TOP SHELF: On the tweeting fence

I'm all about the Facebook, the blogging and the online content but I've never quite got my head around the Twitter.

Firstly, I don't know anyone, not even my own mother, who would want to know what I'm doing/thinking/eating/scratching every second of every day. Secondly, I don't know anyone, not even my own mother, who I would want to know what they are doing/thinking/eating/scratching every second of every day. So unless your some kind of psychopathic stalker with a fetish for instaneous information, Twitter and the act of 'twittering' seem as useful as boobs on a bull.

And then came this...

(I'm afraid you'll have to click the link as the video refused to embed properly)
http://media.smh.com.au/national/breaking-news/twitterature-or-literature-815266.html&from=strap

Everything about this book screams "WRONG!! WRONG WRONG WRONG!" I mean, taking 80 of history's most famous and revered literary works and reducing them to a summary of twenty 'tweets'? Why don't you just take Monet's Water Lillies painting and do a dirty big crap on it? The concept of this book seems so immoral and so insulting to those literary works which have established what is classic and modern literature, it makes me want to slap these silly boys around the ears with a whipper snipper.

And yet...

The idea of combining pop-culture with the classics is strangely seductive. I can't help but confess that despite the debaucherous essence of this book, I am intrigued. Despite all my better judgement over what is literary, I am curious to see how Alexander Aciman and Emmett Rensin have gone about re-writing titles including Lewis Caroll's Alice in Wonderland, Charles Dicken's Great Expectations and Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code (still not sure how that made the list of top classic titles, but whatever) into parodied snippets of 20word tweets. These boys are undeniably well-read (which only adds to my illicit attraction towards this book); amazing considering the pair are students at the Univeristy of Chicago and are all but nineteen years old.

Nineteen years old with a published work by Penguin?

And I'm right back to hating them again.

Twitterature - Alexander Aciman and Emmett Rensin
Published by Viking/Penguin
Due to be released UK November 2009 / US December 2009
http://www.twitterature.us/uk/index.htm

KH COMMENTARY: Who's Line Is It Anyway?

Sister Dearest and I were channel flicking a few nights ago (one of my more favourite past times) when we accidently (and I mean, accidently) stopped on Home and Away.

We lingered just long enough to watch a scene play out between a teenage-angst-ridden boy and a teenage-angst-ridden girl. The two were apparently 'friends' who had feelings for each other, as goes the story on most teenage-angst-ridden television soaps. At one point, the teenage-angst-ridden boy turned to the teenage-angst-ridden girl and said,

"But the thing is, I don't just want to be your friend."

To which I let out a rather embarrassing snort and said to Sister Dearest

"How very primary school of him."

To which Sister Dearest replied in all her worldly knowledge,

"Indeed, adults don't say those kinds of things to each other. Instead, we just get drunk and hook up with our 'friends' at parties."

I nodded in approval and didn't really think much more of it until this morning, when I was getting my daily fix of Sex in the City while eating my breakfast (Don't judge me, it's part of my morning routine.) I was watching the episode when Carrie is being pursued by The Politician (Season 3, Episode 1). She's typically playing hard-to-get and in an effort to woo her out on a date, The Politician says,

"For the record...I can't stop thinking about you."

And you can just see Carrie's eyes get a little bigger as her heart starts fluttering and all her internal organs turn to mush. And all from the power of one well-delivered line.

While I know Televisionland is this mythical place where all the things we wished happened in real life do in fact happen, I still maintain that these shows - Sex in the City and Home and Away - are based on real people, real situations and real life (as unreal as they may be). Which means somewhere, some man is delivering a some warm line to some eye-lash batting, heart-melting-into-her-Jimmy-Choo-shoes woman.

So who is this guy because he must be one of a miniscule minority.

Men (and women - don't think you're innocent in all this too, girls) no longer use or feel the impact of a well-delivered line. I'm not talking about some corny pick-up attempt, ie. "Do you have a bandaid because I scraped my knee when I fell for you." I'm talking a declaration, the brutual truth delivered at the precise moment to cause the maximum impact on one's emotions.

We've traded down and instead, rely on drunken inhibitions to get who and what we want. There's no chase or pursuit out of plain sobriety. We hold our cards close to our chest until that moment of maximum inibriation when we let everything er...loose.

Why? Because we feel bullet-proof and when we stumble out of bed the next morning nursing the world's worst hangover, only to remember what we did the night before, we have our drunken stupidity to blame it all on.

It's crazy that we rely on a few stiff drinks to feel in control of our out-of-control behaviour. We need to down a quick vodka and tonic before that blind date or that bottle of champagne before we can say the things we've always thought. It seems like we're taking action because we think we've got nothing to lose, but really, whatever gets lost can be easily reclaimed by simply 'blaiming it on the booze' the following day.

Delivering a line takes more than just a few tequila shots or way too many glasses of cheap champagne. It takes dry, sober guts to put yourself out on the firing line and say exactly what you think and feel without the drunken safety net to catch you if you get shot down.

I remember someone telling me that it's better to drunkenly hook-up and then go out on a date because ending the night with the 'first kiss' isn't nearly as awkard.

Why are we so terrified of this type of emotional confrontation? We do everything we can to avoid the possibility of an akward situation because we don't want to appear embarrased or end up with egg on our face. We hold back from saying "I like you" or "I love you" out of pure fear that the other person won't say it back and then we'll look...what? Out-of-line? Over-the-top? Obsessed?

Why is it so wrong to be attracted to someone?

So we say nothing at all. We leave the one-liners to appear only on the television screen and hide our true feelings away as if they're somehow scandelous to admit to.

And the rest we blame on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol.

(Image Credit: Melissa Blake - http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/)

DISCOVER ME: PostSecret

We all have our little secrets and while some say that secrets should remain secret for a reason, there's nothing quite like getting something off your chest (I would be out of a blogging-job if that wasn't the case.)

