Fairly warned be thee say I

Most things that look, feel or taste good have a price. Eating the greasiest, fattiest, most delicious kind of food makes you fat; drinking booze gives you a hangover and watching 7th Heaven makes you feel very, very dirty.

But one thing I did not necessarily expect to come with a price is suspender stockings.

The things is: I love stockings. I love them black, nude, fishnetted and patterned. I love the freakish chill of office air conditioning that lets me wear them to work most days and, if the weather permitted, I would wear them every day.

But I hate the way that normal stockings either have to be pulled up to my armpits or be allowed to pool awkwardly around my waist. And the hipster stocking route tends to result in a muffin top large enough to feed a starving African nation. Neither is ideal.

So I figure there must be a better way.

And it was this kind of thinking that led me to suspender stockings. Firstly, they stay the hell away from my waist and, secondly, they make me feel like a 1950s floozy. Check and check – what could go wrong?

Well why exactly I chose a funeral to road test them I can’t say but here’s the thing: if the undies those suckers are attached to aren’t actually tight enough to cut off your circulation they can and will be pulled down to your ankles. Seriously.

Between me and my blog readership of, you know, three, in the normal course of events I can get away with wearing undies that have seen better days. Undies that have lost all claim to elasticity even. And, so far as I know, nobody is any the wiser.

But attach some stockings to said undies, start walking and… suddenly the goodwill that has presumably been holding them up for years disappears. All of a sudden those undies have the bit between their teeth and they are heading for the ground.

So there I was at the cemetery when I felt a certain, shall we say, lack of undergarment support… and the unmistakable sensation of worn elastic slowly giving into gravity. Nice visual, right? And there’s nowhere I can go because I’m walking behind the freaking hearse by this point. So I have to rest my hand not-at-all-casually on my side, desperately clinging onto a handful of cotton (and my dignity), wondering what I can possibly do if they fall down all the way.

There is no nice way to lose your underwear in the course of the funeral. You cannot step over them and keep going. You cannot pick them up and keep going. You can run away and leave the country but getting into the witness protection program can be an expensive business these days.

So at this point things are looking pretty bad for me.

And then we got to the crematorium or the chapel or whatever it’s called and things started looking up. Not because I got to sit down (I didn’t) but because, even if my undies had fallen down, tripped me up and propelled me into the casket I would still have been able to walk away with more class than the girl next to me.

There’s nothing wrong with being a pregnant 18-year-old (well, you know, there kind of is but I’m not here to judge so… whatever). There’s also nothing wrong with being a pregnant 18-year-old with a 2-year-old daughter already under your belt. And, if that was nicotine gum that she was chewing through the entire freaking ceremony, then I’ll let that one slide too because kudos to her for looking out for the baby-to-be. And now that we’re throwing caution to the wind why shouldn’t an 18-year-old former smoker pregnant mother wear a dress to a funeral?

Show of that baby bump, flash your pins – whatever.

But problems begin when that dress is faux-denim, tie-dyed and skintight. Problem continue when the dress is also slashed high enough on the thigh that horrified spectators can practically see Baby Number Two crowning when pregnant 18-year-old mother sits down.

Sure she’s chock-full of pregnancy hormones telling her that tie-dye’s due for a comeback but that excuse can only go so far. Somebody in this girl’s life needs to step in and tell her what is and is not acceptable funeral wear. Or at least introduce her to the concept of pants.

So: yes this is a warning against the dangers of suspender stockings. They are not the innocent piece of legwear they pretend to be. But, more importantly, this is a reassuring reminder that, however bad our fashion faux pas may be, we are capable of carrying most of them off with dignity and class… so long as there is a teenage slapper nearby to make us look good by comparison.

"The more sensitive you are, the more likely you are to be brutalised... Never allow yourself to feel anything because you always feel too much."

"A movie that I was in, called On the Waterfront: there was a scene in a taxicab, where I turn to my brother, who's come to turn me over to the gangsters, and I lament to him that he never looked after me, he never gave me a chance, that I could have been a contender, I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum ... It was very moving. And people often spoke about that, "Oh, my God, what a wonderful scene, Marlon, blah blah blah blah blah." It wasn't wonderful at all. The situation was wonderful. Everybody feels like he could have been a contender, he could have been somebody, everybody feels as though he's partly bum, some part of him. He is not fulfilled and he could have done better, he could have been better. Everybody feels a sense of loss about something. So that was what touched people. It wasn't the scene itself. "

I saw On the Waterfront today for the first time and, as if the fact that Brando probably shagged James Dean and was a total leftie where it counted aren't reason enough to love him then watching him act the hell out of that movie sure is.

