sophisticated ways. My experience is usually with the more blatant, unsophisticated ways, but I can assure you they are equally effective in providing distraction, just as Best and Less is equally as effective as David Jones in providing a means to hide human nakedness.

The Google train is a long and pointless train, and it’s mighty hard to find a stop at which to alight as it doggedly traverses the lonely and desperate landscapes of procrastination and escapism.

Once you board the Google train, you will never be happy. You will formulate more questions, and crave more answers. Each will be as stupid as the next. It will be like John Farnham, always making one last appearance. But it never ends. It can’t end. The Google train is a train to nowhere. And it will take you during your darkest, most vulnerable Google Nights.

There, you join invisible forces with schmucks the world over, Googling about Molly Ringwald’s teeth when you should be using your uni subject as an intellectual whipping post.

Molly Ringwald would be ashamed.

And it is with that thought that I conclude this post. Molly Ringwald had to wear that hideous, homemade pink dress to her pretend prom when she filmed in Pretty in Pink.

She’s had enough shame to deal with in this lifetime without me adding to it.

Why It Won't Hurt Me Not To Hate Lance Armstrong

 

“Lancey, Lancey, pudding and pie,

Fleeced the world and made it cry!”

Do you know who I feel the most sorry for in this whole crazy, messed-up affair?

Lance Armstrong.

I feel sorry for a man who needs to win so desperately. I feel sorry for any human being who treats other people badly, as it is truly a sign of ill-feeling within oneself. And we all know how uncomfortable that can be in some measure. Imagine it on a huge, ginormous, self-inflicted Lance-Armstrong-sized scale. Blrgh.

My heart literally breaks for the guy. I couldn’t imagine living with such a manic desire to prove my worth to people, and fabricating a web of lies so intricate that it is impossible to see where the true man starts and the liar ends. I doubt he knows himself. What a nightmare.

Of course, he doesn’t need my puny amount of pity. No doubt he would find it excessively patronising. Who the hell is this pale, two-bit blogger who rides a 1970s Melvin Star, he might say. And he'd have a point. But for the record, the pity is there.

In saying I feel sorry for the guy, I am in no way taking his side.  Far from it. I feel sorry for the people he has wronged, and for the damage he has done to the sport. For those poor blokes who rode clean and typically got used to wipe the Champs-Elysees by Armstrong and his dopey pals. Those guys, the ones who persisted in riding clean in the face of inevitable athletic and professional decimation, are the real champions.

By all accounts, Lancey has acted like a Grade A asshole for longer than anyone cares to remember. He has ruined countless lives and acted in a thuggish, calculated manner towards people he once called friends.

It is doubtful he has many friends left now though, and he will likely never be able to undo much of the damage he’s caused.

A glutton for accolades and public admiration, he will have to live the rest of his proud life with the knowledge that there are not many people left who respect him. His word has lost all credibility. His children will never escape the association of their history-making fraudster Dad, the object of the world’s unanimous (and probably long-standing) contempt.

From king of the castle to vilified criminal. Ouch.

But on the whole, I  do feel sorry for the guy. Not because the public is going apeshit for his blood, but because of how unhappy he must be as a person, and how that won't end any time soon. Perhaps he has always been unhappy.

Nobody is perfect. There are a trillion sides to every story. Just as one simply doesn’t walk into Mordor, one simply doesn’t act like a sociopath if one has a heart filled with gambolling kittens and fragrant cherry blossoms. This much is obvious.

It won’t hurt me to not hate Lance Armstrong. It would be a confirmed waste of energy. There are far more worthy avenues to channel my discontent, like at the monsters who recalled Wonka Mudsludges from the Australian chocolate market, and, in doing so, recalled a piece of my childhood forever.

I hope Lance has the courage to do the right thing, as I believe it is the only way he will be able to find peace and respect himself. He is no doubt a flawed human being, and in that he shares a commonality with every other person in human history, to varying degrees.

I hope he has the opportunity and ball to make amends. I hope those he wronged can move on and feel vindicated. I hope they get what they need to feel good about life again.

