That winning moment

When you realise the cute dude from the party who gave you shit about not telling him you were married until after he'd (I'm editorialising here) wasted two hours talking to you, totally has a long-term girlfriend anyway and was therefore being a big fat hypocrite. Suck it J!

Boxing Day traditions I am missing right now

• Eating Christmas chocolate for breakfast.
• Wearing pajamas until noon.
• The guilt-induced half-hearted walk around the block, taken after I remember what I ate and drink the day before but swiftly abandoned when I realised how fucking hot it is.
• Midday movies(!)
• Falling asleep at 4pm on the couch, melted shell chocolates mushed into my cheek.

Christmas Movies: Love Actually

The concept: Watch as many Christmas-themed or Christmas-related movies this December as I can without going nuts.

The candidate: Love Actually

The premise: A whole bunch of lovey dovey London stories intertwine around the holidays. Some are gorgeously realised (Emma Thompson and Alan Rickman for the win, please), others induce in me a quiet rage (Colin Firth's thing, obviously; the one with Keira Knightley and the guy from Teachers; the British guy who goes overseas... I could go on.).

The verdict: I have mixed feelings about Love Actually. In theory I think it's not a particularly good movie: it's sappy, it's stupid, some of the plotlines are INSANELY inane. And yet. It's one of those movies I return to time and time again. Not in the same way I might return to, say, Annie Hall or The Princess Bride: those all-time favourite movies I can't stay away from because watching them feels like Coming Home. No, I come back to Love Actually in the same way that I continue to pick at the ice-cream cake currently sitting in my freezer. I'm not that into ice-cream. Or cake. Or ice-cream cake. But... it's there. It tastes pretty good. And... it does the job. That's how I feel about Love Actually. At its best it makes me cry (the scene where Emma Thompson opens her present to find a Joni Mitchell CD is... I mean, come on, I'm not made of stone) or smile despite myself in a this-is-so-fucking-stupid kind of a way (see: Hugh Grant's incredibly silly but damnit sort-of-charming plotline) and at its worst it is inane and patronising and very very irritating. I (re)watched it this year with one finger on the fast-forward button, cut out a good 40 minutes of shit and had myself a very merry time of it.

WARNING NOTE: Fast-forwarding through the shitty parts of this movie may enrage one's husband, who claims the Colin Firth storyline is "romantic" and darling. Also that I am dead inside.

Well

This was a fun five minutes.

That awkward moment

Where the poor 18-year-old male clerk behind the counter has to price up your slinky underwear while you pretend to be veeeeeeery busy on ye olde mobile phone.

Overheard in the Office

Me: He does... kind of look like a paedo though.

Her: Only in the way that all priests do.

I'm embarrassed

You're embarrassed for me. But the fact remains: I have now seen Pitch Perfect exactly one and a half times.

Christmas Movie Experiment: The Holiday

The concept: Watch as many Christmas-themed or Christmas-related movies this December as I can without going nuts.

The candidate: The Holiday.

The premise: Unlucky-in-love Kate Winslet and Cameron Diaz (I'm sorry I have absolutely no idea what their characters are called) decide to swap houses for two weeks over Christmas. One lives in LA, one in London. I know this will shock you but romance ensues.

The verdict: Cameron Diaz has long been, for me, a movie ruiner. I hate her. I HATE her. I hate HER. So trying to get engaged in her storyline is, straight up, a big ask. What this baby has in its favour is the presence of the always charming, endlessly talented Kate Winslet and, more importantly, Rufus Fucking Sewell, also known as the dreamiest dreamboat that ever dreamed. God he is sex on legs, stealing every scene he's in even though he's supposed to be (and ok kinda is) a dick. The downside to that is that, on a looks basis alone, it's extremely hard not to root for Kate Winslet to go back to him even though (I'm ruining nothing, seriously, this is obvious from the first minute of the film) that is never going to happen. The end result is a sporadically cute, mostly quite stupid but, eh, it passes the time offering to the romantic comedy genre. So it's, you know, fine. (Although, seriously, Cameron Face-like-a-Mashed-Pea Diaz gets Jude Law as her love interest and Kate Winslet gets Jack Black? Not cool, movie, not cool).

"Too much of a good thing can be wonderful."

- Mae West.

Some days

Some days I am sufficiently self aware to recognise that I'm making mountains out of molehills and getting worked up about things that fundamentally Do Not Matter. Some days I can be polite to people who annoy me, serene in the face of incompetence and placate people who enrage me. Most days, I hope, I maintain a veneer of calm in the workplace, regardless of whatever is going on underneath.

But on some days, just every so often, it feels that only the words of the wonderful John Skoyles stand between me and my desire to tell certain people exactly what I think of them. For which some people should be grateful...

If You Have an Enemy

If you have an enemy, picture him asleep.
Notice his shoes at the foot of the bed,
how helplessly they gape there.
Some mornings he needs three cups of coffee

to wake up for work,
and there are evenings when he drinks alone,
reading the paper down to the want ads,
the arrival times of ships at the docks.

Think of him choosing a tie,
dialling wrong numbers,
finding holes in his socks. Chances are
his emptiness equals yours

When you thoughtlessly hurry a cashier
for change, or frown to yourself
in rush hour traffic and the drivers behind you

begin to remind you
the light has turned green.

(John Skoyles)

20 freaking years ago today

Potglumstein (adj)

Of German origin. Used to describe the emotion of realising you bought sweet potato gems instead of regular potato gems at the supermarket.

Things making me happy #52

The charming film, Celeste and Jesse. I see a lot of movies (maybe even too many) and I like a lot of movies because I'm stupid and easy to please. Still, this one made me laugh (also sniffle) more than most. Recommend to a friend.

It is on.

And I am excited.

N.B: thanks to Rickard for the heads up.

Things making me happy #14

Watching Husband Andy laugh so hard at a ten second clip of Killer Karaoke that for a few worried seconds I actually thought he was maybe experiencing anaphylactic shock and I should get off the couch and call an ambulance or something.

The Verdict

The conundrum: Would it be wrong to unfriend someone on Facebook because reading her posts about the horrific physical and emotional abuse she endured at the hands of her ex-boyfriend depresses ten types of shit out of me?

The Angel: Of course it would be wrong and I'm an uncaring shit. I know her! I like her! I accepted a warm scarf and a glass of delicious wine from that shit of an ex-boyfriend once, now I have to accept her horrible, awful stories about him too. JESUS CHRIST what kind of a person stops being friendly with someone because they've BEEN ABUSED?! How often am I even on Facebook these days that it would really be that much skin off my nose to get the odd reminder that someone somewhere in the world is much, much worse off than me?