It's finding a safe place to reveal one's inner thoughts that proves the real hurdle. Some times, there's just some things you can't bring yourself to say or to hear yourself declare. It's from this principal, or perhaps fear, that Frank Warren developed the salacious yet captivating website, PostSecret - a global online forum for people to air their dirty laundry.

Secreters write their private truths on the back of a postcard and then mail it through to Warren who publishes a select few on his daily blog. The bearers remain completely anonymous, with nothing but their postcard-sized secret to represent them. And we're not talking your average, everyday postcard bought from the cornerstore while on a trip through Rockhampton. Warren receives intricately designed cards which are often as creative as the content is controversial.

Whether or not it's a result of these beautifully constructed cards or the premise of posting and reading your own home truths, the website has taken on a life of its own. PostSecret currently sits at 276,135,144 site views, not to mention 209,799 Twitter followers and 495,438 Facebook friends. Warren's website has become so popular the postcards have been turned into a published work called PostSecret Confessions on Life, Death and God, which has reached #1 on the New York Bestseller List.

I will never cease to be surprised by society, hence why I love the occassional trip to PostSecret. There's nothing like a public declaration to gain a spot of self-remedy - here's a few of my faves:

(Image Credit: http://postsecret.blogspot.com/ and http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=54703&id=21977955239#/pages/PostSecret/21977955239)

GO.SEE: Pocket Bar

As the City of Villages, Sydney's suburbs are a proverbial smorgasboard of places to dine and drink.

Surry Hills district, in particular, is riddled with boutique bars doing big business attracting small crowds to their intimate locations. These venues are usually holes-in-the-wall but with a liquor license and some trendy interior designing to boot. Every few weeks, a new one pops up in the side streets or down some darkened back alley, relying on the locals to sniff it out and give it a reputable review via word-of-mouth.

The latest to pop its head out of the brick work is Darlinghurst's Pocket Bar. Tucked away on the corner of Crown and Burton St, this cafe, bar and restaurant is a jack-of-all-trades with an art-deco design which suits the breakfast crowd as much as it does those wanting a night cap.

While hosting a breakfast and lunch menu which offers all the cafe favourites - from bacon and eggs through to salads and toasted sangers - it's the dinner menu which acts as the bar's initial name sake. Consisting only of crepe dishes, both savoury and sweet, there's a combo on the list to tickle everyone's fancy at prices which even your Grandma would give the nod of approval. The crepes are light but flavoursome, with enough gusto to more than satisfy an expectant appetite.

For those seeking alcoholic refreshments after hours, the bar offers your standard selection of beverages - reds, whites, sparklings, spirits and cocktails. While there are plenty of tables and antique couch sets for sitting or purching, if you're not lucky enough to score a seating area, the bar allows for plenty of standing room. While the area itself is small by restaurant standards, the human traffic adds to the intimate and lively atmosphere. The walls are decked out in floor to ceiling Liechtenstein-inspired artwork, teamed with Victorian furniture and a huge iron gate which opens the whole space up to the daylight or the night time.

Pocket Bar has everything going for it to make it a huge success by Surry Hills standards - it's cute and quirky, but with a niche menu which sets it apart from other bars of its make and model. It's certainly worth a trip, even if it's just to peer in at the joint gendered bathrooms which include a sink and mirror in your very own cubicle. How quaint.

Pocket Bar
T 02 9380 7002
W http://www.pocketsydney.com.au/
Menu must-have: Goat Cheese and Fresh Spinach Crepe - $10

(Image Credit: www.totalvenue.com.au/.../pocketbar.html)

PRESS RELEASE: Bank on a Celebrity

Whether consciously or subconsciously, every woman thinks about having a baby. After all, it's our job as the human race to procriate and our job as the female species to be the holy vessel which brings screaming, pooping miracles of life into the world. Regardless of whether we want to or not, as females, it's kind of expected.So from day dot (or whichever age you were when you finally became 'a woman' - God bless it) we develop an awareness of our ticking maternal clock. For a small chunk of your life, you keep your fingers, toes and legs crossed praying the alarm bell won't go off, followed by a hefty chunk of time hoping for God's sake that it will. And if by then, you still haven't spawned a mini genetic copy of yourself, the ticking clock becomes even more obvious and the small window of opportunity you have left starts to get gradually smaller and smaller and smaller. Until the clock stops ticking all together.

Regardless of whether the desire for babies lies dormant in the back of the mind or whether it's a daily desperation, as women, we are constantly aware of pregnancy and the fear that the window of opportunity might someday slam in our face if we don't act accordingly. And if that time has crept up on you and you haven't locked yourself in a husband, pregnancy can seem like a distant, unachievable dream.

Unless of course, you take a trip to your friendly, neighbourhood sperm bank.

While it all may seem like an extreme option, sperm banks create happy families for singles and couples around the world. And now, as reported in Friday 16th's The Daily Telegraph, not only can you become impregnated, you can pick the sperm of a donor who is a celebrity look-a-like.

That's right girls - we've all dreamt of having Brad Pitt's baby and now we can... kinda.

California Cryobank have started a look-a-like service where donors are described as having remarkable resemblances to Hollywood hotties - Ben Affleck, Hugh Grant and even our own rugged rough-diamond, Russel Crowe. As donors must remain anonymous by American law, the bank staff decide which celebrity the donor looks most like and write up a description accordingly. The system is meant to allow prospective mothers to visualise what the father of their baby looks like.

For example, donar 11385 is said to be a dead-ringer for David Beckham and to be a "blonde haired dreamboat".

I'll order me one of those, thanks.

However, the 'celebrity baby bank' has been criticised by scientists as a form of stratifying beauty within society. However, I think if I was single, without any promising prospects and reaching 'a certain age' where the maternal clock was ticking loud and clear, having a mini George Clooney to keep me company in my old age wouldn't be such a bad thing.

