The KH Chronicles

Yet Another Pregnancy Scare

2012-01-29T21:41:00.001+11:00

I went to visit my grandma in Hervey Bay this morning. She lives in an aged-care facility where she gets her own room and bathroom, catered meals and the occasional social event. So it's kind of like living at college. But different.

I walked into her room and gave the old lady a hug. And then my grandma says, in her slightly impertinent but loving way, a remark which pretty much suggested that I looked pregnant.

In fact, that's pretty much what she said. "Kristen, you look pregnant."

Nice to see you too, Grandma. What a big mouth you've got.

This is not the first time someone has suggested that I could be pregnant. Some of you might remember the incident on the New York subway in 2010 when a very nice gentleman did the very nice gentlemanly deed of offering me his seat. When I refused profusely, the very nic'e gentleman punched himself in the face by saying, "but you're pregnant, right?"

Um, that would be a 'no', you Yankie douche-canoe.

So when my granda dropped the P-word, I jumped to the same conclusion that I did that day on the subway.

I. Am. Fat.

But I know this not to be true because I've been watching The Biggest Loser which is an excellent way to gain a realistic perspective about one's quality of life. Therefore, I am resigned to the fact that I am not fat if -

I can jump from the ground to the bottom step of the stairs.

I can climb the stairs.

The people at my local McDonalds don't know me by name, license plate or the order I place at the drive-through window.

I can get my heart rate over 100 without throwing a tantrum.

My legs and my ankles are too different things.

But in all seriousness, obesity is a troublesome issue and watching The Biggest Loser does remind me of that. And also that I am a flippity-jibbit for all those times I've stared in the mirror wishing a few kilograms would miraculously slide off my arms and stomach. I am not fat and frankly, thinking I am fat and all the self-flagellation that goes along with it requires more energy than it does to go for a run in the afternoon.

This is what went through my head in the five seconds between when my grandma said, "Kristen, you look pregnant" and when I snapped too and realised that I am not fat. And definitely not pregnant.

However, to my grandma's credit, I did look like I was pregnant. I blame this whole-heartedly on the frumpy and misguiding camisole I was wearing from Gap. The kind of camisole with an elastic band around the middle, which while giving me a defined waist, puffed out a little too much around my gut (and not in the 'concealing a multitude of sins' kind of way).

The kind of camisole that would have my picture splashed across the glossip mags if I was anyone of any importance, with a headline that screamed, 'KH - carrying the next immaculate conception'.

The kind of camisole which is definitely getting ceremoniously burnt tomorrow.

KH.

Things to know about the Chinese New Year in case Eddie McGuire ever asks

2012-01-26T12:22:00.000+11:00

I've never completely understood the concept behind the Chinese New Year. So, just in case I ever go on Millionaire's Hot Seat and Eddie McGuire asks me something about it, I thought I would dig up some factoids to store for trivial purposes.

The Chinese New Year is China's most important festival and is all to do with the moon. Much like our friend, the ocean. It's also referred to as the Lunar New Year because the Chinese calender is lunarsolar.

If you're in China, Hong Kong, Thailand, Singapore or any area with a significant population of Chinsese, they'll stop work to celebrate the coming of the new year. A good reason to set up shop at your local Chinatown and get yourself another public holiday.

The whole sha-bang is a massive celebration of wealth, health and happiness. Children wish their parents a happy new year and receive money in a red envelope (kinda like getting a Baby Born, but different...). They recognise the coming year by covering their doors and windows with coloured paper cut outs. And of course, there's food. Duck's foot, anyone?

But what really interests me is the idea of each year being represented by an animal zodiac. This calender is an incorporation of the lunar calender and the solar calender. The whole business gets a bit tricky once you try to line it up with the Gregorian calender, so I'll skip that part. The animals are known as the 12 Earthly Branches and their order is steeped in Chinese legend. But the story is kind of long and I don't think I could tell it nearly as well as Wikipedia does so you can read more about that here.

Anyway, this year is The Year of the Dragon and if you think about it, there are some pretty sweet dragons around town.

Puff the Magic Dragon, who lives by the sea. Very cool.

Falkor the Luckdragon from The Neverending Story who looks like a giant, flying shih tzu.

And Mulan's Mushu. A tad annoying at times, but never the less, a handy dragon-friend to have in a sticky spot.

And the best part of The Year of the Dragon? It's the luckiest year in the Chinese Zodiac. So look out for a whole lot of good luck coming your way. I know I've already had my fair share. The Year of the Dragon has brought me a new full-time job working as the online-editor at Sydney's Girl PR.

Looks like Puff is on my side.

KH.

Damned if you do, damned it you don't, damned if you're Ricky Gervais

2012-01-17T18:07:00.000+11:00

I could write a review on the red carpet fashions at yesterday's 69th Annual Golden Globes. Believe me, I have plenty of opinions to offer. But it all just seems like too much effort. And copyright infringement. And money and I don't have any money.

What I do have is the worst case of indigestion known to humanity. Seriously, it feels like a little man has abseiled down the front of my chest and is zapping it with a miniature taser gun every five seconds. I have tried every home-remedy Google has to offer. Heat, peppermint tea, apples, a strange abdomen exercise which is supposed to stimulate the bowel. Nothing has yet induced the all-encompassing burp (Lord, please let it be a burp...) which is festering in my stomach. .

So until that moment, I am going to remain a right, fat, grump.

Back to the Golden Globes...

You could read the review I'm not going to write or you could just go visit the Go Fug Yourself girls and read what they had to say instead. Infinitely more interesting, humorous and satirical. And that's coming from me.

If you don't know who Heather and Jessica of Go Fug Yourself are, you are forgiven for not being a long-term, dedicated reader of TKC (The KH Chronicles. I'm seeing if it will catch on). I gave them a shout-out way back in 2009. You can read it here. Or you can read about them there. Either way, it's high time you were introduced. They are ingenious. Opinionated, satirical, sarcastic, glorious genius. That's their scientific term.

Back to the Golden Globes...

All in all, I was a little disappointed, especially by Ricky G. I was pulling for some truly, disasterous, "Can't look away from the car crash" type TV. Instead, we were dished up a reined-in version of his usually brilliant word vormit. The Kardashian/Middleton reference was satisfactory. Okay, it was a little clever. But the rest was a bit 'blah'. I was refused the perverse delight I get in seeing celebrities squirm and instead, we got Ricky Gervais playing it safe in the shallow end with his Golden Globe floaties.

Where was the indecency? Where was the cringe-worthy? Where was the just, plain wrong?

Erin Wasson must have been wearing it. Or not wearing it.

Who knows? Maybe this means the lovely Erin Wasson will be invited to host next year's Golden Globes.

Tough gig, Ricky G.

KH.

What's The Big Idea?

2012-01-10T19:40:00.000+11:00

So we’ve had my All I Want for Christmas Is list and the 10 Things To Do or Avoid Doing on New Year’s Eve So You Don’t End Up Upside Down In A Garden Bed With Bleeding Shins And Short One Hoop Earring and A Victoria Secret Lipgloss list, but I thought I would go for the trifecta and make myfirst post for the New Year a list also.

This is the end of the lists, I promise.

So, here is my List of Big Ideas for 2012. It’s kind oflike a list of New Year’s resolutions, but better.

And you should also know that in my writing these ideashere, they are now smeared in my copyright. Finders is not keepers when it comesto blogging.

1. Work in a retirement home and record the memoirsof little old ladies and geriatric gentleman. I’ve always been a bit scared ofretirement homes, so this idea offers a double whammy. Conquer my fear of oldpeople and put my skills as a journalist to some use by recording their memoirsfor their personal keeping.

2. Develop an iPhone app for The KH Chronicles.Imagine that – my daily ridiculousness would be but a thumb-tap away. That’s if youhave a smart phone. And if you don’t, well, crawl out from under your rock. Thetechnological age has arrived.

3. Take ceramics classes so my kitchen cupboardsare full of my completely individual, non-matching gas-fired wares. This is in anattempt to eliminate anything identical from my life. This does not apply to mydoppelganger, however.

4. Learn the harmonica so I can play the harmonicasolo in my rendition of Lisa Mitchell’s ALittle Ramblin’ Blues For Any Hour. Then I can use one of those nerdy harmonicaholders which looks like the headset teenagers with braces had to wear in the 80s.

5. Item 4 is part of a greater idea I have tobecome a one-woman show, wherein I play the guitar, base, harmonica, tambourine,triangle and drums all at the same time, while singing like Julie Andrewsbefore she got nodules.

6. Go into business with Joanna Lumley. I’m notsure how yet. And it doesn’t necessarily have to be business. I would beequally content employing her to be my personal bedtime storyteller, just so Ican listen to her voice on a daily basis.

7. To win a Shorty Award. Let’s face it - winningan Oscar Award is a little far-fetched. Winning one of the Oscar Awards forTwittering is a little more down to earth. And I am nothing if not practical.

So there you go. My ideas are in print and out in the cyberuniverse. Let’s review this time next year. I rarely succeed on my New Year’sresolutions, but as these aren’t resolutions, I’m feeling hopeful. I’m going tostart with Item 7, by writing a tweet about this very post.

But whatever happens, I'm pretty sure I'll do better than this guy...

KH.

10 Things To Do or Avoid Doing on New Year's Eve So You Don't End Up Upside Down In A Garden Bed With Bleeding Shins And Short One Hoop Earring and A Victoria Secret Lipgloss

2011-12-30T21:22:00.000+11:00

So it's New Year's Eve tomorrow. Everybody's favourite excuse to get drunk and end up either spewing in their hair or in their handbag. Or ending up upside down in a garden bed with bleeding shins and short one hoop earring and a Victoria Secret lipgloss.

That sure is a classy way to see in the New Year...

My 2012 New Year's Eve celebrations will probably involve a bottle of cheap wine and as many episodes of Offspring Season 2 I can squeese in before I pass out. I've either grown up or become boring. Maybe both.

But for those party-monsters among you, I thought I'd come up with a fail-safe list of 10 Things To Do or Avoid Doing on New Year's Eve So You Don't End Up Upside Down In A Garden Bed With Bleeding Shins And Short One Hoop Earring and A Victoria Secret Lipgloss.

Listen carefully. This is gospel.

1. Avoid quick and dangerous slides down the drunken slippery dip by avoiding vodka and ginger beer concoctions. This will, subsequently avoid any staring into the porcelain beyond.

2. Leave your camera in the capable hands of someone who will a) not lose it b) not damage it and c) remember to shoot your good side when your face-raping the man who looks a lot like your boss, but couldn't possibly be. Right? Right? No... wait.... oh dear....

3. Have a hearty meal before the madness. A crisp green salad does not count. You are not a sheep. In fact, why not eat some sheep instead? A good lamb kebab ought to set you up right.

4. The lamb kebab outlined in Item 3 is also good for during-the-madness munchies as well as post-madness munchies. The aluminum bag also proves useful on the cab ride home if anyone says they 'feel dizzy' or start to burp...

5. When deciding on New Year's Eve outfits consider the following - Can this flip over my head if I fall into a garden bed? Will these heels make cute flats if I have an unfortunate stumbling accident? Can I get this outfit off in rapid speed after waiting in line for two hours for the ladies toilets? In the event of a wardrobe malfunction, does this dress leave room for spontaneous re-designing? Will these earrings match the vomit in my hair?

6. If, after asking these questions, you decide to walk out of the house in a playsuit, be reassured you're in for an interesting night. Especially if the playsuit is black. However, a playsuit does not satisfy the criteria in Item 5 as a playsuit CAN NOT be removed in rapid speed. You failed. Go back to the wardrobe and start again.

7. In your clutch/purse/bag, be sure to pack the following items along with your standard clutch contents - safety pins, electrical tape, an Enviro bag which folds up into a small ball for easy storage but sure does come in handy when you're faced with a person about to vomit and you're caught without an aforementioned kebab packet, bandaids, gauze, perhaps an entire First Aid kit, a Please-Return-To card with your name and address in case you forget who you are and where you live, a laminated (very important) photo of yourself just in case you go missing but your clutch does not and finally, a muesli bar (in case you get peck-ish.)

8. When deciding who will be your midnight manic pash, remember this is how you're welcoming in the New Year. Think carefully - do you really want your first memory of 2012 to be with someone who's wearing an Ed Hardy t-shirt?

9. When faced with the horrendous and difficult task of getting a cab home, put yourself in the shoes of the taxi driver. Who would you pick up? The person who looks green or the person who is waving a few more notes of green than is necessary for a fare to Surry Hills. It may be wrong, but when it comes to snaffling transport on New Year's Eve, it's every man (and his money) for himself. And if you don't have any money? Walk. And if you can't walk? Pull out your Please-Return-To card and hope for the best.

10. And as the fireworks explode over the harbor or the paddock or the beach or just on the TV and the glorious 2012 presents itself in fine form, take a second to revel in the moment. A new beginning. A fresh start. A clean slate. Embrace it.

And then throw up.

KH.

All I Want For Christmas Is...

2011-12-23T18:17:00.000+11:00

1. To star in a Christmas movie with Olivia Newton John

2. Cleaning fairies. You know, to clean stuff

3. Ryan Gosling

4. A puppy that's cuter than Ryan Gosling.

5. A never ending packet of Tim Tams

6. A never expanding waist-line for my never ending packet of Tim Tams

7. A carrier pigeon, so I have another communicative device to compulsively check

8. A Quick-Quotes Quill in which to write my resume

9. The Secrets To The Universe

10. The Secrets to Lara Bingle's success as a celebrity

11. One ring to rule them all

12. Snow

13. A worm-hole between my bedroom and the USA, which by-passes border control and issues you a green-card and a 'Party in the USA' singing telegram upon arrival

14. A non-toxic-to-humans bomb which when it explodes, smells like warm cookies while killing all the little black ants in a 100 metre radius. Then the cleaning fairies, mentioned in Item 2, will come and disspose of their repulsively minty carcasses

15. An iPhone which turns into a Transformer. An iPhonebot, not a Decepticon

16. George Clooney in a Santa suit. Acceptable alternatives to this include Robert Redford, Kevin Costner and Dr. Chris Havel in Offspring

17. A puppy that is cuter than Ryan Gosling and George Clooney in a Santa suit

18. To be Where The Wild Things Are

19. Someone to scrub my foot calluses

20. Someone to employ me

And in return...

Merry Christmas!

KH.

Itsy-Bitsy-Spider is not so itsy-bitsy when he's the member of an army

2011-12-03T11:21:00.001+11:00

How's this for irony?

After watching Spiderman the other night, I decided to take myself off to bed. Because I was tired but mostly because the special effects back in 2002 leave much to be desired. While I was pulling back the sheets, I noticed three little spiders crawling on the wall near my bed.

'Huh,' I thought to myself. 'Maybe they are superspiders and I am about to become the next Spiderwoman, with my own slew of comic books and poorly made blockbuster films?' But, deciding that I hate the sensation of blowing my nose let alone having spiderwebs shooting out from my wrists, maybe I am better off as I am.

So I squished the possible superspiders with my plugger.

But then I saw some more of them climbing up my wall. And then I looked up at the ceiling.

The ceiling was covered in an army of itsy-bitsy spiders. Hundreds of them. It was like Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, but in my bedroom rather than the Forbidden Forest. And without Harry. They were all scuttling together and at any second, they were going to swarm me and carry me away to their hovel in my back garden.

So I promptly screamed like a little girl and ran out of the room.

What does one do when their ceiling becomes the set of a horror movie?

One goes to town with a jumbo can of Mortein. Then they have a shower just in case any fell in their hair. And then they sleep in the spare bedroom.

But after you've gassed a hundred-odd superspiders and inhailed enough fumes to make yourself high, some stupid thoughts start running through your head as you're lying in bed trying to go to sleep.

Like, what if all the itsy-bitsy superspiders who's carcasses are now lying on your bedroom floor suddenly come back to life and come looking for revenge? It's not like you can just shut the bedroom door and rest easy. They're superspiders. They'll find a way. Probably under the little gap between the door and the floor.

Or what if there are more of them? And they come crawling through the cracks of the house and down the airconditioning vents and I wake up to their little faces looking at me greedily?

Or I wake up and they've taken over the house? And instead of living in a normal four-bedroom Australian dream-home, I have to live in a spider hovel, kept hostage by the superspiders. And over time, I start to develop evil spider senses and then I terrorise the town folk like the nemises do on Smallville.

Or what if when I went on my Mortein-rampage, some of them fell in my hair and are now making nests in my eardrums? And I'll end up on a squeamish episode of Medical Marvels alongside the man who has tree roots growing out of his foot calluses.

Or what if they're under my skin laying eggs? And I wake up covered in boils which explode with spider spawn?

You get the idea...

I finally did fall asleep, with the Mortein can in one hand and my plugger in the other. And when I woke up, I wasn't living in the spider hovel nor was I sporting any strange skin boils about to explode with spider spawn.

Nope, I was your everyday 24-year-old girl. There were no side effects.

Except the sudden craving I have for insects. Not sure what that's about...

Reasons why being a scorpio can be bad for the blogging business...

2011-11-20T12:55:00.001+11:00

My friend and I were talking yesterday about horoscopes and their traits. I am a scorpio and apparently, according to the cosmic realm of the stars, I am meant to be firey and emotional with a tendency to bottle my feelings.

This I already knew. The emotional, bottle-my-feelings part seems about right.

"But, firey?" I said to my friend. "I'm not firey! I hate conflict!"

To which my friend looked at me like I had just taken all my clothes off and danced around the room singing tribal worship songs. That is, she looked somewhat shocked and bemused.

To which I then remembered the conversation we had had about six hours earlier where I admited my tendency to pick fights with people I'd just met when I'd had too much to drink. Not in an unnecessarily, over-aggressive, throwing punches, get-hauled-out-of-the-pub-by-very-large-muscled-bouncers kind of way. But in an I'm-right-you're-wrong-let's-argue-instead-of-make-pointless-small-talk kind of way.

To which my friend then pointed out that the majority of my blog posts were related to times in my life when I was really pissed off and needed to channel my firey fury in a sarcastic, but socially-acceptable way.

To which I then felt very sheepish.

And like I didn't know myself at all.

Because she was pretty right (Not entirely, but mostly. She wasn't wrong, but she wasn't entirely right either. There's still a bit of room for me to be right also...) I looked back over my last couple of posts and all of them were courtesy of something that had tickled my scorpian tail and sent me on a stinging spree- not being able to rent a studio in Sydney because I am poor, the bin-bandit who got a bee in his bonet about my throwing my coffee cup in his trash and 7th Heaven's anti-sex clause. All of them a big fat gripe sesh. Just me, up on my scorpian soap box having a nice fat old rant.

So then I thought, maybe I am too firey for my own good? Maybe people don't want to hear about all the things that go wrong in my life or get me in a hot tizz? Maybe they want to hear about the good stuff too? The happy things that happen to me?

So...

Today I went for a walk. And I saw a puppy. And I decided that, no, the puppy was not cuter than Ryan Gosling.

Then I had breakfast with my best boy friend. (My best friend who is a boy. Not boyfriend. Note the space inbetween). And my breakfast was so delicious and the company so wonderful, I felt like I had floated up into the clouds and was bouncing around on their soft billowy white cotton ball-ness I believe clouds would possess if they weren't made out of air and moisture.

Then I went shopping. And I didn't buy anything because nothing fit me and the shop attendent looked like she'd just eaten sourcrout, but that was okay. Because when I looked in the mirror, I liked the person with the 'great personality' who looked back. And I'm sure the shop attendent only looked like she just eated sourcrout because her boyfriend broke up with her the night before and she tried to drown her problems in a few bottles of Passion Pop.