But hating is beneath anyone. It's ugly and doesn’t solve anything. It doesn't help Lance or anyone else become a better person.

 And as such, he’ll receive no hate mail from me.

Just a polite note praising the title choice of his famous book, It’s Not About the Bike.

Credit where credit is due. In this instance, the man spoke the truth.

The Time I Searched All of Manhattan and Couldn't Find a Slip

This is possibly the most bizarre story of them all (when you really think about it)...

Back in 2005 or 2006, I was in New York during the summer. New York summers are some of the most humid and uncomfortable you can experience. Although I was thankfully out of the smog-choked city of Manhattan, where I was staying in the suburb of Jamaica, Queens was not much better. Before I left Australia, I had taken the unusual step of buying a couple of skirts to wear, having experienced a New York summer before and finding that even shorts aren’t always the most comfortable option.

One morning I was walking with my friend to the local deli when she commented lightly, “Well, I must say, I can see straight through that skirt!”

I froze with embarrassment. That morning I had put on my new white skirt for the first time and, impressed with the swishy, feminine feelings it gave me, had worn it out quite confidently. Now I was being informed by my friend that, in the unforgiving rays of New York sunlight, it revealed everything.

My friend examined it. “Where is the lining?” she demanded. I looked at her blankly. She sighed. “Most skirts have a lining sewn on, like a second layer, to prevent them from being see-through.”

I was crestfallen, and confused as to why my skirt had no lining. It was not the success I’d dreamed it would be. I didn’t have many outfits with me and, being so busy during the day, did not have time to do untold loads of laundry at the public Laundromat. The skirt was an indispensable part of my shoestring wardrobe for the next three weeks, and I had to come up with a solution.

It didn’t me take long to conclude that it was necessary to find a tan-coloured slip (or half-slip, to be exact) to wear underneath my skirt. I had grown up with a mother, aunty and grandmother who had an abundance of slips and camisoles and other such practical, lady-like items.  I learnt early on that when you have a see-through skirt, you  must wear a slip underneath. Simple.

Jamaica has an abundance of cheap, dollar clothing stores, and so I walked downtown to see what I could find. Nothing. I searched shop after shop. I received nothing but rude service and uncomprehending remarks, such as, “A what? Uh, no. Sorry.  We don’t doo daaat.”

To be fair, Jamaica is a predominantly black suburb and they probably don’t deal with skinny, English-sounding white girls politely enquiring whether they sell slips in their dollar stores. Size 28 denim cut-off shorts plastered with sequins? You bet! Six inch white faux leather stilettos with bright red cherries stamped on them? Hollaaa! Slips? Wha…?

After two hours it became apparent to me that I would have to venture further afield to find my slip – into Manhattan itself. Now, being distinctly disinterested in fashion at the time, and usually preferring to spend my money on candy instead of clothing, I shuddered at the idea of a day in one of the world's great shopping meccas. Such excursions typically bored me and I would usually come up with an excuse not to go. Today was no different, although, I reluctantly supposed, I was probably in the best place in the world to find a slip. I mean, if you couldn’t get one in Manhattan, where could you get one? And at least there would be good coffee there.

On cue, visions arose of polished, ladylike sales clerks from a big department store ushering me into the women's undergarments section, beaming and nodding as they showed me an extensive and dazzling array of slips. I would promptly select my tan half-slip without any ado, and the sales clerks would be relieved from having to perform some sort of persuasive song-and-dance number, like Lumiere and and the enchanted serving staff did in Beauty and the Beast when they were trying to convince Belle to eat some dinner against Beast's wishes.

So I caught the subway into Manhattan and started the hunt.

First I hit up all the small, boutique clothing stores lining the pavement. Nothing. Some cute clothing, but nothing even close to resembling a slip. I managed to stumble across some big department stores – Bloomingdales and Macy’s – and eagerly sought out the women’s lingerie section. They had nothing. I nervously approached a  sales clerk in Bloomingdales, waiting for the capable ushering to begin. Again, nothing, only a look of unparalleled confusion. The sales clerk in Bloomingdales had no idea what I was talking about.

