Fashion failure? It’s not an option.

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I may have had fashion failures in my life so far, but it doesn’t mean I have to CONFRONT them. I have a technique. We both know they happened, but I will stare you down, until you look away first. I’m like a frog. I don’t always have to blink.

Let’s first consider this notion of fashion ‘fails’. Failing means to fall short of success or achievement, or to be deficient or lacking. I don’t think there was anything deficient or lacking, persay, about my sartorial choices. I don’t think my outfits over the years have lacked anything, persay. I threw myself right in there, just like Madonna threw herself in to that pointy bra. I didn’t look good. I’m not claiming that. But I was on-trend, I think. So while looking back I look laughable, I was actually mixing it up in the milkshake blender of trends that were the 80s and 90s, cos God only knew MY milkshakes as actual EUPHEMISMS weren’t going to bring any boys to the yard, pancakes that they were. Maple syrup jokes are SO unfunny, teenaged boys. I could talk about pizzas, but I am a sensitive soul who knows who the Pixies are, even though it’s the NINETIES. So ner.

Apologies. I went somewhere for a moment. Fashion is a funny thing, and highly subjective. You can be so fashion forward you are actually backward (a la Celine Dion’s tuxedo at the 1999 Oscars, winning her a hallowed award in the ‘Worst dressed’ hall of fame), or you can rock it like Madonna with the lace and fingerless gloves in Desperately Seeking Susan, and WIN. With attitude to burn. And attitude is something I had in plentiful supply during my teenaged years, so, fail or no fail, I shall guide you through my cheeky 80s popped collar ensembles to the more moody 90s ‘I have no body under here and if you look at me or take a photo I’ll stomp on you with my BIG ANGRY GRUNGE STOMPY BOOTS! COS I’M IN YEAR 11 AND NOBODY UNDERSTANDS ME!’

In truth, these are not the worst photos in existence. I am not being photo-ist and vainly flattering myself. I truly cannot find them. It seems they may have disintegrated in self-disgust, or spontaneously combusted from the attitude within. I hated having my photo taken, cos I looked horrible in photos (Duh. I was always scowling), hence I always looked horrible in photos. This is the song that never ends… it just goes on and on.. I can tell you I used to crimp my hair, and wear T-shirt crop tops, and later checked stussy pants with Docs. I went through a patch in year 10 and 11 where I put Glintz $3.50 rinses through my mousey brown hair to turn it a majestic shade of OH MY GOD THE SUN’S UP NEED SUNGLASSES! Or, ‘sunburst’ or ‘copper’ as the box described it. Or Wilma Flinstone, if it caught the light.

I feel my parents were blessed to have us turning 18 in the age of grunge and flannie shirts, because instead of going out in body-con dresses and worrying about undercarriage on display, ours were more concerned about us looking like something that had been sleeping in the bus shelter for the past week. Denim shirt, long skirt, hiking boots, OH and some leggings underneath, just in case there was some skin on show. They must have HEAVED a sigh of relief as I remember year 10, wandering the streets in skimpy denim cutoffs, singlets and bare feet, wondering what all the fuss was about when cars drove past. Ah – the innocent youth of yesteryear.

Without further ado, I bring you… my shame.

A plucky young lass in the 80s, Kim was fond of popping her collar while reading World Book Encyclopaedia.

 

Oversized sunglasses? Check. Chic? Ba-Baum. The flap hat helps keep the attitude off the back of her neck while she writes important postcard missives. Later she’ll have you know she had her hair stylishly braided island style, with beads etc, and was severely sunburnt along all of the part lines on her head. Hot.

Who is this dude in Madame Tussaud’s wax museum? Kim is nonplussed. And too cool to bother finding out, because she is wearing HER TRUSTY DENIM SHIRT and giant culotte-style black pants with clogs. She is in Year 11. She KNOWS EVERYTHING. But not who this man is. He must be unworthy of a photo.

In a place in the English Cotswolds, disguising her bum that has ingested far too much clotted cream, is teenaged Kim in her ‘dress’ leggings and cranky stompy boots. Ironic, then, that she LOVES Shakespeare and is absolutely busting to get to Stratford-Upon-Avon and see his birthplace.

The worst part of all this is, we’ll look back on our photos with our gorgeous kids, and all we’ll be able to see is our frightening sunglasses and scary hair. It all looks so normal, now….

