As was pointed out by an amusing anonymouse, there's legitimate cause for concern that I may have been turned to stone and/or bled out from my lip wound in a work meeting.

FEAR NOT, I ATEN'T DED.

So, Dee, what have you been doing for the past five months?

Well, we went to Russia...



...and the Netherlands and Bruges.

And we're building a house...



...that is looking rather alarmingly house-like.

And we've discovered the myspace angle...



...while attending weddings, parties, roller derby finals, and a burlesque performance.

Life is pretty good, but not necessarily thrilling. I guess this is growing up?

We ran a big work meeting this morning, which meant catering. (I suspect one of my colleagues produces baked goods as a sort of defense mechanism.) So last night the sound of the Mars-bar-grating was heard in Chez Us. It all went down quite well.

And then I split my lip, pretty amazingly even for me. (I have Bad Habits that make bleeding from the mouth a not uncommon occurrence.)

All this adds up to feeling a little faint from having consumed nothing since breakfast but sugar and my own blood.

My life really is this exciting, by the way. I don't fake it for the cameras.

Apparently Kathy Lette, in the UK's Daily Mail, referred to Australia as "the land of cold beer and untrammelled misogyny". Obviously the beer comment is received with grace, dignity and a cheerful lifting of the pint glass in acceptance. But when it comes to the second half, I'm left wondering two things:

1) What country she's actually talking about. I mean, I had assumed Australia because it was about Julia Gillard, and as far as I was aware, she was now PM here, but given how fast things were moving last week, it's entirely possible that things got quantum and somewhere in there Jules ended up PM of, I don't know, Misogynia. Because the description certainly doesn't fit any Australia I've been living in for the past thirty years.

2) Whether Ms Lette has ever been to America, a country where I can't walk down the street in a major, east-coast city without getting ogled, leered at, hailed coarsely or otherwise nigh-unconsciously denigrated as a woman who dares to show more than three square inches of skin (or precisely the same amount I would show in Australia to absolutely no comment or ill treatment). I mean, I know she lives in the UK, a country with widely purchased newspapers featuring scantily-clad women, so clearly she's factored that into her declaration of Australian misogyny.

The bottom line is a point I have been making for at least ten years now: grass-roots gender equality is not necessarily represented by hierarchical gender equality. Sure, Jules is our first female PM. But I have never felt the need for male accompaniment when going out (as I am informed is absolutely essential in Ireland, which has been enjoying female leadership for years) or that I can't have my hair or skirt as short as I like (hi America, back to you) and surely I don't even have to make a point about India. When it boils down to the pure attitude of "I am free as a woman", Australia has it pretty damn good, actually. It's not perfect. There are still fights to be fought. But we're out there drinking as much cold beer as the men, and from where I'm standing, no one's hating it.

Except, apparently, Kathy Lette. But since she doesn't live here anymore, I don't see what business it is of hers anyway.

I walked a whole block and a half to get my lunch today - I sort of wish I'd walked further, because it's really quite a nice day, if a little chilly in the shade. Crisp and autumnal. Lovely.

But the point is that in that block, I witnessed:

• An electronic traffic-notification sign (you know the sort, the big LED flashing letters on a little trailer) that read "Fashion hazard ahead" and "Power suits" and something else I missed because I was giggling too hard; also
  
• Beside that, a safety-fenced-off ute and an area around it in which four young men wearing hard hats and flourescent construction gear were dancing; then apparently unrelatedly
  
• On the corner, beside the traffic lights and the tree, thigh-heigh bright blue letters spelling out "lava". Fucked if I know, but some guy was photographing them (or I would have tried to make off with one...).

Basically, stuff New York, I have all the arts and culture I can cope with here in Melbourne.

I really should know better than to read the Herald Sun. It's 100% guaranteed to make me wish damage inflicted upon newsprint could be felt - voodoo-doll-like - by the nitwits who brainstormed, wrote and signed off on this claptrap.

I do know better, but the thing about this job of mine is that a) selected news clippings circulate daily; and b) there are newspapers in the kitchenette and I have this habit of idly perusing any printed matter that comes within reach.

