Leave Nigella Lawson Alone!

I usually don’t mind reading Sarah Le Marquand’s columns in the Snaily Telegraph.  She usually writes with intelligence and some decency.

But today she takes the cake with her patronising and pompous faux-feminist attitude to the way Nigella Lawson has chosen thus far to deal with the very public breakdown of her marriage to Charles Saatchi, the man who assaulted her recently at a restaurant.

Le Marquand demands of Nigella:

But she cannot stay quiet forever. Having found herself in the centre of a highly publicised matter, she owes it to herself – and to the countless women in similar situations now watching her closely – to speak up and denounce violence and bullying.

Daily Telegraph 11/07/2013

There is no singular perfect human response to trauma. 

Le Marquand’s smug,  insensitive,  patronising, and ignorant suggestion that Nigella get a wriggle on denouncing Saatchi publicly, and become the posh anti-domestic violence poster girl before she turns into a 50-something Rihanna, chooses underhanded and passive aggressive feminism at close to its worst. 

At no point in her article does Le Farquwittand[sic] open her heart to the possibility that Nigella’s refusal (thus far) to publicly denounce Saatchi or to make any comment about intimate partner violence in general, is anything beyond the mark of a very public figurehead maintaining the clichéd stiff upper lip in the face of public humiliation.

As one who was many years ago on the inside of a relationship marked literally by domestic violence, the last thing a person in Nigella and her family’s (yes, Le F. you didn’t think about the rest of the family did you?) situation need is judgmental outsiders casting cut-throat black and white aspersions their way during a shitty time of transition.

Le Marquand’s eager article reads as black and white about one thing:  Charles Saatchi is not the only pig at the fair.

This is a time less for heartlessness, than healing, and kindness.

c. Aroomofheroine 2013.

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The Loneliest Planet

What is the loneliest planet? 

This is a question which played by chance after watching writer/director Julia Loktev’s latest feature film, visually stunning The Loneliest Planet.

Adapted from a short story by journalist and travel writer, Tom Bissell, Loktev draws out the tale almost in real-time of Nica and Alex, a young couple passionately in love with each other and on the brink of marriage.  Too soon, but not soon enough for the audience, they find themselves on the brink of betrayal, wrought by a single shocking event, which shatters everything they think they know about each other, and about themselves.

Nica, played by Hani Furstenberg a talented Israeli-American actor who could give Jessica Chastain a run for her money – partly ’cause she’s a ranga – and Alex, played by Gabriel Garcia Bernal, (The Motorcycle Diaries (2004) and Babel (2006)) are fit, seasoned backpackers, seeking experiences off the beaten track in rural Georgia, Russia.  I say seasoned, unlike their clothes, which never seem to get dirty or torn, no matter how many rocks they clamber over or grassy mountains they roll down.  But hey, John Wayne’s shining new trousers and red shirt at the start of The Searchers (1956) never truly belied the adventures of a U.S. Confederate soldier who has ridden rough for three years before arriving home to his family out in the Texas desert.

Alex and Nica’s Georgian local mountaineering guide, played by Bidzina Gujabidze, is at first a subtly shy though friendly older character, in counterpoint to the garrulous Nica, but as Nica discovers, behind the scarred exterior Dato is a thoughtful man hiding a tenderly complex story of loneliness which proves an elixir in the resolution.  Gujabidize, an accomplished mountaineer, rather than actor, offers an authentic, nuanced performance in his feature film début.

We are easily drawn into the minutiae of life on a trek in a foreign country:  a tourist’s eye-view of magnificent, rugged countryside, which both invigorates and blisters the traveller’s spirit and feet, from shattering rock-strewn hillside, to washing in flat waterways, and laughing over cheeky language games.  There are some unsettling moments for Nica and Alex: perhaps this land is not so friendly, but Dato ushers them through with care.  These hints of danger tease the viewer into thinking that they are watching a thriller.  The rising tedium  – I wanted to yank a chunk out of the story – leading to the crisis moment in Alex and Nica’s journey, contrasts with the slow-moving but rising tension in the climax scene, during which an inevitable careless betrayal elicits the aforementioned elixir.   Delaying the drama is an intriguing choice, but as a measure of character development, it works well.

After watching this film, I find the loneliest planet is not the isolated wilds of remote Georgia‘s Caucasus Mountains, but the human heart.

No bull:   If you love backpacking, or storytelling that gives you time to smell the roses, then it is worth a look. 

Newly released in Australian cinemas, The Loneliest Planet is clever, simple character-based storytelling.   Slow in parts, it is ultimately evocative, and provocative.