And then on the way home from the shops, I found a four-leaf clover, picked up a coin that was heads up, caught a Santa Claus whisker, made a wish and had it come true on the spot

Then the heavens opened up and the cosmic stars slapped me across the face and said, "You're a scorpio. Be the bitchin' blogger we intended you to be."

Well, if my horoscopes say so...

KH.

Let's Talk About Sex, 7th Heaven.

2011-11-13T11:10:00.001+11:00

Dear Camden Family,

This goes out to the entire family of 7th Heaven - the Reverand Camden, wife Annie, children Matt, Mary, Lucy, Simon and Ruthie and the twins, Sam and David who may not yet know what sex is, but are a product of sex and therefore, this is still relevant to you.

I've been watching your obnoxious family every day at 10 o'clock for the last few weeks. I can't help that the television show which follows the ins-and-outs of your dramatic lives plays every week day at the exact time I like to have my second cup of morning coffee. This is not my fault. It's either you or The View. And as I still harbor a bitter resentment towards Whoopie Goldberg for never making a sequel to Jumping Jack Flash, looks like I have no choice but to be a witness to your sorry lives.

For a christian family, you certainly have a lot of drama. Not that christian families should have any less drama than non-christian families. I mean, if they made the plight of Job into a blockbuster, I'm pretty sure Brad Pitt or George Clooney or Robbie Redford or whichever over-the-hill hottie they chose to play God's humble servant would put in the kind of Oscar-winning performance which made people reconsider the difficulties of being Godly in the face of grief. But you are not Job and Satan has not smited your family and covered you in boils to try and prove a point.

Instead, big-brother Matt is off marrying women on a whim, Mary is behaving like the bad seed, Lucy is a drama-queen, Simon has started an escort service and Ruthie is an A-grade gossip. I can't help but notice that your drama seems a little self-inflicted. Not to mention, the majority of you don't exactly exercise christian values on an hourly basis. For the most part, you're all pretty selfish and self-involved.

And you're all obssessed with relationships. But that's not exactly an uncharacteristic trait of christians, is it?

Except maybe for Mother Theresa, the one woman who's biological clock screamed, "Help the sick" instead of "Have a big white wedding and procreate".

I get it, Camden offspring. Believe me, I know what it's like. I get what you're trying to achieve here. All you want is to find a nice parter, put a ring on each other's fingers, get hitched and get God's gold star for 'waiting'.

To have sex.

To have sex sex sex.

Sex.

The word itself is not hard to say. It's one syllable. We all know what it means and what it involves. We've had the awkward health class conversations and most people have done the deed itself. So, I don't understand why you can't just say the word 'sex' instead of referring to it the way you do - with a knowing nod of the head or shrug of the shoulders or awkward, pointless exchange. For example,

"Mary and whatever-his-name-is are going to... you know" (wide eyes, blank stare)

or

"When she said 'let's go upstairs' I thought she meant to brush our teeth (turn head slightly and look sheepish)

You're really putting one over us with that ambiguity. I feel positively hoodwinked.

I understand the standard audience who watch your family feud are not typically 24-year old unemployed creative writers with unhealthy coffee habits and a tendency to critique. They're more like PG13 sponges ready to soak up anything that will help them get through their pubescent lives with a bit of dignity. But do you honestly think not saying 'sex' outloud is going to help them achieve that? If anything, it's only further encouraging the sex stigma, a topic made all the more taboo by the awkward eyes you make at each other to get your point across.

What exactly are you encouraging by hiding behind a head nod? That sex is not something they should talk about? That the word shouldn't even be mentioned let alone the act discussed?

As a christian family with christian morals, there's no nookie-nookie for any offspring until your Facebook status officially says 'married'. However, that doesn't mean you have to treat the word like it's the forbidden fruit. Reverand Camden, I understand you're trying to teach your children good values and godliness. But even God says the word 'sex'. He probably sniggers afterwards because I like to think God has a sense of boyish humour about him. But he says it all the same.

So say the word, you prudie protestants or I'm going to start watching The View.

And I doubt Whoopie Goldberg's sex life is as gripping as yours.

In sexual sincerity,

KH.

Trash Talk

2011-11-01T15:08:00.000+11:00

I am not an active environmentalist. I don't picket or rally. I don't float in the middle of the ocean protesting against whale slaughtering. I sit in the comfort of my own home and obtusely watch people who are braver than me get credited for acts of environmental initiative on the evening news.

But I do what I can to protect the dolphins and the birds and the lady beetles. I have short showers. I decline the option of plastic shopping bags when possible and I put my rubbish in the bin.

So imagine my surprise, while walking down Forveaux St this morning having just finished off a coffee from Bourke St Bakery, that I got reprimanded for putting my take-away cup in a resident's council wheelie bin.

Granted, I could have held on to the cup for another five minutes before I got up to my own apartment complex, but the bin was on the side of the street so I popped it in and kept walking.

Unbeknown to me, the home owner was standing with some friends right infront of it and didn't smile upon my own small act of environmental initiative. Instead, he yelled out after me, "Um, this isn't a council bin!"
Except that it was. Because it had a red lid. And while residing on someone's stoop is still the property of the council, not the home owner.

The company I was with turned around and politely yelled back, "Um, why don't you chill out?" while I continued walking, slightly bemused as to how I'd received a slap across the wrist for initiating a good deed.

It's not like I'd walked into his house and helped myself to his kitchen trash can. It was on the stoop of his terrace, seperated from the street by a waist-high iron fence. It was a matter of flipping open the red lid and putting the cup inside. Granted, people probably put their trash in his bin all the time. It probably bothers him no end. Everytime he goes to put his trash out, his bins are overflowing with Bourke St Bakery takeaway cups and he waves a fist at God, crying "Why?! Why, God?! Why!?"

But what if he hadn't caught me red-handed? Would he have even noticed my small addition to his weekly waste? My coffee cup would just be another piece of trash in a bin that's contents are going to the same place as my own rubbish bin. No matter who's bin the cup ended up in, mine or his, it was still destined for the same landfill. So does it really matter? Isn't the point that it was put in a bin in the first place?

If I wanted to be a dolphin-killing, lady-beetle blitzing, luting, polluting anti-environmentalist I would have dropped the cardboard cup on the side of the street and never thought of it again. But I grew up watching Captain Planet. I took the vow of the Planeteer long ago and therefore, put my rubbish in the bin just like Kwame, Wheeler, Linka, Gi and Ma-Ti told me too. Otherwise Captain Planet will disown me and Gaia will smite me with lightening.

Apparently, the power isn't yours. The power belongs to the analy-retentive resident on Forveaux St who dishes out a side of guilt with his trashbags and leftover takeaway containers.

Maybe this guy is Looten Plunder in disguise? Better get my Planeteer ring out of retirement...

KH.

(Past Your) Prime Real Estate

2011-10-29T14:08:00.001+11:00

I haven't officially moved back to Sydney yet, but that doesn't stop me from planning what my perfect life is going to look like when I do.

And the perfect life requires the perfect apartment.

For awhile there, I had this delusional idea that I could live by myself in a studio. After watching too many episodes of Sex And The City and developing an unrealistic idea of the world, I thought I could be single and fabulous ala Carrie Bradshaw in a art-deco apartment in Darlinghurst. I could have a gigantuous walk-in closet, I could sit on the kitchen counter to eat take out and could walk around the apartment naked. It was all going to be so perfect.

But once again, I am faced with the sad realisation that Sex And The City is girl-porn but nothing like real life.

As I was trawling through the online property listings, it started to become clear. If you're a struggling 20-something on a base salary on $40,000, you're only accommodation option is to live in a share house (or at home, but really? Really?) Even if you were to find a studio which was under $300 a week, add on top of that your utilities and an addiction to expensive cheese and you're looking at a large chunk of your weekly pay disappearing to living expenses.

Plus, I have picky requirements regarding studios. I don't like the idea of cooking curry in the same room as my bed. That smell travels. And clings.

And it's not that I have any issues living in a sharehouse. As long as you can stomach my sarcasm, unashamed addiction to trashy television and lazy habit of leaving used teabags in the sink, I'm everybody's dream roomie.

But when you've spent the last 15 months either living in a camp bunk with 14 teenagers, in a share-room with three other girls or a hostel room with God-knows who and what, personal space becomes a relished term.

Hence, the desire to flat with me, myself and I.

However, the Sydney real estate market is stubborn and unwilling. A clean, fairly fashionable studio apartment with a seperate bedroom/living space and a kitchen with a stove-top is in the range of $400 to $500 a week. Can a struggling 20-something on a base salary of $40,000 afford that?

Yes, if I never eat, shop or get my nails done ever again. And I walk every where. And I join a nudist colony on the weekends. That way I'll never need to buy clothes or a bikini. Or get a spray-tan.

This discovery made me realise that the only time I am ever going to be able to live by myself in an art-deco apartment in Darlinghurst is when I am making upwards of $60,000 a year. And for a creative-type, the only time I'm going to be making that kind of money is when I've been in the industry for a few decades and they have to pay me on experience. So, when I'm 40.

Which made me realise, the only time I can ever live by myself in my dream studio apartment in Darlinghust is when I am 40. And still single.

Gulp.

This seems somehow unfair (not to mention, terrifying) . Just because I am young and single, the real estate market is forcing me to slum it in a share house? And when (IF! I mean IF!) I am 40 and still single, only then I can have my own walk-in closet?

I guess this must be the perk of being 40 and unattached. One gets to sit on the kitchen counter, naked, eating take out in their swanky, art-deco apartment in Darlinghurst.

Well, if it's good enough for Carrie Bradshaw....

KH.

Over The Hills

2011-10-27T13:49:00.000+11:00

A terrible thing happened this week.

The last episode of The Hills aired on Australian television.

I am in mourning.

In my post-travel, umemployed lifestyle, I had taken to watching The Hills on Go! every afternoon at 4:30 while running on the treadmill in my living room.

Not only did watching The Hills feel indulgently pathetic, but watching it while working out in the kind of sad saggy sweats one is too embarrassed to wear outside of the house, made it also comfortable.

But mostly pathetic.

I found a sick enjoyment about working out while watching the superficial lifestyles of The Hills' transpire in front of me. Plus, imagining myself with abs as flat as Audrina's always helped get me through those last asthma-inducing kilometres.

I have an unashamed, minor obsession with The Hills. I realise the show is completely fabricated. No one's hair is that blonde, no one's teeth are that white and no one has that much money to spend on spray tans as well as Hollywood rent. Most importantly however, no one's life is that affected by drama on a daily basis.

Except, maybe Lara Bingle.

Oh, but isn't this what is so satisfying about The Hills? The drama. The drama that has absolutely nothing to do with you, but you can be a non-involved by-stander passing opinion while all those trivial tall tales are spun like a silk web?

And doing all that while pounding it out on a treadmill in the early afternoon heat? Oh heaven.

But the more I watch, the more I start to feel like I am actually involved with these people, that they're actually my friends. I have lamented every failed relationship of LC's, wished Kristen wasn't doing such an injustice to the collective of our Given Name, yelled at the television screen everytime Audrina got sweet-talked by Justin Bobby and withheld my rage every time Spencer opened his insidious mouth.

Until I realise I know more about these 'characters' than I do my own friends. Then I think maybe The Hills reaching a sixth and final season is a good thing and a prime opportunity to ditch my saggy sweats and pound the pavement outside.

Maybe I'll run to JB Hi-Fi and buy The City of DVD?

KH.

You can grow the mo, but can you raise the dough?

2011-10-25T13:22:00.000+11:00

November is coming up which is exciting because that means my birthday is a few weeks away and that means I get to be spoilt and claim the limelight for 24 hours (plus the birthday sub-clause of additional birthday limelight three days prior and three days after actual birthday, which is general birthday celebration etiquette.)

And with November comes other things - the last month of Spring, the Melbourne Cup and Movember.

Ah, Movember. An annual tradition that must be endured for the good cause that is furthering research for prostate cancer.

I have a small issue with Movember, although nothing to do with the actual meaning behind it. It's not that even that I dislike facial hair. I appreciate a good after-5 shadow, a handlebar moustache makes my loins tingle and there's something about a man with a full wirey beard that makes me feel naughty. I swear, it has something to do with Ned Kelly, who in my bushranger dreams is a bad boy and therefore, a debaucherous lover.

Anyhoo...

My issue with Movember is men sporting beards, whether they be side burns, Mexican mo's or a Chopper Reid-styled 'stash simply for the sake of Movember. Not because they are registered with the Movember organisation and actively raising funds for prostate cancer research.

It's walking the walk, but not talking the talk. Growing the mo, but not raising the dough. I understand and appreciate the activity of creating awareness, but it bothers me when people say they're 'doing Movember' and all that involves is not shaving their lip hair for a few weeks.

I want to see true dedication. I want your donation tin rattled under my nose. I want to invest in your facial fuzz and feel like I too, am supporting something important. Because when you're officially doing it for the cause, other people get to enjoy your mo too, not just you.

So gents (and ladies, I guess. I mean, you never know what kind of imbalanced hormones some people have. I don't want to exclude those with their fair share of testosterone), please go and register! Do it for your mo. It'll help it grow. And you can be a bearded beauty knowing that your 'stash is raising some cash.

KH.

Guess who's back, back again...

2011-10-14T15:46:00.000+11:00

After a 16 month hiatus from The KH Chronicles, I bet you thought I would never come back.

I bet some of you even hoped that I wouldn't. Shame on you.

But here I am again, back in the editor's seat of the most opinionated publication in cyberspace.

Returning from my 15 month jaunt in the USA and Canada, I can confidently say I am not the same girl who sat in front of this blog little over a year ago.

Okay, so I might have the same face, the same caffeine addiction and the same lack of social etiquette, but the rest of me is different. Kind of like a sweat-stained dress you put in for dry-cleaning that comes back looking all sparkly and new again. I feel all sparkly and new.

I won't bore you with slides and stories that begin with, "Oh, that's just like that time I was in New York City..." or (cue abnoxious laugh) "You remind me so much of this great friend I met snowboarding the Canadian alps..." because I was once a non-traveller too and I know how that talk is like an ice-pick to the brain.

Plus, you should have read Where In The World is KH anyway and need nothing explained to you.

As you can see, The KH Chronicles has had a bit of a makeover. I thought it was about time the header had a facelift. If The Daily Telegraph can re-design so can I, but don't fret. I'm not going tabloid just yet.

The KH Chronicles is still going to have your daily dose of wit and satire. I'm just making the place look a little more stream-lined. Plus, the Blogspot designer is so fancy these days I feel like a female Steve Jobs.

... too soon?

If I can draw your attention to the right-hand side of the screen, we have some newly published pages about Yours Truly. This may be of particular interest to those readers who have been re-directed here courtesy of a recent job application that may have landed in your inbox. There's a couple of You Tube clips in there too, if you're tired of reading.

But if you're tired of reading... what are you doing here? This is a blog.

Have a look around. Get a little reacquainted. Feel free to hire me if you like what you see.

KH.

2010-06-17T16:58:00.000+10:00

Dear KH Chroniclers,

It is my great pleasure to annouce that after months of drama, pitches, planning and unemployment, I am finally departing on my whirlwind adventure overseas.

I would like to thank you all for your support, comments and encouragement over the last 10 months The KH Chronicles has been in operation. This makes for my 100th post and seems a fitting way to end what has been a life-changing 'way to waste time'.

While The KH Chronicles may be going on standby while I am away, I am proud to offer you an alternative fix...

Where In The World Is KH? will be chronicling every hostel, happy camper and horror story as I make my way from Summer Camp to snow-capped mountains. I'm making no promises that it will be every day (we all know the internet is entirely to unreliable for such a declaration) but regular(ish) posts are a promise.

Cheers once again, and for the last time...

Ciao for now. xo

Real

2010-06-17T16:47:00.000+10:00

Tomorrow, I am flying to New York City.

I have been telling myself this all day, trying to make it sink in. But it still feels surreal, a fantasy, like at any moment I am going to be wrenched awake and faced with the sad reality of my boring life.

But this is real.

The backpack sitting on my bed, stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey and the zippers straining to prove it, is real. My crisp passport with all but one international stamp, lying snug inside my travel wallet, is real. The ticket waiting for me at Brisbane International Airport, is real. My seat on the plane to New York City, is real. All. Oh. So. Real.

I still feel a little lost – like I should be feeling more. Like I should be scared shitless or so excited I can’t sleep. But despite the ‘real’ I am faced with as I pack up my life and kiss everyone goodbye, I still feel strangely empty inside. There are no overwhelming nerves tempting me to chew off all my nails. No buzz of excitement pulsing through my veins. Tonight- my last night in Australia, my last night with my family, my last night eating a home-cooked meal and sleeping in my warm little bed – feels like any other ordinary night.

It’s as if I am somehow at peace with all the excitement and the nerves. I have spent 10 long months coming to grips with the fact that I am going that in my own head, I think I am already gone. I think I left a long time ago, the moment I first saw the website for Appel Farm Summer Camp.

But I can’t deny that the excitement still gets to me. It creeps up on me every now and again and gives me a nudge, a reminder that even though I might feel calm, this is still the most exciting thing I’ve ever done. This is still the bravest, the biggest, the ballsiest leap of faith I’ve ever made. You can’t fool yourself out of that kind of excitement.

Tomorrow, I am flying to New York City. Tomorrow I am gone.

Ciao for now. xo

It's About Time

2010-06-13T13:01:00.000+10:00

Tick tock - here that? The countdown is officially on. Not only have we entered the home stretch, we are approaching the finish line with surprising speed.

I can't believe that six months ago I didn't think the clock could tick any slower. Now it feels like the minute hand is spinning around at warp speed. And the realisation is most profound - not only have the last two weeks of my time in Queensland sped past like a V8, but the last six months, not to mention the last five years.

That's right. I've been out of highschool for five years. Where exactly did that time go?

Oh that's right... into a HECS bill.

Time has always been an enemy of mine. Every corner of my life is ruled by time. Deadlines. From my profession right down to boiling the kettle to make a cup of tea. Everything is a matter of how long it will take to do something, how long I have to complete a task, how long I have to wait. I am a walking expiry date, terrified of going mouldy.

It's always been this way. When I was in Year 12, I knew the end of the year held this monstrous rite-of-passage where I would finally move out of Gympie and to the big smoke in Brisbane. Nothing and no one was going to prevent me from doing so. I didn't want any excuse to stay in Gympie. So in those final months I stayed well away from boys and any ties they might bring.

It was the same when I moved to Sydney. Once I made that decision, I didn't want to have to leave anyone behind. Finding myself a boyfriend so close to moving away would only further complicate my ambition, so I denied myself and moved into my new digs in New South Wales as a single gal.

And literally like clockwork, I'm now back in the same place. Leaving again and not wanting any further reason to make it hard on myself. The deadline of going away is difficult enough without the addition of a broken heart.

So I'm a walking expiry date. Always have been. And maybe that means I haven't had as much (well, let's be honest Mr. Abbott) any experience when it comes to working in the romance department. Maybe that means I am an emotional cripple, a commitment-phobe, and the poor boy who eventually decides to love me is going to have an interesting time dealing with my fear of settling down, but whatever. At least I am not mouldy. My plan had cause. I am free to do whatever I like, with who ever I like, where ever I like without anyone or any boy to tell me otherwise.