The Devil: Look, technically I only met her and her stupid abusive ex once. Five years ago. For one night only. And while, yes, I did/still do like her and think she's kinda awesome I also feel it's likely I will never speak to her again, either in real life or via the medium of social media so HONESTLY what's to be lost in quietly letting her drift off into the ether to spend more quality time with her actual friends who she knows in real life? I mean really as if she'll even notice...

The verdict: I'm a bitch but I'm not THAT much of a bitch. Plus, if it all gets a bit too full on I can always *ahem* just block her from my Facebook feed. I mean, would that be a crime...?

Pros and Cons

The situation: I cried while interviewing someone today for the first time in a loooooong long time.

Pro: I am not, contrary to popular opinion, dead inside.

Con: I am a huge pussy.

Things making me happy #3

This.

From the diaries of work chum Kate F

Gumtree douche: "Um yeah, hi. I'm ringing about the guitar for sale."
Kate F: "Yes? "

Gumtree douche: "Um, so is it like, your boyfriend's or husband's or something?"
Kate F: ......... *presses end call*

True fear is...

... Showering at the work gym and realising you forgot to hang your towel outside the shower cubicle just at the same moment as someone else wanders in to get changed. Just... trust me on this one.

Things that make me sad/frustrated/befuddled #23

You need a licence to drive a car, gay people can't get married in this country but any dumb bitch can have a kid.

Sometimes the crying is on the inside, sometimes... it is not

In journalism sometimes it happens that your boss comes to you with an article torn out of another newspaper and the dictum that your (I summarise) write your own version of that story. This does not involve ripping off the article, per se - you still have to do your own research, your own interviews etc - it just means that you're essentially trying to do what someone else has already done, just... under your name.

I mention this as a neat segue to the fact I am blatantly ripping off the diagram below from the wonderful Lindsay, who I miss dearly at the moment thanks to her being a selfish twat who has gone to spend Christmas with her family instead of hanging out with me in the office. Selfish. Anyway, the diagram is awfully good and just about the best pictorial description of what life on a deadline is like that I've seen.

Overheard in the Office

A: What's that pub at Carousel called? The Foundry?
B: Ew yeah. I've been there. Never again.
A: You're such a snob. Bogans need to drink too, you know.

When bad sentences happen to good people: things I wish I hadn't said to a distinguished academic today.

"Well, with all this talk [about a conference program] you've certainly got my, um, appetite very um... wet."

Thing that make one feel slightly depressed about the trajectory of one's life #13

Waking up to learn that a former school classmate is a finalist for Australian of the Year. I mean, I'm kinda glad I skipped my school reunion, is what I'm saying.

“Today I must be very careful, today I have left my armor at home.”

(Jean Rhys, Good Morning, Midnight)

Signs I may... have some issues #23

I'm quietly stoked my regular hairdresser has quit the salon I go to because even though I really like the haircut he gives me, he:

a) Talks way, way too much while he does it; and

b) Is cute enough to make Head Massage Time supremely awkward.

Let's hear it for the boys

It will come as no surprise to regular readers, and those of you who know me in real life, that I like boys. Boys are awesome and I do, at times, genuinely struggle to understand why anyone would fancy girls when there are boys all around – boys with their faces and the way they smell and their peculiarly male topography. Then I see a photo like this...

...which comes without permission courtesy of The Sartorialist, and I can kind of almost maybe get it.

Things I said at my new book club that, in hindsight, probably made me sound like a dunce/psychopath:

1. "Yeah I've never actually read any George Eliot".

2. "I sort of love Harry Potter".

3. "It would kinda make a great TV series, amiright?"

4. "Yeah I was pretty unmoved when that kid drowned..."

Things making me less-than-happy today

"Why did it tear? Is it too small for you?"

- My seamstress, upon recieving a dress for repairs. They're called C-cups, damn you woman, and I could do without your judgment.

Things making me happy today

"Of all my fucked up friends, you're my favourite Kato."

- an email from Dans, which I choose to interpret as a compliment rather than a slam.

Slightly embarassing scenes from my life

Me: "So what did you get up to at the beach?"
My 4-Year-Old Nephew: "I watched a boy catch crabs."
Me: (Laughter)
Nephew's father: "How old are you?"

And I will say Good Day to you, Sir

If you do not understand why this photo of Ryan Gosling being massaged by Michael Fassbender pleases me, then we are not friends.

Scenes from my life that make me think I am maybe not as mature as all that:

Fleeing a gorgeous French restaurant, giggling uncontrollably, while the wonderful Lindsay shamelessly flirts with our French waiter in her high school French. The last words I heard were: "Do you 'ave a boyfriend?" Also, now that I think about it, maybe the bit where we pretended it was Lindsay's birthday in order to get a birthday candle stuck into our dessert...

Overheard in the office: a co-worker describing my unpleasant cough

"It's like the sound a dog makes right before it throws up."

Because I love ya'll

You need to read this.

Things a gorgeous sounding French waiter said to me that made me go a little weak at the knees that should not have made me go a little weak at the knees:

"And can I have your phone number Kate?"
- (Tragically this request was only made in the context of my booking a table for dinner.)

Thanks for asking

But I did not, as it happens, create a hideously tacky 'couples' Facebook page on which to share photos of/memories with my charming husband. And yet... there it is all the same, making me - and presumably any of my friends unfortunate enough to stumble across it - vomit. Laugh all you want, suckers, but if you've been dumb enough to put your relationship status on Facebook then you have one too. So you go and enjoy that.

“There are ships sailing to many ports, but not a single one goes where life is not painful.” 

(Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet)

Monday Musings

Sometimes I really do watch some godawful fucking TV.

Things I had to say over the phone today

"Yeah so I'm calling about child sex abuse..."

Mwahaha, don't ever change, The Vampire Diaries

"I got this in Australia when I was backpacking with Aboriginal spirit guides."

If watching Clint Eastwood paw Meryl Streep doesn't get me going, I mean, nothing will...