To watch The Loneliest Planet preview:

c. Kylie Lawrence 2013.

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It’s a quirky title, but the storytelling team behind this endearing off-beat comedy,  Safety Not Guaranteed, take us on a ride into imaginative territory.

Determined to get the story behind a crazy time-traveller-companion-wanted advertisement, the misfit trio of sleazy Gen X magazine journalist, Jeff (Jake Johnson of A Very Harold and Kumar 3D Christmas (2011)) and young interns, the depressed Darius (comedian Aubrey Plaza of Parks and Recreation (TV) fame) and geeky innocent Arnaud (Karan Soni, Are You There, Chelsea? (2012), set out on an increasingly bizarre  trip into the perilous world of time traveller Kenneth.

Character-driven comedy with a twist I won’t spoil, the stand-out performance for me is Mark Duplass’s child-man Kenneth, a man for whom moving on is just too hard, and revisiting the past seems the only way to make sense of the present:  a theme that true romantics will appreciate.  Time travel is dangerous stuff, as Kenneth’s self-made action hero explains to Darius, but it can change your life.

A touch of over-plotting in the latter part of the second act slows the pace slightly, but overall I cannot fault writer Derek Connolly and director Colin Trevorrow’s hilarious, heart-warming comedy for engaging storytelling.

No Bull:  Get your backside on a cinema seat now.

The only person laughing more than me was a mysterious stranger in the front row.

SAFETY NOT GUARANTEED preview (I refuse to say trailer):

c.  A Room of Heroine 2012

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A Whiter Shade of Pale

Something I have been thinking about for a long time.  Time to change the colour of our day.  As much as I really like the white text on dark grey background and the whole mysterious red header – most suitable for a red head!  it is time to bring some font contrast to A Room of Heroine.

So after I have yet another squizz at the WordPress themes on offer, these – interestingly enough, black and red – martial arts shoes are going to take me out into the sunshine down the hill.

Who knows what brighter, yet mysterious layout awaits the eye?


c.  A Room of Heroine 2012.

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BRIDESMAIDING 101 Top Tips for a Proper Bridesmaid