Today's Herald Sun stupidity? A big budget-related article regarding the source of government funds, concentrating on how government revenue-raising viciously targets traffic-offenders through speed cameras, breath-testing and other fines.

...wait, people who break the law and endanger our lives through their own wilful and selfish stupidity are funding education, health and support for people with disabilities? Yeah, how dare the government. WHAT?!

I hate that the people who run a high-selling newspaper think that this is the sort of mindset their large number of readers hold. What I really hate is the high likelihood that they're right.

The tram maintenance people thought that 2am was a really good time to start unloading new tram tracks right outside our window.

(...they were WRONG.)

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The City Library is actually a conglomerate of libraries spread across inner-city locations, in the grand pursuit of those ungainly twins, convenience and annoyance. For instance, there's a Library approximately ten minutes stagger from my front door, but every single book I currently want to read is located at the East Melbourne location, despite the fact that it is about the same size as our apartment.

Now, allegedly they do inter-library transfers at the drop of a hat, so I could've requested someone else bring the books to me. However, I can practically spit on East Melbourne from my workplace (except, of course, for being too well brought up to do anything of the sort) so that seemed rather an overreaction. Instead, upon completion of work today, I wandered across the park to make my raid in person.

The double benefit to this was the chance to just wander around in East Melbourne. It's the sort of thing I do when I'm a tourist - we meandered around Georgetown in Washington DC for most of an hour, just looking - but never do in Melbourne (unless really, really lost, which sort of takes the aimless fun out of it).

This may have been a bad idea. I'm now pretty much desperately in love with East Melbourne. The trees and the cobbled back-alleys. The ancient mansions. The ancient mansions that have been carved up into modern apartments. (The church to which same has been done!) The terraces with overgrown gardens and wrought-iron balconies. The deco apartment blocks. They're all jumbled together in such a way that even the modern additions - some in the style of, some absolutely and utterly not - fit in. It's eclectic. It's quiet in a restrained (not dull) way. The corner store is a snooty winecellar. I want to live in this neighbourhood so much.

I'm sure I'm going to love living in Glen Iris when we get out there. It's very pretty. It's relaxed but not slovenly. But releasing my stranglehold on inner-city living is going to be extremely difficult.

I just saved the pizza delivery number to quick-dial on my mobile phone. This is the final, terminal indictment on my lifestyle, isn't it?

Priceline doesn't often make you think.

Actually, that's rubbish, because there's nothing like a whole frigging aisle of subtly different versions of the same personal-grooming item to paralyse you with indecision such that you're still there, muttering, "But do I need it to have a moisturising strip as well?" when they close.

But the thinking today was of an (arguably) higher nature. Making my lightning raid upon Priceline (you've got to keep moving, it's the only way to possibly avoid the paralysis) I overheard on the radio station they were piping in (to increase general torpidity) an advertising spot that used the phrase: "Me Sully, you Neytiri."

It made me guffaw.

And then it made me think fond and condescending thoughts about the generational shift.

And then it made me think about that more deeply.

Because, I think we'll all agree, the standard concept of Tarzan-and-Jane goes something like this, which is pretty definitely a pre-bra-burning sort of image. Jane clings to Tarzan, she's reliant upon his strength, she's helpless as he heaves her about the jungle. Oh, her calming/gentle/personal grooming influence is vital, but she's not really an independent lady.

Neytiri, on the other hand, is not to be trifled with. She came packing, wanders about the forest making it her mind-melded bitch, and she will fuck your shit up. Now, sure, she likes her some pretty buff marine and she does sort of hop on his motorcycle towards the end of the movie (but I forgive that, because I'd want a go on that beast as well, and I'm not talking about Sam Worthington here). But she is, no doubts about it, a strong, independent sister who's doing it for herself.

I sneer a lot about the generation gap, because clearly if you didn't know Nirvana, watch James Valentine hosting the Afternoon Show, and play the original Doom, you are missing out. But if Tarzan-and-Jane is being swapped out for Sully-and-Neytiri in the popular consciousness, then bring on the paradigm shift.