But the plan isn't flawless. I may not have a boy to leave behind, but there's always someone. Or somebodies. And being back in Brisbane for these last few days has reminded me of that. It may be easier not growing mouldy and always being the one who leaves, but you can never escape the sting of leaving somebody behind.

I guess I thought I didn't have that much to lose by going overseas. Brisbane seemed like an eternity ago, I had a small circle of friends in Sydney and had spent the last year busting my butt in job which was a daily struggle for survival. All the stars seemed aligned for ditching it all to go overseas. But being back in Brisvegas with my friends has totally thrown me. I am reminded of everyone I love and who loves me and who have continued loving me despite all my galivanting around. And who will love me when I leave. And who will love me when I get back. And who will love me when I eventually leave again. Friends like that are hard to find and mine must be awfully forgiving, for all the whiplash I put them through.

So this post is dedicated to those people - Brisbane and Sydney alike - friends who have welcomed me into their lives even though I so frequently leave. Friends who keep up with me as I run ahead of my deadlines and who I know will never, ever let me grow mouldy.

Ciao for now. xo

The Sound of Silence

2010-06-02T14:42:00.000+10:00

After 15 hours of driving, three too many cups of McDonald’s coffee and one horrifying experience with a pit toilet just outside of Grafton, my mother, my self and all my stuff finally made it safely home. I have officially left Sydney. And in 17 days, I officially leave the country.
Despite all the hoopla that led up to my going overseas, leaving Sydney feels like the first step of many. For the last six months, I’ve felt like a sitting duck. I’ve been counting down the days till I leave like an excited child counts down to Christmas. This trip has been the bright, shining beacon of hope that has guided me through life’s putrid swamp. And now, it’s a mere 17 days away.
It’s strange being home. For the last 18 months, I’ve been living in a city which literally never sleeps. I can’t remember a night which hasn’t been interrupted with the screams of a siren speeding down ANZAC Parade or the grumbles of the gutter cleaners as they sweep the leaves and litter and cigarette butts out of Sydney’s streets. At first, those sounds kept me awake for hours. Now, my nights are empty without them.

My parents’ place may as well be in a different world, let alone a different state. Garbage trucks and the loud whir of air-conditioning fans have been replaced by bird calls and the stop-start sound of a postman’s motorbike. You can actually hear the wind.
And nighttime is worse. There is nothing but silence. A silence so deafening, it keeps me awake. There are no gutter cleaners or wailing sirens or the faint conversation of the tenants who live upstairs. Just silence – thick, empty silence.

Lying awake last night listening for the sound of anything – cars, dogs, an axe-wielding murderer coming to slice me in my insomnia – I realized this was what I had been craving for the last six months, to be free of all the loud, stressful sound in my life. The sound of every minute ticking by in which I wasn’t making money, the sound of people telling me ‘No’ or worse, the empty sound of people telling me nothing at all. The sound of my computer loading my email account and the sound of the sigh which escaped me when I saw the inbox was still empty.
Finally, after months and months of sound, there is nothing but silence.
As I lay in bed, I realised my moving out of Sydney and my making the first step towards my trip, means I no longer have to be defined by those sounds. Instead, they have been replaced with silence. A silence which means I have nothing and no one to answer to, no responsibilities, no stress to be preoccupied over. A silence which can only be filled with one thing – my thoughts.
And they are unwaveringly, unabashedly, 100 percent obsessed with what will happen in 17 days.

Ciao for now. xo

Writing's On The Wall

2010-05-25T22:57:00.001+10:00

Sister Dearest and I are a bit obessesed with street art at the moment.

It comes as I prepare for my last week in Sydney before heading back to Queensland in lieu of my departure. As I visit my favourite places, eat at my favourite cafes and make the most of my final smog-laden breathes, I've been made privy to a side of Sydney which up until now, I've always taken for granted.

I frequently walk past street art but rarely stop and really appreciate it. Maybe it's because I live in a city where everything is on fast forward or the fact that I am surrounded almost entirely by concrete. But you'd think then that the coloured artworks which are secretly painted onto billboards and building walls in the witching hours would stand out amongst the city doom and gloom.

It's not until I take a moment to really look for it that I discover that street art is everywhere. The one-way streets and alleyways which coil throughout Surry Hills are an urban gallery of guerilla artworks. But this is no haphazard vandalism. This is the result of a creative eye and of careful planning. This is the result of a few creative individuals who want to make our city more beautiful and who want art to be available to the masses.

Politicians, city counsel workers and people with no creative appreciation are quick to label street art as grafitti - 'vandalism' by a public nuisance who couldn't keep his paint brush on the paper.

One of Britain's most famous public nuisances is Banksy, a guerilla artists who is no stranger to narrow-minded opinions. His own outlook on politics, war, homophobia, sexism, religion, materialism, advertising (shall I go on?) has been painted, sprayed, glued and 'grafittied' across every possible surface in Britain. The Metropolitan police consider him a vandal and his work an eyesore. What Banksy is is a libertine who believes that the true defacers of public property are the advertising giants and political executives who's slogans contribute to the inadequacies which filter through our lives.

It may not be quite as serious in Sydney, but the city's most famous creative milieus - Surry Hills, Darlinghurst, Kings Cross and Newtown - have gained their fame courtesy of the creative types who push boundaries (and buildings) with their artworks. It's why people - executives, lawyers and bankers alike - flock to these suburbs. They set up their houses and fill them with brands and BMWs and material goods and relish their being apart of such a socially-distinguished suburb.

Ironic really, given the messages these urban artworks were painted to promote.

Ciao for now.

(Image Credit: Banksy and Darlinghurst Nights)

SIDE NOTE: Wear Are The Pants?

2010-05-18T17:48:00.001+10:00

All I can say is... Amen!

Ciao for now. xo

A New World of Excitement

2010-05-18T17:39:00.000+10:00

It's exactly one month until I go overseas.

One month.

That's 31 days.

31 more days of twiddling my thumbs, frugally counting every dollar and shamefully abusing my journalism skills by investigating every minor detail I can dig up about Appel Farm, my summer camp and soon to be home away from home.

And don't even get me started on the Facebook stalking. Needless to say, it's hitting an all time high. Is it so wrong that I want to see who my fellow counsellors will be and what the camp looks like, based on the thousands of photos posted between 1960 and now?

I don't think so.

Now that the count down is really on, now that I am a mere month away from traveldom and can almost feel the aeroplane cabin air sucking the moisture out of my face, I'm getting excited. Really excited. The kind of excited that keeps you up at night (no kids...not THAT kind of excited...) but the excited that gives you verbal word vomit wherein you can't speak, write or dream about anything else.

And I'm not kidding about the dreams either. I am a woman obsessed.

I tried to put it off for as long as possible by denying myself the excitement. I tried pushing camp and my inevitable travel plans to the very back of my mind and not indulging in them. Partly, because I was worried that if I gave into the excitement, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. For six months, I would have to put up with this rabid excitement eating away at every aspect of my life.

No, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. And neither would anybody else.

But the excitement eventually found me. It sniffed me out, jumped up on to my lap and wagged its tail while looking longingly into my eyes. So I gave in and allowed the excitement to make itself at home.

And has it ever.

Hence the word vomit. Now that I am no longer living in travel denial, all I can think about is camp. All I can talk about is camp. All I can facebook stalk is, you guessed it, camp. I am obsessed and greedily hungry for any smackeral of information I can get my hands on. Every photo, video or review brings me that little bit closer to working out what is in store for me - who I will meet, what I will do, who I will be. And the more information I find, the more the excitement intensifies and even if I try to abstain, the excitement ends up power spewing all over the people I love.

But after everything that's happened in my attempt to make this adventure possible, I figure I'm allowed to be excited. I'm allowed to do a celebration dance simply because I purchased my backpack today (I actually did - both purchase my packpack today and do a celebration dance). I'm allowed to toss and turn all night because I can't stop going over every detail in my head. I'm allowed to let the excitement in.

I'm allowed, because just like buying your first pack and crying at the gate of the airport and taking a million photos nobody else cares to see, it's part of the backpacker's rite-of-passage to be excited.

And to make everybody else jealous.

Ciao for now. xo

What Internet?

2010-05-15T13:00:00.000+10:00

Hello my loves!

I know it's been awhile. I know it looks like I've forsaken you and that The KH Chronicles has fallen subject to laziness. But it's not true! The KH Chronicles has fallen subject to the internet, or a lack there of.

Without any kind of connection at home (my modem seems to have waved farewell and passed on to the land of dead modems) I have had to come to the good ol' library in order to pump this post out. Hopefully, this will only be a short term fix, as much like a dog who won't pee when it's watched, I get nervous knowing that the people around me are shiftly watching my screen.

So sit tight! Report back! Hopefully within the next 48 hours my new modem will be purring and fresh posts will be coming your way.

Until then....

Ciao for now. xo

WHO Do You Think You Are?

2010-05-07T16:02:00.001+10:00

Ergh... I am so sick of all these body-image-self-love-anti-flagellation messages that seem to awash every magazine cover I come across.

It's not the idea of loving one's body that jerks my chain. It's the ironically backwards way these magazines go about trying to make women feel more comfortable in their skin. When really, they're saying one thing and doing the complete opposite.

I know it sounds like I'm flogging a dead horse. I've touched on these topic plenty of times before. But it just goes to show that as boistrous as some (okay...most) magazines are in the messages they promote about body image, they aren't getting the message themselves.

This week's guilty party is Who - usually one of my more favourite glossips for their superb balance of celebrity garbage and fashion front-runners - but this week, the trash talk and fashion faux pas fall short. Because gracing the cover is Rikki Lee Coulter, Lisa McCune and Johanna Griggs beneath a bright pink banner CELEBRITIES WITHOUT MAKEUP.

I know what you're thinking, because I thought the exact same thing. Sweet - celebrities baring their blemishes, puss-filled pimples for all to see, pores the size of Peru , blackheads, bags under the eyes - all those ugly traits which us normal people hide beneath layers upon layers of Revlon Ultra-Conceal.
What better way to perk myself up than to see 'the beautiful people' looking like every day, normal hags.

Well not in this magazine they don't.

I'm sorry to dissapoint, but there was nothing oozing, nothing red and nothing inflamed from excessive squeezing. In fact, normal was far from what I saw. These women looked like they'd walked out of a three-day spa fix in the Maldives where they'd been scrubbed, soothed and spray-tanned within an inch of their relaxed lives.

In other words, they looked beautiful, and therefore, completely unrealistic.

Staring at these flawless complexions, I became confused. What was I supposed to learn from this? What message was Who trying to sell me? Here are three women who look even more beautiful without make-up, tanned and natural, yet completely unnatural at the same time. Maybe one in every million women look that good without a link of paint, leaving the other 999,999 to feel even more self-aware of their 'beauty'.

It seems now, not only do we have to cope with hoping to look beautiful with makeup, but we have to cope with hoping to look beautiful without makeup too. Awesome - another message about body-image which has further scrambled my insecurities.

So I don't know what to think anymore - about Who or about body image. It's all smoke and mirrors, if you ask me.

But if it's reassurance they were going for, had they feature Rikki Lee with a dirty big Z-I-T on her nose, I'm pretty certain I would be feeling a whole lot better about the face that greets me in the mirror each morning.

Ciao for now. xo

Keep your thoughts, and your Facebook posts, to yourself

2010-04-18T15:17:00.002+10:00

I don't begrudge those who are in love. It must be a wonderful time. A time for existing in your own couply bubble. A time for getting comfortable with all the things you despise about yourself. A time for getting comfortable with all the things you despise about someone else. A time for feeling all gooey and mushy inside. I don't begrudge any of this. I just don't appreciate it when someone else's romantic goo and mush gets all over my life.

You know what I'm talking about - PDAing. Public Displays of Affection. Not being able to turn a street corner without seeing two people practically jumping each other or playing a spot of tonsil hockey or rubbing noses or cooching and cooing each other. Train platforms, bus stations, Myers cosmetic counters, the park bench, McDonalds. Like pigeons, PDAers are everywhere.

And now, they're on Facebook too.

PFAs - Public Facebooks of Affection.

Example -

Sarah Needy is missing her man. He ducked out to get some milk and it feels like eternity!

Jenny Overshare is sooo lucky to have a boyfriend who'll massage her bunions after a long day at the office.

Sally Obsessed is deciding whether to polish her engagement ring or try on her wedding dress again. Hope my hubby-to-be doesn't come home with a surprise bunch of flowers and catch me out!

Um...bucket anyone? Or maybe a spew bag?

It doesn't stop there though. It gets better...or worse. PFAing is not limited to profile updates alone. There are those PFAers who like to take it one step further and post their viciously vomitous PFAs on each other's walls, subjecting the rest of their Facebook community to the ins-and-outs of every romantic thought, notion or activity which might occur in the day-to-day happenings of their relationship.

Molly Mad-Hatter > Peter Pumkin-Eater: just in case u forgot, your da man of my dreamz. xoxoxox

Peter Pumpkin-Eater > Molly Mad-Hatter: ditto. except your not a man.

Molly Mad-Hatter > Peter Pumpkin-Eater: i can't wait until i becum Mrs. Molly Mad-Hatter-Pumpkin-Eater. xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Peter Pumpkin-Eater > Molly Mad-Hatter: I can't wait 2.

Molly Mad-Hatter > Peter Pumpkin-Eater: I love you pumpy-wumple-kins. xoxxoxox

Peter Pumpkin-Eater > Molly Mad-Hatter: me 2 molly-jolly-wobbles.

(NB. All stupid spellings and TXT-references included in this example are not a representation of the grammatical abilities of this writer. They are merely a representation of the idiocy of Generation Y and what this writer believes to be further proof that 70 percent of those highschoolers who graduated between 2003 and the present must have flunked English.)

So maybe a slight over-exaggeration but you get the point.

The thing is that PFAers don't really see the sticky line of goo and mush they trail across their Facebook pages. They post these things completely unawares to the hacking-and-gagging happening on their friends' computer screens all over the planet. Why? Because they are happily bobbing about in their little Bubble Of Coupledom. And when you live in the little Bubble Of Coupledom, who gives a flying fart what's going on outside? You've got each other and the Bubble's thin film of smugness to surround you and keep you warm at night.

I'm not jealous, of course. In fact, if someone posted something so romantically wretch-worthy and with so many damn spelling mistakes on my Facebook wall, the relationship would fast meet a gooey, mushy end.

So take that, Molly Mad-Hatter.

Ciao for now. xo

P.S. I just re-read this to check for spelling mistakes before posting and decided that maybe I'm becoming a little too cynical in my twenty-something age. Then I checked my Facebook and spotted a PFAer operating without a license and almost gagged all over my freshly purchased sunflowers. So whatever. Cynicsm rules. We might just get married. Isn't that right, cynny-winni-cisms. xoxoxoxoxo

(Image Credit: Le Love)

Dressed to (Un)Impress

2010-04-15T16:26:00.000+10:00

When you're looking absolutely atrocious and you're hair is so oily you're not allowed anywhere near the ocean for fear of oil slick and you're wearing your favourite tracky pants with that t-shirt you got playing netball back in 1984 and you're wearing no make-up and no perfume, and occassionally, no deoderant and you're about to walk out the front door to run an errand or get some milk, there's always a moment. A pause. A consideration. Should I get changed? Should I put something else on just in case I run into someone I know or like or used to like or got down and dirty on the dancefloor with that time?

And sometimes, vanity gets the best of us and we have a power shower before leaving the house and of course, based on this alone, don't end up seeing anybody we know.

But then there's those times, that against all better judgement, we think, "Oh, it'll be fine! I'm only running to the shops for five minutes." And in doing so, tempt the Gods to embarrass us by any means possible. And that usually involves inevitably running into the last person on earth you want to see looking the way you do.

On Monday, the Gods made a fool of me in exactly this fashion.

With the winter weather being as chilly as it is, I was kicking around the house in my favourite pair of 10-year-old tracky dacks with my greasy hair slicked back into a pony tail - I was looking about as dapper as a drug addict. When Sister Dearest suggested we should do a load of groceries, I thought perhaps I should change. But the trackies were just too comfortable to replace with a pair of arse/thigh/calve-contriscting jeans, so on went a pair of pluggers and out the door we skipped.

It took about 60 seconds from the time I parked the car and walked into Coles before the inevitable happened. There, standing in the middle of the fruit and vege buying a Perssimon, was the Hot Dish Pig.

Who is the Hot Dish Pig I hear you ask?

Hot Dish Pig is the glass collector (also known as, a glassie) who works at my local pub and without fail, is there collecting glasses like his life depends on it EVERY TIME I pay the pub a visit. And he looks looks like a sex god.

Because I don't know his name, nor anything else about him, he has been christened the Hot Dish Pig (I realise that a dish pig and a glassie aren't the same thing, but it was the first thing I came up with when I saw him and it's sort of stuck since then). Anyway, I think he is nothing short of gorgeous. I also like to think that working as a glassie isn't his only vocation - that really he's a struggling muso/artist/writer that is looking for a muse who looks exactly like I do. But for now, the fact that he can carry 20 glasses at a time is the only thing I know about him.

I probably don't need to point this out, but we've never spoken. Ever.

Anyway, so there in the fruit and vege buying a Persimmon was the Hot Dish Pig. (I don't know if it was actually a Pesimmon he was buying. I'd like to think it was a Pesimmon. I'd like to think that an interest in exotic fruits from Japan is one of Hot Dish Pig's special traits. It's what I love most about him). And there standing across from him with her jaw dragging along the ground and her cheeks burning an attractive shade of red, wearing tracky dacks and a hair slick, was me - looking like a true Surry Hills local.

So what did I do? I made an emergency phone call to Bestie to tell her what had happened and spent the next 10 minutes trying to stalk him in Coles without him seeing me or recognising me as 'that girl' from the pub who makes shameless sex eyes in his direction when I've had a few too many beers on a Friday Night.

Unfortunately and not surprisingly, this story doesn't tie up nice and neatly like some some kind of sickening rom-com. We didn't reach for the same tin of creamed corn and he didn't offer me the last loaf of bread which went on to be the beginning of a beautiful happy ever after. Why? Because I looked positively feral? Afraid not. I'm guessing that it has something to do with the fact that I was so embarrassed at being caught looking like myself that I made a conscious effort not to make so much as a breach of eye contact with him.

When I berated about it later to Bestie, arguing that this could have been THE moment had I not looked like ass, she brought up a good point. If you only ever run into people you're interested in when you're looking like you crawled out of a drain, isn't that a good enough reason to look terrible all the time? Because if you spent hours primping and preening and ensuring you're not one stray eyebrow hair away from perfection, it practically insures you'll never accidently run into anybody you like. I could have changed into a pair of jeans when I was going to, but then Murphy's Law would have made sure Hot Dish Pig didn't decide to do his shopping at the same time as me and I wouldn't have seen him at all. And been reminded how divine I think he is. And how much I should just pluck up the courage and ask him his name.

Murphy, the Gods or The God - whoever you think is behind the controls of our romantic destiny - sure has one sick sense of humour.

Ciao for now. xo

A Hole Lot of Effort

2010-04-12T16:44:00.001+10:00

The time came a few weeks ago when I had to undertake that task which befalls us all some stage. I tried to shimmy out of it. I kept putting it off and putting it off and putting it off. I tried to convince myself there was nothing wrong. But eventually, I knew I was living in denial. I knew the time had come. So I called up the dentist and I made an appointment.

That was three weeks ago. Today I went back for the second time to have two fillings done. Oh delight.