Now, I'm aware that my abilities to exemplify and discourse about fashion are largely unproven, but a slip is called a slip in any English-speaking country. You can't get it wrong. Those who would suggest that I wasn't clear enough in stating my objective must remember this: my mind was so uniquely uncluttered by any other knowledge of fashion at this point in my life that I was  able to be perfectly clear about one of the few things I did know about - slips.

Anyway, in pure desperation, after more than three hours of fruitless searching, I decided it was time for one last, soul-destroying measure. I went into Victoria’s Secret. Wearing cargo shorts, a bright red T-shirt and a back pack. Like a ten year old.

“Do you have any slips?”

“Any what?”

“Slips – you know, it’s sort of like a skirt you wear underneath a skirt.”

“Oh no, I’m sorry, we don’t have anything like that.”

Victoria’s Secret thought slips were weird and didn’t stock them. Now I’ve seen it all.

Sadly, there is no happy end to this story. In the whole of New York (well, a sizeable chunk of it) I could not find a slip, much less someone who even knew what a slip was. I was too poor (but mostly too disinterested) to buy new clothes, so I slunk around in the same stinky old shit day in and day out for three weeks, looking like a complete toss-pot. I longed to be transported to Capalaba Park Shopping Centre for ten minutes so I could just go into K-Mart and buy a damn slip, such was my desperation. Did you hear what I just said? Have you ever longed to be transported to Capalaba Park Shopping Centre?

This was seven years ago. Tonight, I Googled “slips” and found out that they actually do stock them in Macy’s. Perhaps my meaning got lost in my accent all those years ago, or perhaps some smart ass Manhattan sales girl thought it would be funny to pretend that I was talking nonsense. Both are equally plausible and equally funny to think about.

Either way, that’s the story of the time I searched all of Manhattan and couldn’t find a slip.

Angels Walk on Crowded Trains

It was the 2:09pm train from Fortitude Valley to Caboolture. At first it was only an announcement, a distant sound, and then it was there; old, tired-looking, filled with people - many more than expected at this time of day.

I didn’t relish the idea of getting on board an overcrowded, dirty train. Visions of decrepit Indian railway services unreasonably conjured themselves up in my head, and I half expected to see chickens running out as the doors opened. People push themselves forward; there are very few seats. Out of resignation I do not push, do not shove. I take my time to board. Inside the train, I find myself standing with a small crowd and sharing a pole with one other man. The seated crowd gaze up at us blankly, enquiringly; not really interested, but perhaps wondering what it might feel like not to be sitting. Perhaps forgetting that we are not entertainment or television screens; we can look back and register their glances. We are people.

The gentleman standing next to me is a sixty-something carbon copy of Morgan Freeman. He wears an old Triple M cap and sunglasses. In his free hand he holds a bag containing a loaf of bakery bread. His outfit is plain, and does not indicate his profession in any way. He wears a simple pair of navy slacks and a white polo shirt which I never glimpse the logo of. He seems very aware of my presence. For my part, I am feeling quieter than normal and a  little preoccupied. I don’t immediately notice him.

This man, this Morgan Freeman carbon copy, speaks to me. I can’t exactly understand what he’s saying (it is noisy; he talks quickly) but his tone of kindness is unmistakeable.  His teeth are very white. Finally I understand. He is saying what a shame it is that so many school children are sitting in seats, and young men also, while a young woman such as me (all done up in interview clothes) is left to stand.

I smile and tell him that it’s ok. I shrug as if to indicate, us modern women, we can’t have it all. He isn’t convinced. He very seriously asks me if I would like him to find a seat for me; if he might assist me by asking another to forfeit his seat for my comfort. I tell him no, but thank him very much for the thought. He says something about chivalry, and asks where it is gone, and I smile and say I don’t know. There is more I want to say but can’t: it is noisy, I am dispirited and my progressive, liberal convictions suddenly amount to nothing in the presence of such sincere, gentleman-like conduct.

