Oh guys what happened to the blog? I liked our semi-regular posts about anything we could think of.

Cooing Slowly

Aren’t they sweet? I watch affectionately as they try to figure out how to use headphones and send sms’ with their expensive mobiles. I’m talking of course of our technological challenged peers. The average age group of my office is around mid to late forties, I am part of what is affectionately referred to as generation Y (although it depends on who you’re talking to).

We ‘youngeuns’ meet once a month for a good talk and lunch, but unfortunately we have come to emulate our old peers. The conversation begins promisingly of talks of this and that but eventually turns to work. It’s hard, considering we all use to be so full of life, ideas, prospects, in short ‘youth’. Yet I am under the sneaking suspicion that the old residents of my office are sucking the youth out of me, just like in Stephen King’s “Tommyknockers”, slowly my teeth will begin to fall out, skin pasty and translucent in my corporate rags. Fairly soon I’ll be have all sorts of nasty sex.

We are oldies in the making, dress in the latest styles if you can afford it, keep up to date with the most funky and exciting trends if you’re that cool, but eventually we all become our parents. That isn’t to say that we be exactly the same, no no, but take a snapshot of your parents now, this is a good guestimate of what you will be at 50. I’m already calling my friends “darl”, a bad sign.

there's life in the old girl yet

I feel current fashion is at one of those cyclical breaking points. I go shopping and am drawn towards nothing. I gaze dismally at cheap polyester floral and liberty prints, leather biker jackets already falling apart at the seams, the ends of some sort of relaxed weekend-in-the-mountains trend (big jackets, jersey dresses) and am alarmed at the presence of bling and gladiator sandals for next season. Don't forget the ever-present shift and babydoll dresses and inappropriately sheer blouses. Worst of all, some stores seemed to have decided that "boho" is back, and that we all just forgot we love tiered skirts (vom) and knitted vests (double vom). And I can't see relief on the horizon. Where to next? Save us Marc (your nautical themes have been co-opted by Supre), Phillip (see Country Road SS08-09 for their rip-offs of your last season), Luella (see Topshop) and Chloe (I'm sorry I contemplated buying a fake and I promise I never will).

"Let's hear it for the boys!" Lamentation

Did I do something wrong? Did I do something right?
I find your lack of compassion and inarticulate sms discourse disturbing.

Did your mother not hold you long enough as a child? Was your father a woman- hating misogynist? Did you have a nasty older sister?

You pulled away in public when I wanted to be affectionate, to show that you were mine. You preferred to sleep on the other side of the bed, and were awkward when I wanted to be held afterwards.

I saw you a hundred times in my minds eye metamorphosing into a human being, but of course it was only a fantasy.

I shudder to think of how many others have been fooled by your pretence to care. I wonder if you were this nonchalant as a little boy. I know I would not have asked you to play in the playground.

But now you are a man, and you do not realise the affect you have. Your hurtful words turn us to stone, and wring out every drop of affection. I am an ice-queen because of you. You son of a bitch.

beautiful bags

I've been obsessing over designer bags lately (mostly the Prada Fairy bags) but don't have a spare 3k (who does?) so I'm trying to find appetising alternatives. Etsy didn't disappoint and I found valhallabrooklyn.






This one has a really unique design but it's also quite classic.

I just need to decide now. They're a world away from Prada Fairy bags but far more practical and totally affordable. Opinionzzz?

men to boyz

In the never ending cycle of dating disasters that characterise the last five or so years of my life I have noted one constant- the men i meet are in firm denial that they are in fact adults. Some choose to obscure this with the trappings of an adult life- a stable home, an adult job, older wiser friends and so on...Others go further and lead the lives of 60 year old retirees- the TV guide has become their bible. I suppose the 'new horizons' residents are truer to their inner child- given that life is supposed to be circular, or whatever. Anyway, wherever they are apparently situated on the age by activity continuum peter pan still seems to be their guru. I'm talking about emotional maturity, self-awareness, perpective and other stuff that is supposed to accompany the development of human beings- which hasn't really been there with the 'blokes' I've met. The forties are the new thirties are the new twenties- have those years of character building been politely excused with the invigorated identity of forty year olds?! After that there's the mid-life crisis anyway and life expectancy is on the up and up.

