Sticks and stones may break your bones...but words can definitely be worse.

I've always felt the movie Mean Girls should be filed in the documentary section at video stores (if they even still exist).

Because, let me tell you, there is nothing more vicious than teenage chicks in cliques. 

You can milk more venom out of them than a Death Adder and they probably kill more people a year.

On 60 Minutes last night, there was a story about a 15 year old girl named Chloe Fergusson.

Like a typical 15 year old girl, Chloe loved to giggle about boys, play with makeup and talk about what the future held for her.

But, tragically, it was a future she was denied.

Two months ago, Chloe committed suicide after enduring eight years of unrelenting emotional, physical and cyber bullying.

Sadly, she isn't the only one to have chosen this option.

Every day, six Australians take their own lives for a myriad of reasons, most of which are impossible to understand by loved ones left behind.

In total, suicide counts for a FIFTH of deaths in 15-24 year olds.

If it were it not for the hard work being led by her older sister, Cassie and her other family and friends trying to make change, Chloe could remain just another tragic statistic the ABS publish every year.

Currently, Victoria is the ONLY state or territory in Australia that recognises the word "bullying" as part of legal jargon.

Everywhere else, it's a term reserved for schoolyards and workplaces and indelibly scrawled in the repertoire of anyone who has experienced it and in those people who have lost a loved one because of it.

Chloe's Law seeks to introduce antibullying laws to Australia and to force the justice system to hand down criminal consequences to those responsible for the abuse.

Chloe's story hit a very painful nerve in me. It was too close to home but with a much more heartbreaking conclusion.

Like Chloe, I llived in Hobart from the ages of 15-18. My parents moved me down there, literally kicking and screaming in early 2001.

For those of you who know me now, my personality is the furthest type you can get from an introvert. I'm strong willed, opinionated, bubbly, secure and have a tendency to overspeak the truth. But there is one topic I'm still not good at talking about, even after a decade- my high school experience between years 10 and 12.

Before I continue with details, I need to say that not all of my time in Hobart causes anger or feelings of repressed pain to resurface.

There are plenty of people who still matter very much to me whom I wouldn't know now if it were not for my years in Tasmania; this includes my very best friend who went through a lot with me and can certainly attest to how difficult I found it all at times.

Now putting these warm and fuzzies aside, the majority of my memories from the last three years of high school involve being excluded, vindictively gossiped about and made the target for nasty rumours instigated by shallow, petty 'popular' girls who never even took the time to have a conversation with me.

Truth be told, I went back for a friend's 21st after not seeing some of the aforementioned females since the age of 18 and most of them still refused to acknowledge my existence.

When I was 15, I was physically assaulted by a girl (to be fair, she didn't go to my school but she knew I was friends with a girl at the time who she wanted to 'bash') much, much bigger than me while I was waiting with a friend for my mum to pick us up after a party. 

She grabbed me by the throat and hit me in the face before running off with her fellow deliquent deros. It was just me and my friend, minding our own business...and there were seven of them just looking for trouble. That was the kind of cowards they were.

Luckily for me, I had (and still do have) an incredible relationship with my mother; she was always there to confide in and there was never a time that I felt alone. If it wasn't for her...things may have turned out differently for me.

After moving back from Hobart just before turning 19, I had to go through YEARS of therapy to undo the mess those awful girls had made of my self esteem.

I suffered severe panic attacks until my early 20s whenever I was put into situations that involved meeting new females because I was convinced they were all going to be she-devils that would find a reason to hate me and make my life hell.

I am certainly not writing this blog post for sympathy or in an attempt to throw a one person pity party- I've moved passed the bitterness and resentment that I harboured for so many years.

I am writing this blog post because people need to be more aware of the devastasting and long lingering effects that bullying can have.

So as I sit here with tears building again, I think of kids like Chloe and so many others who felt that the only available option they had to escape the pain was to leave their life.

I remember during my earliest therapy sessions, my psychologist would tell me that suicide was a "permanent solution to a temporary problem"...but it's so hard to understand that in high school. 

Your validation of self worth hangs so heavily in the opinion of your peers and it's almost impossible to step back, realise that this too shall pass and that everything will be ok.

I am writing this blog post to ask you to talk to your kids, talk to your friends, talk to your family, talk to your students...talk to anyone who will listen...because promoting awareness of bullying and the incredibly profound impact it has on its victims and their families is key to helping save those people who feel like they don't have a voice to speak up with anymore.

Bullying kills.

It's about time something is done to combat it.