Sure would keep the ladies in the retirement home entertained.

KH COMMENTARY: The Feel Good Stuff

Call it tacky, call it cliche, call it sugar-coated. I don't care. I'm all in favour of The Feel Good Stuff.

You know what I'm talking about. The Feel Good Stuff - the shameful, embarrassing things you don't really want anyone to know you're interested in but are interested in nonetheless because they make you feel good. They make life a little more bearable, they make men a little more tolerable and they fill you with that gooey, sappy feeling of happiness.

My list of Feel Good Stuff is pretty long and mostly conjested by movies and television shows made by the Disney Channel, with occassional injections of pop music listened to by thirteen-year-olds. They're not the kind of things I brag about to my work colleagues or use to impress on blind dates. These interests are nothing if not mortifying to admit to, but I maintain that everybody has a similar list. So in the interest of empowering the world to own up, I am going to share my humiliating list of Feel Good Stuff with the online world.

KH's Humiliating, Yet Satisfying List of Feel Good Stuff:

1. High School Musical - 1, 2 and 3.

Yes yes, I know that it is positively gag-worthy but watching Gabriella and Troy sing their sweet hearts out to each other just makes me melt. While High School Musical: The Original and it's sort-of-sad sequel weren't overly impressive, the real gold came in High School Musical: Senior Year which was positively chock-full of all-singing, all-dancing daggy PG goodness. Watching the movie and gushing over Zac Efron (see below) filled me with so much feel-good happiness that I went out and bought the soundtrack. I play it whenever I need a quick injection of HSM and the DVD isn't readily available.
"High...School....Musical, who says we have to let it go?"

2. Zac Efron
This underage sex-god (not that he's all that underage anymore) is so deploringly delicious he gets a rung on the Feel Good ladder all to himself. The man's a Ken Doll - that immaculately positioned fringe, that all-too-perfect jawline and he's a dancing, singing songbird to boot. It's just such a pity Vanessa Hudgen's swiped him off the market before anyone could start bidding.

3. The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants

Before Blake Lively extradited herself to the glossy world of Gossip Girl, she was the blonde-bombshell known as Bridgette Vreeland in the sickeningly sweet movie-make of The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants. Originally a book by Annette Brasheres which then became a four part series (I own all of them), The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants tells the sugary story of four BFFs who find a pair of jeans which magically fit all of them despite their different body shapes. Each going their seperate ways over the summer, the girls share the pants to stay connected to each other and consequently, each get themselves into assorted trysts of teenage angst. Not Oscar-award winning material, but their tale of friendship overcoming all just moves me to mush.

4. The Babysitter's Club

Ah, The Babysitter's Club. This little treasure has it all - friendship, boyfriends, parents, inapproriate teenage behaviour and all in an easy-t0-read-in-the-bathtub size. The corner-stone being the Summer Specials which were about double the size and usually feature the girls going to summer camp or on a cruise. Author, Ann. M. Martin certainly stumbled across a good thing when she sent Kristy, Stacey, Mary-Anne and Claudia off to earn their own pocket money by starting a babysitting business. However, by the end of the series which finished printing in 2000, the club consisted of a total of 10 members including Dawn, Mallory and Jessi. It's funny though, over the 14 years the books were written, the girls never grew up past the age of 13.... ah, the joy of eternal youth. A product of the 80s and still living long and strong in my heart of hearts. If you can get your hands on the movie-make, even better.

5. ABBA
Tell me one person you know who can't have a good time dancing to Abba hits and I'll give you Bjorn's head on a silver platter. They were Eurovision-tastic and they took over the globe with their retro-pop songs and sequined pants. When I saw Mamma Mia: The Musical, I almost cried and when watching the movie-make, it took all my power to curb wetting my pants out of sheer enthusiasm. Without fail, Abba plunge me into happiness at the mere sound of the opening riff of Dancing Queen.

6. Clueless

"Do you prefer 'fashion victim' or 'ensembly challenged'?"

"- 'Excuse me Miss Dionne. Street slang is an increasingly valid form of expression. Most of the feminine pronouns do have mocking, but not necessarily in misogynistic undertones.'
- 'Wow, you guys talk like grown-ups.

"So okay, I don't want to be a traitor to my generation and all but I don't get how guys dress today. I mean, come on, it looks like they just fell out of bed and put on some baggy pants and take their greasy hair - ew - and cover it up with a backwards cap and like, we're expected to swoon? I don't think soooooo."

'nuff said.

7. Sex In The City
Anyone who knows two-cents about me knows that I have an unhealthy and unwavering addiction to Sex In The City. I will watch the whole series over and over again in constant rotation. I have psychoanalysed every one of Carrie's committment-restricted relationships and can quote the script on cue. It's unhealthy, but yet as satisfying as a Christmas feast.

8. Any Dance Movie ever made

No matter what the review, how bad the acting is or which down-on-their-luck celebrity has agreed to appear in the name of dance, if it's got choreography, exposed abs and a mix of ballet, hip hop and urban funk - I'll stick it in the DVD player. Hell, I'll even take the afternoon off to watch it crash and burn at the cinemas. Centre Stage, Centre Stage: Turn It Up, Honey, Step Up, Step Up: The Streets, Make It Happen, Take The Lead, Save The Last Dance, Save The Last Dance 2, Fame. I'll watch them all and then put on my token playlist of hiphop tunes and crump my way around the living room.

9. Reality TV

If you make it, I will watch it, especially if it involves rich, precious American teenagers driving around in BMWs and spending their parent's money. Watching society at it's most stupid gives me a certain level of perspective, hence why I over-indulge in the likes of Laguna Beach and The Hills. Throw in some prize many and the option of glossy-magazine global domination and I'm there. The Bachelor, The Bachelorette, The Farmer Wants A Wire, The Beauty and The Geek, Survivor and The Amazing Race. But if you really want to tickle my fancy, all you have to do is throw in the d-word. So You Think You Can Dance?