All I can say is I think i give up!
goodnight friends..

My Name is Marc Pease

this movie can only be amazing. I can't wait.

corporate whore

I have recently started working for a major project management company (they are going to be managing redevelopment of the Carlton United Brewery on Broadway, a big fucking deal, and yes, they are going to be keeping both the Clare and the Abercrombie hotels) and I'm currently supporting the team responsible for rolling out many orange-and-white Banks across Australia. I work in a Clarence St skyscraper (going to the 27th floor ultra-corporate reception is like visiting another planet) smack bang in the middle of the financial district, but main office is north of the bridge (of which it has an excellent view).

Last night involved drinks at a lovely pub, tab and nibbles (and my taxi home) courtesy of The Bank. It was my first time actually having to mingle with the sort of people who'd been blissfully snapped up by those corporate graduate programs post finance-and-accounting degrees and I felt like an alien, fleeing to the comfort zone of the designers. They accepted me as I was, a confused psych graduate with mean filing and touch typing skills, and we munched happily on our hummus and sipped the (bloody great) Merlot. They encouraged me to take up design. I don't know if I'm ready for another degree and an extra 12K HECS debt.

What the fuck is finance anyway? It's not economics, it's not accounting, you don't actually work in a bank, you work in a tower and you look at spreadsheets. WHAT. DO. THEY. DO. I sit near one of the MANY finance departments of The Bank and last week overheard the following:

"Hello, Finance. Lucy speaking."
[insert bank-speak blather]
Lucy: "Well, 11 million minus four million is about seven million, so..."
me: "What the fuuuuuuuuuck"
[insert inane bank-speak dialogue]
Lucy: "Yeah. So just send it through and..."
[more blather]

I also sit near a bunch of people who appear to do NOTHING but talk about investing all day, including one very short man who talks so loudly on his mobile phone ("HI BARRY YEAH I GOT THAT EMAIL YOU CCD ME IN ON AND I THINK WE SHOULD MOVE FORWARD") my boss threatens to kill him. Then there's the internal auditors who are very quiet and seem scared of us, but one guy makes really subtle hilarious jokes and you almost miss them because they're delivered in this perfect monotone. And then there's the Other staff, and I can't figure out what they do, besides wear extremely ugly Bank uniforms, eat catering and bugger up the lifts because they can't all fit in one at the same time.

Only there two days a week and they've already offered me a raise (where I come from, NGO and NFP organisations, this is fucking unheard of) so I'm honestly considering going full time. In this weird way the whole insane Bank world is keeping me sane because it's just so hilarious.

Shared accommodation nightmares: reflections of a contemplative mind

I am writing to you from beyond the nether regions of this world, in other words Canberra, and even though I am stuck here in this bubble of public service, there are some commonalities, some universal truths that have proceeded on from my residency in Sydney. I am talking of the flat/housemate. Now some of you may have had the good fortune of living with a very splendid flatmate, one who doesn’t bother you, who is tidy but not too clean, thoughtful and so on. I however continue to find myself in flatmate hell, both in Sydney and now Canberra.

There I was, sitting quietly at home last night, snuggled up on my plush sofa, reading a book and nursing a deliciously sweet, mug of hot chocolate topped with an assortment of pink and white marshmallows (wow I should be in advertising). These are the moments that I relish and I was not, as you can imagine, keen on chatting about silly nothings. Do you know what she said, this ultimate pain in the ass flatmate? “You seem really stand-offish” and proceeded to make a face and laugh. What the hell am I suppose to do with that kind of comment? Really it was designed to make me feel bad. It worked and before I knew it, I had said sorry, for being me. Damn her, can I not just exist, what am I her entertainment? It’s not my fault she doesn’t get along with anybody here and thus has no one else to talk to.

Hence you can understand my predicament. Some of you may still be living at home, bless you, and others may be veterans of the nightmare that is shared accommodation. But this is something everyone will experience at some point or other. We are social creatures and we like being around people, but enjoying our own company is a healthy thing to do. Some people are so frightened of this and will thus do their best to avoid it, terrified of themselves. These people are usually the extroverted type (I said usually, don’t get defensive) and just won’t shut up. Imagine what amazing theories and ideas you could come up with if you just shut up and spent five minutes a day in contemplation. The most famous of all artists and theorists of our time tended to be deep thinkers and were commonly depressive personalities. This is of course the extreme of cases, and should not be used as an excuse to be an ass. But they were onto something, in thought you can potentially tap into a fountain of creative ideas that exists within the subconscious, and I believe one can only do this in solitude.