Linking up with THE LOUNGE today, to share my shame…

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What do we want? A brain dongle! When do we want it? NOW!

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All has been quiet on the Face First front. Apologies. I was felled like a big tree with one of my ‘speshal’ migraines. They make me speshal indeed. Can’t talk (except in gobbdleygookese), can’t walk, can’t think… and being a doozy, I’ve been out now for a couple of days. It’s ok. The recalcitrant left leg and hand are making a slow and reluctant return, and the brian fog is lifting. The neuro said to embrace the couple of days of stupidity and take things easy. So – here I am – sharing with you the insights and flights fantastic of my stupid mind! Sharing is caring, and I care, so, so very much about ewes all.

So join me on an adventure into post-modernism, wishes as horses, and fleeful fanciful flits into the things that we WANT. That would make our lives EASY. That we want NOW. Listen up inventor-people of the world! Today I’m a futurist. My mind is cast adrift, floating in a a sponge cake sea of sherry-soaked trifle. My words are likely to be PURE, UNADULTERATED BULLTWADDLE. And 10% inspirational (if you live in New Zealand and like clouds, as I’m writing from my castle on one).

navi_queue_1

First up, we all need brain dongles, like they have in Avatar. You know, those ponytails of tendrils they hook together to make ‘connections’? I believe to Avatar-nerds they are actually called ‘neural queues’, but I’m sticking with brain dongle, since I’m lazy, I’m not an Avatar nerd, and a quick google turned up some weird kinky Avatar stuff that would BLOW YOUR DONGLES. If we had these though? Ahhhh. Communicating by simple plug-in would be so much easier than it currently is by, say, SPEAKING, which is ridiculously hard, and open to so much boring misinterpretation. For example, exhibit A: ‘I laugh you’. ‘OH, it’s so good to hear. I love you too!’ ‘Oh. Um. No, I mean I laugh you. Like, I laugh at you. You funny. So sorry. My english not so good yet.’

Also, sidebar please, HOW VERY GOOD is the word dongle? Dongle, dongle dongle. It’s in my top ten desert island words. (Here is my excuse to insert a gratuitous picture of John Cusack, because he was all about his Top 5 desert island everythings in High Fidelity, and ‘obscure’, ‘gratuitous’ and ‘digression’ are my first, middle and last names today.

I know I’ve been here before. But you, Kim Face First, are in my desert island Top 10. I had to come back and offer you a scotch. Rocks?

Exhibit B: If we had brain dongles, we could just plug our thoughts in to each others’ ponytails, and there would be NO confusion about the point I’m actually trying to get to in this waffling wandering post here. You would FEEL ME. Even without my obscene overuse of capitals. At a more mundane level, there would of course also be shopping list by dongle. Look at your pantry. It’s missing? It’s replaced, next time your shopping is delivered, because you clocked the item’s absence.

Do you know what else I want what I really really want? I’m gonna tell you what I want what I really really want. (It’s not a zigazig ha – because nobody knows what that is). It’s an eye makeup machine. Have you seen the Fifth Element? With Bruce Willis and Milla Jovovich? I loved that movie so much I almost called my daughter Lilu till I was overruled. Leeloo (the ‘official’ spelling) picks up a machine like an old-fashioned viewfinder, and POOF! She has a face of makeup on. You will note, it’s CHANEL makeup in the future, daaahling.

Leeloomakeup

Just imagine the possibilities!! Well, there’s only one possibility really. We could walk out of the house with perfectly made-up eyes, without having to sacrifice 15 minutes of precious sleeping, sleeping, or sleeping time! Simply genius! I’d like one in every colour please! Wrap them up! Put them on the account! It looks like they haven’t quite mastered the instant hat on colour-job in the future though. There’s a bit too much Wilma Flinstone going on with Leeloo for this particular girl. Instant hair though? I would like that too, please. Hanging out in the salon with an alfoil head is pretty ok, but I’d rather have a flat white at the beach with the dog if I’m taking a ‘time out’ (with added sprinkles of being choosy).

I know some things are better slow-cooked, and the enjoyment comes with the wait. Lamb, for one, and coffee. I don’t want instant coffee, thanks, or a pod-injection of caffeine to the eyeballs. Don’t want my meals by capsule. If some of the mundane can come out of the hurdles and hoops of the everyday with a little creative invention and fantastic bioengineering then, clever people GET TO IT. I want a brain dongle, NOW, please.