He keeps talking to me, quickly asking questions, filling in the silences, painting himself as a character. The entire carriage is silent except for our conversation, in the middle and standing above the crowd. I can see in their faces:  here is the aging man chatting up the nice young woman. Here is the nice young woman agreeing with the old man; fulfilling her unspoken duty to be gracious and polite in all circumstances, even those involving strange men in dirty, crowded train carriages.

Yet his attentions do not bother me. I feel a great sincerity and kindness in his words. He seems to have made it his mission to entertain me, to elicit a smile. Something tells me that he is trying to cheer me up. I take in his presence, and look him full in the face.  I am suddenly reminded of a famous spiritual book I once read, which advises readers to always be kind to strangers, as your spiritual master or guardian angel can take the form of a human being and turn up in your life at any time. I look at this man, this jovial Morgan Freeman, and it crosses my mind that maybe he knows me; that his outer garments may in fact cloak an old and familiar friend.

 I am polite and agreeable to his chatter, and eventually I am genuinely entertained. I am like a small child whose parent is doing their best to cheer them up. I am safe and right whether I laugh or not. He will continue to try; he is of a breed that fears neither criticism nor cynicism. Here’s yet another rabbit from his hat, another ace from his sleeve. I begin to smile genuinely, feeling my mouth stretch wide, taking pleasure in his company.

He is in the middle of telling a story. He uses me as an example to illustrate a point. He indicates to me, waving his hand familiarly and says, “…my friend Julie, for example…” For a moment I am surprised; I never told him my name, never once mentioned it, and nor was it visible on my person. He continues on, and the moment is lost. I am willing to let it flow away; perfectly happy to accept that there are times when a stranger knows your name.

After five stations he starts to move towards the door, still talking animatedly. As the train slows he extends his hand and says (in front of dozens of people) “It has been lovely talking to you. My name is Alan. What’s your name?” I offer him my hand and say, “Julie.”

“Judy?”

“No, Julie.”

“Ah, Julie!” He makes a face of mock surprise and taps his head. “How did I know that? It must be the sixth sense!” He gives me another wide smile and leaves, waving and calling out goodbye as he passes through the door.

An old lady seated behind me taps my back. She gives me a commiserating look, full of knowing, and points to a spare seat. I thank her and sit down.  Yet I refuse to meet her eye again, refuse to confirm her idea that I had been kind to endure the strange man’s conversation, and that I had somehow done him a favour. Whether angels walk amongst us literally or figuratively, I met one on the crowded train who gave me exactly what I needed when I needed it: kindness and a smile.

He even knew my name and looked like my favourite actor.

No Hugging Here: School Bans Students From Hugging

In early February of 2012, a middle-school in Portland, Oregon banned hugging amongst students.

The principal enforced the ban after it was alleged that hugging had reached viral proportions in the school. Girls were screaming and running to hug each other from opposite ends of the hall. Students were getting to class late because they were lingering in the halls to hug. And worryingly, hugging turned to bullying as groups of students converged on uncool kids and hugged them as a form of public degradation. Groups of girls made a sport of hugging pubescent boys to see how long it took them to get aroused.

I don’t have a solution to fix these problems, but I do believe there are two issues here worth serious discussion: the way we are raised to deal with physical contact, and bullying.

I’ll start this off by stating that I’m not a serial hugger. In fact, I found physical contact so awkward during my teenage years that I would consciously try to avoid hugging my friends (family was ok). I was always secretly envious of the girls at school who would carelessly hug and touch each other without it being construed as something sexual. There was an innocent intimacy about it that I could never emulate, being hyper self-conscious of touching anyone in any way, lest it be misinterpreted. Yet I craved it, because like billions of other human beings, I desired meaningful, non-sexual physical contact without being judged.