Things I enjoy more than walking through Cottesloe early Sunday morning still dressed in a slutty black dress and heels from the night before:

1. Cleaning my cat's litter tray.

2. Twice.

3. Watching Grey's Anatomy.

4. Making small talk with some freak in the line for the ATM at the Brisbane who thinks it's okay to touch me under the masquerade of touching my shirt. Dude, that hasn't worked since that episode of Seinfeld. And kind of not even then.

Recent quotable quotes from work...

1. "Even though he was in a wheelchair, I took him down."
2. "Rhonda's spelt with an 'h' ... unless it's a bogan from Armadale."
3. "You guillotined my member."
4. "Aren't fat people abhorent."

Token Smokin' Hottie: Wentworth Miller

This one is for Ali. And I have a feeling she prefers the one she sent me where he's in a hoodie and, in addition to looking uber hot, looks considerably more, er, straight. But, you know, you can't beat his duds in this one: he could not only help you escape from prison and ravish you (possibly while escaping from prison? I don't know, does he look like a multi-tasker?) he could take you out for a night on the town afterwards before coming home to meet your parents. Hands off, Mum.

Scope(s) for Pope

What do you do when someone drops an absolute clanger into a conversation?

You know what I mean: You're stuffing potato salad down your gullet across the Christmas dinner table and somewhere between cracker-pulling and dessert your Grandad casually mentioned that he doesn't like black people... or perhaps you're verbally bitch-slapping the Howard Government and you're just getting into your stride when someone pipes up from the corner "uh but gay people shouldn't be allowed to get married" and... what do you do?

Public lynching is all well and good if it's a stranger but what happens if it's someone you know spewing what you think is absolutely balls?

I say this because the other day someone I know off-handedly mentioned that he doesn't necessarily believe in evolution. Doesn't. Necessarily. Believe. In. Evolution. Uh huh.

Okay so it's not like he said that he once killed a man and perhaps I should have seen this coming from someone with a copy of The Case for Christ on his bookshelf but still... how do you come back to that? Do you give them a copy of Origin of the Species or just a stern talking to?

I know that religious people do, you know exist and I realise that not everyone hearts Clarence Darrow but I expect to hear these things coming out of the mouth of one of the weirdos who come to my house bearing pamphlets, not anyone of my generation and certainly not my boss.

This isn't the first time something like this has happened to me. I still remember my sense of shocked disbelief when my best friend sided with the government over the Tampa issue.

Blame it on a private school upbringing or my own egocentrism but I sort of tend to assume that all the people I like have a left-leaning sensibility and... sort of agree with me on all the important points.

Clearly they don't. There are, for example, probably people I know who think that the union of Shorty-Mc-Short-Stuff and Tooth-Faced-Bint is a beautiful thing. Okay, so there isn't but if there was I could, in theory, accept this.

But there are limits. And I'm drawing a line in the sand right now and saying that not believing in evolution is overstepping the freaking line. To summarise: people are nutbars. Even the sane-looking ones. I could have just left this entry at that and been done with it.

As it's almost the weekend...

I am looking forward to a number of things:

1. Having an awesome week off with almost nothing to do.

2. Re-watching The Forsythe Saga with Sacha during said week off.

3. Pretending to work on ‘the book’ while re-re-watching The Forsythe Saga.

4. Going house shopping with Andy (hey its not MY money)

5. Seeing Borat tonight.

6. Wearing an electric blue 80s prom dress (yes - in public) and getting very drunk.

7. Working with Lindsay.

I am loving:

1. Patricia Highsmith - I’ve read half her back catalogue in the past two weeks and I love it. The Ripley Books are great and everything she writes has an awesome impending-doom vibe. Plus, you know, underlying ho-yay! (Bec, does it have a hyphen there? I don’t know) always goes down a treat.

2. Icy-poles. Cheap and delicious.

3. My hard drive recorder which ensures I can finish each day with an episode of Scrubs.

4. My senile old cat. More than a week since she last pissed on my bed.

5. Sacha. For cleaning up after my cat countless times when she's having a shit (pun sadly intended) week.

I am hating:

1. TV generally. Total pants.

2. Shorthand. I. Am. Over. It.

I vow to:

1. Cut down on my diet coke consumption because I think I might actually have a problem.

2. See more of my friends.

3. Work on ‘the book’.

4. Find most embarrassing photo of Ali possible and put it on here.

I am missing:

1. London

2. Bec

3. Hamish and Polly.

4. Winter clothes.

Man I love my office sometimes

See the incomparable Dan's take on our Dave's sexy texts dramas:
http://boltongray.blogspot.com/

Dorkus Maximus

I have come to terms with the fact that I am quite the dork. I have been known to alphabetise my books, I read at least five website religiously and if you get me wound up on certain subjects I will deliver a lecture and/or a rant.

