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Did your toes curl in ecstasy…

…at the inaugural pucker up or – like me – was the spittle shared a gross anti-climax?

This week my youngest boy hit the Big 1-6. It’s the age that resuscitates the saccharine expression – Sweet 16 and Never Been Kissed. Talk about adding insult to awkward. 

Traditionally – and yes, I looked it up – the phrase is a mash-up of childhood innocence and the coming of age. But for me it felt like an open invitation for a mocking.

So, have you been kissed? Have you? HAVE YOU?

I kept all flapping lips at bay until the tender age of 20. Who, me a late bloomer? I invented the movement.

We were on a family summer holiday at some cheesy resort on the Gold Coast. Our balcony overlooked a skinny strip of pool and every morning I’d watch a rather hirsute young man with a phenomenal physique do laps – up and down, up and down. Perfect, strong, smooth strokes. His freestyle was effortless, mesmerising and an unexpected turn on for the restless ingenue in me.

Turns out he was also on vacation with his family. Also, Greek, also 20. And somehow, I decided that giving this hairy Adonis my number was a prudent idea.

One week later I squirmed in the front seat of his car while he went on an archaeological dig of my mouth with an abundance of tongue and crooked teeth.

Yes. Dude kissed like he swam – fishy. But.

Plenty more in the sea… 

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Once upon a time…

…late-night talk shows were the domain of live music and shiny guests hawking a movie, song or something else that needed bright lights and anecdotes to promote.

People played nicely together on cool TV sets with chic sofas. The host was always charming and self-effacing enough that you welcomed their scripted banter into your living room way past your bedtime. And it was certainly mine.

To the wide-eyed, sleep-deprived ten-year-old me, these shows felt like a sequinned hug. My favourite host was Don Lane. Tall. American. Classy. And the undisputed doyen of after dark chat shows in Australia for ten glittering years between 1975 and 1983.

Fast forward to 2025 and the late-night format is unrecognisable. We still have the desk, the stars and soft furnishings – but the opening monologue? We’re not talking throwaway lines that prep us for the guests and their well-oiled stories. Now the race is on to see how many times you can mention the latest Presidential gaff in five minutes.

Somewhere along the line, talk shows have morphed into political mosh pits fuelled by overworked gag writers who pen punchlines to throw at suits in power. Again and again.

It seems that, no matter how much glitz sits in those comfy chairs, or how many stories are told to the Pavlovian studio audiences, this beleaguered format is now just a mouthpiece that gobbles up ugly headlines and spits them out as entertainment.

And that’s showbiz? No. It’s a philosophy. My Phylosophy.  

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Sure, men...

…specifically big hair bands of the 80s and gun-lovin’ rapsters, have dined out on misogyny for decades. So, it’s time for the pop chicks to get their butt cheeks video-ready and slip into some misandry for the Top Ten, too.

What’s good for the gander, is mandatory for the goose. And nothing screams girl power louder than crotches in close-up and soul-stirring lyrics like,

Never heard of self-care
Half your brain just ain’t there
Manchild
I like my boys playing hard to get
I like my men all incompetent

This is a verse from a new pop ditty, Manchild. The goose, nay, the master lyricist, is Sabrina Carpenter – wooden by name and arguably, nature.

“Hey men!!” the busty blonde tittered on IG, “Manchild music video is out now! No animals were harmed in the making, but some men were.”

What wit! 

Puerile, hypersexualised pop crap masquerading as a feminist ‘anthem’ is one thing. Parading it as music is another. But the fact it’s condoned and celebrated as a healthy message to send to men en masse, is bile churning. 

So, it’s ok to tell men they’re all sh*t humans?

Quite how this minimisation of males is befitting of a woman’s biological power (we can make humans for f**ks sake!) is a mystery to me.  

Manchild, a feminist roar? Or (puppeteered) empowerment dressed up in denim scraps and cowboy boots?

Incidentally, the B-side to Carpenter’s track is the snappy, “Inside of Your Head When You’ve Just Won an Argument with a Man.”

Shakespeare’s bones are rattling at the sheer profundity of it all.  

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

No, not the Charlie variety.

Though we’re kinda in the same neighbourhood.

This week saw the disintegration of a ‘perfect union’ written in the (Hollywood) stars. We love these fantasies, right? The higher the sheen the better. Bring on those (performative) red carpet PDAs, free of ugly, please.

Like the rest of humanity in love with love, I was somewhat miffed by the demise of our very own Aussie power couple. Just when you think an ideal is the real deal – that ol’ pedestal crumbles, as is its wont. 