For more information about Chloe's Law and to support the initiative, visit www.facebook.com/ChloesLawAust

Just when I thought this was going to be awesome...

I wouldn't label myself a "feminist" per say. I'm more an "equalist" - when it comes to the corporate world, everyone should have fair opportunity regardless of their gender.

However, this still isn't the case in Australia (I don't want to totally blame strippers, prostitutes or other women who market themselves purely for the gratification of a male's sexual urges...but c'mon...I think it's more progressive for us to flaunt our brains over our boobs) and the glass ceiling is still squishing women down the ladder into a pool traditionally ideologies.

According to a study conducted earlier this year by the Australian Bureau of Statistics (clearly this shit is legit), men earn an average of 17.53% more than women in Australia.

Which means for every $100 I earn for having double X chromosomes my XY counterpart earns $117.53 (thank you iPhone calculator).

It doesn't seem like much as a raw figure...but when you take a female executive earning 100K a year compare to that over her male counterpart, this gap becomes blown out by epic proportions.

As in a difference of...math nerds say it with me...$17,530.

So as a woman, why the hell should I bother working as hard as a man to achieve significantly less in my bank account for my efforts?

It's a constant struggle between the principal and the pay check.

But today...I got excited. For like a millisecond. 


The first thing I do every morning as soon as my butt hits the seat of my desk chair and my computer starts up is check news.com.au because, working in PR, I always have to be on top of what's going on in the world of media.

In the midst of stories covering slutty celebrity Halloween costumes and the unspeakable shitty horror that some human beings (I say this loosely) inflict upon others (see http://www.news.com.au/world/executioners-in-saudi-and-egypt-tell-of-their-love-of-killing-people/story-fndir2ev-1226750992636), one specific article caught my attention...

20 jobs where women earn more than men.

"Here we go", I thought.

"Finally a silver lining; something that validates my ambition and inspires me to achieve more."

"Ohhhhh...What's number one, what's number one!?"

.............cue jaw drop.............

Domestic cleaner.

Are you fucking kidding me?

Nope. No jokes here.

Apparently, women earn 138% more then men when it comes to handling sponges, steel wool, vacuum cleaners and good ol' Ajax Spray N' Wipe.

Also rounding out the top five was "housekeepers".

Seriously.

It's 2013.

That's all I have to say.

TBT: When we were young...

Fairy Princess Lou Who with Broface, circa 1989

"Siblings are the people we practice on, the people who teach us about fairness and cooperation and kindness and caring, quite often the hard way." - Pamela Dugdale

24 years ago, when mum told me I was going to be a big sister, my three year old self decided that a brother would be the only acceptable addition to our family.

Perhaps as a child I thought that as the only girl, I'd be daddy's only princess and mummy's only barbie doll and I would be singularly spoilt and adored forever and ever.

More importantly though, I must have had a grand toddler epiphany that having a brother would be better than getting my very superhero because one day, years from then, no one would ever be able to f**k with me or break my heart without experience his wrath (albeit quite passively...trust me...it's still scary). 

Our dad used to tell me when I would tease him incessantly as a child, that my seemingly eternal "baby" brother would one day be bigger than me and he'd be able to fight back and I should remember that.

"Please, dad. He's younger than me. I'll always be HIS big sister," said all knowing five year old Little Miss Lou Who.

However, much to my shock horror, as the years went on so did his growth spurts and by the time he was 13, I was the Little Big sister.

During our younger years, he was my sole friend every time my parents would move us from country to country or state to state. 

He was also the person who had to pick my sobbing ass up off the floor when my parents moved to China without us.

Having your very own sibling superhero definitely has more perks than downfalls, but there have been many instances when I have wanted to ring his neck for being TOO protective and for being the kind of person who might not always be right, but who is never wrong (trust me, arguing with this kid is a fruitless endeavour...you will lose every single time).

Personality wise, you couldn't get more opposite. Day and night; chalk and cheese.

I'm impulsive, brash, carefree and a fan of the spotlight where is he is very measured, grounded, rational and generally has to be bribed to have his photo taken; cue heated arguments and fights stemming from the frustrations of not understanding each other's choices and actions at times.

Despite this, there is absolutely positively 100% nothing I would change about our sibling dynamic.

They say that there is no stronger bond than that between siblings and even to this day; whoever "they" are couldn't have been more spot on. 

Broface and I have taunted, tortured and terrorised each other at times but honestly I know that there is no one else I would take a bullet for without a second thought about the consequences.

He has stuck by me at the worst of times and supported me at the best of times.

Knowing him as well as I do, he is probably going to be mortified by this post but I don't care because...