But every now and again I get a little reminder of just how much of a dork I am. Today's reminder came in the form of this website- http://ilx.wh3rd.net/thread.php?msgid=4328588 - which I found for the second time this year and which dishes up book reviews in 25 words or less.

And I love it. Yes, on paper reading book reviews at length for, you know, fun sounds pretty lame. But before you judge me I present exhibits a through e:

1. Pride and Prejudice
High-principled woman who is not so superficial as to be taken in by wealth and good looks chooses the handsome, shaggable one anyway.

2. The Bible
Good opening chapter. Main character arrives halfway through, but gets killed off early. Some decent (if dated) commandments. Cracking ending. Slighty too open to interpretation.

3. The Lord of the Rings
Little guys go to a lot of trouble to get rid of stolen jewellery.

4. Tess of the D'Urbervilles
Rural tart gets mixed up with local bounder. Dad is constantly pissed. Too upbeat? OK, I'll add a dead baby and a murder. Stonehenge. Hanging.

5. The Wizard of Oz
Transported to a Surreal landscape a young girl kills the first woman she meets, then teams up with three complete strangers to kill again.

I made fun of her first.

Now I know I have previously implied (http://kirovkate.blogspot.com/2006/11/boobs-now-that-ive-got-your-attention.html) that a certain 'Perth identity' is a big-boobed bimbo whose latest two rock-hard purchases will probably survive a nuclear explosion but I can’t help but feel sorry for her upon reading page two of today’s West.

Because you trust my opinion, right?

I've been getting a few requests for book suggestions lately. Maybe it's because I've recently blown $400 at a certain Leederville book shop (thanks again, Andy) or because everything on TV is such total pants at the moment that everyone has suddenly rediscovered their dusty bookshelves. Either way as anyone who knows me knows there are few things I enjoy more than forcing my literary tastes down other people's throat. So here you go:

These are personal classics everyone must read one day - I'll put up some recent finds when I remember what they are:

1. Maurice by E.M Forster. Oh if you don't know how much I love this book I don't even know why you're reading this as you can't be my friend... but really it's very very nice.

2. The End of the Affair, by Graham Greene. Greene's best is my opinion. Short, easy to read and fantastic.

3. The Great Gatsby by F.Scott Fitzgerald. Well I'm hardly a lone wanderer who has stumbled onto this gem but I've recently come into a first edition (Andy, again, you rock) and if you haven't read this since school then get thee to a book shop.

The Michael Richards guide to parlying incredible success as an ensemble cast member in a hugely successful show into a solid career...

1. Star in an ill-advised project named after yourself.
2. Ratchet up the 'kooky' level from moderate/high to extreme.
3. Launch a racist tirade at audience members who have paid to see you perform.
http://thesuperficial.com/2006/11/michael_richards_is_a_racist_c.html
(thanks Jade for the link).

Belated Ball Blog

It's well overdue but I've only just got my hands on some snaps from this year' Media Ball. The gold statuette is my priceless fellow journo Bea, the incredibly drunk-looking guy is my boss (frightening, I know), the slightly less drunk guy is the work equivalent of my older brother, the hottie in black is the office's wonderful den mother Fleur and the red-haired siren is the lovely Denise from another office.

Good night had by all blah blah blah it was ages ago now so hard to work up some blog enthusiasm, sorry!

My Future Piggy Bank

I'd like to take this opportunity to formally jump on the bandwagon of Perth's musical genius Sacha McCulloch (the hot, non creeping-looking one in the pic).

Although fresh out of her honours degree, judging by her performance on Friday WAYO's principal cellist (and, full disclosure, my awesome housemate) is going to find a much wider audience.

As such I'd like to register my intention to scab off her when I'm broke and trying to raise my three bastard children while living on the streets.

Your success will be my success too, Sach...

Useful self-help books for evil masterminds

1. So you blabbed your entire secret plan to your arch nemesis instead of just putting a bullet through his head: A guide to self-forgiveness.

2. Dealing with Death: How to commit mass murder and still like what you see in the mirror.

3. Holding on, Letting Go: Learn to love your half-machine half-man body.

My Secret Shame

How embarassing.

I don't really know how to say this but I seem to have developed a crush.

On Leonardo Di Caprio.

But, wait, I can totally explain.