A few Phylosophies ago I described my first brush with ‘influencers’ or dinfluencers as I like to call ‘em, since you can’t hear the truth above the din of their curated lives. In person, these ubiquitous specimens of 21st century perfection were wracked with insecurity off-camera. And beamed with toxic positivity, on. 

We can blame their artifice on the lust for fame, relevance and a bottomless vat of designer everything, but the so-called pillars of our community – the hollow corporate heads, academic leaders, the red-tape-bound bosses of public servants everywhere. What’s their excuse?

This afternoon a gifted film student who’s directing and producing a few short films for me, arrived on my doorstep clad in Star Wars pyjama bottoms and thongs (or flip flops for my Stateside pals). No airs. No graces. No trousers. No problem.

His unique ‘shine’, free of flash or a need for power. Dude just left the house in his PJs.

We should all be so real.  

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

The blank page. Is it a wild and...

…untamed thing of beauty, promise or terror?

A scrap of paper or blinking screen bereft of ideas and stories – emotional, funny, fantastical, opinionated, witty, whatever – is akin to standing still in life, staring straight ahead thinking WTF now?

The possibilities are endless, overwhelming – or a heady mix of both.

Last week I teased the ol’ TikTok algorithm by uploading my ‘unleash’ on the most exasperating and damaging people on the planet right now – dumb parents (aka the folks who should’ve saved their ovaries and sperm for science).

My 2-ish minute video shot in one take in a park with a playground has clocked up 6,953 views so far. But it’s less about numbers and more about the comments which are overwhelmingly on the side of intentional parenting against all the odds mired in social media madness, toxic peer influence and undercooked teen brains.

If I’m to slavishly follow (kinda) viral TikTok etiquette, I’ve gotta keep feeding the beast of outrage. Thing is, I don’t want to, unless I have something of substance to share of course.

And now the blank page looms. Or does it?

To be honest, I have lots to say on lots of stuff that doesn’t necessarily pander to polite society or popular narratives. And as my zero-care-factor grows in intensity (thank you menopausal hormonal rollercoaster), so does my courage.

But the question begs. Does the blank page turn me on? You better believe it. 

Watch this space – clearly.  

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Probably not your birthday…

…but if it is, hello Virgo! Many happy returns of the season to you.

This week I celebrated a year of growing older and (probably) wiser. And my socials were all a-quiver with excitable wishes from friends, colleagues and strangers.

At last count my digital self has been lavished with 140 messages, gifs and emojis, and I ‘hearted’ each one – because digital etiquette.

But as I read through ‘em I started noticing a pattern.

Mixed in with the so-generic-they-can’t-be-duped messages like,

Have a great birthday and Happy birthday Phyllis etc. were some outliers…

Smile! It’s your birthday. Enjoy your big day! It’s your birthday, make a wish. 

After the third ‘It’s your birthday, make a wish.’ I caught on. Damn you Meta for spoon-feeding the scroll-weary! But, I get it. We’re in a worldwide epidemic of the busies.

The morning after my birthday, and as if Facebook was atoning for luring my online pals into carbon copy madness… I’d arranged to meet a chick from FB marketplace to buy a dress for the grand sum of $5. She arrived in an apologetic rush but within minutes she’d rejected my cash, given me the dress and a quick bonus hug as mindless commuters zipped by, oblivious.

We all want a little attention on our birthdays – that’s why God invented ‘em.

So, if you were one of the many who zapped an auto-generated message my way this week, thank you, truly. It’s the thought that counts, I think?  

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

We need to stop parenting like it’s 1999.

I’m ready to rant, shame, blame and shed some urgently needed light on the darkness that’s engulfing entire generations of children because of one issue – dumb parents.

The innocence us Gen X-ers enjoyed as teens is dead and buried under the weight of sleepless news cycles, cyber bullies, tech mania and… I only have 250 words here*.

Parenting teenagers in the 21st century is a blood sport that takes guts, attention and a level of engagement that goes beyond an impotent,

“How was your day darling?”

I point to the procreators who opt out when teens get tricky; who give their offspring buckets of (unconditional) privacy. Ignore their online worlds. Reject the notion that micromanaging in microdoses might be useful. They don’t want to meddle. Ask too many questions. They want to be their best friend!

How dare I call out the parents who let their teens, do whatever the f**k they want? Aren’t we all just trying to be the best for our babies?

What’s perfect parenting anyway? No idea. But.

Providing food, shelter, cash, tech and car keys while actively turning a billion blind eyes to toxic behaviours, peers and an unearned sense of entitlement ain’t it.