I don’t think I’m alone in having experienced uncertainty about physical contact. I believe our attitude towards it is determined in part by the way we are raised and also the way we interpret the values endorsed by media. Many families, despite being deeply loving and caring, are not physically demonstrative towards each other beyond hello and goodbye hugs or kisses. As kids become savvier at an earlier age and are exposed to things which previous generations didn’t learn about until near adult-hood, society as a whole increasingly seems to be laced with overtones of sex. Media outlets are sustained by stories of sex and violence, reinforcing over and over again their agenda of fear-mongering, and strengthening the perception that our society is more perverted and dangerous than it actually is.

Nowadays, men fear going near children to hug or kiss or play with them, because society has made them out to be paedophiles. In western societies, contact between two girls or two boys is readily labelled as gay, albeit often in a joking way. One of my best friends, who happens to be straight and Indian, described to me his amusement one day when an Australian friend told him it wasn’t ok to walk arm in arm down the street with his male cousin. My friend was puzzled, saying that it was his cousin who he loved dearly, and what could be more natural? The Aussie friend was emphatic. Male-male affection: not ok.

Like most teenagers, I lacked the interest and ability to critically interpret the information given to me by mainstream media, and therefore when there was the chance of physical contact with anyone I wasn’t related to, my brain was quick to provide me with the appropriate media-endorsed references: Gay. Pervert. Interested. Feeler. Lesbian. Crush. Dirty. Suspect. The list goes on….and on, and on. I’m sure you could add to it.

When did we lose the ability to experience touch in a non-sexual and non-violent light? This is something I believe there needs to be more education around, particularly for kids. Touch, within safe and respectful boundaries, can be healing, therapeutic, nurturing, empowering, comforting, sustaining, playful, enjoyable and fun. There are branches of medicine founded on the healing capacity of touch. As babies and children we are raised on loving touch, and then BAM! It’s gone, and we are suddenly told it’s not ok and made to feel ashamed of our desires. Banning hugging (the harmless, fun kind) in schools is just one more voice saying that physical contact is not ok and somehow unsafe.

And they’re teenagers for crying out loud. They’re going to want to hug. A lot. Educate them instead of repressing and punishing them. Teach them about respect, responsibility and the positive aspects of physical contact. Surely if we’ve learnt anything from things like the gay rights movement, it is that repressing human nature is a terrible, destructive idea. Educate to promote the behaviour you want; don’t punish the symptom of misbehaviour.

The second point to discuss here is bullying. Bullying exists. It happens in every facet of society, amongst rich and poor, black and white, old and young. That is unfortunate fact. The way bullies manifest their cowardly trade, however, is changeable. The tactic, in this case hugging, is only the outer symptom of the core problem, not the problem itself.

Modes of bullying are like fashion. They come and go in popularity. Like jeans, the little black dress or the tuxedo, some forms of bullying, such as name calling, gossip, violence and manipulation, will always be in vogue. Other forms of bullying, such as malicious hugging, the electric-buzzer hand-shake and lighting a bag of shit on someone’s front porch then ringing the bell and running away, are transient. They can be thrown in the bargain bin along with pedal pushers, rah-rah skirts and men’s denim cut-offs.

The undeniable point is: bullying will always exist, and will always be rampant in schools. There needs to be more education around it, more discussion and transparency, less tolerance and fewer band-aid solutions. Students will find new ways to bully once hugging has been banned, and before we know it, schools will be mini nanny states where self-expression is prohibited and kids will simply adapt their bullying tactics and find new and innovative ways to rebel and undermine the system.

It would be nice to hear about schools encouraging discussion around physical contact, sexual identity and bullying, instead of throwing a big hairy blanket over these issues. In my experience, kids want to learn and talk about these issues. It’s adults that have the problem with it. Enlightenment can only come through education, and if our education institutions refuse to do this, we’re not giving kids the chance to grow into informed, intelligent and responsible adults.

Give them a chance. I promise you they’re more open-minded than you think.

This is a link to a website aimed at youths around 14-24.  Amongst other things, it discusses how life and relationships would be different they taught conscious sex education in high school instead of just the mechanics: http://www.sexandconsciousness.com.au/youth-program/