I'm his BIG sister, he's my BABY brother and that means I'm still the boss of him.

My off Switch is broken...or at least tampered with.

You know those people whose metaphorical lights are all but out in pratical unison with their bedside lamp? Whose head is already submerged in dreams before it hits the downy fluff of their pillow? 

I know you know one of those people...because you either are one or you inadvertently despise them because those people have a brain that acknowledges it needs to shut up and sleep sometimes.

For me it's a case of mind over matter...matter being the fact that my physical being can be on the precipice of narcoleptic collapse but my neurons are jacked up and firing at an abnormally fast paced rate for 11pm at night (or anytime of the day, now that I think about it) and sleep is an epic challenge.

I've always had a vividly active imagination and I am an intensely realistic dreamer- often times I will have trouble recalling if certain memories are attached to my waking hours or if they were simulated in an unconscious state of zzzz's and retained in the neverending backlog of stuff that gets shoved into those hazy recesses.

When I was at Uni, I underwent hypnosis for my insomniac tendencies and I have had PLENTY of CBT over hmmm 10 years to try to change my thought processes so that they are able to ebb me into relaxation and take me gently off to sleep.

It sounds like it's pretty straightforward right? And in theory it most certainly is. 

But in practice, it is ridiculously difficult for me to do...lingering almost in impossible territory.

My peacefully envisioned place starts with me lounging on a beach, listening to the waves slide across the shore in time with my heartbeat. 

Then before I know it, my head is successfully in Hawaii. 

Which is pure bliss.

For about 3.7 seconds.

Because then I start realising how much I want another holiday. 

Which makes me realise I really need to be better with my savings. 

Which starts making me think about all the money I've spent the past month, especially on outfits for Spring Racing Carnival.

Which makes me start thinking about Derby Day in 10 days time.

How am I going to do my hair? It needs to flatter my fascinator...

What about my make up? Red lips make the most sense but they are high bloody maintenance and impossible to do after knocking back a few champers.

But if I don't do red lips, what do I do?

And just like that...in about 20 seconds flat...I've gone from relaxation to Revlon...

It takes so much effort for me to find a peaceful place in my head that it starts to have the opposite effect one would desire.

I start getting stressed out about not being able to switch off.

And then, after I've almost lost hope and as my eyes are shutting and my body is lulling itself towards sleep...

The cat starts flinging herself at my cupboard doors like a banchee on crack and I'm back to square one.

Typical.

For the Love of Boobs

In Australia, one in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer at some point in their life.

We all hear and see the stories of its vicious invasion time and time again - it's a disease that doesn't discriminate.

My family and I endured the devastating effects of breast cancer on a very personal level, with my maternal grandmother losing her battle in 2008 after being free of its carcenogenic strong hold for 12 years.

It returned in her bones as secondary breast cancer and from the time she was diagnosed until she left us, it was only three short months.

Her breast cancer was caused as a direct result of having undergone hormone replacement therapy during menopause; a treatment remedy my mother was unable to seek relief from during the same stage of her life and one that I will not be able to reap any reward from either when my body is in a state of bonkers because my eggs have reached their use by date. 

However, what most women don't understand is that 90 to 95% of breast cancer diagnoses have NO genetic factors involved. Nada. Zilch. Zip. Absolutely none. 

What most women thankfully do understand though is that early detection is key to swift and more effective treatment and we are lucky to possess such an astute awareness of what we need to do to look after our breasts' well being.

Whether you are 25 or 55, it is important to nurture a great relationship with your boobs. 

Self breast checks should occur on a monthly basis; it's important to get acquainted with your lady lumps so you are able to identify any changes in breast tissue or the presence of an abnormal mass or lump.

If you don't trust yourself to remember, bring your husband or partner on board. I'm sure they will have no gripes about getting a free pass at a cheeky fondle for a good cause.

When you hit 50, mammograms should be on your 'to-do' list every two years.                                                                              

I'm sure once my girls have been squished once or twice, I'll probably be more empathetic but for now I think it can't be so uncomfortable that you'd rather not do it and just hope for the best...

October is Breast Cancer Awareness month and it provides a constant reminder for 31 days of how important it is to be educated, aware and proactive in the fight to rid Australia of breast cancer fatality by 2030.

Tomorrow evening my mother will be hosting a "Spring Into Racing" fundraising event through her consignment boutique, Red Finch Boutique, to benefit the Breast Cancer Network Australia (BCNA).

BCNA works to ensure that women diagnosed with breast cancer and their families, receive the very best information, treatment, care and support possible.