I've had a fair amount of fillings in my time. There's a few reasons for this - I sucked my thumb as a kid, I have acidic saliva, whatever. Getting a filling is pretty standard when I make a trip to the dentist. Another hole? Fill 'er up.

It's kind of crazy that a cavity, something the size of a pin prick, takes so much effort to fix. There's a whole dentist tool belt required just to fill one up. There's squeally drills and vibrating drills and drills which feel like they're digging a trench right down to your gums. There's the sucky tube and tweezers and pliers and God knows what else, poking and prodding around. You'd think they were filling in a pot hole, let alone a cavity.

It would be so much easier just to let it go, wouldn't it? Just to let the cavity exist and even despite the pain, go along existing with it. I mean, that's what we do with every other aspect of our lives. We know there are holes in our relationships, holes in our confidence, holes in our self-esteem, holes in our happiness. We've got all the tools to fill them up, to smooth them off and to move on in a state of completeness, but we don't.

Because after awhile, we start to like the shape of them. They become familiar to us. They become a part of our identity and filling in the hole would make us feel different. Complete, yes. But not necessarily any better. The holes claim things and cause things and make us angry and frustrated and sad, but despite all the pain they inflict, filling them in would be more painful. Filling them in means change.

I write this with a fat lip. A lip so fat I feel like a walrus. I caught the train home with a hundred hot men and I wasn't able to smile at any of them because my cheeks were too numb to show any emotion. I have a sore back from the dentist chair and am not allowed to eat for another hour. And, while I may no longer have a cavity in my tooth, I now have a huge cavity in my credit card. Everything about this situation sucks and is proof that there's nothing worse than filling in holes.

Alice in Wonderland sure would have turned out differently had they filled that rabbit hole in with cement.

Ciao for now. xo

Life vs. Art or Art vs. Life?

2010-04-07T17:35:00.001+10:00

When the time comes when you can remember particular quotes, story lines and outfits from Sex and the City, right down to the very episode name, it's definitely time to a). consider why that's the only thing you have to offer on your resume. b). look at yourself for a long time in the mirror or c.) stage an intervention.

So in order to cure myself of my Sex in the City addiction, I'm going cold turkey. But while I realise most rehabilitation centres probably wouldn't recommend replacing one addication with another, I am replacing Sex in the City with a new television series with which to see the world.

The Secret Life of Us.

Having not watched it on TV the first time around, I am finding sweet sweet satisfaction in The Secret Life of Us. It's almost...ALMOST...on par with Sex in the City. Not in terms of fashion (as the 90s truly was a hideous time for men and women alike) and not in terms of New York (I'm afraid Melbourne's St. Kilda plays a sad second fiddle) but in terms of everything that is heart-renchingly, rip-your-guts-out realistic about relationships.

Here you have eight normal people, living normal lives and doing normal things - like eating dry Corn Flakes out of the packet on the way home from the shops - and it's this uncontrived realism that makes The Secret Life of Us so addictive. It's their thought processes, the way they behave, the messes they get themselves in and out of - it's so relative that it feels like you're watching your own life on television.

Which is what got me thinking - are 'we' the stimulus for these kinds of shows or are these kinds of shows the stimulus for the way we behave? Do we see ourselves in the characters created in The Secret Life of Us and Sex in the City because they're based on us or because we're based on them?

We watch these kinds of television shows because we want to escape the daily life, the daily grind of duty and responsibility and reality, but is it reality (or a version therefore) that we're actually escaping to? While there are certainly elements of unbelievability about Sex and the City - I mean what kind of writer can afford Jimmy Choos and Prada when their only source of income in a weekily column - what about The Secret Life of Us? There is certainly nothing contrived about their lives. Sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn't. There are no loose ends tied up into pretty bows for the sake of a happy ending. Sometimes those loose ends are just left to blow in the breeze. They don't live outside their means. They live realistic lives and have realistic relationships and the more I watch, the more I get caught up in their 'reality'.

Or should that be 'our' reality? If the lives of the characters I am watching are so relative to my own, perhaps it works the other way too. Perhaps I am in fact flaking out in front of the television set watching myself and marvelling at my own human abilities and ineptness?

Maybe that's what makes it such thrilling television. It has all the thrills and spills of life's little rollecoaster and all you have to do is buckle yourself into the couch. It's like watching your life without actually having to live it. And when the times get tough, when you're caught in a love triangle or when you think you might be gay or you're dumped by the love of your life, you can switch off and escape back to reality.

I can't work out if that's a sad revelation or not.

Ciao for now. xo

Open Seseme

2010-03-30T09:49:00.000+11:00

Making all these grand travel plans has made me realise that I'm not a very flexible person.

Once I get it in my head that something is going to be a certain way, I obsess over it. I build it up and build it up and build it up until it sits upon a pedestal so high that nothing can reach it. Reality stumbles at its feet. And I am ultimately left dissapointed by my grand expectations.

In fear that my overseas trip is going to fall subject to this flaw of mine, I am making conscious efforts not to develop unachievable expectations. I figure, by having no pre-conceived ideas about how things are going to be and not creating fantastical scenerios in my head - like meeting Prince Charming or bumping into Anna Wintour in the street and her offering me a job - I can't be left miserable by what reality dishes out.

Therefore, I am being open-minded, flexible and accommodating.

And it's speaking of accommodating that I was recently faced with my first test - before I'd even left the country.

Before heading off to camp, I will be spending my first two nights in New York at the Hostelling International Hotel. Beds are bunk beds and accommodation comes in the form of the following:

1. One room with four beds

2. One slightly larger room with six beds.
3. One even larger room with eight beds.

4. One very large room with 12 beds.

Hmm - a far cry from the queen mattresses and 3000 count cotton sheets of Los Angeles SLS Hotel.

So here in lies the question - When staying in a hostel where it costs a golden goose egg to have your own room, do you...

A. Fork out for the more expensive rooms, share with three to five other people and be tucked in nice and tight beneath your comfort zone.

B. Forego buying a few coffees over the space of the next week and opt for the eight bedded room

C. Slum it with the other poor-as-beggers backpacking plebs and opt for the cheaper room which comes with the complimentary experience of being out of one's comfort zone and meeting random people you might never see again.

Tricky... very tricky.

As I weighed up the options, bouncing back and forth between the 4 bed room and the 12 bed room, I realised this was a defining moment. If there was ever a time to break through my inflexibility, barge through the Holier Than Thou travel routine I've developed (a result of travelling for work and getting spoilt for choice with pillow menus), then this was it.

So I made my reservation, clicking on the 12 bed room and keeping all my appendages crossed that I don't get stuck with someone who snores.

I'm so flexible, I'm like a human pretzel.

And with the $15 bucks I saved by sharing my sleeping quarters with 11 other travellers, a pretzel might be just what I buy as I take a walk through Central Park.

Ciao for now. xo

The Cure

2010-03-23T11:13:00.001+11:00

I’ve developed a thing for feet. Not a fetish as such. I don’t get woozy when I see them. I don’t want to dip them in a chocolate fondue fountain or stroke them while crooning “My precious, my precious”.

My thing for feet is more of a concern, a personal interest in their health and well-being. Just like some people spend their pay packet on products fit for cleaning, cleansing, toning and abolishing acne from every square centimetre of their sunny disposition, I finance the world of feet care. Nail clippers, moisturising creams, pumice stones and buffer pads. I have one whole bathroom draw dedicated to my feet maintenance, not to mention a collection of nail polishes which could revival the OPI headquarters.

Who knew there were so many shades of red?

However, upon graduating from university, accepting my first real job and suddenly coming into more monthly pocket money than I was accustomed, my fascination for foot care took toe treatment to a luxurious new level.
I discovered that you don’t have to soak your feet in your own bath for half an hour before bursting a blood vessel trying to pumice your foot calluses into obscurity. You don’t have to put your back out trying to clip, file and buff each individual toe, nor carefully apply perfect layers of Cherry Red nail lacquer only to kick your toes on your way to the kitchen. In fact, the tedious task of foot care can all be left up to the trained professionals at your local nail salon.

How could I have not known about this before? How could I have gone 22 years without experiencing the sheer, blissful indulgence of having someone tending to my toenails with so much professional passion?

Indeed, the best sins are those which feel disgustingly glamorous. What could be more indulgent than paying a woman to rub my feet with her own two hands as she sees to my every crack, callous and cuticle?

Not having to do anything other than sit their like a lazy lard with a foot fetish. Sure, I can choose to throw my nail technician the occasional bone by chatting about the weather or the differences between Fairy Floss and Cotton Candy pink. But it seems nail salon employees are about as eager to speak to you as you are to put your darling, dainty toes through a meat mincer. And so it is that we both keep to ourselves, them washing my feet like I am Jesus and me continuing to flip through my trashy magazine with all the airs and graces of the salacious celebrities I’m reading about.

Okay, so putting out the pennies for a pedicure does seems to assume the type of caste system long outlawed by Western politics, but I figure the concern I hold for my 10 little piglets is keeping at least five bunion beauticians in business, so it's not as sinful as it seems.

However, there is a small problem with becoming familiar with this kind of treatment. When you lose your job and become suddenly poverty stricken, any unnecessary expenses must be immediately exterminated. And that means no more salon spas, no more deep tissue toe massages, no more fantasy feet. When the times are tough, one must become her own bunion beautician.

Returning to the days of scrubbing my own feet flat and rubbing moisturiser into my own calluses and holding a steady hand as I carefully paint each individual toe is only a further assurity of my demise. I'm sure it's how celebrities feel when their careers take a plunge into obscurity and nobody offers them free Chanel to wear to the markets.

While I must come to terms with this sad culling of pleasure from my life, with it comes the opportunity to re-connect with my footsies. After all, once this tumult of bad luck is over and I finally get my foot in the door, it's them I'll have to thank.

Ciao for now. xo

(Image Credit: So About What I Said)

Let Me Hear Your Body Talk

2010-03-22T15:26:00.000+11:00

Bestie and I went out to The Sheaf on the weekend - a watering hole in Rose Bay which attracts some of the more attractive animals from the Sydney jungle, and is therefore an attractive destination to frequent as a young, single female. A good time is always guaranteed there. It's a bit like Brisbane's Royal Exchange Hotel- except without the ever present stink of stale beer and vomit wafting up from beneath the deck's floor boards.

It just being Bestie and I, we found ourselves to be easy targets by gentlemen who were out on the prowl. It's that whole 'divide and conquer' techinque - two women standing together alone are much easier to speak to than a whole gaggle of women. Anyway, I would have been fine with all this useless chit-chat if the men who were approaching us weren't rude, judgemental idiots.

Upon being approached by a duo of men, (who in honesty, and judge me if you will, we wouldn't have blinked at in any other circumstance), both men began talking to Bestie, leaving me to stand silenty with my hands in my pockets, listening to their conversation. I wasn't grumpy. I wasn't bored. I was simply being silent. However, despite this being the case, one of the gentleman who appeared to be the alpha, turned to me and said, "Why are you so serious?"

Me? Serious? You've got to be kidding, right? I'm about as serious as a joke store.

To which I replied, "I'm not being serious. I'm just standing here."

To which he replied, "Well, you look serious. You look serious and unapproachable."

Me? Unapproachable? You've got to be kidding, right? I'm about as unapproachable as an excited puppy in a playground.

To which I replied, "Get out of my face, you judgemental ass! Why don't you take your serious and unapproachable and stick it were the sun don't shine!"

Ha - not really.

But what did follow was a rather heated conversation about this man judging me without any clue about what kind of person I am.

Now while I understand and agree that something like 80% of what you express is through body language, I don't understand or agree with this man coming up and accusing me of being serious and unapproachable. As far as I am concerned, I was being neither. I was being silent. I was waiting for the conversation to take a direction I could join in with. And if this man wanted to get to know me, he could have asked me anything else other than "Why are you so serious?" He could have asked where I was from, what I did for a living, what kind of shampoo I like to use - questions I would have been happy to answer and which would have given him a little insight into the kind of girl I am. But no - this presuming idiot decided to go fire up all my cylinders with 'serious and unapproachable.'

What I didn't appreciate was the fact that, according to this man, I was not allowed to be silent and inactive. I was not participating in the conversation because it was not my conversation to participate in, not because I was being haughty and disinterested. What was I meant to do? Whip out a sudoku while my friend finished her conversation? Whack a toothey fake smile on my face in case anyone was confused about whether I was happy and excited to be there? I WAS happy and excited to be there! And if this man had taken the time to start a conversation with me before jumping to conclusions about my being 'serious and unapproachable' he might have worked out that I am A HAPPY AND EXCITING PERSON TO SPEAK TO!

Anyway, his loss. Bestie and I made a quick getaway to the bar where we ran into a strange South African man who said he thought I was adorable. And then kissed me on the lips. But it's okay, he was gay.

At least, I think he was. You never can tell at The Sheaf.

Ciao for now. xo

(Image Credit: Audrey Hepburn Complex and So About What I Said)

The Customer is Always Right (Unless They're Wrong)

2010-03-17T17:55:00.003+11:00

Today was one of those hectic days that makes me stop and realise how much I hate my life.

They don't come around all that often, which is good because I hate it when they do. I was working a full-day at The Cafe (7:30am -4:30pm, which I realise is not what you white collar workers consider a 'full-day' of work but is a hell of a long time to be on your feet) and I was getting absolutely slammed. It's like everybody woke up this morning and thought "Hey, let's go to that little cafe in Surry Hills and harrass the floor waitress by being the shining example of the worst customers ever."

They arrived in droves and they just kept on coming. I couldn't keep up with the demands and had so many hands waving in my face I was worried I'd lose an eye. As I cleaned up after a table of four, with the next group anxiously tapping their feet in wait, I remembered what it was I hated about waitressing.

1. You go through shoes at least once every 3-6 months. With so much oil and food particles ending up on the kitchen floor, not only do your shoes start to stink, but they start to rot. It's gross. You quickly learn not to wear your favourite shoes to work because they will only end up in the trash (tied up in a bag, inside another bag). Even Volleys aren't immune to this fate.

2. The menu is not a guide. The menu isn't there to look pretty and to give you an idea of what the cafe keeps in stock so you can make up your own dish at will. The menu is the menu. And, dear customers, if you don't want what is on the gourmet sandwich you're looking at, then take your lazy butt up to the sandwich shop where they will happily cater to your fussy preferences. Being picky not only makes the waitresses and the kitchen staff annoyed, but it slows everyone down which means you don't get your meal as fast as you'd like. So really, the only person suffering is you. Oh, and me.

3. Customers who get agitated because their detail deficient ordering means I have to ask a lot of questions.
Example:

Customer: "I'll have the beef sandwhich please."
Me: "What kind of bread would you like that on?"
Customer: "Well, what kind of bread do you have?"
Me (in my head): They're written on the menu you idiot! Stop wasting my time!"
Me: "We have sour dough, multi grain, soy and linseed or turkish."
Customer: "Sour dough."
Me: "And would you like your sandwich toasted?"
Customer: sighing and looking agitated. "Yes."
Me: "And would you like a drink?"
Customer: "Yes, I would."
Me: "And what would you like?"
Customer: "A bottle of water please."
Me: "Would you like table water or to purchase a bottle of still or sparkling?"
Customer: looking even more agitated. "Table water"
Me: "Is there anything else?"
Customer: "Yes, I want a coffee."
Me: "What kind of coffee would you like?"
Customer: "A long black with a side of milk."
Me: "Would you like hot milk or cold milk."
Customer: "What is this? A bloody interrogation?"
Me (in my head): Well if you bloody said what you wanted, I wouldn't have to ask you so many questions! Make up your mind before you wave me over and we won't have to have this stupid conversation!

End Scene.

4. Customers who think they're first to be served as as soon as they've sat down. If you've come into a cafe that is packed to the rafters and you've managed to find a seat, the first thing you should do is be greatful you found a seat at all. And then sit tight. If the waitress is running around like a chook with her head cut off, that means she's busy. If she doesn't come over to you right away, it doesn't mean she's a terrible waitress who deserves to be burnt at the stake. It means she's busy. If you wave at her like you're drowning in a rip and she acknowledges you, that means she knows you're there and she'll be with you when she can. If there are other customers waiting to be served, that means they've been waiting longer than you and therefore the waitress will serve them first. SO WAIT YOUR BLOODY TURN! SHE'S BUSY!

5. Customers who butt in. If I could punch every customer who's butted in while I've been serving someone else, half of Brisbane and half of Sydney would be walking around with black eyes. Customers who butt in are generally regular customers who have forged some kind of 'surface level friendship' (which isn't a real friendship, it's only surface level) with the waitressing staff and therefore believe they are of greater importance than all other customers. They're not. They've just a regular customer who is butting in.

6. Regular customers who expect special attention. I would walk over hot coals for some of my regular customers, they are that nice and understanding. Others, I would throw onto the coals and then break dance all over. Just because a customer comes in every day, orders the same thing and are known by name, doesn't mean they can make demands or demand special attention. Yes, you're a paying customer, therefore you are going to pay for the same service everybody else in the cafe is paying for. Unless you want to tip me for it and then you can have whatever you want. I'll crown you the King of Sheba and kiss your feet if it means you'll stuff 5 bucks in the tip jar. But unless that's the case, no deal.

7. Sore feet. You think wearing uncomfortable heels to work is bad? Try being on your feet for 8 hours straight.

8. Customers who order one thing and once you've written it down, change their mind so you have to scribble it out and make the docket messy and confusing. And two minutes after you've handed the docket into the kitchen, decide they want rye toast instead of sour dough because they suddenly realised that sour dough is white bread in disguise and is full of carbs which would make them fat and unlovable. So you have to piss-bolt into the kitchen and change it before the naive kitchen hand puts the sour dough on and wastes a perfectly good piece of bread on a customer who is too indecisive for their own sanity.

9. The general lack of gratitude and the misunderstanding that just because I'm a waitress, means I'm a stupid, uneducated nit wit. Sometimes, I feel like printing a T-Shirt for work that says, This is not my real job. This is a no-other option job. This is so I can pay my bills and feed myself when I'm hungry. I'm actually a hard-working freelance journalist, who once worked as a full-time writer for a credible publication but now works from home and only gets paid when she gets commissioned. I went to University. I got a degree. I graduated with honours. I'm smart and savvy and independent. I'm not just a waitress with a death wish. SO STOP JUDGING ME!

10. Coming home at the end of the day with coffee splatter on your legs, arms and somehow behind your ears, coffee grind underneath your fingernails, second-hand smoke in your hair (and lungs), the stink of sweat and food all over your clothes and a general dissatisfaction with the world.

I know most people (and for a time, myself included) think that waitressing is a second class job. But I beg you, for the sanity of waitresses everywhere who are actually out-of-work artists trying to get by or university students trying to pay their rent or suddenly unemployed struggling freelancers who are going overseas in two months and need to make an much money as possible, by any means possible.... be kind to your waitress.

And give her a bloody big tip, because she may just write a rip-snorting blog which could turn your name to mud.

Ciao for now. xo

Such is the Life of a Writer

2010-03-15T16:01:00.000+11:00

As you can see, we've had a bit of a Autumn clean out here at The KH Chronicles. I've been meaning to do it for awhile. The original zeal I had for the layout had grown a bit mouldy and a lot of the sections I had included with the hope of posting in regularly, hadn't been used in quite some time. KH Commentary was getting a repeated flogging, while Silver Screen was barely seeing the light of day.

So I thought it was about time I did something about it and voila! New layout! With the easy-click Blogspot, it really is as easy as that.