Am I the only one with Top 5 desert island words? And tell me, what is the must-have invention that will make your life easier? 

[Image source: Avatar image - www.pandorapedia.com]

I can’t believe it’s not Better

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I should be better at everything by now. I’m a perfectionist. That’s the way it works. I should at least be better at walking, and not be covered in bruises from not seeing tables and walls that throw themselves at me. In particular, though, I should be better at this domestic goddess thing. But guess what? I’m NOT. So, house. It’s YOU that should be better. Why can’t you do more? Why aren’t you adapting? I can’t believe you’re not better. I can’t believe you can’t at least buy butter, or order milk, or do SOMETHING useful other than sit here bumping into me every morning.

I’m getting quite perturbed by the house’s audacity, the way it just lolls around, parked on its hefty foundations, expecting me to keep doing all the things, while it never lifts a finger to better itself, or get a little fresh air or exercise.

Seriously. I’ve been managing my own living environment for twelve years now. I can conclude I’m fairly adult and responsible in most areas. I pay bills on time, have never had credit card debt, shopped around and selected the most cost-effective mortgage, hunted and bought real estate, travelled alone to foreign countries with only the clothes on my back, and successfully brought two healthy children into the world. I think this cements my status as ‘grown up’ in this housing relationship.

However, meal plans, preparing dinner at lunchtime, having designated washing days, organised pre-printed holiday packing lists, lists of service-people, drawers for cords and kids’ birthday presents pre-wrapped and labelled? Such things make me want to SLIT MY WRISTS. The house, on the other hand, has never once said thank you for my efforts to make it look pretty, brushing its hairy floors, or washing its face. It just doesn’t appreciate me. I’ve tried for so long, but I think, now, there’s only one conclusion I can draw. House? I’m just not that into you.

So, house. HOUSE yes – I’m talking to you! Pay attention, and look at me with your windows. Why aren’t your whitegoods good? Why are they so bad and lackadaisical, forcing me to do things like putting the dishes inside them, instead of being good and self-stacking? Why is the fridge continually getting empty and not self-replenishing? Why is the washing machine not able to put on a load of washing and wash? Why the HELL won’t my dining table fold up all of this washing? Doesn’t it know I want to eat some dinner there sometime this century???

Now – for some evidence of my house’s disappointing ability to adapt to its inhabitants. Here is my dining table. All laid out, ready for some feasting. On clothes. Lazy, lazy table. Call yourself Susan why don’t you.

The lazy table.

Here is the kitchen. It reminds me very much of the movie The Sixth Sense. The cupboards, particularly. Paying close attention to cupboard closure won’t enhance its beauty. No cordon bleu cooking happening here, people, can you believe it? It’s not very inspiring, despite the woodland setting of faux-trees-on-panels. I am a pretty good cook. No slouch. Give me the tools, and the space, and I’ll cook you a three-course gourmet bonanza. Here? Well… you get what you get and you don’t get upset. But come ON. This kitchen? Why hasn’t it thrown off its wallpaper in shame? If I was wearing that flowery dress I’d be walking around naked in preference. Why isn’t my wall? Have some PRIDE, wall. Take. It. Off.

I see … *whispers*.. dead wallpaper ….

Perhaps things will change one day, when I awaken to find myself in a beach-side abode of pure white, an enormous kitchen at my disposal and a hibiscus tree growing through my back window. We may then be in true love, my house and me. I don’t actually want to break up though. Happy things happen in this house, with my family. I’ll keep doing all the work, I guess, if it just remembers to be big and strong for me every now and again.

Sorry, house. I love you really. I’ll try harder ok? Promise.

xx

Linking up with The Lounge over at Musings of the Misguided, because confessing to strangers in the dark is so much easier than making them coffee in your horrendous kitchen. 

A case of the Mondays

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Is it still Monday? STILL? FFS. I’ve got the doubts. It sounds a bit like a stomach complaint, doesn’t it? The doubts. If only it were that simple. Throw them all in the toilet, then flush them away.

But noooooo. These little gremlin buggers are clinging on to my undercarriage. Do I have an undercarriage? I do today, because even though I look nothing like an aeroplane the little gremlin buggers are making damn sure my landing gear doesn’t work.

