Dear Construction Workers of Christchurch

I got my first letter to the editor published in The Press this weekend, exciting! Then I forgot to scan it, and can't find the hard copy. So I am just going to re-print the original here, it is slightly different because The Press scaled mine down a little (I really need to work on colouring within the lines, so to speak). 

And just for you, my fine blog followers, some background: over the summer I have been staying in my home town of Christchurch, which is just month shy of its two year anniversary of the rather devastating February quake which reduced it from a flat, spread out, boring city to an empty shakey shit hole. We are now in the throws of the much anticipated rebuild, which fills this shakey shit hole with large teams of local and outsourced manual laborers  the majority of whom I can only imagine are nice and respectful people. They are all but drowned out by the vocal and disrespectful builders and construction workers who seem to feel entitled to stare, whistle, cat call and abuse every woman who walks past them. And this is why I wrote them this:

Dear construction workers of Christchurch.

Please allow me to begin this letter on a sincere word of thanks. Your skill and hard work fills the emptiness of my most beloved city with the foundations of hope, and for this I am truly grateful.

I do, however, have a few concerns regarding your level of attentativeness whilst on the job. Never in my life have I seen a group of men so fascinated with the female form, with such enamour do you stare at mine as I pass by. Considering that many owners of breasts continue to occupy the city, the time that your gaze is away from the task at is a great cause for concern.

Furthermore, the whistles that follow me down the foot path indicate that you have mistaken me for a canine. The fact that the foundations of our new city rest in the hands of men who cannot distinguish between human and animal does little to reassure me of your competence. I respectfully request that you keep your eyes and cat calls to yourself while the females of the species happen your way.

Yours sincerely,

Rachael Lundy

Samantha the Sexy Snow Leopard: a night of celebration and condemnation

Ever since watching Marie Antoinette in my high school days I have been desperate to go to a Masquerade. The mystery, the excitement...the ball gowns! Finally, my fairy tale inspired dream of going to the ball arrived with Sammy’s highly anticipate Wonky Masquerade. As if I had somehow known this day would soon come, I had already acquired a bitching 80’s style formal dress, complete with mullet skirt, ruffles and oversized bow. I was feeling pretty damn good; that is of course, until my boy friend, Michael donned his own costume that not even the most dedicated masquerader could compete with.

Michael Morris has created quite a reputation for himself as being one of the best at costume parties. Everyone anticipates greatness, as he just can’t resist going far beyond the dress requirements for any given event. Harbouring a passion for costume since child hood, Michael is not averse to putting in a lot of hard work to achieve brilliant dress up. Michael’s quintessential dress up of choice are his famous crazy/sexy, excessively form fitting, home-made pants. His most infamous pair were made for  his own 21^st, aptly themed ‘distastefully sexy’. Tight, white and laced up all the way...and I mean, ALL the way! For the Masquerade, Michael paired a laboriously made mask with said pants to create one of his raunchiest alter egos of all time... Samantha the Sexy Snow Leopard. He spent two days making the mask, and almost as long lacing himself  into those glorious pants.

 Can't...even...handle...the sexy!

That's Michael receiving his prize for best dressed at the ball, beating out all the gowns, sparkles, feathers and sequins to take out the most lusted after prize of the night! Pride (and, I won’t lie, a little jealousy) was overflowing from all my pours! The night was everything I had ever hoped it would be and more,  surrounded by like minded eccentrics who revered  the beauty of the outrageous. But, as the story goes, we had to get home before the strike of three in the morning so that I wouldn't turn into a hungover pumpkin at work the next day.  We left on such a high, but as we gaily stumbled down the four blocks between Sammy’s and McDonalds (I get so hungry), we descended into world of abuse, anger and violence.

It started as simple high fives and other signs of bropproval, but then the attention began to bubble with aggression. It wasn’t long until Michael and I were cooking in a boiling pot of testosterone fuelled hatred. Now, on more than one occasion, I have seen young men wandering the chilliest Dunedin nights dressed in nothing but Borat style swimsuits, tight super hero lycra and many other costumes of a highly revealing nature, so it couldn’t be that which spazzed out the typical Scarfie male.  My hypothesis  is that it was Michael’s gender ambiguity that sent these fine male specimens into fits of rage. Simultaneously disregarding the conventions of masculinity which rigidly confine the everyday reality of many men and looking goddamn attractive doing it was just too much for our beer filled male friends into fits of rage. Simultaneously disregarding he conventions of masculinity which rigidly confine the everyday reality of many men and looking goddamn attractive doing it was just too much for our beer filled friends:

 “How dare you force me to feel attracted to your bodacious man-booty! Angry heterosexual is angry!”

Be honest with yourself, wouldn't YOU question

 your sexuality over these legs?

“Just relax”, I wanted to say, “and allow the beauty of these glorious thighs to wash over you. To resist is futile; I should know, I struggle with it every day.” It’s not like ones entire sense of oneself as a man is tied in to unwavering heterosexuality, am I right? Oh...actually...

The shock of our night’s juxtaposition was enough to send Michael and I home feeling pretty stink about the world at large. It’s natural for the freaks and geeks of society to congregate at our age, as the tightly regimented social hierarchy of high school seems to disappear into oblivion. It is around this time when life starts to look up for us weirdoes. Finally, a group that understands and celebrates us! A group which accepts the unusual, the queer, the strange and the scary! Loudly and proudly we communicate our disdain for narrow minded society through our dress, our music and our politics. But if it only takes four blocks to tumble straight out of our self constructed liberal-Kansas into a nightmare land of macho aggression and rigidly policed gender rules, then what does that say about our affect on the world at large? When it is only the already converted who bother to listen, then what is all our shouting, screaming and celebrating really, honestly, achieving?

Creeps...creeps everywhere

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