As I clean out my own blog trash, I'd like to send out some cudos and a warm hug to Erica Bartle over there at Girl With A Satchel. Having been through a particularly tough week in the eyes of the media, she too, has decided to have a bit of a makeover and initiate some changes at Girl With A Satchel. It takes guts to admit to yourself that you've made mistakes, let alone admit them to your peers and the public. And while I love every inch of Girl With A Satchel (after all, it was what inspired me to start my own blog), I heartily commend Erica for the changes she is making and her strength in the firing line of the often cruel and quick-to-judge media.

Being a writer brings with it certain responsibilities, responsibilities I am very wary and respectful of when I am writing for print publication. I double check my facts, I read over every line and assess their different interpretations. I make sure the copy is bullet-proof before I file, because once it's printed, it can't be un-printed.

Sure, statements can be retracted and apologies made, but there will always be copies of your words, whether on hard paper or simply ringing in the readers' ears. People think that the news grows old, that it becomes replaced, but the news is like an elephant - it never forgets. Just like Julia Roberts explains in Notting Hill, "Newspapers are forever" - the day may end, the newspapers may get thrown away and the stories may go out of date, but they can be referred to and brought back to the forfront at any time. Newspapers are forever in filing.

And it's easy to forget that blogs work the same way and therefore deserve the same respect and wariness. Like Erica explains in her post, blogs are, by their vary nature, biased. But while we can write whatever we like with as much opinion, gusto and freedom as we care to divulge, we must still take care and responsibility for what we are posting, just like we would when submitting for print publication.

I faced this very dilemma last week when writing Dear Lara Bingle. While The KH Chronicles does not operate on nearly as high a visitor turnover as Girl With A Satchel does - in fact many of my readers are my friends and family and are therefore more forgiving - I am still responsibile for what I post here. While the way I write and what I write about is biased, cynical, sarcastic, ironic and often subtly offensive, that doesn't prevent me from suffering the same consequences as what I would if this style of my writing was published in a larger forum. After writing Dear Lara Bingle, I questioned whether it was suitable to post (especially given the current defamation issue between Lara Bingle and Fevola.) After some careful wording, I decided to go ahead and post, crossing my fingers that the relatively unknown KH Chronicles would not suddenly find itself in the middle of a media hail storm.

We are all entitled to our own opinion and while we verbally share these with freedown between each other, it does become a completely different story when they are written down and shared in a public arena. Such is the life of a writer. Sure, you can giggle or commed the writers who bravely share their tactless opinions each week in their newspaper columns, but guaranteed, their emails and pigeon holes are flooded daily with abusive letters and detailed complaints at the comments, no matter how hilarious, they have publically made.

So dear readers, I encourage you to support the writers you love to read.They go out on dangerous limbs to bring you content which can be interpreted in a million different ways and can leave them dangerously open to being shot down. However, while our opinion can fast be our undoing, it is what makes us unique and to lose it, would be to become one step closer to living like the machines.

Ciao for now. xo

GO.SEE: Shady Pines Saloon, Darlinghurst

2010-03-12T17:20:00.001+11:00

Saddle up your horse and shine up your spurs, cowboy. We're heading to the Shady Pines Saloon.

If you've ever dreamed of swaggering into a Western bar with your thumbs tucked into your pants, chewing tobacco and with a sneer that would put Clint Eastwood to shame, this may be the place to do it.
The Shady Pines Saloon is but another of the boutique bars to crop up in the Surry Hills/Darlinghurst/Kings Cross area, but unlike the shabby chic stylings of many of these intimate watering holes, the Shady Pines brings a whole new niche to the market.

As its name suggests, the Shady Pines is a fully decked out saloon bar, complete with mounted stag horns, skinned cow rugs and the kind of tables you should be dancing on in a corset and a ra-ra skirt. There's an authentic selection of beverages (and the usual for those not so brave) and best of all - a free bowl of unshelled peanuts for guests on arrival.

And don't go expecting Black Eyed Peas to be pumped out the stereo. If you've got a problem with Jonny Cash and Dusty Springfield, that's definitely going to be a problem.

But it's all part and parcel of this great concept which is pulled off stylishly by owners, Anton Forte and Jason Scott. The kind of bar which you'd find wracking up big business in LA works just as well in down-town Sydney.

Giddy up, I say.

Shady Pines Saloon
Address: Shop 5, 256 Crown St Darlinghurst, 2010
Hours: Daily, 4pm - midnight
Menu must-have: The free bar nuts - delish.

Ciao for now. xo

KH COMMENTARY: The Friend Ship

2010-03-11T16:01:00.000+11:00

When we're younger, our friendships hold all the possibility of lasting forever. We exchange 'best friend forever' necklaces like there some sort of tangible promise and believe they're going to hold strong the bonds that will last us in to the future.

Then we get to highschool, our Peter Pan ideals get shot to hell and those cheap necklaces we once treasured becomes knots in the bottom of a jewellery box. We grow up and change. We make new friends and with these new friends, we make new promises.

Then highschool ends and we all dispurse and start living the lives we were born to lead. We walk down different paths and make difference choices and meet different people and soon those best friends we so truthfully promised to stay in contact with forever, are nothing but names on a Facebook friends request.

When I think about how many friendships and best friendships I've made over the last 22 years and how much work has gone into keeping those friendships alive in the face of, well, life, it makes me worry about the fate of my current friends. Will they too suffer from this seasonal change which seems to take place every few years? And if so, when is it that we meet the friends who are going to be our 'best friends forever?'

I hate wondering if the people that I'm sharing my life with now, what can be argued as the 'best years of my life', are going to be there in a few years when my life, once again, changes. When a boyfriend becomes a husband, when I become a mother, when my babies become children, when those children become adults. Will the people that I'm living my life alongside be there for when all that happens? Or will they too, only go on to be referred to in past tense?

We all want the Sex in the City-style relationships that last beyond youth, beyond marriage and beyond motherhood. I want to believe that this is it - that the people that I consider my friends and my best friends are the people who are going to be the guests at my wedding and the family friends to my family and on my bridge team in the retirement home.

I guess I just don't want any more friendships to end up knotted in the bottom of a jewellery box.

Ciao for now. xo

(Image Credit: Audrey Hepburn Complex)

MAIL BOX: Dear Lara Bingle

2010-03-08T18:07:00.002+11:00

Dear Lara Bingle,

RE: That not-so-attractive and rather naked photo of you and the media fallout which has the all too familiar stench of a publicity stunt.

In the beginning, there was a part of me that sympathised with you. Being not nearly as attractive as yourself or having the kind of physical attributes that drive the boys wild, I find myself faced with your same dilemma on a regular basis. Not that I get caught out in my birthday suit, but that a hideous and embarrassing photo of myself becomes the property of the all-seeing, all judging public.

Afterall, when you're a member of the Facebook revolution, this is just something you have to come to accept, isn't it Lara? The fact that when other people take photos of you, they can then do with them what they like, including posting them on Facebook for all of the Facebook world to see. Too many times, Lara, too many times have I logged in to see some heinous, horrible photo of me looking like a haggered old woman or the twin of Susan Boyle. It's just not fair, is it?

And some what worse for you - getting caught without your kit on! How embarrassing. Good thing you look the way you do because if it had been me, I'm pretty sure all the tabloids would be questioning why they were running a picture of a giant frumpy albino Cabbage Patch doll.

Yes - I sympathised. I condolled. I felt your embarrassed shame. That is, until I heard the rumour that you sold your side of the story to Woman's Day for the tidy sum of $200,000.

Then I was not so sympathetic.

If this was true, as least you wouldn't be one of those WAGS who's riding on the cricket pads of her all-too-wealthy cricket playing husband. At least you'd be out there making you're own money. And it really makes me question my existance in the world when I think about how many cups of coffee I would have to serve in order to make $200,000 and how many hours your interview with Woman's Day would have gone for before you would have had enough money to buy yourself another Aston Martin.

Despite the designer perfume I'm pretty sure you're probably wearing and even despite the fact that you're brand new agent has denied it, I can't help but smell that all-too-familiar stench of a publicity stunt. It's hanging in the air like that faint whiff garbage juice gets when it's been sitting in the sun too long. Can you smell that? Perhaps we should call your new PR agent to see if he can smell it too?

Well, good on you, Lara, for standing up for women's rights and all that jazz. You're doing a fine job. Not too mention, earning a few extra dollars to put towards your big wedding celebration. When is that happening again?

Ciao for now. xo

KH COMMENTARY: Chop Chop

2010-03-05T14:55:00.000+11:00

A few years ago, I made the monumental mistake of cutting my hair short. I did it on a whim, a really stupid, irrational whim. My luscious long locks were hacked off into a blonde bob, one I didn't know how to style or maintain correctly and the whole drama resulted in me becoming self-concious and overly precious about my hair.

It was my own fault. I was the one who went in 'wanting a change.' I was the one who said "Sure, go ahead and chop it all off." I was the one who sat in the hairdressing chair while the hairdresser cut it way shorter than we discussed and I was the one who DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING.

We've all been there before. We've all sat in the hairdressing chair watching the hairdresser snip away our hard-grown tresses, our mouths clamped shut but our insides screaming, "STOP YOU HAIRDRESSING MASSACIST! STOP YOU SILLY EXCUSE FOR A PAIR OF SCISSORS! WHAT ARE YOU DOING! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!!" and yet not said a single word. That is, not until you've got home to the private safety of the bathroom where you ball your eyes out and clutch at the missing locks like they've been horrifically amputated.

When you've been through this kind of hairdressing trauma, you'll find stupid smart-arse people will make stupid smart-arse comments which are somehow meant to make you feel better. "It's just hair, it will grow back" is up there amongst the 10 Most Stupid Smart-Arse Comments Made By Stupid Smart-Arses. It's not just hair, it's an extension of one's physical character and confidence and it doesn't just grow back like some kind of refridgerated fungus. It takes time and time isn't something you have a lot of when you're nursing a haircut that looks like its been initiated with a rusty hacksaw. "Why didn't you say something when it was getting cut?" Because my hairdressing tunic turned into a straightjacket and I somehow managed to swallow my tounge. "Why didn't you say something after it was finished?" Because I didn't want to cry infront of the hairdresser and have to spend the next half an hour sitting infront of a mirror, staring at the thin line of mascara running down my cheeks. "Why don't you go back to the hairdresser and tell them you're unhappy with it?" Because I don't want to become the hairless by-product of Sweeney Todd meets Edward Scissorhands you unsympathetic fool!

Needless to say, while my hair did indeed grow back, I vowed never to go short again and for the last three years, I have been the happy hoarder of a crop of long, blonde locks which no hairdresser has managed to pry from my tight grasp.

Until yesterday, when I had them all chopped off again.

They say a change is as good as a holiday and after everything that I've been through over the last 10 months and despite all my vows and promises, perhaps a change was just what the hairdressing doctor ordered. The long hair had literally become a weight on my shoulders. So armed with opinions I was prepared to voice, I went to my (new and trustworthy) hairdresser for the big short chop. When I came away, there were no tears, no tantrums, no plans to send angry poison letters to my wayward hairdresser and absolutely no regrets.

It's funny how simply getting your hair cut can give you a new lease on life. Without the dead weight of long hair, I felt surprising relieved, like I had shed some sort of burdensome weight which had been holding me back. The world didn't seem like such an unconcorable place anymore. I felt adventurous. I felt like myself again, but a shorter, blonder, bolder version. Say hello to KH 2.0

Ciao for now. xo

Technological Difficulties (and a wee spot of jealousy)

2010-03-04T16:09:00.000+11:00

My dearest Chroniclers - my sincerest apologies if you have lost sleep over the last week in worry that I had been hit by a Mack truck, fallen down a Sydney sewage drain or sold all my worldy posessions to join some kind of anti-internet cult. This is not the case. I am alive and well.

My computer however, is not.

The poor thing, despite putting up with me for the last five years, decided last week that it had had enough. It through in the towel - and its hard drive - and went on strike, consequently leaving me completely out of touch with the technological world. It has now taken up a bed in Computer Hospital were its getting a hard drive replacement and a bit of formatting surgery. I've been promised that by the time I get my computer back, he'll be looking better than ever.

So until then, I have to make do on Sister Dearest's swanky, brand new Dell Notebook, which is about the size of of a small tote. While I love my lappy-top dearly and appreciate everything he has done for me, I can't help but feel a little jealous of the Dell. It feels, looks and smells, new. The keys are crisp, the screen is devoid of fingertip smudges and I don't have to wait a freaking month just for it to load an internet page.

But don't tell lappy-top that - he gets so jealous when I type around.

Ciao for now. xo

KH COMMENTARY: Who's Name Is It Anyway?

2010-02-23T15:12:00.000+11:00

Meeting new people is always a verbal struggle for me. Not because I’m shy or socially inept or suffer from some kind of conversational phobia which causes me to turn bipolar. It’s because when it comes to introducing my self, the conversation always goes somewhat like this:

“So, what’s your name?”
“It’s Kristen.”
“Christeen?”
“No, Kristen.”
“Oh, I see. Kristy.”
“No, Kristen."
“Kirsten?
“No, KRISTEN!”
“Right. Sorry there, Courtney”

I’ve suffered through this same conversation so many times, I’ve come to hate the sound of my own name. Occasionally, I’ll throw a spanner in the works and say my name is Kate so I can save myself from banging my head against the wall when the inevitable dyslexic banter begins.

This whole issue could have been avoided had the responsibility of my naming been given to myself rather than my parents. But did I get a say? Did I even get a vote? No, my parents went right ahead and christened me Kristen, resigning me to a life spent constantly correcting people (a trait which, believe me, strangers do not find endearing).

It really doesn’t seem fair that the one thing we’re stuck with for the rest of our breathing lives is beyond our control and opinion. We’ve got no rights when it comes to the name we will be known as for the next 90 years. We’re completely at the disposal of the two people who bore us. We can only gurgle in hope that they’ll have more sense than Gwenyth Paltrow and Nicole Kidman put together. Imagine Apple and Sunday Roast when they’re old enough to wonder what in the nine circles of hell their parents were smoking, when they decided to name their offspring after a fruit and a weekend dinner dish. Luckily, celebrity spawn such as these have a large enough inheritance to fund the years of therapy they’ll need to survive eternal tabloid torture.

Indeed, there is nothing quite as dangerous as a celebrity in possession of two brain cells to rub together. Naming your child Fifi Trixibelle is proof in the baby pudding that while adults may be older, they are certainly no wiser than their newly born infant when it comes to generating a name that sticks. When you’re name is Moxie CrimeFighter, one can only wonder where some of these lightning bolts of inspiration stem from.

If this is the case, perhaps my parents were concerned that by handing over the naming rights, they would end up with a daughter known as Barbie or Big Ted or Gemima Puddleduck. I’d like to think they’d have greater faith in me than that, but apparently they thought Kristen was a safer bet than anything I could have come up with at the observant age of four.

However, what my parents failed to realise upon whacking my whacky name on a birth certificate is that what appears to be a simple, two-syllable name has about a trillion different variations thanks to its phonetic sounds – Kristian, Kristy, Kristeen, Kristina, Kirsten, Kirsty and Kirsteen. Trying to get my name out as clearly as possible generally involves firing so much spit at the other person, they require a bathing suit. Add a few alcoholic beverages and some dance music to that equation and they may as well drown in my saliva.

However, I can remain grateful to my parents for one thing. Being born a child to the Baby Boomers saved me from the type of over-indulgent spelling burdened upon The Millennial babies. Krystynn, not only looks like the result of a chemical imbalance, but just has way too many Ys for my liking.

Ciao for now. xo

(Image Credit: Audrey Hepburn Complex)

MAIL BOX: Dear Australians everywhere

2010-02-22T16:14:00.001+11:00

Dear Australians everywhere,

RE: Your support of our Aussie Olympians battling it out for some limelight at the 2010 Olympic Winter Games in Vancouver.

Firstly, I get it. Each to their own. Some of us like to stay up to the wee hours of the morning watching the playbacks of the Winter Games until our eyes turn to squares and we start believing Eddie McGuire might be a normal human being, and some of us don't. I get it and usually I am all for enjoying what you like and liking what you enjoy but when it comes to the Olympics and to our homegrown heroes, a certain amount of interest is paramount.

It's been a little over a week since the Winter Games kicked off in Vancouver and I have been there to watch every thrill, spill and chill. I have sat on the couch, convulsing with excitement as the best in the business offer their all in hope of placing in the top three. Skiers, snowboarders, skaters and speed demons have kept me captivated by their activities in Vancouver. What these athletes (and they are athletes) sign up for is a dedication to the extreme. They achieve extreme things. They put their bodies on the line to achieve things you and I couldn't even deem to be possible.

This is what makes the Winter Olympics so bloody fantastic. That these people are achieving such terrifying and terrific feats on a world stage where the pressure of every eye is upon them. Well, almost every eye.

Which brings me to my point. While I understand the Winter Olympics doesn't capture everyone's attention quite like my own, it should not retract from the amazing things these athletes are accomplishing - ours in particular. On Friday, our very own Torah Bright became the fourth athlete EVER from Australia to win an Olympic gold medal. Placing first in the women's half pipe, she has now won every major snowboarding competition in the world. She is, to put it quite simply, the best.

And I was shocked, dear Australians, to see how little excitement reveberated around Australia when this blessed event happened. How little celebration, how little interest was shown by every day individuals at her taking top marks and putting Australia above every other country in the world in the snowboarding arena. Even if you have no interest in snowboarding at all - like I have no interest in fly fishing - for a single person to go out representing Australia and come home as the undefeated best, that is something that should be celebrated by every Aussie.

And it's the same regardless of whether we win or come in last. These people are athletes performing on a world stage, representing out country and we have so much that's worth representing. To show a little interest, a little pride, a little support for them as they take on the best in the world on behalf of you and I, well it would be unAustralian not to.

You've got one week left, Australia. Make it count and watch with pride as your athletes take on the world.

Ciao for now. xo
(Image Credit: Merced Sun-Star)

KH COMMENTARY: Speed Daters

2010-02-18T13:56:00.003+11:00

A certain individual of some importance and closeness to me who will remain completely unidentified for the sake of her reputation (and for the sake of my pretty face which she will put her fist in if I let so much as her initials slip out) had an interesting experience the other night. Having recently been on three dates with a boy, all PG-rated, she became the recipient of a bit of Valentine's Day gift giving - a box of chocolates to mark the mighty hallmark holiday.

This wouldn't have been a problem if it weren't for a few small, not necessarily life-threatening, but nevertheless important things:

1. She hates Valentine's Day. Not in that, "I hate Valentine's Day, but am keeping all fingers, toes and apendages crossed and am saying fifty Hail Mary's that somebody gives me a box of chocolates" way that some women 'hate' Valentine's Day. She really does, actually, hate Valentine's Day and couldn't care if her seven-year-long boyfriend or the boy she's been on three PG-rated dates with gave her a box of chocolates or not.

2. Despite 'telling' or more so 'obviously hinting' to this boy that she didn't want to do or receive anything for Valentine's Day, she still ended up the recipient of a box of chocolates. And feeling like her words go through one ear and out the other, just don't sit well with her.

3. She doesn't like chocolates - not really. Come on, who doesn't like chocolates?

4. In the space of a fortnight, she'd been out with him three times and received at least one communication from him every day. For someone who is feeling mutually affectionate, this would be good news. For someone who is feeling smothered, this is like a blanket.