There’s nothing terribly wrong. I’ve just lost my mojo, you know? I’ve got the go slows, and the oh noes, and the nose blows. I have a cold, but it’s a pretty poor excuse for one. I’m not even doing that properly. I’m just not feeling on top of my game, because, these days, I don’t really HAVE a game. Mumming is not a game.

I can’t be on top of the ‘chick in the bar being hot’ game, cos that’s just sad and lame and hello… I’m married and ‘old as f*&ck, for this club, not, you know, for the Earth’ (to quote a memorable line from ‘Knocked Up’). I can’t be on top of the career game, trotting off as I once did in my click-clack heels with my pencil-skirted arse feeling all powerful and in control, making good strong decisions all day, because I’m not in control of anything. Oh. And I don’t seem to have a career. I do have dribbles and drabbles of great and fascinating (no sarcasm here) work trickling in, but this doubty sickness has me quavering until I can slap it away with some good strong caffeine and plunk down some reassuring words on the page. Only then at the end of a solid work day do I sigh with relief and contentment, and only when there’s a constant river will the doubty disease stop plaguing my worker head.

I love you Mann. No, I really really love her. Even if she is old as F*%Ck.

I can’t be on top of the blog game, because, hell. I can’t even write lately without trying to cross out the next word I write before I’ve managed to write it. Not funny enough, not deep enough, not witty or shallow or clever or silly enough. Not. Enough. And lets face it, this one is a game that’s not for winning, and I’m just a wee little tadpole who likes to wiggle her booty in the fishy pond.

I can’t be on top of the social butterfly game, because a) I’m not a butterfly, and b) social? What is social? I think it’s been two weeks since I left the house at night, and two weeks since I was out of my PJs between the hours of 8 and 7 (the dark hours… there’s something). When I try and make conversation I want to rewind my words sometimes. I feel like there’s another mini-gremlin hiding inside my brain poking all the wrong words out. I need a mini-gremlin on the OUTSIDE with a rewind device, and another with a word-poking-back-in stick to help me along at my next social event. Do you know where I can buy one of these?

Mumming is not a game. Mumming is serious. I can be ok with the other wibbles and wobbles, but they bleed over like watercolour into the decisions I make on the important stuff. I need to trust my mum instinct. I need to trust that when I say ‘no’ it’s the right thing. I need to not be second-guessing whether I’m doing a good job. I know I am with this. But, on a Monday, with the doubts and the go slows, it’s a bit too easy to start asking the questions.

Do you get the doubts? How do you kick them out?

xx

Live from Pet Cemetery – Robopets, the way of the future?

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Life in a glass menagerie is hard. There you are, being a fish, swimming around being all fishy and gold, when one day you find yourself nose down, shaking your tail fin, contemplating your fishtality. Or not. Your brain is the size of a pebble. You probably can’t see it coming. You may not be staring at it, but death is staring at you, my friend. I have a solution to this problem. Be a fake pet. A robot pet. You can’t die, and nobody will cry. And I won’t have to keep fixing all of the horrible stupid nightmarish crap that keeps happening with sneezing rabbits, upside down fish, hind-leg hairless cats and flea-allergic dogs that keep NEEDING things. Like children. Oh. Did I say that last bit out loud? Sorry. Temporary digression. But love. Pet love. Aww.

Please note – the tank filth did not kill Goldie because Blackie lives. So does Sticker, who is my favourite fish, always smiling and not eating.

So, Goldie died. Poor, poor little Goldie.

Now normally, I would have thought nothing of it and flushed Goldie, sending her back to Nemo and friends in the *sea, but after the recent passing of our beloved 21-year old Kobi-cat, there were floods of tears when little A realised Goldie was on her deathbed. Sadness reigned, mitigated only by the stuffing of Easter eggs into her sad little pie-hole. Little L processed her emotions more artistically, with a poem that said so little, and yet so much.

An ode to Goldie

I realised a ceremony was in order, to help with the processing (and to buy me some time for tank cleaning and new fish purchasing). Goldie was buried on a sunny autumn day in a perfect Goldie-sized coffin in the garden, under a blanket of crayon rainbows. Words were said, like ‘Goldie was a good fish. She was a very good swimmer. She can swim in heaven now with Kobi.’ I let go the part where cats don’t like swimming with fish, because who knows? Maybe they LOVE swimming in heaven. And I didn’t take photos, because hello? Respect for the dead?