Sometimes I think there is something wrong with me: some little part of me inside that has bent or snapped or been worn down from a lifetime of me being, you know, kind of a pussy. Today I had to conduct a lengthy, heart-wrenching interview for work: an interview I have been dreading for days because I knew it would be hard. I had expected, and tried to prepare myself, for tears - my own. I knew the subject matter was liable to upset me and I just wanted to get through the interview in one piece and not embarass myself by crying, even if that meant bawling in my car afterwards. Hold it together, Kate, I was thinking as I walked through the door. And... I didn't cry. At all. I didn't even come close to crying. The woman I was interviewing cried - something that usually sets me off - and I didn't even tear up. It wasn't that I didn't feel anything - I felt sad for her, frustrated on her behalf and even (yes I sicken myself) a little excited by how goddamn QUOTABLE she was. But I didn't cry and it wasn't a matter of holding myself together in the moment because I didn't cry on the drive back to the office either. I'm not crying as I write this now. I do not plan or expect to cry about this later. Am I dead inside? Has something inside me snapped off, like the internal cog of a clock that no longer quite connects with the cog next to it, rendering me unable to react to something awful in an appropriate way? I don't know about that but I do know one way to find out, Yes, that's right: Bridges of Madison County I am coming for you.

NOTE: The spacing on this post has been all fucked up into one giant paragraph for some reason. I have no idea what's going on and I'm too fucking tired to care. Tomorrow Kate: I'm leaving this problem for you to fix.

"Some like it hard, some like it soft"

So. Fucking. Good. And yet somehow I had forgotten.

Terifying realisations that wake me in the night #18

I am simultaneously not entirely sure I want to continue in my profession and absolutely unqualified to do anything else.

First world problems, first world solutions

The problem: A day that started off very well but has got steadily worse until now I'm basically just sliiiiiding into a big pile of crap.

The solution: Heading to the movies to see Argo in a cinema that allows me to purchase and consume wine.

The symptoms of Ho-yay

(The following all comes courtesy of this site)

Watching a new series… those two characters,

Would be good together… is that sexual tension?

You’re CURIOUS.

Episodes later and these two characters,

Belong together. No! Not the writer’s intention.

You’re FURIOUS

But you still analyse these two characters,

A friendly smile or glance- it’s love… such an invention!

You’re OBSESSED

And they are no longer just two characters,

They’re the greatest but most impossible love story

You’re DEPRESSED

They are now, in your own mind two characters,

In love, it’s always been there in all of it’s glory!

These things I know

Wearing a spiffy new tweed dress to work improves ones productivity and enthusiasm one thousand per cent. Now you know.

The verdict

Today I made someone who was nice to me and trying to do something nice for me (sort of) feel bad.

The fact that this person not only a) felt bad but b) felt moved to communicate that via a voicemail on my phone and a snarky comment to someone more important than me made me feel bad.

Conclusion: it's a tie.

A Saturday Night: Highlights, lowlights

Low: Yes, I did knock half a glass of red wine into the crotch of my neighbour at the ball last night.

High: My neighbour was the charming N, who was polite and lovely about it, instead of chucking his own wine over me like I deserved.

Low: It happened five minutes into the formalities, right in the middle of a quiet bit so that basically everyone there from work witnessed my moment of shame.

High: I stopped myself just in time from swooping in to mop it up myself, opting instead to gather napkins for N and let him sponge up his own inner thigh.

Little Sunday Sorrows (or how I today learned to play my first song on the ukelele)

A short love note to the Virgin Tom Collins the kind barman at Mechanics Institute made me last night,

Although you were basically only lemon and water and sugar,
For me you were everything I needed.

You brought me back to life,
After I'd been drinking red wine all afternoon.

You gave me the strength to go on,
And drink more wine.

I love you,
Although I do also slightly blame you for today's (mild) hangover.

At the pub

S: I would never change my last name if I got married.

K: Not unless their last name was something awesome like Danger or Wickinstombottomsley.

S: Or Skarsgard.

K: Or Fassbender.

S: Obviously.

Great moments from my life #32

Having a friend tell me that the Agent Provocateur parcel she ordered for my birthday has arrived.

Wednesday Night: The Verdict

Pros: I went to sweaty yoga.

Cons: I was running late.

Pros: I made it on time.

Cons: I did have to get dressed in the car. While driving. To yoga.

Pros: I successfully got dressed in the car. While driving. To yoga.

Cons: I'm fairly certain someone at the traffic lights saw... things.

Pros: I was wearing nice underwear.

Verdict: Not a bad night, for one spent in short shorts.

"Money is only so much paper to the undead"

Feeling low?

Perhaps you need... an Emergency Compliment.

Is this what they call Stockholm Syndrome?

Because when I woke up at 4.45am yet-a-goddamn-gain this morning I actually thought to myself "Ooh I'm going to get so much done today".

The disappointment of seeing a photo of yourself at a wedding where you thought you looked cute but you were wrong... The follow up

Him: I think you look good in that photo.

Me: Ugh no.

Him: I mean, ok, your head is very very round.

Me: Um...

Him: Like it's twice as round as everyone else's head in the photo.

Me: I'm standing closer to the camera! It's distorted!

Him: Are you, though?

I have of late

"I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame the earth seems to me a sterile promontory  this most excellent canopy the air, look you, this mighty o'rehanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire; why, it appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, how like an angel in apprehension  how like a God! The beauty of the world, paragon of animals; and yet to me, what is this quintessence of dusk. Man delights not me, no, nor women neither, nor women neither."

(Withnail, bastardising Hamlet in hands-down the saddest scene in a very funny movie)

Overheard in the Office

"I'm 33 I shouldn't be doing this kind of thing."

- The incomparable Lindsay on the bold decision to cut her own hair. At 4am. After many drinks. 
(For the record: it looks perfectly cute).

Bad Feelings #32

Looking at a photo from a wedding where you thought you looked cute to learn that, no, you really didn't.

I'm not saying the baby bonus is a terrible useless waste of taxpayer money that could better be used in about 200 different ways...

... No, wait, that's pretty much exactly what I'm saying. Where's my financial reward for not overpopulating the planet?

Don't retreat, reload

I started this blog post literally oooh 10 seconds ago with a plan to write about this neat little phrase I'd stumbled onto and which I planned to use as a little bit of a mantra to get myself out of my funk and ready for the decade ahead.

That phrase was don't retreat, reload.

When I read it in some random novel last week something about this phrase struck me, the way things do from time to time, and I couldn't quite dislodge it from my head. In the moment it seemed to sum up everything I want to change about myself: to be less of a pussy, work harder for what I want, advance towards something instead of running away from everything.

Then I googled it.