This is performative parenting – at best.  And treating our teenagers like grown adults is abuse.

So. To the folks out there cosplaying as authority figures in their teens’ lives, you can parent however the hell you want. Thing is your kids still play with mine. And they may not always do it nicely.

It takes a village – let’s act like it.

* Make that 272.   

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

My first Phylosophy…

…found its way to you 840 days ago. And I admit, hand on my heart, that, coming up with something fresh every Friday hasn’t always been easy.

I say all this to share a dubious slice of inspiration that assaulted my ears when the office music algorithm had a momentary lapse of reason; after the aural pleasure of Maxwell, Sade and Soul II Soul, Miley Cyrus slaughtered the vibe with,

“It’s my mouth I can say what I want to!”

Not exactly Shakespeare but I could work with the twerker. What about a riff on free speech and having the balls to truth bomb your beliefs?

But La Muse cared not for Miley. And instead, my mind landed on a force that lives in whispers, tears and questions, as well as joy, clarity and courage.

Beyond a passion, ambition or goal, your Calling arrives without warning. You have no choice. It keeps you awake. Haunts and excites you. It probably ain’t pretty. And you’re more likely to feel your calling before you hear it.

On a soul level, to follow your Calling is to be in divine service. Even if it’s hard. Even if it’s confronting. Even if it’s terrifying. Especially if it’s terrifying. It defies dogma and worships freedom in every shape, colour and expression.

I’ve always imagined a glam calling. Sequins a-dazzlin’. Red lips a-lippin’. An adoring crowd. The whole shiny shootin’ match.

I guess I haven’t really been listening. But I’m all ears now.  

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

It’s almost midnight…

…and that censor in my head who judges, restricts and makes me ‘think better of it’, is falling asleep so, I’m letting rip. Buckle up.

Last week on Love Soul I felt ‘The Sisterhood’ looming over me, spectre-like, as I asked my learned female guest, 

“Is feminism broken?”

My guest replied instantly, “Yes.”

But that I was even slightly fearful – as a feminist – to question ‘the matriarchy’ reflects the charged, eggshell climate we live in.

Our discussion was centred around an increasingly dangerous societal narrative predicated on keeping our men, brothers, fathers and sons contained, lampooned and fed a diet of condescension – mansplaining, manosphere, even man flu (!) – ill-informed, dull, divisive rhetoric.

It’s toxic masculinity from dusk to dawn; (most) men are buffoons, abusive, born with an inbred predatory on-switch.

Meanwhile, the girls and women with narcissistic, coercive, sociopathic drives go unchecked as they slash and burn their way through intimate relationships.

I quote, verbatim, from a series of domestic violence lecture notes shared at a very prominent Sydney university this week.

“Feminist theory acknowledges that women can also be violent in their relationships with men, however it does not see the issue of women abusing men as a serious social problem and therefore not deserving the same amount of attention or support as violence against women.”

So, listen up little boys, teens, young men and old… you don’t matter. Just man up. Shut up. Or sit down, ‘cause my trauma is bigger than yours.

Feminism. Broken.   

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Time to jot down…

…the random, the intentional, the rants from my week that was.

Sydney has been a hectic, storm-lashed town, for days. Umbrellas have failed and conquered. I wrote to the deafening thrum of raindrops crashing on our tin roof – comforting, loud, relentless – a sound for all sensations.

On a film set this week, a wardrobe mistress looked down her nose at my sparkly boots and smooth, claret velvet suit. Dressed me in an ill-fitting Chanel-dupe jacket; grey, boxy, dumb. Had to grin and wear it. The film’s star and writer blanked us – the mere, inconsequential extras. She clearly couldn’t spare a spec of thanks for the extras who shivered in an icy, outdoor scene so her story could be told.

And I’ve felt the aftershocks from a ‘run-in’ with a sociopathic teacher, as a tender-faced eight-year-old, when she grabbed my shoulders and shook me like I was a tree that would bear her fruit.

Maybe that’s when a stutter settled on my tongue because I recall a time as a little girl when my speech was bump-free. Did that bitch bring it on? She was tall with brown, pock-marked skin and spiky black hair. I hated her.

She silenced my voice for decades. 

Meanwhile, the rain hasn’t abated. Some rush to avoid the deluge, others revel in it? I watched a man stroll unfussed, pelted by fat drops, sans umbrella. Mad? Or assured by the knowledge that eventually…

‘…the storm will run out of water’. Maya Angelou  

© Phyllis Foundis 2025