I finally, finally saw The Departed last night (in which Di Caprio, as well as Marky Mark, Matt Damon, Jack "I eat scenery for breakfast" Nicholson and puffy-but-strangely-charismatic Alec Baldwin , stars) and... well, I don't know... somewhere between doing push-ups in jail and smashing someone in the head with a glass he morphed into someone not... well not unattractive.

In fact by the end of the movie I was about two drinks away from writing 'I heart Leo' on all my notebooks.

Until now he's always struck me as a bit of a smug-girl boy who peaked around the time he decided pretending to shag Kate Winslet meant he could refer to his day job as his 'craft'. And, sure, I thought he was great in Catch me if you Can but it's still a long way from that to The Departed, where he smokes his way from scene to scene absolutely bleeding charisma off the screen.

And the thing is.. I'm not even sure why he looks so smoking hot all of a sudden. If you stare at his face for long enough i can look kinda... piggy... and the term 'baby face' still has some currency. But put the boy in a hoodie, apply stubble liberally and a hefty pinch of tough-vulnerability and... well, I'm going to go and have a long lie down because I really can't be caught waxing lyrical about Leonardo Di Caprio of all people but, you know, for the first time in... well kinda ever I would totally tap that.

If I could take credit for any website around...

... it would Televisionwithoutpity.com
Re-caps of TV shows may sound, you know, lame, but this site is awesome.
Case in point (from a re-cap of The Bachelor and, no, you can't ask why I was reading it). FYI the Olive Garden is a chain restaurant:

"Amber digs in: 'I like the Olive Garden.' Which, for a vcertain echelon of
people is more of a personality descriptor than 'I'm from a decidedly
suburban area' or 'I'm a Nazi' or 'I was born without a head and my head is
a prosthetic head."

Hee!

On another note it's come to my attention that the dates/times on this thing operate on some kind fourth, unknown, dimension. So... there you go.

Boobs. Now that I've got your attention... oh wait this really is about boobs.

So…fake boobs. To anyone considering getting them I say to you only that you should choose your surgeon carefully and just make sure he’s not the one responsible for the rock-hard balloons apparently adorning the chest of a certain Perth er, well ‘Perth identity’ is a bit of a stretch but let's just go with that.

Personally, if I was sporting that kind of hardware (hard being the operative word by the looks of them) I'd be sobbing into my pillow while suing the arse off my surgeon. The fact that she is gallavanting about town in half of a dress would seem to suggest she doesn't share my concern about her latest purchase.

Granted, I did once upon a time admire a young lass who sported giant plastic rocks on her torso but that bitch’s name was Barbie and I’m pretty sure she paid for her crimes against cleavage when I cut off her head circa 1987.

And if you're going to take your fashion tips, nay, your lifestyle choices, from a doll why not look beyond the blonde with the chest ornaments. I tell you someone I wouldn't mind seeing the young people of today (oh my god I'm only 24) emulating is Jem, of Jem and the Holograms.

From my recollection Jem used to have some crazy-arse 80s hair and wear leggings a lot of the time but she gave off a tough vibe too. You sort of got the impression that she had cleaned up her act for the early morning kid's cartoon show but behind scenes she was shooting up and stubbing out her cigarettes on the arms of the other members of the Holograms. And they would be all "Jem you can't go on like this, we'll have to cancel" but she'd be all "It's my name in the credits, bitch" before passing out in a pool of her own vomit. And half the time she'd be so coked out they'd have to loop her lines after the scenes were shot. Awesome.

UPDTED: Because I'm an idiot. Gem and the Sparkles? What was I thinking? I blame the crack.

In the beginning there was the blog and the blog was... well it was okay

A good friend told me recently that change is always hard. This is one of those things that, when you hear it, you think 'well yeah no shit' but the more you think about it the more you think 'yeah... it really... is'.

And it's true. Thing are changing for me. I'm coming close to the end of my first year in full-time employment: I'm now a working girl (in the Melanie Griffiths rather than the Julia Roberts sense of the phrase).

I'm also about to move from one office to another. I'll still be in the same company, still be doing more or less the same job but I'll be working with people I don't know well at all. I've only been where I am for about 9 months so I probably shouldn't be as bummed as I am. But it sucks.

I might have to face a big decision about where to live in the near future and it's not so much a matter of choosing between Mt Hawthorn and North Perth but a decision about what the hell I'm doing with my life.

I've recently(ish) turned 24. I'm entering mid 20s and I'm not where I thought I'd be. I thought I would have written a book by now. Maybe two, even if they were both really crappy. I thought I would be making better life choices rather than fricking around trying to avoid making choices at all. But, on the plus side, ten years ago, or even five years ago, I wouldn't have thought I'd be starting a blog and yet here I go. Because, you know, there just aren't enough of these suckers on the internet as it is...