10. The 80s
It's no secret that I consider the 80s to be a highly under-valued era. All that big hair and those highwaisted outfits. I love everything about the 80s and any kind of reference to it makes me divinely happy. The films - The Breakfast Club, Some Kind of Wonderful, Sixteen Candles, Heathers, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, 9 to 5. The music - Wham, Blondie, Madonna, Michael Jackson. The TV - The Cosby Show, Full House, Family Ties. I love it. I love it all.

So there you go - my shameful list of things which condemn me in every sense of what is cool, okay and acceptable to be interested, but I don't care. Because these things make me happy, no matter how sugary-sweet or down-right ridiculous they are.

If you've got something embarrassingly Feel Good which you want to own up to, feel free to share with the class. xo

GLOSS-ARY: Karl, curves and claws on the catwalk

(First and foremost, my apologies for the belated blog-posting. Things have been a little hectic at the House of KH and the two things to suffer have been The KH Chronicles and a growing pile of unwashed laundry. While the laundry hasn't been touched, I am fast attending to my blogging tardiness. I promise it won't happen again, Mum.)

The name getting a media bashing this Monday 12 October is none other than fashion icon, Karl Lagerfeld who's got social commentators and female activists all in a tizz for his comments regarding curves on the catwalk. Despite the acclaim he received for his barnyard and androgyny-inspired fashion show in Paris late last week, Lagerfeld has been shot down in a storm of flaming arrows for his comment that "no one wants to see curvy women" on the catwalks.

The comments come after German glossy magazine, Brigitte announced they intended to no longer promote skinny models in their pages and instead, publish images of "real women" which their readership can identiy with. The magazine has even invited its readers to audition for modelling roles, aiming to abolish skinny models from the magazine by 2010.

Suffices to say, Lagerfeld was less that impressed with this change in management, commenting that the fashion world was about "dreams and illusions" and the actions by Brigitte were "absurd." He went so far as to say, "You've got fat mothers with their bag of chips, sitting in front of the television saying that thin models are ugly."

As Lagerfeld's comments began to circulate through the media pipeline, he has received a backlash of negative public opinion. The story posted on the Sydney Morning Herald's website this morning has been inundated with responses, some enthusiastically shunning the designer and others supporting his curve-free catwalk.

"I applaud Brigitte's decision and hope Australian magazines follow suit - at least by using more realistic looking models in their shoots. I am in total shock about Karl Lagerfeld's outrageous comments."

"I agree with Karl. Women on the catwalk are walking clotheshorses; fabric hangs better off a frame with no bulges. For presentation of clothes as art, curvy women are not appropriate. Questions of body image shouldn't even come into it.

"Why are models not regarded as "real women"? I think this is offensive to thin beautiful women. It is rediculous that overweight, unattractive women refer to theselves as "real women".

"Bottom line is: if I want to see "real women", I will go for a walk up my street or go to the supermarket. If I want to see someone looking fabulous and dressed beautifully, I will buy a high fashion magazine."

"Women are meant to have curves, bust and hips that is what makes us women. I for one am tired of seeing unrealistic and unattainable body shapes being held up as the ideal and warping the minds of your girls to think a size 12 is a plus size. Mind you, most of the clothes seen on these skeletal models are not every day wear and are unaffordable for the real women they are not designed for."

As a dedicated lover of fashion and having worked for fashion magazines before, my opinion is biased, yet informed. I've seen the original images from a fashion shoot and seen the images they become upon publication. Hell, I've even giving advice to photo-touchers about where more detailing needs to be applied to make a model look better. I don't excuse myself for this, because it is a factor of the industry. Whether this is a factor that needs to be changed is yet to be seen, but my personal opinion stands that while Lagerfeld could have been more considerate in his comments, they do hold an element of truth.

The 'dream and illusion' Lagerfeld refers to is the reason we buy magazines in the first place. Magazines are not meant to reflect what humans have. They are designed to reflect what humans want. Whether its luxury holidays, car parts, kitchen appliances or beauty products, magazines are about selling a lifestyle to people. Fashion and beauty magazines revolve around this premise specifically, as do the designers, suppliers and advertisers that essentially determine what is 'in fashion' to begin with. Magazines must sell 'the perfect life' or there is no reason to read them in the first place. It may not be an attractive scruple and it in no way condones the use of stick-thin anorexic models, but fashion magazines rely on this human desire for perfection and hence they employ the models who can deliver it.

These women are as immaculate and beautiful as the clothes they promote because that. is. their. job. They are models, walking clotheshangers and once the designer pushes them onto the catwalk or in front of a camera, it is their job to sell what they are wearing. The names behind the clothes on these girls' backs are the best-of-the-best of the fashion industry; the designers that dictate the styles that will eventually trickle down into Target and Big W. Their clothes are not your average every-day wear. They are pieces of art, and when you buy an orginal Monet or Matisse painting, you don't hang it on the wall in your average every-day frame.

I am by no means the epitome of a model, (I have a gut on me that could rival Homer Simpson) and I do find myself staring at the women in the pages of my magazines wishing I looked a little more like I belonged in their magazine world, but I accept that I am never going to look like that. Because I know those women don't look like that all the time. Kate Moss looks in the mirror and has the craving to pop the occasional pimple and I'm sure Gemma Ward needs a few cups of coffee and a beauty team before she looks any good in the morning. The point being, we all have our flaws and these pristine women we look to for our fashion forecasts are no exception. Whether they are the models of the 50s with their big boobs and big hips or the beanpole girls that currently march the runway, models are simply playing the role they were given.

What are your thoughts? Is Karl Lagerfeld overstepping the runway? Do we need to reinstate what is considered 'perfection' by introducing curvy women to the catwalk or should models remain as they are in their world of 'dreams and illusions?' Click to post a comment and share your opinion.