Now we have Pinkie. Little A is satisfied that Blackie isn’t sad anymore. Little L, however, wants a fish that ‘swims by itself’. I pointed to the tank, SPEECHLESS. ‘No, I mean, one of those pretend ones that go in water and swim around.’

Pinky the usurper

When I recovered I realised she’s on to something. (Block your ears Herbie). I only wish shed been struck by her lightning bolt of petspiration the day BEFORE I’d purchased Pinky. I guess it’s not a hugely long-term commitment we’ve made though. You know tank fish. They’re here for a good time, not a long time.

Lulu agrees with Little L’s epiphanic statement on the benefits of robopets. (Until she annoys me, and then I switch her off, with the switch under her fluffy little white cat’s bum. At this point she doesn’t need to agree nor disagree. In fact, she can even be sat on without objection. She needs no food, no water (in fact… sparks may fly), but only a gentle stroking to keep her mewling and purring contentedly.

Lulu – the way of the future?

All the ponies in pony castle agree with with this notion of future Robopet ownership, pursuing a lively debate on the topic as baby and baby daddy prepare their evening meal like good slaves in the kitchen below. We all know they get up to no good once we’ve gone to bed, putting on their Prince music and dancing like it’s 1999. Not all ponies can rock a tiara and high hair plait like that.

“All the kids in the pony castle say ‘waaay ooooh wayyy ohhh, walk like a robo-peeeet’”

Little L’s ‘my little pet pony’ on the iPod does NOT agree with me because she keeps killing it, regularly. It’s fundamentally flawed though. What kind of fake pet needs food?

I’m kind of on the fence here. You know how I feel about my dog Herbie. But the rest? If they ran on batteries (ooooh or photovoltaic cells – environmentally friendly AND not annoying FTW! ) I think I’d be pretty happy. So, I guess robo-menagerie it is.

What do you think is the way of the future for pets? Real or fake? Do you want to switch your pets (or children) off?

*sewage treatment plant

Where am I?

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I don’t even know myself. I’m buried somewhere under a pile of coughing children. I’d hoped to write a post for today, but I DON’T HAVE TO! Look at me, fiddling around in my Mary Poppins carpet bag … ah ha ha ha ha! Here’s one I prepared earlier, featuring over at Em Hawker’s awesome blog today – You Learn Something New Every Day.

This one’s for you, Emily

Em’s having a brief bloggy break after popping out her second sprog, and I’m stoked to be putting words on her page. Come and visit me over there and leave a comment so I feel like you still love me even though there are germy things trying to suck my brain. Please?

This is where Emily lives. She’s a fellow word nerd – a kindred spirit. A Diana Barry.

You can find Emily on Twitter or on Facebook.

xx

The exchange week

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Week, I’m going to take you back to the shop in exchange for another one.

In the depths of the night, quietly, stealthily, a small child steals on padded feet into the warmth of a mother’s bed. She snuggles. A second tangle of blonde hair arrives, nestles, and barks like a seal beside the mummy meat in the girl sandwich. There is water, there is panadol, there is a semblance of sleep.

It’s morning. Rays of filtered grey light finger through the slits in the blinds. The thumberlina child dances awake, whirling like a dervish, spinning on the sheets, before beginning to cough, and like the exorcist, a lava of vomit spills forth from her rosebud lips. The dog is awake now.

Dolly was sick, sick, sick, so she lay on the bathroom floor until the nausea passed.

Meanwhile, in a galaxy far, far away, there is a Man. Man drinks a whisky drink, he drinks a vodka drink. He drinks a lager drink, he drinks a cider drink. (Does this sound like a song? It is.) He’s in a blues bar, in Chicago. He is jetlagged, but calm. He phones home (does this sound like a movie? It is). He wonders why things look a bit tense over facetime when he calls from the bar to share the music. It is WONDERFUL music. I’m glad to hear it.  I’m going to be a blues singer when I grow up.

It’s afternoon. Someone should tell the car that smoking is bad for your health. It can cause cancer and birth defects. It also smells terrible. We climb out. The tall one is tired. So, so, tired. And flushed. She drags her body to bed. I worry. She wheezes.

It’s morning. It’s the clutch. It’s $2000. The tall one has high ketones, normal blood sugar, and is really wheezing. I call the hospital, for the paediatric endocrinologist that manages her diabetes. She wants her to drink and eat. The tall one is too tired. I convince her, and the numbers settle slightly.

