In the hour past I’ve watched on as my housemate attached a loose electrical chord to a plug, fitted a light bulb to a pesky fitting and turned an entire corner of our lounge bright with light.
I’d never take the time. And a good many might even wait for a man to do it for them. Continue reading
Today marks the 14th day since my last post. The first rule of blogging is regularity. The second content. I am not sure I am consistent with either. Apologies.
To get myself back into the groove, I thought I’d share with you a few of the thoughts currently flitting through my brain (in short, nothing much at all):
* Is Rachel Zoe over – the fashion stylist and champion of the anorexic-as-fashion look, is she done? Is Kim Kardashian’s bum responsible? Continue reading
There really is nothing like an evening with the house mates; the familiar conversation, the high-comfort clothes and the hours whiled away gazing at the grandest of designs, Kevin McCloud from Grand Designs.
We (I) casually browse gossip websites while opining the latest couple undertaking an over-zealous home-building task. We sit quietly while McCloud waxes lyrical in his final monologue and exclaim our support for his every word at its conclusion.
As the camera cuts away to span the magnificent vista of the finished product, and flashes back to some of the more difficult moments, including footage of a well-played weld, the Great Love reveals it isn’t actually McCloud that has his attention, but the skill and craft displayed in undertaking said weld. He says, “good joinery amazes me”.
On Tuesday night, with the sister in tow, I headed to Irene’s Warehouse in Brunswick to become, for the very first time, a Real Hot Bitch.
It was an organised and synchronised dance class with the realest, hottest, bitches from the Brunswick region and it was a helluva piece o’fun.
To the rock pop stylings of not really anyone’s favourite bleached and spiked blonde (Roxette) we learned a choreographed dance that was low on technique and high on dance passion.
Dressed in lycra, g-tards (gee-string leotards), with some dancers donning mullet wigs, we stepped our way through a routine to She’s Got The Look. Continue reading
Nobody likes being told by a supermodel how to bake a cake.
A beautiful supermodel who is also the perfect housewife, trading up for healthy ingredients and producing the cake to complement the most beautiful little party.
The perfect mother. And a mother attached to one of the world’s most recognisable faces/bodies/dimples.
I don’t buy it.
Well then how do I see the birthday unfolding? I imagine it to have been a beautiful little party where the small gathering ate a ridiculous cake from which the fun had been sucked. I imagine it to have been prepared by the personal chef from a recipe provided by the personal dietitian and that when the cute-as-can-be babe let forth a huff and a puff aimed at the handful of candles adorning the cake, it mistakenly knocked the supermodel clean from her feet with its baby-force. And then smiled at its nanny.
Last month, in September’s finals days, we passed a milestone.
It wasn’t one which would have stopped many in its tracks, but one that definitely stopped me in mine.
The stopping short was also aided by some images which dotted the ol’ World Wide Web and displayed how different the aftermath has been for two halves of a former equation.
Ashton Kutcher celebrated his sixth wedding anniversary to Demi Moore in a San Diego hot tub. With two women, neither of whom were Demi. Continue reading
A Crowded Hour 