Why? Why did I google it. Couldn't I just have been happy with my little phrase? It made me feel good, couldn't I just keep on feeling good about it? But no. No I could not. Because the way the phrase was presented in the book I read was along the lines of - "As they say 'don't retreat, reload'." As who says, I wondered, assuming in my ignorance the book was quoting some wise old sage or other. Then the dream died. Because once I turned to google to answer my question this is the first thing I read about this beautiful little phrase of mine:

Is there a more incendiary, compact, unapologetic cover for domestic vigilantes than “Don’t Retreat, Reload”? Though domestic terrorism occurred before and after Palin’s pandering war cry, her loaded gun imagery decoying as political rhetoric, gave itchy-fingered zealots free passes when “feeling endangered.” Overall, what the Bush Doctrine distilled into unilateral pre-emptive perfidy, executed by Rumsfeld’s dire “shock and awe,” then justified by Cheney’s One Per Cent Doctrine, was domesticated by this in-your-face mandate from a presumptive national leader.

So... apparently I'm quoting Sarah Palin these days. That... happened. I - and excuse me if I start sobbing while I say this - actually had a reaction to something Sarah Palin said that didn't include wild rage or projectile vomiting. 

No, don't mind me, I'm off to Plath myself in the oven. 'Tis electric so I may be some time.

Things I have been doing between the hours of 3am and 5am lately:

1. Listening to NPR Pop Culture Happy Hour podcasts. Two years worth. Now I'm all caught up. Still can't sleep.

2. Plotted an (increasingly dodgy) fantasy(ish) novel in my head, most of which I have subsequently forgotten, 15,000 words of which I have actually got around to writing.

3. Regretted various life choices and half-heartedly come up with plans to not fuck up the next decade. Forgot most of those too.

Overheard in my bedroom

"It's natural selection isn't it?"

- Andy on the (tragic) death of Fontine in Les Miserables.

All together: Awww

Sometimes I think I'm kind of an awful person with a heart of stone. Then I see photos like this and my supposedly stony heart turns to mush. (Obviously I may still be an awful person.)

Reasons to hate my kindle

It has run out of batteries just when I'm in the middle of the best goddamn bit of my can't-put-it-down book. Damn you, kindle, at least with my proper books the worst that ever happened was when I dropped them in the bath and had to dry them with a hairdryer but the pages dried all weird and wavy and yet I still *ahem* returned them to the library and... you know, looking back on that I feel kinda bad about it now. I was... a clumsy bather.

Super awful things I did today #1

Indulged in some mild ogling of a passing cutie on my street before noticing that under his jacket this cutie... was wearing... a... school uniform. Yeah that happened. And yes I did kind of feel like a pervert but, hey, I'm telling myself he is probably thick as shit and was held back two, oooh maybe even ten years... Because that would make it okay, right?

I also kinda want that weird-arse hat(?) but that's neither here nor there.

"One cannot lose what one has not possessed.

So much for that abrasive gem.

I can lose what I want. I want you."

(Geoffrey Hill)

Bloody good work

I was prepared for this to be incredibly lame but actually I think it's kinda brilliant.

Reasons why I'm sort of a lame person #23

I'm pleased by the fact that a quote on the ceiling of my Bikram Yoga class contains a misspelt word. Every time I stare up at that super unfortunate "lite" (I mean: really?) I think to myself: "I may be completely shit at Bikram Yoga but at least I can spell"*.






* I'm actually a pretty bad speller but "lite"? You've got to be shitting me.

Question asked, question answered

Regular readers may recall that a few weeks ago I wondered aloud on this blog why my Bikram yoga instructor kept telling us we should try to look like a Japanese ham sandwich. Why Japanese and why ham, we wondered. Also: what the fuck does that mean?

Those of you left on the edge of your seat by this series of unanswered questions (...) will be relieved to hear that this week a stranger left a comment on my blog with this response:

"You are trying to "sandwich" yourself so there is no gap anywhere. When Bikram lived in Japan he ate ham sandwiches, thus the reference to "Japanese ham sandwich". Why object to such a phrase? Why not just smile instead? It certainly doesn't bother my Japanese Bikram teacher.

Leaving aside the unnecessary snarkiness (bitch, please) this response delights me, even if some googling doesn't entirely... support it (opinions, it appears, differ). I think my favourite part is the idea of Bikram kicking it around Japan eating ham sandwiches, of all things. It's kinda like going to India and eating meat pies: charming and weird.

Had he lived beyond what the human body can endure today would have been the wonderful PG Wodehouse's 131st birthday. To celebrate: some of his best lines.

• Unseen, in the background, Fate was quietly slipping the lead into the boxing-glove.
• He got through the song somehow and limped off amidst roars of silence from the audience.
• Few of them were to be trusted within reach of a trowel and a pile of bricks.
• She had a penetrating sort of laugh. Rather like a train going into a tunnel.
• I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.
• He was a tubby little chap who looked as if he had been poured into his clothes and had forgotten to say "when"
• He wore the unmistakable look of a man about to be present at a row between women, and only a wet cat in a strange backyard bears itself with less jauntiness than a man faced by such a prospect.
• "Yes, sir," said Jeeves in a low, cold voice, as if he had been bitten in the leg by a personal friend.

Lesson for the day

When someone starts a conversation by saying "I'm not one to say something behind someone's back so I wanted to say this to you directly..." you are not going to want to hear what they have to say.

Also: fuck you, I would really rather you bitch about me behind my back than list my faults to my face actually, you smug shit. It would have saved me a good ten minutes of weeping-in-the-toilets time plus another five minutes trying to hide that fact using only a dodgy tube of concealer I found in the bottom of my satchel. And I look gross when I cry.

Awkward questions I was asked by a stranger re: my marriage to an identical twin

"So how did you decide which brother to go for?"

Things I realised today

That despite drinking a fair amount of wine and having, generally, a vague idea of the kind of varietals I like, when someone else asks me for advice on what wine to buy I am absolutely useless and have to resist the urge to say "oh the one with the cute frog on the bottle is good I think" or "I had an awful night drinking that one with the kid riding a bike on the label"...

Things I truly, madly, deeply love about The Vampire Diaries

1. It is (almost always) insanely well-plotted: more happens in 10 minutes of this show than in 10 episodes of half the other shows on TV.

2. Powerful lady characters who get to do fun things and are sort of awesome. Especially Caroline, God I love her so much I want to invite her over and braid all that gorgeous hair. Also I hate her because she gets to do that with Tyler Lockwood.

3. Insanely hot dudes. Like insanely hot hot. And I don't usually like muscles.

4. Sometimes they take off their clothes.

5. Actually they take off their clothes all the time.

6. And every time a hot male character dies two more appear in his place and take their shirts off. True story.

Things that don't feel amazing.