5. And this being the kicker so get ready for it - before the box of chocolate gift-giving, she was planning on ending it. But because of the chocolate gift-giving, she now has a box of chocolates, a boyfriend she's not quite sure how she got and a really awkward conversation coming her way.

But so it is with speed daters. I'm not talking about a bunch of single guys and gals sitting around a coffee shop rotating between five minute conversations in the hope that they become Mr or Mrs Right. 'Speed daters' are another thing entirely. They're the kind of boy or girl who launch into a relationship before it can officially be coined 'a relationship' and take things a little too fast and furious (and only if you're lucky, do they look like Vin Deisel or Paul Walker and if they do... then what the hell are you complaining about!?)

'Speed daters' are difficult to handle because they're usually really sweet, but the kind that perhaps don't see a relationship come around too often so when it does, want to grab onto it with both hands and never ever EVER let it go. They just want to do everything right by you and 'the relationship, that they consequently end up doing everything wrong - over-messaging, over-complimenting, over-everythinging to the point where 'the relationship' becomes so lop-sided it's limping.

But it's hard to hate speed daters because usually, they're not even aware they're doing it. What they think is a harmless Valentine's Day box of chocolates is a bright red ABORT button to the person they're dating. They're like a kid who thinks they're helping mum clean up the house but are actually making even more of a mess - totally oblivious to the fact that they might be doing something wrong.

Taking further action with a speed dater depends on the speed you'd prefer against the severity of his current speed (once again, if they look anything like Keanu Reeves well then... you're just being picky). Use these following examples as a guide:

60 in a 40 Zone: You're going a little faster than intended. He's a bit too eager to catch up and there's a spot of over-messaging. If you really like him and think he might just be a bit over-eager, then gently tapping on the breaks ought to do the job - a few friendly words should bring him back under the limit. But remember, 40 is a danger zone so the sooner you slow things down, the better.

80 in a 40 Zone: It's been a fortnight and he's calling himself your boyfriend. He's put it into fourth gear and if he isn't stopped, there's going to be a fatality. Best to slam on the breaks and get out of the vehicle while you can.

100 in a 40 Zone: He wants you to meet his parents - on the second date. Too fast, way way too fast. Call the police yourself. Somebody needs to pull him over.

120 in a 40 Zone: For the first date, he invites you to his house for dinner where you see he's doodled your married name on a peice of scrap paper. GET OUT OF THE CAR!

140 in a 40 Zone: He proposes over 'casual drinks' and you end up in a head-on collision.

Needless to say, when it comes to speed daters, speed is no one's friend (or boyfriend).

But then again, you do end up with a hell of a lot of chocolate.

Ciao for now. xo

KH COMMENTARY: What NOT to do when you meet one of your idols

2010-02-15T17:18:00.000+11:00

Last week, whilst waitressing, I met one of my idols.

And I gushed.

Oh, did I ever. I gushed like an un-clogged fawcet. I gushed like a storm-water drain in the middle of a down pour. I gushed so much I may as well have drowned myself.

And who was this idol, I hear you ask? Who was this idol that caused me to gush like an over-enthusiastic stage mother?

The one and only - Jane Caro.

Now, I get that this name may not set off any bells for you and I get that you're probably reading this thinking, "Who the eff is Jane Caro, KH?" But the one and only Jane Caro is the epitome of fabulous. If you watch The Gruen Transfer, you would know of who I speak. She's a freelance copy-writer and author and she isn't afraid to speak her mind about all things feminism. For young girly guns starting out in the media industry, like myself, she is the kind of woman we want to be. Strong, successful and an independent thinker.

So when I was suddenly taking Jane Caro's order for a latte, I couldn't help myself. Before I knew it, there were words coming out of my mouth without my having any control over them. And of all the things, ALL THE THINGS, I could have said to her - about my appreciation of her feminist views and the strong independent role model I thought she was - these are the words that came out of my rotten mouth:

"Oh my gosh, I'm your biggest fan!"

No, "It's such a pleasure to meet you, Jane Caro." No, "I think what you've accomplished in the industry is motivating for young writers like myself." Nothing which reflected any kind of maturity, wit or class. I had to go and say "Oh my gosh, I'm your biggest fan" and consequently look like the biggest gushiest loser ever to speak words out loud.

Needless to say, she coped with my gushing with all the grace of a true mentor. She said she was really flattered and that I'd made her day and she'd never been recognised with such enthusiasm before (cringe). To which I lavished her with more gushing about my favourite Gruen Transfer episode where she reviewed the advertising surrounding pads and tampons (double, triple, cadrouple cringe).
When she left, she shook my hand and said it was a pleasure meeting me to which I responded by kneeling down and kissing her feet.

Just kidding.

God, just imagine if I met Barack Obama? Or worse, Britney Spears?

Ciao for now. xo

KH COMMENTARY: Life As A Musical

2010-02-08T13:16:00.000+11:00

A friend of mine recently celebrated her 21st birthday and the theme she chose for her party was 'Life As A Musical.'

(NB. What a great theme, right? I am constantly impressed by people who have the brain cells to think outside the box. None of this 70s/Something beginning with 'P'/Favourite movie star nonsense. I do love a good party and I do love a good party-theme to go along with it.)

While I didn't actually attend the party (partly because I wasn't invited and partly because I live in a different state, but mostly because I wasn't invited), my Bestie and I got to talking about what musical character we would have dressed up as if we had indeed attended the party. This resulted in us singing our favourite musical numbers at the top of our lungs, which was slighly attention-seeking given that we were swimming at Sydney's Camp Cove at the time.

When it comes to musicals, you either love 'em or you hate 'em and if you hate 'em then you're a sad sad little person because who doesn't love musicals? The singing, the dancing, the facial expressions, the set design, the orchestra, the programs and the nerve-clinching moment when the lights go down and the curtain goes up and it all begins. It's enough to make you want to wet your pants.

Admitedly, musicals do have a tendency of being a bit sugary so it's really no wonder that when you combine that with a romantic story-line and Zac Efron's fringe, you'd get a house pleaser like High School Musical.

But it's not the sugar (or Zac Efron's hair cut) that I love about musicals. In a musical, everything the characters feel - whether it be anger or angst or affection - is all felt out loud, on stage. Nothing is secreted away and hidden because that would ruin the story or wouldn't make a story at all. The characters are bound by their emotions and in doing so, feel each one of them at their greatest capacity. No wonder they burst out in song and dance every few minutes. They are unable to suffocate it inside them. When what you feel is such an extreme and honest version of the reality, why would you even want to try and tame it?

So, what if life really was a musical? What if you could just bust out in song whenever you please - like my Bestie and I at Camp Cove - without anyone looking at you like you're an escapee from the Insane Asylum? What if everything you feel could be felt out loud and at the absolute brink of honesty? What if, instead of feeling our joy on simply a surface level, we could physically celebrate it in a crowd-raising, choreographed song and dance number?

Nothing can be small on stage. Everything is big and bright and loud and fuelled by a nerve-racking motivation to do justice to every emotion, activity and action being represented. There is no embarrasment. There is no shyness. Everything is magnified. Everything is felt.

Oh, if life were a musical.

KH COMMENTARY: You've Got (No) Mail

2010-02-02T11:08:00.001+11:00

I'm being ignored by a technological device - my email to be exact. You know how there are some people who are rudimentally connected to their mobile phone? The type that must always have it on their person, or in their bag or on the bedside table and if it breaks or is lost or is simply left at home by accident, they become a nervous wreck and go to extreme lengths to have the situation rectified immediately?

That's what I'm like - but with my email account.

It's the first thing I check in the morning and it is systematically checked ever few minutes for the rest of the day. If something happens to my internet connection, I flip out like an addict unable to tap into their source. There's nothing I enjoy quite so much as seeing the Inbox link in bold, notifying me that I have emails waiting to be opened. I feel important. I feel regarded. I feel busy. But when there's nothing, when the Inbox link remains in the same boring font, I become twitchy.

It's not like I'm sitting at home waiting for Viagra advertisements or newsletters from MyerOne. I'm sitting at home waiting for work. When you're a freelance writer and emailing is your one source of communication with the world beyond the four walls of your work space, having emails or not having emails is in direct relation to your work load and therefore, bank balance. Regular emails = busy and employed. No emails = bored and poor. And the longer you go without receiving any written communication, the more aware you become of all the money going out and the lack of money coming in.

But now my email obsession is contributing more anxiety to my life as it becomes the primary means of contact for more than just my freelancing work. As I am planning to travel overseas in June, I have been forced to look for temporary work in order to amp up the bank funds and email remains the primary means of contact for the agencies I have applied with. The less correspondance I receive, the less work I am being offered, the less money I am making and the less is being saved in my anorexic piggy bank.

Email has even invaded my overseas plans. As I have applied to work as a camp counsellor in the USA starting in June, the placement company I am using maintain all contact regarding my application through email correspondance. If they have any news to tell me, it will be via email. As I am currently waiting to hear from them about where in the USA I have been placed and at what camp, every day is like perching on the edge of your seat, waiting to find out whether you won the Academy Award. I can't speed up the process and I will only be notified once I have been accepted to a camp. I must simply sit and wait. In this circumstance, no news is not good news. No news means I haven't been placed. No news is bad. Very very bad.

So what do I do to feel more in control of these nauseating problems? I check my email like my life, and the lives of everybody else in the solar system, rely on it. I check it so often that if I had a dollar for every time I clicked the Inbox link, I could fund my overseas trip without ever having to work again.

Essentially, I am in a destructive relationship with my email account, wherein, it takes as much as it likes and gives little back. And the more emails I send out in hope that I will reap responses in return, the greater my expectations become of my email and the more regularly I attempt to check it. It has become a love/hate existence. On good days, my email is a blessing. It bears good news or simply just news itself and I am left feeling satisfied by what it has offered. But on bad days, which can quickly slide into a bad week, it brings me nothing but disappointment. It doesn't bare anything and the inbox remains barren.

Technology sure makes for one selfish, illiterate boyfriend.

Ciao for now. xo

(Image Credit: Audrey Hepburn Complex)

SIDE NOTE: Thought Process behind 'The 10 Second Rule'

2010-01-23T14:11:00.000+11:00

I found this picture on Audrey Hepburn Complex and it felt like someone had crept inside my head, stollen the thoughts I hide away because they make me sound ridiculous, written them on a black board and published them for the world to see.

Enjoy. xo

KH COMMENTARY: Who's Serving Your Coffee?

2010-01-23T13:51:00.001+11:00

The last six months have been pretty life-changing for yours truly. I went from being employed full-time in my much beloved industry to becoming a casualty of the economic crisis. I went from a fortnightly payslip to no pay slip at all. For five long months, I lived off my savings and redundancy while I desperately tried to get my foot back in the door, but it seemed all the doors, windows and cat flaps back into the industry were shut and padlocked.

So I went freelance but while I wrote pitches and waited on commissions, I was still struggling to pay the bills so I was forced to fall back on the only redeemable skill I seem to have - waitressing.

For me, this was a huge kick in my ego pants. I had gone from being the pressed and dressed white-colour worker to the waitress dishing our flat whites and bacon and eggs. It seemed like while I had taken one step forward, I had not turned around and fifteen backwards. I felt like a huge failure and I was very unhappy.

It's been four months since I started working at my cafe and it's taken me four months to realise what a s-n-o-b I had become. I have always seen waitressing as a last resort, a train fast making it's way to the town of Unambition. But since turning in my laptop for a few hours each day in exchange for a docket book and a pen, it's started to give me a new lease on life.

I no longer consider myself second-class. In fact, I consider myself extremely lucky. For five hours every day, I get to be a part of peoples' lives. Whether they're escaping their bosses, offices or responsibilities. Whether they're meeting up with family or old friends or simply taking an hour out of their hectic day to breathe and read the paper. I am not trapped behind a desk and a deadline. I am constantly interacting and learning - not about budgets or business plans or how to make more money. Simply about people. I know their names and how they like their coffee, what their plans are for the weekend and when their babies or grandchildren are due. I notice when I haven't seen the regulars in awhile and the regulars notice when they haven't seen me. I know my customer's preferences and habits and I never tire of seeing that look on their face when I remember something that is particular to them alone. It's a look of appreciation and relief that here, they are valued and remembered.

I am not a waitress. I am witness. And I may not be finding a cure for cancer or driving the economy. I may not be meeting deadlines or designing buildings, fighting for justice or climbing a career ladder. But at the end of the day, I know that I play a part in the lives of the people who are doing all those things and that part is just as important.

So next time you stop by your favourite local coffee distributor (who knows, it might be my cafe!) make sure you say 'Hi' to your waitres. Ask her name, find out what she likes and what she does on the weekend. Because, like you, she's more than just her job.

Ciao for now. xo

Image Credit: Cesca from Girl With A Satchel

MAIL BOX: Dear Prince William

2010-01-21T11:41:00.000+11:00

Dear Prince William,

RE: The attention you are receiving upon your current tour Down Under. Don't get too excited (Heaven forbid, should you show show more than an eye-twitch of emotion).

I don't mean for this letter to be cutting or offensive or to hurt your royal feelings. I know you've had a really tough life. Being second in line for the throne must be a huge weight on your mind. I mean, how you manage to pull yourself out of your 1,000,000 thread Egyptian cotten sheets each day is truly commendable. And then you have your crazy family - a father with the personality of wet mop, a step-mother who has the face of a thoroughbred gold-digger, a brother who is a ranga (but a sexy one at that) and a grandmother with a truly spectacular taste in hats. Don't worry, I understand. Life's a bitch.

But as you tour our fine country, I feel there's been a few misunderstandings on your behalf and therefore, was compelled to write this letter in order to set the record straight. If you're going to be our Future King, I want us all to be on the same page, so listen closely and try not get side-tracked by the high-pitched squeals of your dedicated followers.

The first issue I want to address is our relationship. I know everytime you look into the crowd, there's one face in particular you're looking for but I'm sorry to say, I just haven't been there. I know you came to Redfern in particular because you know I live close by and you were keeping your royal fingers crossed that I might rock up to see you, but I'm sorry, I chose to stay home that day and clean out my kitchen drain. I just think our relationship hasn't got the kind of future I can invest in. You need the kind of girl who'll treat every day like it's a trip to the races and wear stupid hats which match her plaid pin skirt. That's just not me. Maybe someone more like that Kate Middleton lass everyone says you've been seeing back in London. If you think you're having trouble getting the family to approve of her, there's no way you want to bring me home to meet Grandma.

The second issue I feel compelled to speak to you about is all this female attention you've been receiving while in Australia. I know it must be a huge boost to your ego and hard not to let your head swell while in the presence of our snap-happy paparazzi, but it seems you're handling it pretty well. That being said, don't get too carried away. While I know you're a top guy, the reason all those women stood out in the January sun hoping you might so much as accidently flick them with your sweat was 20 percent due to your boyish good-looks and about 80 pecent due to the fact that the title that preceeds your name is 'Prince'.

I know it's a hard pill to swallow, but the truth often hurts I'm afraid. And when you break it down, it really has nothing to do with you. It's to do with females in general and our Cinderella Complex. No matter who you are or where you hail from, every woman is hoping that one day a Prince (and we're talking a literal Prince like yourself, not figuratively) will come along and save her from her pathetic life scrubbing the floors. And guaranteed, every woman who flailed her arms in front of you like she was drowning in your very presence was hoping you might see her and immediately know that 'she was the one'.

Blame Princess bloody Mary of Denmark. Until she came along, the Cinderella Complex was metaphorical. We all hoped it might one day happen, but knew that the chances were about 0.000001 to fifty bazillion. But then Frederick spied her in a bar, put a ring on her finger and a crown on her head and turned the Cinderella Complex tangible.

So as you wing your way to Melbourne, where another city of screaming women await your regal presence, try and remember that all this attention is purely a result of thousands of years of fairy tales. That to these women, you are a beautiful idea. A proverbial white night come to potentially save them from having to scrub the floors any longer.

And if one of them loses a slipper, best leave it to the security guards to handle. That's just a little advice from me to you.

All the best on your return to Buckingham Palace. Give Grandma a kiss for me (and your brother as well. I'd ask to pass on more than a kiss, but that would be incestuous and your family have had enough scandal as it is.)

Ciao for now

KH.

KH COMMENTARY: The Ghosts of Boyfriends Past

2010-01-20T16:30:00.001+11:00

So as I continue my journey through Textbook Romance, I continue to learn more and more about the male species and the art of seducing them with all but a few batted eyelashes and a lip-glossed pout. You could say this book has taken over my life - you could say that, but we won't because that would mean I really am pathetic and I want to live in the Land of Denial for as long as denyingly possible.

But while Zoe Foster has brought up many things which have caused me to stop and consider my current habits, she did make one comment which has lodged itself in my brain like a splinter in your thumb and has forced me to reflect on those things which aren't too pleasant to reflect on

"Every guy comes into your life for a reason, so learn and grow from them blah blah blah..." - or something or other like that.

Hmm...what an interesting and vomitous thought. It was hard enough moving on from those relationships and not-quite-relationships and didn't-even-know-I-existed-one-sided-kinda relationships that I've had (or haven't had, for that matter) that the idea of reflecting on them is as about as pleasant as ripping stitches out of a wound. But if I'm going to do this and going to do it right, I feel it's important to work out what I should have supposedly 'learnt' from my Ghosts of Boyfriends Past.

(This is a work of non-fiction. All men described are in fact real, breathing males, but in order to keep their identities disclosed they will remain un-named and any particularly revealing features undescribed...but you know who you are...)

1. Mr. Caromello Koala - I was in Year Seven, was twelve years old, had finally got rid of my braces and was starting to feel like I had something to offer the male species other than a mouth full of metal - which is never a pretty sight. Mr Caromello Koala (and you'll find out why he was christened with such a name in a minute) thought I was a bit of something/something and asked me if I wanted to 'go out' (which is what you do when your twelve - 'go out' - not really go anywhere or do anything, just 'go out'). I didn't really think all that much of him, but my stomach was thinking a whole lot about the Fundraising Caromello Koalas that were currently on sale at the Canteen. So I told him that I would 'go out' with him if he bought me a Caromello Koala. He didnt:
What I learnt: Black-mailing is not an efficient way of starting a relationship.

2. Mr. First Ever (Rebounding) Boyfriend - I was in Year Eight and Mr First Ever (Rebounding) Boyfriend had just broken up with one of my best friends. This time, I thought he was a bit of something/something so two days after they broke up (after asking her permission, of course, what kind of friend do you think I am?) Mr First Ever (Rebounding) Boyfriend and I started 'going out'. For two glorious weeks, I spent hours infront of the mirror primping my perfect self before skipping off to school, sat next to him at lunch time, doodled our marriend name on my pencil case until one day his best friend came and abruptly told me, "You're dumped".
What I learnt: It's never nice to be 'the rebound' and one shouldn't doodle potential married names on one's pencil case with permanent marker.

3. Mr. Second Ever (Boooooring) Boyfriend - I was in Year Nine and was about as in love with Mr Second Ever (Boooring) Boyfriend as a dog is in love with its ball. And just like a dog with its ball, I was prepared to play as much fetch as he was willing to offer. I chased that boy all day and night until finally he succumbed, we started 'going out' and I had what I wanted. But the one thing worse than not having what you want, is finally getting what you want. After about an hour, I was bored, missed being single, dumped his sorry ass and started looking for a new ball to chase.
What I learnt: When it comes to relationships, sometimes women behave more like men then we'd care to admit to.