But what to do about clingy flatmates? They are as bad as a clingy partner and nothing you can say will change this, the best thing I can recommend is the next time your flatmate says something stupid like mine did, take a few seconds to think, get up and move your ass to your bedroom for some solitude and deep thought on how best to murder your housemate and make it look like an accident.

http://cgi.ebay.com.au/Vintage-Arnold-Palmer-Special-Star-Trek_W0QQitemZ230253414535QQihZ013QQcategoryZ52405QQssPageNameZWDVWQQrdZ1QQcmdZViewItem

I have an urget vent to projectile vomit on y'all.

It is the sylistic equivalent of a garbage truck- neo rave fashion! There seems to be a particular attachment for the last tedious expanse of time to over the top adornment. By over the top I do not simply mean excessive accesorising- although that comes into it. What I am talking about here is this look: shimmery leggings with a metallic print, oversised fluro tie-dye tee, 80's geo print bomber in rainbow colours, big earrings with some cassette tapes dangling off them and awful hi top trainers. Naturally cheap plastic chains etc must be worn on the neck. Boys might wear hot pink shorts and a t-shirt with an owl on it and some large serial killer glasses.

This 'statement' may have been interesting in early 90's japan, or perhaps even more recently in london; but when stupid sydney kids appropriate it it drives me demented. I am asserting a provincialist discourse or anything- but quite frankly this so called 'ironic' display perpetuates post-colonial dissemination and unites clutters of utter fools, scattering through the ether. It is almost certainly about display and status- those who rest beneath the clothes tend to have a characteristically ill-derived ego. They may have been the geek in glass for years- but now they can do shitloads of cocaine and prance around and feel some kind of clustering self-fulfilment. It groses me out to the max, because generally these kids have emerged from some kind of sheltered, conservative upbringing and it is almost like they feel their clothes make them stand in relief against this. They don't understand subtlety; they do apathy well and all the while pretend to give a shit about the world. Life does not have to be a mechanised routine of performance and display- the most interesting people often blend in through their understated elegance and come into relief for those with a more refined set of aesthetic principles.

Bring back classic dressing i say- round up the fluro and put it into the kind of unnatural toxic waste dump it belongs.

office unrest..

Given that Sam has recently shared her Canberra dweeb experiences; I thought I would share my Sydney ones too.

As my readers probably know, I work at a university where the general standard of clothed bodies is horrifically base.

Dweebs exist across all sectors on campus: from the lowly cleaning clerk who is forced into a navy blue prison uniform; to the highest echelons of the executive staff, where pre-pressed chino trousers reign supreme. Somewhere in the middle the student body settle- the dweeb-iest of these roam around in ill fitting short and polo combos. Accompanying the dweebs around everywhere (no matter their station) is an irritatingly nasal voice and sometimes a snotty nose without tissues. SNIFF! I have also noted that untrimmed facial hair is a common denominator (male or female).

I am thinking of weeding out all the dweebs and sending them on to Sam in canberra- she seems pretty savvy with their elimination. We'll keep you posted.

xo

spare afternoon?

a dubious theme, but I couldn't get it out of my head.

Revenge of the office nerds

You’re walking along your way to work, today you’ve decided to jazz it up with some funky boots matched with clean cuts and swanzi patterned layers. You’re hot, you’re strutting, that outfit costs a chunk of one of your fortnightly pays. This is when you feel at your best, equipped for anything. All of a sudden approaches the office dweeb. That cockroach who just has to get in your way, you stumble, this isn’t suppose to be happening, you’re a BMW not a jeep, built for appreciation and excellence not for functionality. Is this not obvious? “Hey what’s up?”. You toad, get lost, everything about you annoys me, those stupid small sunnies, that ridiculous buzz shave hair cut, you who wears the same thing everyday, or do you just have five versions of that stupid boring blue shirt?