People - friends and acquaintances - telling you at a fancy dress party variations on the theme of "oh hey you look good with super long hair" while you a) are wearing a rat-arse long haired wig and b) have, in recent weeks, cut off basically all of your hair.

Riddle me this

How much do I love this song, recorded by Blur's cutest bandmate Graham Coxon while he was (for reasons I won't go into) under a table?

I love it so much I just went on a mini social media stalking session to track down the long-estranged chap who introduced me to it, despite the fact that he sent me a series of super weird letters after we broke up and once tried to convince me we should co-author a book... based on our long-running email exchanges. Riiiiight. Lucky for me, I think, that he has a name apparently shared by 2 to 3 other million Twitter and Facebook users of Chinese descent. Phew. And gosh this song is lovely.

That awkward moment

When you have a perfect Listen To This Fucked Day I've Had blog in your head, and before you can write it just about your favourite person in the world drags you out for a drink (yes "drags" I said) and your anger melts away like snow on warm concrete.

Pre-birthday musings

15-year-old me would be so very stoked to have received a late night Happy Birthday text message from my brother's charming friend, on whom I had QUITE the crush back in the day. Of course 15-year-old me would also be confused because I didn't have a mobile phone until I was 17. No, I don't know how we coped back then either.

Also: wine

There is a lovely scene in the just-about-perfect film Manhattan, where Woody Allen is lying on a couch, old-fashioned dictaphone in hand, making a list of the things that make his life worth living. Somewhat hilariously he doesn't mention his child but instead the monologue goes like this:

"Well, all right, why is life worth living? That's a very good question. Well, there are certain things I guess that make it worthwhile. Uh, like what? Okay. Um, for me... oh, I would say... what, Groucho Marx, to name one thing... and Willie Mays, and... the second movement of the Jupiter Symphony, and... Louie Armstrong's recording of 'Potatohead Blues'... Swedish movies, naturally... 'Sentimental Education' by Flaubert... Marlon Brando, Frank Sinatra... those incredible apples and pears by Cezanne... the crabs at Sam Wo's... Tracy's face..."

It's a great moment in the movie and I've always found it very comforting: at moments when I get down about the pointlessness of it all I do like to recall this scene and remind myself that it's fine, just fine, to pin my happiness on silly things like books and movies and cute clothes and something stupid on TV and so on... kind of(?). 

I mention this now because it occurred to me today, for various reasons, that consuming cider and chips on a Sunday afternoon in the sun, talking shit with one of my favourite people in the entire world would be right up there on my own hypothetical Things That Make Kate's Life Worth Living list.... albeit obviously well down below the music of Belle and Sebastian, the novels of Raymond Chandler, the films of Woody Allen, season five of The Bachelor - I could go on...

Stand by

Apologies reader(s?) for a lack of posts lately: I've been busy, distracted and generally uninspired. I've also been growing a year older. So happy (almost) birthday me.

No I'm not overreacting: my last pair of these Pamela Mann beauties has been torn and I'm gutted.

"It is terrible to desire and not possess, and terrible to possess and not desire." – Yeats

Pretty much

What makes a Booker Prize longlister? Hint: Death

No surprises on "death", "love" and "betrayal" but "horniness" and "totalitarian Bucharest" did kinda make me snigger. (Graphic comes from Delayed Gratification).

Overheard in my bedroom

"Just think: what would Audrey do?"

You know those ideas that you wish you'd had?

This is one of them.

An open letter to the straight women and gay men of the world,

It's time. It is TIME. Oh my lordy lord is it ever goddamn time to admit that Johnny Depp? No longer particularly hot. I know, I know it hurts. But not as much as it hurts me to look at lists like Glamour's list of 50 Sexiest Men for 2012  and see Johnny fucking Depp pipping in at number three AGAIN. That means, according to this highly scientific list, highlights from which looks like this -

1. Robert Pattinson (1)

2. Tom Hiddleston (new entry)

3. Johnny Depp (3)

4. Michael Fassbender (31)

5. Benedict Cumberbatch (33)

7. Taylor Lautner (2)

9. James McAvoy (14)

12. Ian Somerhalder (25)

13. Ed Westwick (21)

14. Alexander Skarsgard (7)

17. Ryan Gosling (46)

18. Christian Bale (re-entry)

19. Chris Hemsworth (37)

20. Tom Hardy (47)

... Johnny Depp is hotter than Michael Fassbender. And Ryan Gosling. And Ian Somerhalder. And Michael Fassbender. Yes, I know I said him twice but seriously.

Michael Fassbender.  Let's just think about that for a moment, shall we? In fact I'll give you time to go and watch X-Men: First Class, not even the whole thing just the scene with Fassbender in Argentina wearing that white shirt and, um... pants... and the bit where he speaks German and... Jesus. I can't go on. Michael Fassbender: Nazi Hunter. I die, I die. And don't even get me started on Shame.

Now go and have a look at something Johnny Depp's done lately, like say, um. THE TOURIST. Seriously. Watch the whole thing and if there is a moment where Depp makes your pulse beat one half-second faster I will call you a liar. When people Depp is super hot my suspicion is that they're fondly remembering the Depp of yesteryear, his fucked-up-awesome turn in Edward Scissorhands, his dreamy bone structure in 21 Jump Street.

Because the thing is Depp doesn't look like he used to once upon a time when he was seriously Grade A sexy. Now he looks like this - 

A moderately good-looking middle-aged man who is getting - I'm sorry but it's true - kinda doughy looking and who does not appear to believe in regular shampooing. I'M JUST SAYING.

Question of the night

Why does everyone keep asking me if I've ordered my copy of The Casual Vacancy. Um, yes I was a big fan of the Harry Potter books (although is it that obvious, really?) but being a fan of Harry Potter is not the same as being a fan of JK Rowling per se. Yes, I may or may not have jumped down the throats of some people who suggested she was a total hack but that doesn't mean I'm going to greet her latest offering with the excitement warranted by, say, a new book by Alan Hollingshurst or Jeffrey Eugenides.

If the book is any good, I assume, I'll get to it eventually, but given I've basically got a stack of books by my bed crying out to be read, I can't say I'm busting a gut to make it to the TCV. Although I'm sure, you know, it's just fine.

In other news: Dear Alan, Jeff - please write faster.

Awkward moments from my life #13

That night when you're not sure if you should be pissed off at your friend's random cousin because:

a) He continued to have a crack after you told him very plainly it was not going to happen and to please let go of your hand now please.

b) He maybe tried to... steal your phone?

c) Both.