Maxine Morand, CEO of BCNA, will be the very special guest speaker and I know everyone who has been involved in organising the event is so excited that she will be in attendance.

And just because you can't be with us out in leafy Eltham town tomorrow night, it doesn't mean you can't help make a difference. 

In memory of my grandmother and for every other woman who has faced the fight against breast cancer, I have set up a fundraising page here that you can contribute to.

Organisations like the BCNA would not be able to do their incredible and irreplaceable work without the generous help of our community.

Every dollar counts so, for the love of boobs, please donate to make a difference.

And remember ladies - feel them up, flatten them out and embrace the unmeasurable power of prevention and early detection to 'nip' breast cancer in the bud.

To 37, with hope

Dear 37,

I used to think a decade was a long time.

But to think that's how far away 17 is now for me, a decade doesn't seem very long at all.

I'm sure the next 10 years until we meet will fly by, packed full of adventures, successes, mistakes, lessons learnt and most importantly, life as I've made it.

I hope by the time we meet, I have mastered the art of loving my life. That I only surround myself with people who radiate a positive influence and who don't try to manipulate me in a mission to make me compromise my own beliefs and morals in order for them to benefit. And if I do come across those people, that I have learnt to say 'no'.

I hope I have learnt that disappointing and failing myself is a lot more detrimental than letting down others because I have put my happiness and inner peace second.

I hope I have learnt to trust my instincts implicitly, seeking my own council when it comes to making the most important choices in MY life.

I hope I still have the ability to laugh at myself and that I still realise doing so can make a shitty situation a little more bearable.

I hope I have found a way to healthily balance life and that I've remembered family always comes first. While having a fulfilling career is important, I hope I know the love and commitment put into raising happy, secure and bright children is wherein my true legacy will lie. If you have kids, I hope you tell them you love them every single day and that you read to them every single night without fail.

37, I hope you have kept your sense of adventure and your willingness to continually learn. I hope you've kept your family and friends close and held onto your belief that love can last forever. I hope you've embraced every line and wrinkle as proof you've been living life fully and with boundless energy. I hope the path you've forged has led you where you want to go and that you have managed to focus on attempting to only control the controllables.

I hope you have learnt to be kind to yourself and that it's ok to fall apart and ask for help sometimes. It doesn't mean you're weak, it just means you don't have to be in it alone.

I hope when we do meet 37, I can still see the vibrant, fun loving, bubbly 27 year old I am now; albeit a little wiser and at stiller calm within myself.

Don't forget 37, that there is a difference between just existing and actually living every day as best you can. Remember, as hard as it is sometimes, that age is only a number and you're only as old as you think you are.

So if you keep thinking young, you'll always be 27 to me.

I'll be seeing you, 37 and until then...

With hope,

- 27

The Tweet that made my day (perhaps even my life)...

The say a picture can say a thousand words...well here it is...from Markus Zusak himself...

Let's Get Textual: The Book Thief

The best books are the ones that linger with you long after the words finish on the final page.

They are the ones that challenge your perceptions and ideologies and change the way you carry your own opinions.

Written by Australian author, Markus Zusak, The Book Thief is one of the most incredible novels I have ever read.

A colleague of mine recommended it to me as a fantastic read and said that I would be captured from the very first sentence; that the narrative was intriguing and seductive in the most unpredictable way.

As a self-confessed bookworm and literary lover, I am not easily enthralled or captivated by novels from the get go. They have to win me over with their creativity and descriptive prowess.

However, The Book Thief  gripped me like no book ever had. Literally, from the very first sentence. And after that I was hooked until the very last word (which was read through eyes that had fallen victim to tear duct overdrive).

I have always been a sucker for historical fiction because it still demands imagination in its creation but it is simultaneously so well researched and informative- you learn something while being entertained. 

And most intriguing to me are said novels set during the second World War. 

Never has there be a time when heinous and humane actions were so intrinsically linked - the unspeakable, unforgivable horrors inflicted on people by the propaganda-forced hands of another were balanced by such incredible stories of bravery, sacrifice and ultimate morality.

Nazi Germany showed both the ugliest and most beautiful capacities of the human spirit.

Set in the above, The Book Thief is narrated through the all-seeing eyes of Death, because during those years he was everywhere; gently ushering souls across the divide between earth and Heaven.

Death first crosses paths with Liesel Meminger as she is standing beside the graveside of her younger brother, who He had just taken to the other side.

He watches her find a small book partially buried in the snowdrifts, The Gravedigger's Handbook, and slip it into her coat.