FASHIONISTA: The High and Mighty

Every now and again, the press like to throw a field day over unsuitably high heels. It's a seasonal thing - like Photoshoping glossy magazine covers and the sexualisation of young girls. Not that these two things aren't serious issues with the possibility of serious outcomes, but they seem to just exist in society quietly, until one day they are suddenly dragged back into the headlines for a few weeks before going back to existing quietly again. It's the same with high heels. Every few months, someone decides they have something to say about them and BOOM! they're back on the black-list as a no-no for women.

The latest issue being the increasing size of stiletto heels and the six, seven possibly eight-inch heights they are reaching. All well and good when you see them sitting on the shelf, but if you walk on the taller side of the size scale, adding an extra eight inches to your already generous height makes you look like The BFG. Not to mention increasing the difficulty of maneuvering through most door frames. And don't even mention a set of stairs.

This uproar has only further irritated the ever-controversial issue of the health risks behind high heels. Podiatrists will be the first to tell women of the additional stress and pain that high heels inflict on the foot. Not only do they cause the ankle, calf, knees and back muscles unnecessary pressure, but they can be damn difficult to walk in.

We've all tottered round on a pair of heels the size of the Empire State Building and felt the burning pain being injected into our feet, but it still doesn't stop us from buying what I like to refer to as 'stupid shoes' - shoes only Carrie Bradshaw would buy, shoes which are flamboyant and over-the-top, often with an utterly ridulous heel. Shoes which are not just shoes but lavish works of art, a combination of colour and crafting, with the occasional touch of impracticality but which we buy anyway because they are fabulous and they make us look and feel fabulous.

At least, I thought they did.

My strong belief system behind the emotional benefits of high heels was questioned last week when a reliable male source said that men never notice high heels, nor do they care ten cents about them. A woman could be wearing pluggers, toe socks or a pair of German clogs and men wouldn't know the difference. Apparently, the male judge of what is beautiful and 'hot' is decided on a woman's face and that's it.

I argued with this source for some time that, subconsciously, men do notice and that high heels attribute to a woman's physical attractiveness; that the way they shape and flaunt the legs and act as a frame for the body is all a part of what sucks men in in the first place. I stood behind my argument 100 percent and pushed my point until I was blue in the face, but he wouldn't budge. He resounded strongly that men don't care and that high heels are meaningless.

I'd like to believe that the hundreds of dollars I've spent on high heeled shoes have been souly for selfish purposes - to make myself feel fabulous - but I know, while that feeling may attribute to 99 percent of my excuses for purchasing, there is a tiny one percent of me that hopes that this particular pair of high heels may bring me some wanted male attention. It's sad, but nonetheless, true.

So this sudden development that men don't even notice the shoes I'm wearing, was mind-boggling. That putting up with the pain they are inflicting on my feet and the health risks I am submitting to my body is actually all for nothing.

The whole idea made me question myself and the more I chewed over it, the more I started to drown in doubt and self-pity. I pulled out all of the 'stupid shoes' I'd ever bought and looked at them in an entirely new light - one of shame. Maybe the podiatrists and the social commentators and heaven forbid, the men, are right? Maybe high heels are a health risk? Maybe they do suck women into a false sense of security about their lives?

In trying to work it all out in my head, I pulled on a particularly favourite pair of my 'stupid shoes' - a set of black and mandarin orange heels I bought when I was trying to make sense of a particularly bad situation in my life - and I remembered why I had bought them in the first place. They made me feel good. They made me feel sexy. They made all the mess and rubbish that was going on in my life feel a little bit more managable. In these shoes, I didn't just feel fabulous. I was fabulous.

And upon reconnecting with this truth, I realised that shoes - even the ridiculously high and the fashionably flamboyant - are still a solid investment. Because there ain't nothing that exists in a man's world that can make him feel nearly as confident, attractive and fabulous as a woman does in a pair of stupid, towering high heels.

It's just like Carrie said - "It's a woman's right to shoes".

(Image Credit: http://www.shoeblog.com/ - designers in order of appearance: Armani Prive, Proenzer Schoule & Paul and Joe / My favourite 'stupid shoes by Vicenza)

KH COMMENTARY: The Blame Game

Late one night earlier this week, on a bar stool at my favourite pub in Surry Hills, I had an epiphany. It was one of those 'the-light-finally-came-on' moments where my life was suddenly plunged into garishly harsh perspective.

I was lamenting with a close friend about a sticky situation they were in and upon offering up some advice, I came out with, "You know, in the end, it's all about taking responsibility for your own life."

What a little pearl of wisdom! I almost fell off my bar stool, and it wasn't from too many vodka, sodas and limes.

My friend's reaction said I had certainly struck the right chord. But as I sat on the bar stool and my friend ordered another round, I started to get the sneaky suspicion that my life-altering affirmation was a little fraudulent. As I thought about my own life and the sticky situations I was currently trying to contend with, I wondered how much I was really taking responsibility for. And my answer didn't feel good.

It's so easy to blame mistakes, difficulties and problems on everybody other than yourself. When you're going through a tough time and you can't seem to catch a break or your breathe, you turn to every other excuse under the sun to gain some kind of reason for the situation you are in.

"I can't let my parents/best friend/boyfriend down."

"I can't do that job. I don't have the experience."

"I failed that exam because they didn't give us enough resources."

"It's not up to me to decide."

"I can't change."

"I don't have any control over this situation."

Excuses excuses excuses! These statements are like pain-killers. They'll numb the hurt and regrets for awhile, but their effects are only temporary. Soon enough, that sick feeling will fill your gut once again and you'll self-diagnose your problems with excuses that you know aren't really true.

Society loves the old adage 'No regrets' or if you're going to regret, 'that it's better to regret something you did, than something you didn't'. But either way, I think if you're going to do something or not do something, you have to do it or not do it off your own bat. You have to take responsibility for your own life, so if 20 years down the track, you find yourself regretting a life you're unhappy with and you begin pointing the finger of blame, the only person on the short-list should be yourself.