Moments I realised I was super old #23

This morning when I gave the dude who stepped into the same lift as me a Bitch, it is 9.30, look because Dear Lord if you're going to smoke that much pot that early in the day please, for the love of God, take the stairs.

Things that came up in conversation with one of my kind of bosses from work at a thing last night that I really wished had not come up:

1. His wife's boobs.
2. His wife's friend's boobs.
3. My boobs.

This right here...

... this is the moment my love for Joseph Gordon-Levitt kind of almost a little bit died. Not because of the goofiness of what he's doing (faux-stripping on Saturday Night Live) but because of, sigh, how can I put it: he is way too muscly in a way that I just... did not expect, given how lanky he seems onscreen. I mean, honestly, just imagine the disappointment of taking him home and unwrapping... that. You'd have to be a little bit disappointed, no? Or is that just me? It might be just me.

N.B: I said my love was almost dead. Which means I'm still allowed to find this charming, right? I mean, the dimples... the dimples are still pretty amazing.

"'Next time,' he said, 'I'll just say Eleanor, duck behind these bushes with me, I'm going to lose my mind if I don't kiss you.'"

I'm sure it says something terribly lame about me that one of the few books that has made me cry (just a little bit, I swear) this year is the charming YA novel, Eleanor & Park by the wonderfully named Rainbow Powell. It's a very slight book, both in terms of length (you can read it in a night) and scope, but if there is a better book about what it's like to be young and falling in love then I have yet to find it. So, go on readers, you get on that and give it a try. For myself I'm off to re-read this a hundred times so I can regain my cynicism.

Things my Bikram Yoga instructor said tonight that made me think she might be nuts

1. "From the side you should look like a Japanese ham sandwich" (She has now said this twice so it was not an accident. What the fuck, I ask you, does a Japanese ham sandwich look like?)
2. "This is a compression pose so it should be hard to breathe." (Mmm sounds safe).
3. "This pose is really good for your thyroid." (Lady, I have hypothyroidism and am thus familiar with the work of the thyroid gland. I have my doubts that lying on my back is doing jack shit. Think I'll stick with my meds. Just saying).

Dear Dimitri from Project Runway,

Please don't ever change - I love you so goddamn much it hurts. The accent! The ballroom dancing! The fact that you're probably maybe mostly straight....ish... YOU'RE KILLING ME.

Also, if any of my friends want to start watching Project Runway so we can talk about it that would be awesome. Get on that, chaps.

Regards,

K

Options for killing time in the city on a raining Friday afternoon

1. Get a headstart on some of the work I have to do on Sunday. Those stories aren't going to write themselves you know.

2. Run important errands, like buying some more plain black tights to replace the gazillion pairs I have ruined, and stocking up on supplies for spending a day down south.

3. Try on Alannah Hill frocks and see if any of them have gone on sale since the last time I checked.

4. Find quiet bar. Order drink. Drink it. Repeat.

Zzzzz

Wow, I mean it's almost like this whole Jesus story is just full of holes and inconsistencies.

He said, she said

He said: Still with lovely lovely woman who is, funnily enough, about your age.

I said: Cradle snatcher.

He said: Actually I was snatched.

Now heel this (sorry)

If this stops women from doing that thing of wearing godawful ugly sneakers for the commute into work and then changing into heels when they get there, it will be a wonderful thing. And women? Don't do that thing.

Stupid things I do that are reveal me as a lame person who cares what strangers think about me #13

Turn down the volume on my TV during sex scenes, for fear my neighbours think I'm watching porn. And if I am watching porn? Then it's volume off for you, pal. I mean, wait, I never watch porn. That's what I meant. Tits? Cocks? Disgusting? Amiright?

Things that are harder than they appear #34

Working on my terrible, terrible novel while trying to follow the storyline on The Wire. I mean, one minute my detestable characters are cruising around a post-apocalyptic WA in a pimped out Holden - the next they're cruising the streets of Baltimore. And they're black. Balls.

Malcolm Tucker trying to describe Star Wars

"The one about the fucking space hairdresser and the cowboy. He's got a tinfoil pal and a pedal bin. His father's a robot and he's fucking fucked his sister. Lego. They're all made of fucking Lego."

N.B: If you are not watching The Thick of It you need to correct that immediately.

On the count of three go: Awwww

This adorable correction in the New York Times (this was months ago but I've only just seen it) represents everything I love about newspapers, not least because it's perfectly written and highlights the difference between the way an established newspaper works and how some university student runs his or her blog: ultimately we are accountable. (And if that sounds sniffy then, well, tonight I feel a bit sniffy. It will pass.)

An article on Monday about Jack Robison and Kirsten Lindsmith, two college students with Asperger syndrome who are navigating the perils of an intimate relationship, misidentified the character from the animated children’s TV show “My Little Pony” that Ms. Lindsmith said she visualized to cheer herself up. It is Twilight Sparkle, the nerdy intellectual, not Fluttershy, the kind animal lover.

These Days

The Royal Tenenbaums is not my favourite Wes Anderson movie (come on: it begins and ends with Rushmore) but this is one of my favourite scenes when it comes to appropriate use of music. Plus that coat is just... I mean... fuck. I once tried on a coat like that in Fi&Co, an adorable William Street shop (check it out, ya'll) owned by my next door neighbour and I looked like I was wearing goddamn roadkill. The fact I do not resemble Gwyneth Paltrow did not help matters.

Don't Panic

I have had a soft spot for Jae Laffer ever since he (accidentally, um, I assume) stood on my foot at a gig at The Amplifier way back when. And yet I just... don't know how I feel about this.

Things I hate today

Will Self - I used to be kind of a fan of Will Self, actually, and I still think Cock and Bull is a great, funny book. I'm also reliably informed he is a very nice chap indeed. Nevertheless his last couple of books have been self-indulgent tripe and seeing him nominated for the Man Booker prize makes me want to kill myself. Okay, not really but it does make me quite angry.

My job.

My thighs

My whining

Things other people have said this week that made me feel uncomfortable

"How would you like to have two Mummies?"

(N.B: To clarify, it wasn't the prospect of having two Mums that made me uncomfortable - it was the implication that I would think it was the worst thing in the world. Plus, using the word "Mummy", if you're over the age of 10, is kinda skeevy, no?)

Things I have said this week that made me feel uncomfortable.

"Well I was raised Catholic so..."