This is the first act of book thievery by Liesel and the beginning of an undeniable love affair with books and words.

Liesel is taken in by a foster family after her mother is unable to care for her any longer and her adoptive Papa teaches her how to read.

Once finished with The Gravedigger's Handbook, Liesel begins stealing books from Nazi book burnings, the library of the mayor's wife and from anywhere else where they can be snatched without detection.

However, when Liesel's family takes in a Jewish fist-fighter and hides him in their basement, any remaining shred of Liesel's innocence is lost as she begins to comprehend what is truly happening in a world she thought she understood.

I am very conscious of giving away too much in this "review" so I have only divulged with you a brief synopsis that contains very few pertinent details.

In the rawest sense, The Book Thief is a story about the intense power that can burn in words and how they can change lives; they can create and destroy, they can redeem and condemn. 

If you have a tendency to get emotionally invested in books, I strongly suggest you have a box of tissues within arms reach, otherwise the text will be hard to make out on the pages by the end.

To put it in perspective, I continued to cry for about half an hour after I finished reading it.

On 8 November, the film adaptation of The Book Thief will hit cinemas worldwide, with the absurdly amazing Geoffrey Rush playing Papa.

The Book Thief - Official Trailer

If you have any time over the next few weeks to get stuck into this book, I highly recommend doing so before you see the movie.

I promise that you will be blown away by Zusak's unparalleled ability to tell an unforgettable story as well as the incredible way he has constructed the narrative to do so.

In summary, The Book Thief is poignant, beautiful, mesmorising, brutal and hearbreaking; effortlessly encapsulating the collision of good and evil during one of the most infamous times in our history.

 

 

"Use your words, Katie...because biting isn't nice."

I love words. I love writing. I love talking (to others, to myself, to my pets...whoever will listen, or at least feign to listen). Always have and safe to say, always will.

Broca's area (did I mention I'm a genius in neuro-anatomy as well? Kidding. I'll give good ol' Google props for that find) in my brain has clearly been on hyper drive for the vast majority of my 27.66 years of life.  

Just ask my mother.

When I was three years old and probably not much bigger than a Cabbage Patch doll (I've always been stunted by the shorty-pants gene even from the beginning), I was leaving a restaurant my auntie worked at in San Diego after having a meal there with my mum and nana. Loitering outside the establishment were a pair of Labradors on leashes being held by their owner lady.

A sucker for all creatures great and small even at that age, and possessing an early gift for the gab, I approached the women and asked her if her dogs were boys or girls.

When she informed me that they were both in fact males, my face dropped. Looking overly disappointed, I said:

"That's too bad..."

Asked why it was such a shame they were lifters and not squatters, I quipped:

"Well they can't have babies because they don't have a uterus."

Uterus. I used the word uterus. In context. At three.

Typical toddler response, right?

Suffice to say, that was only the beginning of my journey to always seek out the most grammatically advanced version of any word I can. 

Instead of a contradiction, there's an oxymoron.

Instead of a light bulb moment, it's an epiphany.

Instead of a paradigm, it's a paradijum (well at least I said so all though Intro to Media and Communications in my first year of uni...no one ever corrected me...they just bathed in the ironic amusement pool my mispronunciation continued to fill).

I have long known that words are the most powerful tool one can possess - they can inspire; they can change minds; they can break hearts; they can mend relationships; they can cause a revolution; but most importantly, they can connect humans on the rawest of levels.

It is the power of language that separates us from all other earth dwelling creatures (I don't want to get too universally specific because I haven't giving up hope that there's another planet out there that's painted totally pink, dipped in sparkles where every citizen has a pony for a pet).

Books have been a part of my life since before memory serves and my speech was nurtured with ultimate care (and a little regimented critiquing) by my mother; if I ever said I did "good" instead of "well", I was chained to my bed and left without food for a week (note: as a writer, embellishment and exaggeration are as familiar to me as a paint brush is to an artist...they're my creative tools!).

I strongly believe parents should read to their children from the time they're a onesie-wearing, poop-machine squirming in their cradle and they should never temper their imagination when they can start expressing it. All ideas have a place in this world, whether realistic or completely insane...how else would J.K. Rowling be rolling in her billions if it wasn't for her off the chart imagination? (Bitch.)

Little Miss Lou Who will not be a platform for venting, bitching, begrudging or negativity.

It will be a creative outlet I use to share my thoughts on everything from fashion to movies to books to social issues to travel to the triviality of everyday life.

So here I am doing what my parents have always told me to do...

"Use your words, Katie...because biting isn't nice."

Good life advice, I'd say.

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