All those excuses and reasons, mean bupkiss. We all have the control to change our lives and change the direction that we're heading. If you have an addiction, you can stop. If you're rebelling against what's right, you can stop. If you're in a toxic environment, you can stop.

It's about suiting up or putting on your big-girl pants and taking responsibility for the choices you make and declaring ownership over them.

So between sitting on that bar stool and typing up this post, I've decided that's what I'm going to do with my life. I can lament all I want. I can cry over the hand I've been dealt and try and satisfy myself with excuses and reasons which still don't make the future any clearer. Or I can take lemons and make lemonade.

And as a fan of lemonade, I'm choosing the latter.

KH COMMENTARY: Who's Bad?

There are some things all women are systematically drawn to:

1. a shoe sale

2. a Country Road sale

3. a bad boy

And usually the first two are a direct result of the latter, as we try to mend our bad-boy broken hearts by purchasing discounted clothing and Tony Bianco heels.

As the feminine species, we just can't help but be drawn to the bad eggs of the male society. It's a chemical imbalance, a genetic defect. When faced with the choice between a 'nice boy' and a 'bad boy' - between Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham - we pick Mr. Wickham every time. Because he's just so debaucherously bad. And it's just so damn attractive.

It's a tangled web that women fall into with starry eyes, the latest being pop sensation Katy Perry who has the balls to take on the King of the Bad Boys - Russell Brand, who is rumoured to have swept Perry away on a secret holiday to Thailand after some flirtations during the MTV Music Awards. Despite friends telling Perry to watch his womanising ways, she is determined to make the relationship work, finding Russell to be "charming, hilarious and incredibly sexy."

And what do you get when you combine charming, hilarious and incredibly sexy with a few tats and some exposed chest hair? A midnight showing of Bad Boy: A Tale of I Should Have Known Better.

The February 2009 issue of Australian Vogue published an article by Alice Cavanagh which explored the destructive behaviour behind womens' obsession with 'the bad boy'. Cavanagh quoted US psychologist Peter Johnson who found "that men who have the self-obsession of a narcissist, the impulsive and thrill-seeking behaviour of a pyschopath and the deceitful and exploitative nature of a Machiavelli are more attractive to the opposite sex." These types of characters are known as 'dark triads' and are "associated with high levels of self-interest and low levels of empathetic qualities." But rather than send women running for the hills with their narcism and destructive behaviour, these dark triads do the exact opposite and seem to attract women with their twisted magnetic force.

We've all either seen it happen to a good girlfriend or have actually been the naive moth drawn to the burning bad boy flame. So why do we do it to ourselves? Because we see the nasty, naughty habits these kinds of boys expel as strangely seductive. Johnson explains that what women find attractive about these men "is the excitement and danger that comes with dating bad boys. If you were to ask someone whether they wanted to date a narcissist, they would say no. But women find the aloof bad boy thrilling and intoxicating."

Sure, women still see these men for what they truly are - selfish, egocentric cads - but it's as if we don our rose-coloured glasses for battle and march onto the warfront anyway. Because as much as bad boys drive women crazy with their confidence, their carelessness and their bastardly behaviour, at the same time, all that self-indulgence is strangely reliable. Women walk into these situations because they know, deep down, they're going to get exactly what they want out of it - drama.

And when it comes to drama, we can't get enough. We love it, we feed on it and when we don't have enough of it, we'll go specifically looking for it. And what bad boys pose as, is a reliable source of constant, time-consuming, delicisously self-indulgent drama. We'll eat right out of the palm of their hand, let them treat us mean and keep us keen all for the soul purpose of maintaining a decadently dramatic lovelife.

We see bad boys not as relationships (we're naive, not stupid), but more like projects. What do women love more than shoes, Country Road, bad boys and drama? Makeovers and the very idea of reforming a bad boy pushes all our Beauty and the Beast buttons.

It's a tale as old as time. Just as our inner damsel-in-distress is begging to be saved, there's nothing quite so attractive to a woman as finding a man who needs to be saved right back. We like to be needed and wanted and most of all, 'as a result of' because it feeds directly into our own little pot of self-importance. Women love the delusion of thinking we can be the change we want to see in a man, we can be the one who makes a difference in their lives and puts them back on the path to perfection. Our heads get so filled up with this beautiful idea of having a bad boy reform for our benefit that we continue to let them walk all over us like a welcome mat in the hope that one day they'll see the cosmic light.

Because all the books and the movies and the songs tell us that it can happen. Like Richard Gere who gave up his womanising ways in Pretty Woman to pursue the zealous Julia Roberts or Baby in Dirty Dancing who convinces Johnny to give up his sex, drugs and rock'n'rolling ways in exchange for a lifestyle he deserves. And greatest of all, Sex and the City's Carrie and her committment-phobe, Mr Big who ride the rollercoaster of heartache for six seasons and a movie before he finally comes around and puts a ring on her finger. It all reinforces the subliminal hope that one day our bad boy might give up his bigoting ways for a happily ever after with yours truly.

But it never happens like that, does it? Or if it does, it's a means to a still destructive end. Because real bad boys are bad boys for life - it's like they take an oath with their first tattoo - and no amount of makeover-ing can remove it. And where does all that messy, emotional heartache go when the relationship finally peters out? Straight into our piggy bank of dependable drama.

So really, the relationship between bad boys and good girls (or any type of girl for that matter) is not as mutually exclusive as we think. Because in the end, no matter how much you dress it up with good intentions or the facade of no intentions at all, both parties are in it for themselves and their own particular benefits. The only real difference being, bad boys where it like a badge of honour.