"The worst thing in the world is to try to sleep and not to." (F.Scott Fitzgerald)

Last night I had my first bout of bad insomnia for awhile and, man, was it boring.

That's sort of what my sleep difficulties have come down to in recent years. Once upon a time it was a cause of great anxiety and distress because I hadn't yet learned how to stop myself from thinking of all the things I didn't want to think about. As a kid I remember lying awake at night, pondering the realisation that everyone I knew, myself included, was going to die, like I was the first person to ever realise such a thing and wondering exactly how I was supposed to crack on for the next 60+ years with that knowledge sitting inside me like a sharp, awful kidney stone.

Then for awhile there I started to use the time well: I used to plan school essays in my head, scribbling little cryptic notes for myself by the side of the bed, which I could only barely interprete the following morning. I distinctly remember writing an essay on The Cake Man during one particularly bad bout of insomnia in the late 90s, the only interesting thing here being that I'd never actually read The Cake Man - not then and certainly not now. (I feel like I made the right choice. It looks, how do I say this, not quite my kind of play.)

Now this whole insomnia thing is just sort of... boring. I want to be asleep, yet instead I lie awake staring at the ceiling, counting up the possible hours of sleep still open to me. Or perhaps I crack and listen to an audiobook or a podcast, in which case I'm liable to (as I did last night) wake up at 5am after two whole hours of sleep to hear goddamn show tunes blaring in my ears. (In my defence: I was gorging on NPR's Pop Culture Happy Hour - thanks Bec - and so, honestly, I have nobody to blame but myself.)

The thing is, I honestly believe - and will happily tell anyone who listens - that it's important to be comfortable being alone. People who can't handle being by themselves make me sad. Ultimately - and I'm sorry if I'm bringing anyone down, here - we're all pretty much alone at the very end and if we don't like our own company why should we expect anyone else to? These are all ideas in which I very much believe. That much said, at 2.45am in the morning I can't say I much enjoy being along with my own thoughts. When forced, after hours of staring at nothing, to pay attention to the inanities rattling around in my noggin' - the petty disappointments, the jealousies, the unrelenting wanting - I can't say I'm exactly my biggest fan. At best I bore myself. At worst I bore myself.

So I'm heading off to bed tonight with a slightly heavy heart, hoping the wine consumed at dinner will be enough to push me into sleep and not enough to wake me up in an hour. I have several more NPR podcasts downloaded and at the ready, although I really do hate waking up with a set of headphone knotted dangerously about my neck so - fingers crossed - they won't be entirely necessary.

And yes I know what you're wondering: is that really my bed in the photo above and do I really look that good in my underwear? The answer, readers, is sadly no. My actual bed is wooden and square and has a headboard that is more or less covered with books and glasses of water, half abandoned and slightly dusty. The actual headboard itself is frequently dusty too, thanks to semi-inept cleaners. My sheets are stripey and delightful but neither particularly crisp nor snow white: my pillow slip was a gift and has a gorgeously weird picture of an owl on it. My bottom-sheet, for reasons best known to itself, emerged from the last wash with a weird blue stain.

But, yes, I do look that good in my underwear when lying face down in bed with my long, glossy brown locks strewn across the pillow as I frequently do. True story. Would I lie to you?

Dear person on Twitter who I also know IRL,

I think it's very nice that tonight you (allegedly) bought a homeless person in Subiaco a hot chocolate. It's just unfortunate you felt the need to share that fact on Twitter: a move that has neutralised any good will the act itself generated. I know, it's not fair.

Things that make me happy today

That I was woken up by an MMS from the lovely Danski containing two cute semi-naked boys making out and the words: "Free Morning Ho-Yay". That's a good start to a Tuesday.

Things I am rather looking forward to doing when I am left all alone this weekend:

Greta Garbo: "I want to be alone."

* Drinking the cheap-arse wine I favour but which - some people say - tastes like Mermaid's Tears. And not in a good way.

* Falling asleep on the couch while watching The Wire. Or Downton Abbey. Or anything I couldn't normally get away with.

* Putting up the three 'hidden bookshelves' I have quietly purchased, with an idea they would look quite smashing on my bedroom wall (as an aside: does anyone know how to use a power drill and/or install a bookshelf).

* Getting delightfully tipsy with good chums and rocketing home at an ungodly hour, squiffy as all hell (Mr Kate, bless him, really hates it when I come home drunk and doesn't really care for Drunk Kate at all - he says I get too loud and maybe he's right).

* [Redacted]

* Ummm.... Whatever the hell I want.

Love: a review in comments

• "Why didn't we walk out? We should have just walked out."
• "I was so angry about half an hour in when I realised nothing was going to happen."
• "So, what was with all the civil war stuff, do you think?"
• "Hey at least [the main actor] was good looking, right?"
• "The director should have just masturbated into space. That would actually have been more enjoyable to watch."
• "Did you spend the whole movie feeling bad about being the one to choose it? Because normally a movie like that would just send me into a rage but I didn't hate it... that much."

I shall never play The Dane

Remember that bit in Withnail and I where Uncle Monty (I think) says:

"It's the most devastating moment in a young man's life when he quite reasonably says to himself 'I shall never play The Dane'. It is at that moment that all ambition ceases to exist."

That's basically how I feel upon seeing this blonde cutie and realising I will never be able to wear this shirt or look as grand as she does right now.

Happy Thoughts Thursday

“Once upon a time there was a woman who was just like all women. And she married a man who was just like all men. And they had some children who were just like all children. And it rained all day. The woman had to skewer the hole in the kitchen sink, when it was blocked up. The man went to the pub every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. The other nights he mended his broken bicycle, did the pool coupons, and longed for money and power. The woman read love stories and longed for things to be different. The children fought and yelled and played and had scabs on their knees. In the end they all died.” (Elizabeth Smart)

The Green Dream

Sometimes I wish I could be like The Hulk so everyone would know it when I was furious, what with my muscles bursting the seams of my clothes and all. Then I could be all RAAAAAAAAGGGGE while I was The Hulk and when I transformed back to my Bruce Banneresque self I could just say "hey, I can't control it" and get on with regular non-Hulky business. Still, I guess my clothing repair allowance would probably go through the roof so maybe it's all for the best.

Sometimes I think I'm an idiot...

... because apparently I can forgive a person for treating someone close to me abominably and I can forgive them for breaking into the house of someone else very close to me and stealing their shit to buy drugs but apparently their decision to "like" racist, ill-informed and generally offensive Facebook group is the last straw for me. I probably need to re-examine my priorities.