In Manland, the Chicago Bulls are playing. The Man is watching. The Man has won an International POPAI Award for his designs, and is attending the awards and a trade show. I am very proud. Next week the Man will be mingling with the locals in Shenzhen while he oversees his production run. I hear bird flu has made a comeback in the eastern provinces of China. I hope he does not come home laying eggs.

At the doctor, the tall one is given ventolin to help ease her breathing, and antibiotics for her respiratory tract infection. She hopes we can manage it at home. I do too. Ants fall in my hair. From a tree? They bite me. The tall one swats them off. I lose half the broken key from our borrowed car. The part that starts the car. I scrabble around in the street. I find it. This is my lucky day. (Does this sound like a horse? It is.)

Does this look like a key to you? Yeah, nah. I call B*&shit on your self-description of ‘KEY’.

 

I am thankful this Thursday there is a persimmon growing on my tree. I guess we’re meant to be thankful for stuff on Thursdays because there’s a ‘th’ in both ‘thankful’ and ‘Thursday’. Personally, I find persimmons revolting, but some people like them. And they are an interesting colour. I’m reaching here, ok? And unless someone can watch my sick daughter while I be thankful for scotch, this persimmon will have to do for now.

Here. Have a persimmon. I don’t want it.

xx

Bloglovin!

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So… you don’t have to or anything, (YES YOU DO) but if you’d like to follow my blog a new way with Bloglovin, you’ll see a shiny new button on the right sidebar you can click, or you can follow the link below. (OK I’LL PAY YOU) Who IS this shouty person? I didn’t invite them (DID!).

Follow my blog with Bloglovin

Thanks sweet cheek-ed peepels! Community service announcement over. More monopoly money coming your way.  FFF out.

xxx

Humanity.

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A break in my usual transmission today, because I’m sad. I believe in the good of people and humanity. I’m reassured from seeing those rush towards the Boston blasts while people ran in shock from the smoke. But I’m sick in my heart at attempted mass murder in the midst of joy.

I’m just another very small voice in many, asking why? They didn’t bomb strategic infrastructure. They bombed strategic HUMAN community infrastructure. The finish line in the Boston Marathon? A place of victory, relief, joy, exhaustion, and community is something to be broken? To what aim? I’m not sure why I’m asking for answers but it seems as humans that’s what we do when something horrendous and nonsensical takes place. The Twin Towers were figureheads and mascots. The human toll was sickening, but  some reasonings of madmen could be fashioned together from the rubble. The London tube bombings, again, were atrociously effective as far as the impact on human life, but also strategically impacted a key piece of infrastructure, causing maximum disruption and devastation. In Boston? I can’t resolve this in my mind, though obviously the disruption, chaos and confusion is enormous as emergency services attempt to manage the injured, the panic and the crowds. It really seems there was no goal other than death.

The dramatic juxtaposition of life, health and strength, in pushing your body to the limits to run for four hours to reach a finish line and cheering crowd, to meet a reward of death and horror is unfathomable. I’ve made light of running before, mainly because I can’t do it. For runners though, I have immense respect. They have a mental toughness I admire and covet. Only two days ago a friend drove to Canberra for the half marathon. She ran 21 km in under 2 hours (1 hour 42 to be precise), had a rest, then jumped in the car to drive 3.5 hours back to Sydney to her family. RESPECT. That is tough. To attempt to break people who are the toughest among us, and those spectating, supporting and buoying these people along, is the most cowardly of acts. It makes me sad for humanity that someone thought to do this.

I was in a small town in the south of Spain in September 2011. I remember the surreal sense of disconnection and confusion, watching the images on television with Spanish voiceover. The planes flying into the buildings made no sense, and the woman at the front desk of the small hostel we checked into was equally confused, as it was early afternoon in the idyllic seaside village, and the news of the terrorist attacks had not yet filtered through. Today I imagine my husband feels a similar way, disconnected in a hotel room in Chicago. We lambast the media for overkill, but we crave their connection to make sense. I’ll watch till I have my fill of answers, then stop listening. I don’t want to wallow in any melodrama.

Fittingly, my children are also sick today, and the sky is crying. I’m only writing this to help with the making sense – not because my voice has anything useful to add. I need to shield my girls and get on with being smiley, which is much easier with this out of me. I will hold them close as we wait to make sense, and watch to see humanity unite around the world.