A bad acquaintance is as bad as a badly chosen accessory, it ruins the entire ensemble. He has wrecked you’re entire image and you’re deflated.

I am writing to you all from the bubble of public servitude, that’s right, Canberra, city of hope (as one person told me) or as I prefer to call: Nerd Nation. Canberra is haunted by nerds, like a plague, they invade every decent person’s sphere. If you’re not careful you’ll find yourself in their company, or invited to a gathering/party/orgy. (YUCK)

I have had to come up with some measures to deflect nerds, as the situation has become that dire.
1) Do not reply to emails, this is a great way to say “hey, I don’t even register you exist”
2) When you see them approaching turn your IPOD up, adorn your sunnies and walk fast. Alternatively talk to another guy, this is an open statement to say “I can do better”. This also has the benefit of meeting new people.
3) Make sure to avoid handing out your mobile number, unfortunately alcohol can impede on this guideline.
4) and finally if all else fails the old “Look I don’t like you at all and I never will” is a good way to go. Be warned this can backfire as it can sometimes turn those dweebs on.

How do you avoid nerds in Canberra? guard yourself and take no shit! Making up a boyfriend in Sydney is all well and good but you shouldn’t have to lie about the fact that your, let’s face it, too good for them.

f-all

the fact is: it is autumn, survived another bloody summer without turning orange and straighthaired like every other girl/boy in this most silly of cities. defiantly pale, and chesnut hair growing outwards and onwards daily. feeling the urge to cut excessively long scarves from fabrics which can be wrapped several times - the best amount of times - around myself and also others who like that sort of thing...or who don't but I feel they may be deserving. around and around it will go, until the fabric hangs and clings like tides.

currently researching into the development of perfect pitch in children. who knew the circumstances needed to be so specific? are you independent and focused and did you play the piano as a three year old? you might be one of the lucky ones.

Observations of a fanatic

Oh salad guy, scruffy salad guy,
Your beard is much too shaggy,
Dear salad guy, tasty salad guy
Don’t try so hard, you may seem daggy.

Try and ask me out, you may get lucky
But head this warning I’ll only say it once
I’m hard to please and high maintenance.

Neo Baroque

It amazes me the way the mall- a universally generic zone has the ability to revive my spirits. I suppose though the magnificence of the experience is heightened by moments of consumerist frenzy and their aftermath. Walking out of a store, bag/s in hand connects me to its shiny streets and neon glow and I am compelled forward to the next meaningless, consuming encounter. Acts of display and consumption are central to mall culture and there is a consequent feeling of belonging generated by these. Having no money at the shopping centre does feel pretty empty and shop assistants suddenly become vile beasts clawing at my skull (I guess this is always true) when an exchange can't be done.

Strange parallels exist then between this space and the Baroque courts I am currently studying. Funnily enough I purchased totally pointless little receptacles with louis chairs printed on them without even thinking about it. I guess malls make me vacuous too! Oops.

introducing me

Hello. Thankyou to lovely Sian for bringing me in.

I am loving this coin purse:


haydenharnett.com

I don't actually like using coin purses. I don't see they are particularly useful, as any good wallet comes with a zip section to put your cash in. And if you carry cards in your coin purse, they are forced to share the space with all the heavy jangly silver & gold, and they become scratched and dented.

But let's just say you had a small amount of something that warranted being carried around in a delicious little sack of fabric. Like beads. Or seashells. Or small stuffed animals. I think such purses are better suited to more unusual and highly specific vocations, not for carrying dirty money.

Virtual shopping mayhem

I absolutely love that most nyc boutiques have little web-bed portals to the spending world. I have been occupying a lot of time lately in Brooklyn: finding some magical things to expand my collection. I need to move beyond the ever reliable Marc Jacobs and philip lim and source out some new wonder weavers.

Aside from that I am also going to buy the above Luella handbag: I have decided that I need to reinstate the black bigger bag into the collection since my colour choices this season are going to be slightly chaotic.

My fashion sensibility has lapsed momentarily this year: I have been budgeting ferociously and a few big wardrobe gaps have been spawned as a result. So: I am going to adhere to a more sensible spending regime without denouncing the basic precept of quality over quantity. I have a few relics from the el-cheapo me moments: chain store rubbish which is already disintegrating in the pits of my 'drobe. Unsurprisingly my mood has suffered.