4. Mr. Friend of Sister Dearest- Like all true younger siblings, there has come a point in my life where I have longed for the affection of one of my sister's friends. It's just one of those Rights of Passage that all younger siblings must go through and learn from.Unfortunately, my affection was purely one-sided which didn't bode well for my poor sixteen-year-old self and I was left nursing a slightly fractured heart.
What I learnt: There comes a point where you must cover every inch of everything you own with little, yellow post-it notes saying He's Just Not That In To You until you get the picture. But just because it doesn't work out like your poor sixteen-year-old self hopes, doesn't mean you can't go on to become good friends.

5. Mr. He Knows I Like Him But Isn't Going To Do Anything About It Other Than Continue To Flirt With Me So That I Continue To Boost His Ego With My One-Sided Affection - So I've moved on from silly teenager-flings and have entered the bold new world of adult-dating. And I couldn't have chosen a worse boy to fall head over heels for. Think of me like an innocent little moth, flapping my way around in the dark until suddenly I spy a big bright light. I become hypnotised by how wonderful I think the light is and consequently bob around it hoping that it will notice me right back. But as much as I love the light and as much as the light loves having me bob around it like he's the Light of the World, the light doesn't really give two tosses about me and has no problem switching himself off and suddenly becoming unavailable without any prior notice.
What I learnt: Not to be sucked in by boys with pretty smiles and flirtacious natures, because 999 times about of a thousand, they tend to be nothing but playaas who aren't so much interested in you personally as they are in the personal attention you bestow on them in copius, ego-stroking amounts.

6. Mr. Knows My Name But Doesn't Know I Exist (He does know my name though, right?) - Ahh, yet another one-sided affection to add to my shamelessly growing list. This is a story of a girl who fell hard and fast for a boy who spoke to her once and then proceeded to forget she existed while she pined for him in private. Desperately hoping that Mr. Knows My Name But Doesn't Know I Exist would finally realise I existed resulted in a few too many drunk and crying nights on a few too many occassions.
What I learnt: Don't say "Let's do a bazillion tequila shots" hoping that it might rectify the problem.

7. Mr. Kenmore-Eye Candy Man - I'm going to use this as an example just to really reinforce my pathetic and sorry existence. I have never found out the true name of Mr. Kenmore Eye-Candy Man, nor have I every in fact spoken to Mr. Kenmore Eye-Candy Man, but I promise he is not a figment of my imagination. He was this incredibly attactive boy I saw at church each week and then a few times at University and convinced myself that we would make the perfect couple. We in fact, never so much as passed polite introductions.
What I Learnt: If you don't know his name and he doesn't know yours, a prospective relationship that does not make.

I think that will do for now. I could go on, believe me, I could go on. The list is as long as it is stomach-twistingly cringe-worthy, involving a few bad but love-struck choices and even a swimming pool. But I think reflecting on those sinful seven is enough to reinforce in my mind that perhaps a little self help in the romance department wouldn't go astray....

Ciao for now. xo

TOP SHELF: Love that self help

2010-01-18T21:07:00.002+11:00

I am slightly embarrased, nay, ashamed to admit the following information.

I am reading a self-help book.

WORSE! I am reading a dating self-help book.

WORSE! It was given to me as a gift, which is actually worse than buying one for one's self as it seems to suggest some underlying issue of denial.

But WORST OF ALL! I am actually getting something out of it.

It all kind of came around as a bit of a joke. Sister Dearest gave me a copy for my birthday (Pretty brutal, right? My birthday. I mean why not a nice fragrance? A stick of celery? Even a poke in the eye with a blunt stick would have felt better) of Zoe Foster and Hamish Blake's Textbook Romance. I still harbour a secret suspicion that she just wanted to read it herself, but she pulls men all the time so I doubt she's having any trouble with her own tactics.

Anyway, the book lay dormant on my bookshelf for a few months which is unusual because nothing lies dormant on my bookshelf for more than a few days. Truth be told, I was avoiding it. I was reading everything else but, even re-reading books I've re-read a hundred times before. But the time came last night when the mountain had to be conquered, so I opened the blazing red cover.

Firstly, I mean come on, Zoe? What were you thinking picking a cover THAT red? It's not exactly the kind of red which goes unnoticed when you're reading it on the train or it's simply poking out of your bag. This thing is seriously red. Alarm bell red. The kind of red which screams "Look at me! I am red! AND I am a self-help book AND a DATING self-help book to be exact! That's right! I belong to the lonely, pathetic, emotionally-crippled hermit who's currently trying to hide my bright red cover behind a copy of Sydney's MX as she travels home from work!" Seriously, Zoe? Like my ego isn't taking an all-mighty bashing already and you had to go and make the damn thing red.

Anyway, I managed to get over the red cover issue and began reading. At first, I was unimpressed. It seemed all Zoe's theories about 'how to attract men' revolved around concepts which I found completely anti-feminism. But two hours later, it was almost midnight and shock horror! I was still reading. I've read Pulitzer Prize nominees I've put down sooner than that. I wasn't sure what it was, but something in the book was beginning to make some sort of sense and the more I read, the more sense it made.

Men are not idiots. They're actually kinda savvy - who knew? Yes, they make stupid choices and say stupid things and generally act beneath a guise of general stupidity, but really, it's just that. A guise. Beneath all that macho-man-rubbish, they've got it worked out. They know what they're looking for (hint: it's us) and just like we have our dream white knight outlined in our little heads (tall, blonde, preferably a musician, likes the same parts of the paper as me and won't be afraid to tell me I'm being an opinionated git) they have a their dream Princess Peach built up in their little heads and they'll stop at nothing to get it. But the point is: you're either it or your not.

But just because you're not 'it' to one guy, or maybe five, doesn't mean there isn't someone, somewhere who does think you're it, who considers you the bees knees. The cat's pyjamas. The dog's tuxedo. Who thinks you're the best freaking thing since sliced bloody bread. And isn't that worth waiting for?

And while you're waiting, who isn't to say this isn't the best time of all? A time to do all those things which are so deliciously single, which you can only do when the only person in the world to love is yourself?

I'm only half way through Textbook Romance and but look what I've learnt - how to become more selfish! No really, I know it's a whole lot more than that. And if I was to say, accidently drop the book into a meat mincer, have each page folded into origami and delivered to my sister's office by a Singing Telegram or recycled into toilet paper to be stocked in a Port-A-Loo, I'm pretty sure what I've learnt so far will be enough to have a long and happy life... with myself.

Ciao for now. xo

Image Credit: Recordis Photography courtesy of Audrey Hepburn Complex

New Year, New Look

2010-01-16T21:34:00.000+11:00

Hello oh-fabulous ones.

I decided The Chronicles needed a make-over, so rather than spending my Saturday at the beach causing my skin cells additional trauma (PS. How guilt-worthy is that ad? Everytime...everytime.) I spent my Saturday fiddling with Photoshop to bring you The KH Chronicles: Re-designed. The other one had just become too...well...pink.

Anyhoo, change is good and strangely addictive. Now I am further toying with the idea of re-designing some of my sections. Upon doing a spot of section stock-take, I have discovered there are a few portals of my blog that get a bit more action than others. ie. KH Chronicles, Press Release and Discover Me. I don't know if this is a reflection on my inability to span beyond these conventions or these sections are just generally more fun for me to write.

So before I go making any harsh decisions, I am going to throw the reigns over to you. I seem to do all the creative thinking and opinion-sharing in the relationship so it's about time you pulled your weight and spoke your peace. What do you like? What do you dislike? What would you like to start seeing more of? What would you like to see less of? Is there some secret fetish you feel I am not catering for? Yes, this blog is about me - hence the 'KH' part of The KH Chronicles - but it is also about you, dear readers, and I want you to feel valued and satisfied each time you check in.

So give me some feedback! So I can feed it all back to you.

Ciao for now. xo

Image Credit: Audrey Hepburn Complex

DISCOVER ME: Heard it on The Vine

2010-01-14T11:10:00.000+11:00

We all know I love unearthing things - call it a journalistic tendency - hence why I have dedicated a whole section of my blog to the artistis, musicians, actors, bloggers, writers, cupcake makers that are using their talents to change the world. I saw a need and Discover Me was born.

And it's when I come across stuff like Sydney Morning Herald's, The Vine, that I'm relieved that I have a place to air this kind of creative laundry.

Okay, so I'm about a year late to the party (I never said I was a front-runner when it comes to what's hip, hot and happening) but I got so excited when I stumbled across this website this morning that I instinctively made a cup of coffee, which is my immediate response when I know I've found something worth blogging about.

Affiliated with the Sydney Morning Herald, The Vine is a website, or more formally, a forum for news, information, advances and most excitingly, opinions related to the worlds of entertainment, music, fashion, news and technology. By becoming a member, citizens of The Vine can contribute to all areas by posting and commenting on the website's content.

And there's nothing I love more than a public arena in which to vent one's opinions.

In the 45 minutes since stumbling across this website while combing the SMH for some worthy news material for my own website, I have officially been seduced by The Vine and want to have little opinioned, blogging babies with it. It has all the best parts of the newspaper, but told with wit and feeling. It's completely non-journalism. There's no 'inverted-pyramid-give-your-opinion-upon-penalty-of-death' rigidity which they teach you in journalism-school. It's loose and judgemental and completely unconventional when it comes to traditional journalism. I love it.

So, for the sake of everything that is creative and abstract, do yourself and favour and visit this site. And make sure you stop by LoreleiVashti's Dear Alicia Keys - it's well worth a gander.

Ciao for now. xo

KH COMMENTARY: The Realistically Attainable 2010 To-Do List

2010-01-12T11:42:00.000+11:00

I know I said yesterday that we were going to forego the New Year's Resolutions swap because I believe them to be shadey statements made by people with unrealistic ambitions, but I have a secret to own up to...

I made a few myself.

But I want to point out, that mine were made with careful consideration and in an attempt to better multiple aspects of my life through a few well-focused changes. They're not, as I said, a result of unrealistic ambition eg. I am going to seduce Prince William while he tours through Australia (although, I won't turn down the chance if presented with such an opportunity). Nor are they flimsy, unattainable goals made for the soul purpose of simply making a resolution eg. I am going to lose weight/ I am going to save money/ I am going to drink less and in doing so, give myself a better chance at achieving my first two goals. Because these kinds of resolutions last all of fifty seconds.

So, my Realistically Attainable 2010 To-Do List is as follows:

1. Remember people's birthdays and send them a card

I am one of those awfully contradictory people who forget other people's birthdays all the time and then sook and complain when no one remembers my own. BUT NO MORE! 2010 marks the year of KH-The Birthday Card Queen. And to show how realistically attainable I am making this resolution, I have already marked down all my friends and families birthdays in my diary and collected their addresses for card sending. I am going to fund Australia Post this year all by myself.

2. Be open-minded

Thanks to over-excessive amounts of ambition and the kind of high-expectations which take up residence on top the Empire State Building, I have recently discovered that I fall in the closed-minded category of society. I know what I want and anything short of my expectations is inexcusable. I'm not saying I'm going to turn into a hemp-wearing hippie and forget about all the things I want out of life or my life experiences, but I'm going to be more open to what life has to offer. More experiential and less, "My way or the highway, punk."

3. "Water off a duck's back, Quack Quack"

(This terrific saying was coined by My Bestie and all copyright and credits go to her fabulous self)
(also known as "One thing at a time" and "Rolling with the punches")

Just like water off a duck's back, 2010 is going to be my year of taking things as they come and not being manipulated by the things that go wrong, because they are as inevitable as a crappy midday movie. If 2009 and I were in a proverbial punch-up, I probably would have come off second best, suffered some kind of concussion and been hospitalised for six to eight weeks. But I've done my physical therapy and I'm back with avengence. And if 2010 wants a piece of me, he better be ready to get his ass kicked because I'm going to bring it, damn it and I'm not going down without one hell of a fight - while, of course, always remaining open-minded.

Ciao for now. xo

(Image Credit: Faded Film Strips)

GLOSS-ARY: The Body Issue

2010-01-11T11:42:00.001+11:00

Hello KH Chronicle devotees and a belated Merry Christmas to you all! I hope Santa spoiled you rotten and that no one found any lumps of coal waiting at the bottom of their santa sack. And if you did, well... you're in for a prosperous year of charcoal drawing.

Let's skip the part where we swap New Years Eve war stories (because I can assure you, mine will trump anything you have to offer) and the part where we confide our New Years resolutions, because we all know they are made with a confidence no one can hope to maintain. And while we're at it, let's forget how terrible a blogger I have been over the last few months and charge The KH Chronicles upwards and onwards into 2010 with the speed of 1000 gazelles.

So why not kick off the first post of the new decade by jumping on the band-wagon that is the February issue of Australia's marie claire. It's made headlines this last fortnight (as, no doubt, was it's mission to begin with) by putting a very tanned, very enviable, very naked Jennifer Hawkins on the front cover.

While full credit points go to Jackie Frank who takes responsibility for this media brain-child and to Jen for getting her kit off, I'm afraid I remain a little dubious of this 'let's-all-love-our-bodies' publicity stunt.

For starters, who, in their right mind, wouldn't be willing to strip down to their birthday suit and pose naked on the cover of a nationally-distributed magazine if they looked like Jennifer Hawkins? The woman is trim, tanned, toned, terrific - possessing the kind of goal body image I keep in the forefront of my mind when I'm sweating it out on my afternoon run. Which I suppose, is exactly why she was picked for the job in the first place.

However, it seems Jackie Frank and I are kinetically connected because she addresses this very point in her Letter From The Editor, saying "Now, I'm sure some of you are thinking that if you looked like Jen, with her girl-next-door looks and endless legs, you'd be happy to pose naked on a cover, too. But it's not that simple... while she's naturally stunning, you might also be surprised to know that Jen has her share of body hang-ups, and works hard to maintain her figure and glowing skin by following a healthy diet and exercising regularly."

While this may all be well and true, there's something about this cover and supporting feature that still doesn't fly with me. As a dedicated magazine reader since the days of Disney Adventure and now a journo myself, I'd like to think that the big-wigs behind the magazines I turn to for both pleasure and employment think I'm a tad more switched on that that. There's nothing I dislike more than magazine moguls who pretend their readers can't see through the thin media-veil hanging before their eyes, and this is a perfect scenerio - taking body image (which is already a horse that's been flogged to death since the day dot) and undressing it up.

Give us some more street-cred and don't pretend like we don't really know what's going on. Either give body-image to us as it is by putting some average-every-day-Patsy-May on the front, complete with her love handles and saggy boobs, or continue to dress the cover with skinny-minny-celebrities who we ordain to look like. Don't cross-dress one with the other and sell it to us as an inspirational favour. There's a whole lot going on behind Jennifer Hawkins' motivation to maintain a killer body and when stripped back, it's got nothing to do with inner confidence. Some of us make a life for ourselves by serving coffee and some of us make a life for ourselves by continually looking fantastic - guess which category JH falls into?

If you can flick past the Jennifer Hawkins publicity, this issue of marie claire has really got some solid reads to chew over with a cup of coffee and left over Christmas cake. There's a beautiful feature about the Letters To My 16year old Self - notes penned by our favourite celebrities in teenage reminiscence - followed by a rather stomach-twisting story about middle-aged Japanese men who 'date' body pillows emblazened with their favourite female Anime characters, often depicting girls of the age of 6 or 7. It's kind of creepy and sure to cause a stir if talked about over the dinner table.

But in the mean time, I'm now going to go stand infront of the mirror and contemplate all the ways in which Jennifer Hawkins and I look nothing alike.

Ciao for now. xo

Livin' It Up in LA LA Land: Day 2

2009-12-03T18:34:00.001+11:00

It is 11:00 PM. My feet are sore, I have whip lash from over-exercising my credit card and I am now the proud owner of the most fabulous, leopard-print Steve Madden high heels which cost me all of $20.

That's right people. Day 2 of Livin' It Up in LA was spent shopping. Lots and lots of shopping.

Which was fine by me, as I had a hangover from the night before which I'm sure could have claimed my life had I not been hell-bent on burning up some serious cash-ola. I was lucky enough to attend the V Australia Official Launch party where I drank pomegranate martinis, saw Human Nature perform live and caught Vince Colossimo quite obviously staring at my breasts (but I mean... who could blame him?) But the real icing on this doozy of a Crispy Cream is that I saw Kellen Lutz. That's right kiddy-winks. Emmett from Twilight and I were partying at the same LA hot spot. And yes, he is all the more outlandishly gorgeous in real life. Thankfully, I didn't drool all over his feet.

But I did drink quite a few of the pomegranate martinis and therefore, felt like roadkill this morning. However, the wonderful thing about shopping is that it requires little energy apart from signing on the dotted credit line which I did...repeatedly. My highlight was Santa Monica where I discovered the all-time greatest vintage store - 'Wasteland'. My tip for future travellers, make this a pit stop! Awesome clothes, awesome bargains and you may just spy yourself a celebrity. The Olsen twins have been known to buy their ridiculously over-sized ponchos from this very place.

Well kids, I'm off to kiss my new leopard-print heels goodnight and crawl into bed. Stay tuned for tomorrow where I venture into the heart of Beverly Hills to see what I can find.

Ciao for now. xo

Livin' It Up in LA LA Land: Day 1

2009-12-02T11:48:00.000+11:00

Hello my renegade readers! I greet you from the SLS Hotel on the Beverly Hills strip, a city made famous by the one and only, cigarette-smoking, leather toting prostitute-come-Park-Avenue-princess Vivienne of Pretty Woman fame. That's right. I'm in LA!

Here strictly for work purposes, I will be spending the next 10 days experiencing Los Angeles, the OC and Palm Springs and taking in as much sight-seeing, shopping and celebrities as possible. Flying over on the inaugural V Australia flight from Melbourne to LA, I've already seen my fair share of Aussie A-listers - Pippa Black, Vince Colossimo and Michael Klim. But with the itinerary I've got lined up over the next few weeks, I have a feeling the celebrity sight-seeing is about to get a whole lot more interesting.

Will try and touch base each day to fill you in on my adventures, but internet is pricey and I'm seriously time-poor - who has time for blogging when you've living it up in Beverly Hills?

Ciao for now! xo

PRESS RELEASE: Cleaning Up the College Conduct

2009-11-11T09:50:00.001+11:00

We are all biased in one way or another. Some towards their children, some towards their studies and in light of the recent scandal at the University of Sydney's St Paul's College, I admit I am biased towards college.

While under no circumstances do I condone the actions of these young gentleman who set up a 'pro-rape' Facebook group earlier this week, I don't appreciate the minority of collegians who do the wrong thing and spoil the reputation of colleges around the country.

I lived at college for three years at the University of Queensland. In that time, I heard and saw my fair share of inexcusable behaviour. At times, I was shocked and disgusted. But those times were never outweighed by the times I revelled in the joy of being at college. Only after you have been a member of a college co-hort can you come to understand how beneficial the experience is. How it can become an opportunity for social, cultural, sporting and academic achievement and leadership.

To the outside, I can see how college-life would look different to this: a residential hall of hormone-driven, sexed-up students, who care little about their studies and are only concerned by the price of beer jugs at the local pub. I can see how those events of the past involving explicit drunken behaviour and sexual allegations would be cause for questioning these institutions. I can see how one bad egg can rot the entire barrel.

I can also see how colleges provide the perfect scapegoat for immoral incidents. No matter where you live, whether at college, in the army, in a suburban community, even in some homes, inappropriate and even shocking events are occuring. Bullying, emotional and sexual abuse, murder - one glance at the daily newspaper is proof that there is no perfect society. There will always be injustice.