Which movie I watched this weekend was worse: She's The Man vs The Girl Next Door

This is a tough one because, let me be frank, both of these movies were fucking terrible. I won't go into the details of why I was watching them because, you know, at times my life is simply too pathetic for description. Let it suffice to say that I watched them and lived (barely) to tell the tale.

Without further ado: our contenders.

The Premise

She's The Man: A high school student impersonates her twin brother at his swanky boarding school in order to prove a point about being... good at soccer(?) Or something. Full disclosure: I may have missed the start of the movie.

The Girl Next Door: A high school student falls for his hot next door neighbour who is (spoiler) a former(?) porn star. Shenanigans ensue.

The Talent

She's The Man: If pressed I must concede that Channing Tatum has grown on me in the past few years. He was charming in 21 Jump Street and Magic Mike and word on the street is that he's a complete sweetheart. But while he does look pretty good in a tank top and he's got gravitas to spare, up close he just... I mean, his neck is too thick, his jaw is too broad and... physically he's just... not quite in my wheelhouse. I'm sorry C'Tatz - this hurts me too. On the plus side, Timothy Olyphant pops up in a minor role as the former porn star's shady pimp.

The Girl Next Door: The star of this movie, Emile Hirsch, grew up to be quite the hottie. Sadly this hotness was not yet achieved by 2004, the year this movie was made.

The Laughs

She's the Man: Almost entirely unintentional. It begins with Amanda Bynes' RIDICULOUS wig which is supposed to disguise the fact she is a) a chick b) not her brother. Let it be said that said wig achieves neither of these aims. It ends with Channing Tatum's acting.

The Girl Next Door: Maybe it was the white wine I was drinking, maybe it was because it was... getting kinda late at night but every so often this super average movie threw out a line that really made me laugh. They lose a little something without the context but come on - "I'd do things to you I wouldn't do to a farm animal" doesn't make you laugh? What about: "The beach is for fags". Okay, that last one definitely needs context but, hey, I laughed.

The Winner (Loser)

She's The Man. Even Timothy Olyphant's God-given gifts (Jesus it must be time to revisit Deadwood) can't make up for a complete lack of laughs and the many crimes against acting committed by 90 per cent of the actors involved.

How to be a woman

I can't deny I saw this on Lindsay's blog and... basically stole it. But that's feminism, innit? Stealing your friend's blog post and passing it off as your own? I'm pretty sure that was the gist of one of at least one and possible more of the footnotes in The Female Eunuch. Also, have I told you lately you should be reading Caitlin Moran's book How to Be a Woman? You should. Even if you have a cock you should read it. If you are single it will help you get girls. If you are coupled up it will help you keep them. It will also ensure you fall very deeply in love with Caitlin Moran. I can't quite decide if I want to spend a lovely afternoon at the pub with her, talking rubbish, or lock her in my basement with a bucket of fish heads while I Single White Female her. Maybe both.

Overheard in the office

"Maybe I've just been working in courts for too long but I think Annie might have been written by a paedophile."

Shopping Conundrums

Question: How much wear would I reasonably get out of a charming black and silver beaded drop waist dress beyond a looming wedding in October?

Answer: Almost none.

Question: Do I care?

Answer: ...

"In my dreams I kiss your c*nt, your sweet wet c*nt..."

Given my charming personality and stunning, dare I say supermodel good looks, you'll be stunned I know, dear reader(s), to learn that over the years I haven't really received much in the way of love letters. Love emails... maybe. Post-break-up You're a Bitch Unless You Want to Get Back Together letters... definitely. But I can only think of two examples of what could be called declarative "love letters": one was gorgeous and from a lovely friend but sadly unrequited, the other was more of a sorry-for-that-shitty-thing-I-did kind of a letter. Which is really not the same.

This is not quite a tragedy but it is a bit sad to make it to the cusp of 30 without, say, ever having received a letter as good as this (which I have mentioned not only because it makes me positively weak at the knees but as a delightful excuse to run the photo above which... wow, those are some high pants).

In any case, if you're bored on this lovely Wednesday you could do worse than check out this bit over at The Hairpin where you can match the love letter to the author and subject. It's good fun and fairly difficult, except for Keats who is predictably too mushy for words (seriously dude: get it together). It's also got me wondering what it means for my personality that my favourite was this beauty from Oscar Wilde to Lord Alfred Douglas, which made me think of something a smarter version of Heathcliff might have dashed off to Catherine.

I don't love you, not at all; on the contrary, I detest you. You're a naught, gawky, foolish Cinderella. You never write me; you don't love your own husband; you know what pleasures your letters give him, and yet you haven't written him six lines, dashed of so casually! … Of what sort can be that marvellous being, that new lover that tyrannises over your days, and prevents your giving any attention to your husband? _____, take care! Some fine night, the doors will be broken open and there I'll be.

Jesus. I mean, how good is that last line? "... the doors will be broken and there I'll be."

Sure, it does sound like the kind of correspondence you maaaaybe might receive from your stalker but does that make it any less delightful? Computer says no. Computer also says I... might have some problems.

Because sometimes you just need to see a picture of a meerkat in a watermelon.

Chicks vs Dicks

Approximately 364 days of the year I am very happy to be a girl. We get to wear dresses, don't have to shave our nice soft faces and it is more socially acceptable for us to show our emotions, weep at the Bridges of Madison County and be unable to change a fuse. However, this photo - courtesy of The Sartorialist - has me sort of jonesing to be a dude because... Jesus Christ. Could he look any more cool and breezy than he does right now? Could he be any more calm and relaxed without actually slipping into a light coma? Is there some scientific explanation for why I find the combination of the cuffed pant leg, the bare ankle and his sneaker so goddamn charming? And, yes, sure, in theory I could put on this exact same outfit and salmon my way up a New York street but... no: it has long been my view that t-shirts and jeans just hang better on a dude's body, yes, shut up, THEY DO AND YOU KNOW IT. Girls are great and all but when the right guy wears the right jeans and the right t-shirt the combination simply cannot be improved upon. I'm sorry, I don't make the rules. You know those stupid body swap movies like Freaky Friday, the Freaky Friday remake and, um... I'm sure there was another one? Anyway, if that body swap stuff ever becomes viable in real life I am putting my hand up to swap bodies with this dude basically immediately, just for a day or two to get it out of my system. I'll cruise around looking smooth and dapper and perfect and he can, uh, play with my boobs and get out of parking tickets? I don't know, I guess everybody wins.