KH COMMENTARY: The Day When Technology Takes Over the World

What with mobile phones becoming the size of a stick of gum, music devices you can take on the train, computers which fit in your back pocket, GPS systems which save you getting lost, fridges that order more milk when you start to run out, washing machines which can detect a stray red sock, wireless laptops, wireless headphones, wireless alarm clocks, cameras which can see into space, cameras which can see into the apartment next door, online banking, online shopping, online dating - you could argue that the day when technology took over the world came and went a long time ago.

While I'd like to think I am one of those balanced people who doesn't rely on technology like an addict relies on a hourly hit, I know that would be a lie. The first thing I do in the morning is check my emails, followed by my Facebook, followed by a quick trip to the Sydney Morning Herald website before putting together my blog post for the day. To my credit, I don't own an iPhone but even that won't save me. Like the other six billion people who wake up each morning reaching for the start button on their computer, I am inarguably technologically-reliant.

Obviously, being a blogger and born in Generation Y, this doesn't come as much of a shock. If anything, it's part of my DNA and therefore inescapable. But while I love learning about the latest gadgets, am saving up for a Macbook and have a list of blogs and websites I visit on a daily basis, I know there will come a day when technology changes my life completely. And it's not when a robotic cleaning lady starts making my bed in the morning.

I live in fear of the day when there are no longer paper back books or glossy magazines or newpaper print. When all copy and editorial content is accessed online, when I can no longer hold the product of my blood, sweat and tears in my very own hands. When books become spectacles in a muesum and people simply download Pride and Prejudice to their mobile phone and scroll while they're sitting on the train. When rather than flicking through page after glossy page of Vogue, I'll receive an email notification to download the new issue to my portable electronic publishing system.

Even as we speak, or as I write, developments in technology and science are dictating what literature and publishing will become. Electronic paper (or e-paper) will totally redefine how we read and access editorial material. Rather than spend hours in the library or the bookstore moving between the shelves, we will simply download the content to an e-paper device which mimics all the pages and appearance of book, but can be easily updated with new titles and content. Bookstores will become a place of the past, guttered and rebuilt into tech stores and Apple Mac distributors.

Despite all the devices and electronics I currently rely on to get through each 24 hour stretch, the day when technology takes over my world will be the day when I can no longer hunt through the bookstore looking for my next great read, or flick through a glossy while waiting in line at the supermarket (although by then, there'll probably be no such thing as supermarkets, just online ordering). Yes, there will come a time and it's not so far in the distance, when the 'information age' will change how we read literature forever.

I get asked why I buy books and magazines rather than loaning them from the library and saving myself a small fortune and the answer is because one day, like dinosaurs and hypercolour t-shirts, books will no longer exist.

And I want to hold on to them, in my own two hands, for as long as possible.

SILVER SCREEN: Some Kind of erm... Wonderful?

I can't remember the first time I watched Some Kind of Wonderful. I think it must have been one of those movies my mother first played for me when I was 10, when she felt it necessary to educate me about life through the cheesey hits of the 1980s - Three Men and a Baby, Baby Boom, Steal Magnolias, Mystic Pizza- movies which became intrinsic to my emotional growth and were perhaps the reason for my affinity with the 80s era.

Sometimes I reflect on my life in the 80s with remorse that I was in nappies for most of it. I love everything about the era - the fashion, the hair, the music - the more eccentric and out of whack you were, the more you fitted in. It had all the 'feel good' lovin' of the 70s with all the sex, drugs and rock'n'roll of the 60s. It was the love child of pop and grunge, the goody-goody gone bad on the weekend. Had I lived through it as I should of, I would have been your Converse-wearing, baggy-t-shirt teamed with a leather jacket teenager, with a boombox on my shoulder which pumped out The Sex Pistols while I self-peirced my ears in detention. That's just the kinda girl I am, or should have been.

But back to Some Kind of Wonderful, this is the tale of two best friends - the tortured tomboy, Watts and the teenage mechanic come art maestro, Keith (played by the dashingly gorgeous, Eric Stolz - who may not look like much now but was a god in a pair of Chuck Taylors and demin skinnys) who falls in love with the homecoming queen, Amanda Jones but remains blind to the affections of his tomboy BFF.

On paper, I can see why my mum would put Some Kind of Wonderful on while doing the ironing as not only does it have all the makings of your typical angst-ridden rom-com, but it tells the story of a hard-working young upstart and an individual, independent tomboy. However, upon gaining a few years experience and learning one or two things about how relationships work, I'm not sure what my mum was hoping I'd learn when she sat me down to watch this movie at the tender age of 10.

Here you have the character of Watts - the 80s pin-up of feminism - a no-nonsense, drum-beating tomboy who says what she thinks and doesn't care what anyone else thinks of her. She's blunt and brazen, pushy and impatient, does whatever she wants without approval from her peers and is effortlessly cool in her ripped jeans and fingerless gloves. I want to be just like her, apart from the uncharacteristic and unattractive trait where she follows Keith around like a pathetic puppy.

Throughout the entire movie, Watts shoots her mouth off at everyone else and yet withstands everything Keith puts her through as he tries to win over Amanda. Watts helps Keith prepare the big date, convinces him to kiss her as 'practice', chauffers them around town and yet has a cry when he doesn't notice her! Watts is all tough-love on the outside, but on the inside she's nothing but mush. She's turns into just another girl having a sob over a silly boy.

Needless to say, Keith finally sees the error of his ways and realises Watts is the girl of his dreams, but with absolutely no thanks to her. She doesn't fight for him, she doesn't pull out a soap box and make a grand declaration of her love, she doesn't even use her bad-ass tomboy skills to rumble with Amanda Brown! Keith just suddenly realises and it's all happy families. It's completely uncharacteristic to who Watts is. She gets exactly what she wants or "was hoping for" without having to do anything to get it. And we all know it doesn't work that way.