[Photo credit: NY marathon, 2010 via photopin]

Pretty Woman has all the answers – there is no question.

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Lunch with a friend a couple of weeks ago, reminiscing about old times in the workplace, brought me to reminiscing about old times with Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. A tenuous connection you say? Hardly. My friend made the comparison between me and Julia. Not so much for my ability to look awesome at the polo, my luscious red locks, or my ability to snare Richard Gere… Sorry EDWARD. I keep forgetting they weren’t real. It’s probably a good thing as he’d also have been drawing attention to my prostitution-like tendencies and I’d have been forced to stand up all haughty-like and say ‘Big mistake. HUGE.’ before flouncing out, and I really was enjoying my food.

Big mistake. HUGE.

 

There we were, slurping the most MIRACULOUS chilly-soupy-delicious dumplings from Din Tai Fung from Cafe Court at Star Casino (the home of other such delights as Momofuku, baby Flying Fish, Adriano Zumbo… getting distracted? So was I), when one of those soupy morsels decided, without prior warning, to disgorge itself into my lap. He said it was very Pretty Woman, bringing to mind the scene where she flung her snails across the dining room while trying to ‘do manners’. But you know what else? I was channelling Vivian that day, and I won. I was wearing short white shorts, and soup wipes very quickly and easily off legs. Off white pants? Not so much. So – do as Vivian would do – wear legs, not pants. They’re easier to keep clean.

‘Shit I wish someone would swap these for some dumplings…’

In my thinking room this morning, while I washed my hair, I got to thinking that Vivian could actually be a very helpful muse in many a situation where a creative approach is needed for a potential awkward situation. So I now say to myself – ‘WHAT WOULD JULIA (WHO IS REALLY VIVIAN SINCE NOT REAL AND STUFF) DO’? And, to make this quicker to say when I’m choosing which coloured undies, I say ‘What would Vivulia do?’

This short skirt? Vivulia says NOOOOO.

For example, say you’re invited to a social gathering at a house where you know only the host. As we all know, the host will be unable to even smile at you, so run off their feet will they be preparing hors d’ouevres and shouting at their husband to stop chatting and make sure people have drinks. So this is a potentially terrifying situation (if you’re me). What would Vivulia do? She would go to the bottle shop (since it’s a BYO gathering), and find a bottle WITH A CORK. I know. Talking point already, right? Then, when she gets to the party, she needs to seek help finding a corkscrew to open said bottle of wine. She can share said wine as thanks for assistance, and has the ‘THIS WINE HAS A CORK I DON’T BELIEVE IT’ fascinating topic of conversation as a starter. Vivulia is a genius. I like her.

Going back for a minute to the topic of ‘hors d’ouevres’ and ‘memes’ (yes, they’re connected. Shut up) Vivulia has a solution also to these pesky words that we’ve read often but heard said spoken aloud very seldom. I’ll tell you a story. When I was a wee bairn of 11ish, I had read ALL the books. I had read about hors d’ouevres approximately fifty-ten million times. However, nobody had ever said it aloud. The time I ventured to try, with my ‘horrrrs devoooors’ I elicited such tears of laughter I vowed I wouldn’t take such risks again before thinking it through carefully. The word ‘meme’, people. Am I the only imbecile who feels strangely about this word? I think it’s pronounced ‘meeeem’ like ‘queen’, but no way in hell am I risking it with my mouth. It could also be ‘me-me’ like a very self-centred person, or someone doing vocal warmups, but could equally be all Frenchy and ‘meme’, like ‘phlegm’. What would Vivulia do? She would know exactly what she was talking about, but would accidentally (on purpose) just forget that name for the ‘thing’ she was talking about, forcing somebody ELSE to come out and say the word for her. Cowardly? Perhaps. But smart. Vivs has streetsmarts.

Vivulia also wants to know if you’re too tired for sex, dear readers? She knows what to do. She bamboozled Edward with ALL the condom colours of the rainbow. Pink, purple, leapard print, astroturf (I may have made that up. I may be on to something there though.) until he was struck dumb. Do a Viv, kids, but offer your million and one varieties all in an XXL. Sweet dreams, ladies. But don’t thank me, thank Vivulia.

You know what? This might all sound a little bit trite, and a little bit anti-feminist. But don’t forget, at the end of the movie? She rescues him right back. Vivulia, FTW!

xx