Here's the deal- (placed in the ether for posterity?!) I don't want a fashion high: no quick fixes and supreme lows: just a sustainable balance that has been lacking in all facets of my life lately.

• edit: some of the nyc stores i was talkin about include: made by wendy (simple and elegant- i adore the monogram tote dress), cynthia rowley (bought a couple of pieces there last time i was in ny- not such a good range online but i love the kaeidoscope jacket), iheart (remember this from my last trip-no online store but good profiles of the designers stocked), intermix (remember these stores from my last trip too- good range of designers online), ...i'll finish the list when i have the time...

Totally adorable!

romance myth-conceptions

Self-help has me in a spin. In any situation I find myself- I can simply consult a fix-it manual and work through the various steps- with a guarantee?! that my problem will be rectified. Unfortunately when any kind of self-help material is chucked at my person my stomach turns and I start to giggle ferociously. I am bucking the system like a true rebel: flat out refusing to mechanise my responses and to tame my inner beast. But was I a beast to begin with?! And am I really the rebel I claim to be?!

Admittedly strange thoughts where I morph into a shrew a la the Shakespearian play have been bounding into my mental zone of late. And I can’t help but think I am becoming a bit too suggestible in my old age- I have never encountered this kind of displaced sense of identity before (or maybe not thought about it- too much on the telly). I don’t want to be enmeshed in a litany of weird textual references gathered from the ethereal eggnog (virtuality). I want a sense of self and I don’t want it set against a makeshift backdrop of how to/s, why not/s, will do/s.

So: how do I properly extricate myself without the pervasive sense that I am simply another cog in the modern day paradigm of expected responses? It can’t simply be a matter of writing like a wanker in an attempt to elevate myself above the common hordes. For I am a commoner- a carrot topped warrior slipping through various systems and processes- a product of my ancestry, my family and my life experience (including the hours spent watching trashy teen flicks where the woman is a dunce and the male lead rescues her from spinsterhood)… I must consult Oprah- surely she knows!

And that was me being funny- because Oprah is apparently the modern day messiah of reconstructing yourself from the various bit parts and gurus who appear on her special program for lost souls. Only this morning my colleague gave me an article written by the good woman on how to behave in romantic situations. It seems with more women and fewer men we have to fool them into falling for us. But will holding my fork less like a toothbrush really help?! I would have thought the act of eating might remind the gents we are human beings (surely a no-no) with an appetite! As guru Sian (a newly adopted guise)- I say eating should be more like cleaning teeth- an instant suggestion of good oral hygiene and a tempting avenue to pash rash.

Having established that Oprah can’t guru my way through this little challenge and furthermore that she is the antithetical force wavering my emerging convictions I must make a rapid segue way. I must become a little more me-centric perhaps- and in the process guru Sian has been slashed and burned because I have to admit I am totally confused and clueless when it comes to "romance". The idea of romantic love has been transmuted a great deal over time- from the old slow burn courtly love to the hyper wham bam unreality of speed dating. Much like the development of the English language and its current deterioration (in my opinion) romance has become an entirely empty set of abbreviated encounters.

So where do I situate myself in this mess? Looking at my behaviour in any “romantic” encounter, I am far from the cookie cutter ideal. In fact, my previously mentioned thoughts of shrew-dom seem to be bolstered by the modern models. Yet peculiarly enough- I don’t have any problems gathering together a line of suitors. Perhaps these men are my male counterparts- but I really think as long as you have tits and an arse and can hold together a few sentences you can pretty much abandon ‘the rules’ altogether.

So why have people become such self-help junkies when it comes to romance?! Can’t they just sit back and be happy with themselves?! I think if we spend too much time focussing on our flaws, the flaws themselves start to emerge in relief against the face and any kind of “changes” become superficial and more importantly unreal to say the least. The whole thing is utterly oxymoronic- it takes the self out of help and replaces it with a whole bunch of rubbish imposed by a bored other.

I will finish this rambling cacophony with a quote by Vonnegat:
Another flaw in the human character is that everybody wants to build and nobody wants to do maintenance.
(Paraphrased) Be kinder to yourselves- don’t listen to Oprah and honey you don’t need fake tits juss a better brassiere.