So Some Kind of Wonderful - it's still wonderful but beware, if it's been a few years since your last viewing session, you're in for a few nasty shocks. Once you've grown up and can apply a few years better knowledge, it can come as a bit of a shock when you realise that Watts is not the heroine of the story after all - it's bloody Amanda Brown! She's the one that picks herself up, dusts herself off and gets on with her life all by herself.

And here I was thinking Watts was the one I always wanted to be like all these years! However, that does explain how I developed the annoying tendency of always being 'the friend' to the boys I like.

Damn you, Watts.

FASHIONISTA: Access Accessories

While the GFC's grip on the Australian economy slowly begins to loosen, so does the self-restraint of Australia's women. The fresh fashion forecasts for spring and summer are hitting the shelves of Myer and David Jones and are being consumed just as quickly. Not only are women stepping out of their winter woolies, but they're coming out of economical hibernation and are ready to spend spend spend in order to fill their wardrobes with the fashions of the season.

As exciting a time as this is for some as they exchange their opaque tights for Daisy Duke cut-offs, it can be torture for those still living on a tight budget. Frugality and fashion can struggle to co-exist as the battle between budget and beauty rages strong.

If you're still looking for spare change in the couch in hope that you can buy some new items for your summer collection, don't despair, as there are still some among us that can relate to your pain (I being one of them). But as I shop or more realistically - look and not purchase - I've come to discover you don't need to buy entire outfits to freshen up your wardrobe. A simple, well-chosen accessory can make all the difference and spice up the saddest of out-dated outfits without costing you next month's rent.

The best part about summer is your body becomes a canvas for accessories. While winter kept legs and arms and necks hidden away, summer invites them back out into the open. Bangles, rings, earrings, necklaces, neck scarfs, head scarfs, hair clips, sunglasses, straw hats, fedoras - each piece can become 'the piece' which pulls the whole outfit together. Team these with simple basics that you already have stocked in your wardrobe from last season and you've got yourself a fresh new look for a portion of the price.

While summer is about shedding your old skin and tanning up the new one, it doesn't mean the clothes you kicked around in last year don't still have some potential. Basics are a girl's best friend and sometimes they just need a little encouragement and fresh new shade of nail colour to become bright and shiny again.

If you're an accessory advocate with some design skills to boot, get out your sketch pad and start doodling your winning design for the Diva and Grazia Jewellery Design competition. The lucky winner scores $1000 cash, $1000 Diva gift voucher, 12 month Grazia subscription and work experience with Diva not to mention their range will be designed and sold in Diva stores around the country.

For more information and entry submissions, visit http://www.diva.net.au/.

KH COMMENTARY: Embrace Thy Boobies

Boobs have been receiving some pretty bad publicity over the last week after Brynne Gordon's sashay down the Brownlow red carpet in a Swarovski studded bra left eyes bulging and tounges wagging. The barbie of boyfriend Geoffrey Edelsten, Brynne was far from camera-shy as she clutched her million dollar fiance and flashed her million dollar smile, million dollar bra and million dollar boobs at the snapping paparrazi.

But what met Brynne the next morning, apart from her own boobs being splashed across every newspaper, magazine and media vehicle in the country, was a firestorm of opinion over her fashion faux pa. While Brynne appears less than concerned over the matter, her boobs continue to cause a controversial stir.

Mia Freedman on her webiste, Mama Mia, posted a story by The Age's fashion editor, Janice Breen Burns which explored the prejudice behind big boobed women and their inability to flaunt through fashion like their A and B-cupped counterparts. Janice writes:

"It's double-D cup standard that Susie Elelman,
WIN television presenter and regular butt of public criticism for her own ''fashion faux pas'' knows only too well.

'If [Brynne Gordon] were one of those teensy weensy young women in barely a bit of cloth, they'd say, 'Doesn't she look elegant, doesn't she look knockout?' '' Elelman complains. ''I thought she looked elegant; she didn't show anything that was inappropriate. She looked beautiful.
But, I suppose people would expect me to say that."

As a fairly buxom blonde myself, (not that I trot around showing them off in Swarovski-infused underwear) I think it's about time someone gave voice to those big-breasted among us and good on Brynne Gordon for using her actions, rather than her words. As cliche a WAG as she looked, Brynne is being ridiculed for the same crime the little-breasted WAGs get away with every year - wearing a slip of clothing which covers only what is has to and is later deemed as 'elegant'.

For big-breasted women, the situation is not as sheer. When you're carrying around a pair of C or D-cupped boobs beneath your T-shirt, you're going to look like a porn-star no matter what you wear. It's a 'damned if you do, damned if you don't' situation as Brynne clearly discovered. If she had arrived wearing a full-length parachuting jumpsuit, her boobs would have still been big enough to poke out an eye and cause a similar media sensation.

Because when you have big boobs, there is no where to hide. No matter what you do or where you go, they are always going to be there on display like a museum exhibit. I don't care what men have to think or say about the subject - big boobs are not God's gift to women (or men) - they are a burden. They get in the way. They attract unwanted attention. They have to be cared for with practical 'over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders' so they don't succumb to the pull of gravity later on in life. And most of all, they get you in trouble, to which Brynne Gordon can vouch.

I think women have enough self-esteem issues and criticisms about their bodies as it is without adding additional pressure about what size boob is considered appropriate to flaunt. Take a look at all the other women who attended the Brownlow medals and the percentage of those which are tanned, stick-thin models or model-look-alikes. What kind of message are these women sending about embracing your body for the right reasons?

So as someone who often hides her boobs away out of an attempt to minimise wandering eyes, I say, good on you Brynne Gordon for having the confidence and the self-esteem to visually say, "Here are my boobs. If you're going to look at them, you may as well have a damn good look."

(Image Credit: Brynne Gordon at the 2009 Brownlow Medal at Crown Picture: Fiona Hamilton - http://www.heraldsun.com.au/sport/afl/gallery-fn422eni-1225777750118?page=9)