This does not mean we sit back and passively accept these things as unchangable. Rape and sexual abuse will never be acceptable and it is a change which we of the moral society must continue to fight for.

But colleges are not sest-pools of immoral, inappropriate and depraved behaviour. They do not souly fuel the child molestors, date rapers and rule breakers of society. Yes - there are a select few of students who do the wrong thing. Their actions are inexcusable and they must take responsibility for the damage they cause to themselves, their victim and their college. But to every one of those students who shame the name of their residency, there are others who are representing it for the right reasons. They are leading and achieving and living by the rules which not only govern their college, but which goven modern society.

College is a world within the world, which is why the events which occur there are magnified to such an extent. Just in any society, there are people who fail in spite of the opportunities they are given to succeed. They take actions which are unsupported and cause events which find their way to the front pages of the newspaper. But until we can change what happens outside the college walls, what happens inside will always be a similiar reflection. The way women are represented as only sexual conquests, the way men are pressured into thinking masculinity is power, the way arrogance is portrayed as confidence and therefore rewarded. These are social defects which are apparent no matter where you live or work.

I actively encourage this cleaning up the college conduct because I would hate to think prospective students percieve college an experience they would prefer to pass on. But I think it is necessary to point out to those so quick to point their own finger, whether based on experience or an experience 30 years previous, that college will always reflect the world it exists in. Just as there is a minority that do the majority no favours, there is still a majority who continue to do the right thing and make waves for their college for the right reasons.

Where is their headline in the newspaper?

PRESS RELEASE: Syncing their teeth into Brits

2009-11-10T17:42:00.002+11:00

I'll be the first to admit, she's not everybody's cup of English Breakfast Tea. She's the epitome of celebrity-gone-wrong. She got married in velour trackie dacks, shaved her head and is considered the female version of Michael Jackson (for all the right and wrong reasons). But as 'cra-zee' as Britney Spears may be, the thirteen-year-old part of me who still knows all the lyrics to 'Hit Me Baby One More Time' still loves her and was more than willing to fork out the $200 to see her shake her ta ta on the Australian stage.

And I've gotta say, I'm a little dissapointed.

Dissapointed that from the moment young Britney touched down in Australia, she has been greeted with the same media-storm which seems to follow her wherever she goes. No "Hip Hip Hoorah, Britney's here! Let's show her the respect nobody else seems to!" Goodness no. The first thing Australia chose to do was find the one negative thing about Brit's Tour Down Under and splash it across the headlines as their welcome wagon.

As Australians, we pride ourselves on our differences compared to the United States, our relaxed 'true blue little battler' attitude. Yet the first thing we did when Brits arrived was smack her with the same treatment she gets every day in the US of A - paparrazi flashes and tabloid gossip. I thought we Aussies were a little better than that. I thought we were all about fairness and equality and supporting those who are doing it tough. Sure, Britney's life has been a circus in itself and she's not the most reliable role model, but she's still kicking. She's still trying to make do, just like the rest of us.

So why are we so determined to make it more difficult for her?

There's plenty more celebs who've walked Britney's path and met considerably stickier ends. Where's the Aussie spirit in celebrating the fact that she's managed to get herself back in the ring?

(Image Credit: Bryan Bedder-Geddy Images)

KH COMMENTARY: There is a season...

2009-11-07T16:29:00.001+11:00

There's a season for everything. A season for leggings, a season for coloured eye shadows, a season for bikinis and berets and black nail polish. A season for sunbaking, a season for summer storms, a season for cold mornings and a season for stifling nights. There's a season for everything.

And just as there is a season for break-ups, there appears to be a season for hook-ups too.

I don't know if there's something in the water or if the springtime air is making people toey, but the world is going couple crazy. Every where I turn people are pairing off like animals on Noah's ark.

Two or three months ago, relationships were exploding one after another like hidden landmines, leaving wounded couples suddenly single. But it appears these fallen victims have dusted themselves off, got back on their feet and back in the game and those of us who have taken up an unsatisfyingly permanent residency in Singleton suddenly find ourselves with even more competition.

And it's hard battle out there. A battle of mind games; the constant balance of confidence and reserve, honesty and mystery, independence and desperation. And it takes one wrong step, one wrong revelation of your character, one too many stupid words and you're out. Dismissed. Sidelined as you watch the other players who've worked out how to play the game.

And the more you fight - for whatever it is we think we're fighting for - and the more you lose out as other people win big, the more you question everything you once liked about yourself and the more you desperately convince your negative thoughts that you're the type of person who can't be put in a box.

Attraction, lust, love - whatever label you want to put on it - isn't it all the result of a chemical reaction? A response we're physically prone to feel as a part of our human condition, only further amplified by songs and movies and romantic heroes. The need for love is inescapable. We rejoice when we've finally found it, but we're reminded each and every day we're forced to keep on looking.

But just like my occassional plunges into self pity, there is a season, turn turn turn....

(Image Credit: The Drifter and The Gypsy)

KH COMMENTARY: Excuses Excuses

2009-11-07T15:27:00.001+11:00

Who's a naughty little blogger?

That would be me....

I know I have been MIA slash AWOL slash just plain lazy over the last few weeks (oh my gosh it's been weeks now!) and have not posted any delightful snippets of cynicsm and I wish there was some profound excuse behind my tardiness, but there isn't. I'm just plain lazy and have let my readership down.

But never fear - I'm whipping the poor old blog off the back-burner and putting it back on high priority. Daily posts coming your way once again, pinky promise.

xo

TOP SHELF: On the tweeting fence

2009-10-27T18:31:00.002+11:00

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?

2009-10-22T10:45:00.008+11:00

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

2009-10-21T10:23:00.003+11:00

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

2009-10-20T16:33:00.009+11:00

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

2009-10-17T17:34:00.006+11:00

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

2009-10-14T15:14:00.012+11:00

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

2009-10-12T17:07:00.013+11:00

(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

2009-10-08T15:05:00.014+11:00

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

2009-10-08T13:17:00.004+11:00

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?

2009-10-06T10:04:00.007+11:00

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

2009-10-05T11:12:00.013+11:00

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?

2009-10-04T15:02:00.012+11:00

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

2009-10-02T13:35:00.008+10:00

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

2009-10-01T15:14:00.007+10:00

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)

PRESS RELEASE: Man up, Becks

2009-09-30T17:31:00.006+10:00

Ah... this is a great story.

Upon realising that his soccer stardom can not last forever, David Beckham has started making plans for the future, wanting to branch into television once his on-field career draws to a close. However, it seems Becks has come across a small glitch in his grandiose plan.

His voice is too high-pitched.

Bah ha.

(On a purely selfish level, this brings me a small level of satisfaction that even the most beautiful of 'the beautiful people' suffer from issues with their self-esteem. I'm going to sleep so much better tonight.)

Anyway, to rectify his troublesome tonsil situation, Becks is joining bobble-head wife, Victoria in voice-coaching classes which aim to deepen his high-pitched tones and improve his accent. It seems Victoria has worked out that being British can be a bit of a draw card with Britain's Daily Star newspaper printing,

"Victoria knows being British can be an asset in the States, but only if the American public can understand what you're talking about."

Gosh, that gal is cluey.

Victoria was first to jump on the self-improvement bandwagon when she began attending 'facial lessons' and voice classes before guest starring on American Idol. The aim of these private tutorials was to teach Vic to properly pronounce her words and minimise the severity of her pout, in an aim to, quote:

"come across more human."

Now, is it just me or does something smell a bit off about that statement? Call me callous, but I think a woman whose head is noticeably out of proportion with her matchstick size body needs to do a little bit more than some "How now brown cow's"and the occasional smile to come across as human.

Like, I dunno, maybe putting some meat on her bones?

PRESS RELEASE: Unhappy little iSnack2.0-mites

2009-09-30T16:36:00.005+10:00

Kraft have seen the error of their breakfast-spread ways and ditched 'iSnack2.0' as the name of their new Vegemite/Creamcheese blend.

After succumbing to public pressure and a riot of angry little vegemites, Kraft spokesman Simon Talbot said they have "been overwhelmed by the passion for Vegemite and the new product. The new name has simply not resonated with Australians."

Um... pretty sure any number of plugger wearing, XXXX drinking, snag BBQing Australians could have told you that. For free.

Best of all, the thousands of iSnack2.0-named jars being distributed to shopping centres and corner stores around the country are expected to become collector's items. Yah - because that's what everyone wants to house in their trophy room alongside their primary school running race ribbons - an eternal memory of Kraft's breakfast-spread blunder.

NEW TUNES: Rodrigo Y Gabriela '11:11'

2009-09-29T13:22:00.009+10:00

While pouring over a sales bin in JB Hi-Fi last week, I couldn't help but tap my foot to the acoustic beats being played through the store's overhead speakers. A simple question at the enquiries desk - "Who is this?" - introduced me to the fast-paced rhythms of Rodrigo Y Gabriela.

A mix of acoustic Mexican and electric instrumental, you can not sit still while listening to the guitar genius of Rodrigo Sanchez and Gabriela Quintero. 11:11 is the follow-up release to their highly successful debut album and contains all the pulse-racing punch of the original.

The acoustic rhythms on this album hit speeds and sounds unknown even to the likes of Jimmy Hendrix. The tracks are infused with an energy which makes even the most left-footed among us want to stand up and salsa. The duo's fingers fly from string to string as they dance between the guitar frets and are kept in line by nothing but the raw beat of the riffs. And just as the tempo lapses and you think you have a second to catch your breathe, you are plunged back into the racing acoustic sound.

The Sunday Times UK Review summed the compilation up perfectly as 'The Gypsy Kings-meet-Led Zeplin' - a wild, uninhibited mix of Mexican boogaloo and sexy Spanish sound, a style not for the faint hearted.

Artist: Rodrigo Y Gabriela
Album: 11:11
Released: 04/09/2009
Website: http://www.rodgab.com/
Touring: Currenly touring USA

Sound Test: Buster Voodoo - 11:11

NEW TUNES: Gin Wigmore 'Holy Smoke'

2009-09-29T11:47:00.007+10:00

Think Missy Higgins minus the sweetness and replaced with the dirty sound of Duffy - this is what comes out of the speakers thanks to New Zealand's Gin Wigmore and her new album, Holy Smoke.

This hypnotic sound is a delicate balance of grunge and folk music and has fast established Gin in a genre all of her own.

I first became mesmerised by Gin's strange sound with her single Stealing Happiness and was quick to pick up her six track EP, Extended Play in 2008. This beautiful listing featured ballads ripe with raw notes and true words which often stung, but with the sweet remorse of a reflective heart.

While Extended Play mused its way through sweet melodies, Holy Smoke delivers Gin's delicate lyrics through a variety of uptempo tracks. Gin injects her filthy sound into bluesy ballads which are thick with base lines and smooth drumming. The result is an album which effortlessly combines honest lyricism with ballsy rock melodies, a welcome change from the light-hearted acoustic sound female alternative artists commonly produce. But it is clear upon listening to this album that Gin Wigmore is anything but common.

Artist: Gin Wigmore
Album: Holy Smoke
Released: 25/09/2009
Website: http://www.ginwigmore.com/

Touring: 'Holy Smoke' tour featuring The Cardinals - NSW/VIC/QLD (visit website for tour dates and tickets)

Sound Test: Oh My - Holy Smoke

SILVER SCREEN: Fame! It's gonna live forever.

2009-09-28T13:37:00.011+10:00

As a dedicated dance movie fan and broadway wannabe, you could say the expectations were definitely high when I bought my ticket to see the new Fame. I'm often a little dubious when it comes to remakes, harbouring an 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it' mentality, but the thought of taking what was one of the original movies to establish the teenage movie musical genre and plunging it into modern day was far too tempting to avoid. So I bought my ticket, excited but with slightly concerned reservations about the impending possibility that what I was about to watch had all the potential of resembling the trashy love-child of Hair and High School Musical.

I left with a slightly different perspective.

It.
Was.

Fabulous.

Granted, I doubt any of the actors are going to win any Oscars, Emmys, Tonys or Grammys like their on-screen characters are so passionately striving for, but if you've got 107 minutes spare, I highly recommend submerging yourself in the lives of the students of New York's Academy of Performing Arts.

This school (aka. PA) acts as the premis of the film, which is an updated version of the 1980 musical classic. A whole new gang have entered the hallowed halls of PA and are looking to make it big in the world of show business via their various performing disciplines. Over achievers, rough diamonds, shy violets and undiscovered talents - the school has them all and their willing to bust their guts and girdles in order to make it big. But as our hopeful heroes and heroines soon discover, finding fame brings its fair share of trials, tribulations and sudden bursts into song and dance.

Undeniably, it is Denise Dupree (played by up-and-comer Naturi Naughton) who deservedly steals the show. A piano player with all the promise of the next Mozart but lacking the passion to really achieve, Denise discovers her hidden ability to sing and joins a hiphop trio under the nose of her conservative parents. The pipes on Naturi Naughton are nothing short of enviable and are displayed in perfect pitch when she busts out Out Here On My Own and leaves cinemagoers utterly amazed.

Despite the extraordinary choreography featured in the dance audition, Black and Gold and graduation scenes and the sporadic moments which may make broadway wannabes like myself shed a regretful tear at not having pursued those NIDA dreams, there are a few questionable aspects to the film. The remake boasts a bigger cast than the original and this often makes it difficult to keep track of the principal characters. As a direct result, some lack the fleshing out they really need and a few of the story arcs fly a little too far under the radar which is dissapointing.

But this being said, it contains all the teenage angst and visual direction one hopes for in a teenage movie musical, not to mention boasting a pretty impressive line-up of young performers who do the original proud. Hence, I have every intention of buying the DVD and soundtrack and belting out the lyrics to 'Fame' like they're going out of style, not that they ever will.

Popcorn Quality: 4/5

Starring: Kay Panabaker, Walter Perez, Naturi Naughton, Asher Book, Kherington Payne, Collins Pennie, Kristy Flores, Paul McGill, Anna Maria Perez de Tagle, Kelsey Grammer, Megan Mullally

Running Time: 107 mins
Recommended if you enjoyed: Any dance movie known to man, High School Musical, Rent, Hairspray
Trailer:

(Image Credit: http://hollywoodbay.fan-sites.org/category/fame/ )

KH COMMENTARY: All the single babies

2009-09-27T13:34:00.004+10:00

As a big fan of Beyonce's Single Ladies ("Ding dang! She had the best video of all time!"), this video brought me much happiness this morning. Good to see that Beyonce is covering all markets...and ages.

This one wins YouTube of the week - fo' shiz.

DISCOVER ME: Fug it, I love it

2009-09-25T10:00:00.003+10:00

I have inherited a new housemate over the last few days as a friend from Charters Towers camps on the floor of my living room. As a dedicated KH Chronicle reader herself (snap sister) and a blogging devotee, we have spent much of the last few days musing over our favourite websites like 13-year-old Warhammer fans and swapping blog sites like they were lipgloss shades.

And this is how I came across Go Fug Yourself.

Reading this site made me want to cry salty tears that I have gone 21 years without having ever stumbled across it before. The cynicism, the brutal sarcasm, the witty one-liners - I love love love it.

The site is essentially Gossip Girl gone brilliantly bad, where two writers review the outfits worn by the big wigs of the A-list business . Those hit out of the park and those gone oh-so foul, 'the fuggers' review them all in deliciously politically-incorrect style. No celeb is safe from Jessica and Heather's tauntingly terrific descriptions as they pull the red-carpet out from beneath each and every celeb who thought they were making a fashion statement, but were really just making the camera's cry.

Particular celebrities certainly worth a read are Jennifer Lopez and Britney Spears where the fuggers' write the reviews in character. There is a definite stench of inappropriateness here, especially given the girls' practically poke fun of Jennifer's Latino heritage, but the comedy is so undeniable you can't help but keel over. Partly from laughter and partly from shock that someone could have to balls to say some of this stuff out loud.

I think I would be more scared of meeting these two than I would be of being trapped in an elevator with Anna Wintour, but despite my fear for my personal fashion, there's a deep respect for these two characters. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that one day they make their way out to Australia, as I'm just dying to hear what they have to say about Kerri-anne Kennerly.

KH COMMENTARY: Sanity or Sanitary?

2009-09-23T14:37:00.004+10:00

For half the human population, it's one of those 'things' we can't escape. Like death and taxes. For the other half of the human population, it's one of those 'things' they don't have to experience or attend to, but must consequently put up with the fallout of on a monthly (or 28 day) basis.

That's right, class. Today we're talking about periods (aka. menstruation, monthlies, flow, rags, 'special friend' - let's just get those awkward words right out there where we can see them). And I know for the estrogen-challenged amongst us, this topic may be far from comfortable but let your unease in discussing the matter shed a fraction of light on the utter discomfort we women go through every month in the benefit of one day supplying you with offspring.

More specifically however, today we're talking about 'sanitary items' and the ridiculous, shameful way in which they are advertised.

Yesterday alone, between watching Neighbours and going to the cinema, I was confronted with two disturbing padvertisements which made me genuinely ashamed to be a woman. The first being:

I have a number of issues with this particular pad ad. The first being that under no circumstances what so ever would a man willingly get a pad out of a drawer for his girlfriend. This is blatant false advertising. If the words 'period, 'pad' or 'tampon' are so much as whispered behind their back in hushed voices, men run screaming in the opposite direction. They do not obligingly supply pads like a helpful worker bees. Secondly, no girlfriend explains the reasoning behind her particular 'sanitary supplement of choice'. There is no call or need for any kind of discussion of this variety. It's not about being prude or embarrassed, simply the fact that men don't need (or want) to know about what kind of pad/tampon their girlfriend uses in the same way that women don't need (or want) to know how many cans of XXXX their boyfriend can skull in a minute while balancing an orange on their head and doing the Macarena. That kind of info just ain't necessary.

The second pad ad to piss me off is everyone's favourite 'beaver ad':

You either love it or you hate it or you're in the boat where you're so disturbed by the idea that someone actually had to think this thing up that you're not quite sure what to make of it.

The question I want to pose from these monstrosities of public viewing is why feminine-hygiene-product-supplying companies feel they need to be creative and SO BLOODY COLOURFUL with the product they're selling? In the end, regardless of whether it comes in an attention-drawing box, smells like roses, is packaged in bright pink celephane wrap or is 'shaped to fit', it's still a tampon and no amount of dressing it up and savvy-selling is going to change that. We all know what they do. We're all familiar with their purpose and I don't need some beaver-toting girl on the TV to remind me of that.

But then again, I'm not quite the target audience, am I? As a 21-year-old with her fair share of period-pained years under her belt, I don't need to stand in front of the tampon aisle in the supermarket surrounded by my giggling girlfriends as I try to decide which tampon box resembling a Pez dispenser I'm going to buy this month (thankfully, those days are well behind me). Unfortunately, for those of us in the 16-45 year-old category who know exactly what brand we prefer (and have probably been using for the last however many years), we must put up with the $250 million dollar industry which churns out campaigns aimed at 13-16 year olds who are naively swayed by 'getcha free barbie with this tampon box' inspired packaging. We grab and go. Enough said.

So it seems, along with the next thirty years of seven day stretches involving mind-numbing cramps, emotional instability, cravings, headaches, yo-yoing weight gain and expense of $15 every monthly pay packet which must be attributed to supplying one's self with hygiene products, I get to spend the rest of my life putting up with the shameless, cringe-worthy padvertising surrounding things with strings and things with wings which I have long been familiar with. Will the torment surrouding periods never cease?