Top Tips for a Proper Bridesmaid

  1.  Don’t tell the bride something looks foul until you’ve tried it on. Chances are it’ll look a lot better on you than it will on the shop shelf or hanger.  Whether it’s foul or fair, you’re probably going to pay for it, so give it a go before writing it off as the tacky pair of shoes from hell.  Something that starts off looking trashy may well prove the coute de rootistance at the reception.*  If, for example, the sales assistant volunteers that she walked in the same style of shoes from The Rocks to Darling Harbour without breaking out into a blister at her work Xmas party, rest assured that the comfortable fit you enjoy in the shop will last an entire wedding day no problems.
  2.  When the bride asks you seven months before the wedding what colour her roses should be, don’t tell her to wait and see what’s in season.  In fact, this should be rule number one.  Brides need to know hues and shades and tinges months in advance.  They say this is because they need to co-ordinate bridesmaid outfits, and handbags and other crap like that, but really, it’s so they have time to surreptitiously plant design seeds into the groom’s side of the business into picking the right colour ties and cummerbunds.  Where the Kyoto Protocol is only concerned with saving planet Earth from global warming between here and eternity, brides have one mission: to save Their Special Day (T.S.D.).  As you embark upon your pre-wedding journey, you will realise that The Bride (T.B.) is the boss of everything.
  3.  When The Bride asks for your opinion upon the colour of chair sash colours at the reception venue, and what you think will complement the dining room nautical-themed carpet, don’t throw a hissy fit and expostulate, “For god’s sake who the hell’s gunna notice – they’re chair sash covers for goodness sake!” Remember the invisible rule that renders all other rules insignificant – only the bride is allowed to throw a hissy fit, and if it’s prompted by a materialistic, superficial reason that she too would otherwise, in more rational times, ie, Pre-Bridal (P.B.), not give a shit about, this is perfectly normal, and par for the course of Briding.
  4.  Bridesmaids should not attempt to co-produce short films long distance whilst attending to their Maiden of Honour duties on the weekend of the wedding.   Your stomach may be churning at a frightening rate of knots as your paltry film budget suffers for your art, but if your focus is anywhere but decorating the tables at the reception centre with the bride and her family the day before the big day, you will fall short of being A Proper Bridesmaid.  She won’t even need to say it.  The artistic nerves in your inside will spontaneously [sic] into waves of guilt that you have not been A Proper Bridesmaid.
  5.  Bridesmaids should refrain from playing hopscotch up the church aisle during wedding rehearsals, even if the vicar does laugh.  This stresses brides out, particularly brides whose sole M. of H. and E. (Maiden of Honour and Everything) has also been so wrapped up in filmmaking that she has neglected to turn up to the reception venue to decorate tables and cannot remember the running order of the ceremony.
  6.  A Proper Bridesmaid will refrain from being politically correct and telling her bride-to-be off for being sacrilegious and shallow.   This is for special cases, where an atheist bride takes her lapsed ex-schoolboy Roman Catholic father into the church, to point out how the stained glass windows, featuring saints, in the vestibule co-ordinate with her traditional wedding theme, and the father decides to start reciting long forgotten catechisms and reminding everyone of how he was once a good little altar boy.  Art and beauty have everything to do with celebrating love.
  7.  If the bridesmaid has a different spiritual calling to the bride and groom, she will likely as not find that her spiritual beliefs are small bickies in comparison with the love she has for true love.  The old maxim, when in Rome do as the Romans do, for a half hour wedding service helps.  Besides, there is a rock solid chance that the marriage celebrant will prattle on about all sorts of positive vibes about marital commitment and love that transcend the tenets of any organised religion, even if several centuries ago, you would have been burned at the stake by the marriage celebrant’s predecessor.
  8.  If the photographer offers you cheap champagne out of the esky in the boot of his car while s/he does the formal portraits out in the hot sun, just drink it.  The bride, despite more than likely knowing nothing about photography or set design, will be too busy telling the photographer how to stage her/his photographs and run her/his camera, in order to catch the eyeball-scorching sunlight in a halo against the back of her dress, to drink.  This also has the run-on effect of warming her thirst engines so that she will be ready to harass you for a drink at the reception.
  9.  Don’t think your duties at the reception begin and end with holding the bride’s handbag while she and the groom welcome the guests inside.  She may never have been married or even a bridesmaid before, but if you don’t know that you should know to fetch her drink from the bar, there is the distinct likelihood that she will become tetchy, as well as thirsty, and tell you off… discreetly or otherwise.  Your bride will depend on you to know your bridesmaid business, even if she thinks she doesn’t.
  10.  Bridesmaids should always size up the available groomsmen.  Even if you don’t get lucky with one of them after the wedding, there is a pretty good chance you could get lucky with their dessert.  Which, after the exhausting day you’ve just had, absolutely justifies eating a second one.  Suggest to the bride that she order a fussy, girly sweet that no self-respecting Groom’s Bloke (G.B.) could have the sweet tooth to handle, such as Pavlova, chocolate puddings and tarts.  A Proper Bridesmaid knows it is vitally important to line her stomach before she hits the dance floor with all the other tarts… well, the ones in satin.
  11.  Always accompany the bride to the toilet, even if it’s just to gossip about the hot waiter.  Whether she needs you to hold seventy metres of tulle up while she plants one on the dunny, or pin her back fat back into the corset she’s never fitted into, it is an unspoken rule that the bride always goes to the dunny in a posse of satin, silk, and perfume.
  12.  When it’s time to dance with your Allotted Groomsman (A.G.) during the bridal waltz,  realise that it will never be as bad as social dancing for P.E. in Year Ten, and the groomsman may well be just as nervous as you.  It is only one dance out of the rest of your life, and with a bit of luck, he will be so concerned about his Groomly Duties (G.D.s), that he will kindly offer to fetch you a drink from the bar.
  13.  When your bride sister or friend says she could not have made it through her special day and months of preparation without you, say thank you.  You never know – one day you could be in need of an experienced Matron of Honour, one who understands your bridal needs perfectly.

*Coute de rootistance.  For those of you not from the Land Down Under, this means the pinnacle of ones shagging opportunities.

c. A Room of Heroine 2012. Continue reading

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When European Cinema Doesn’t Shine

I love going to the pictures. 

The only time I haven’t enjoyed the cinematic experience is the time a few years ago I convinced a couple of friends to see this Italian family draaaaaama where the characters did nothing but bitch, and fuck, and argue for the film’s duration. 

It was exhausting to listen to, exhausting to watch, and no amount of cute Italian hand gestures could make up for the fact that this film was exhausting to listen to and exhausting to watch.

For the first time in my personal cinema-going history, there was no choc top from heaven that could have stopped me from walking out.  And I never walk out of a film.  So I sat there, and hoped my friends wouldn’t say anything awful to me afterward.  Of course, when we walked out into the sunshine of Oxford St, I apologised for inviting them to see it.  This is something which I would never dream of doing.  Other people whinge and whine about films, but I love going to the pictures.

As for building the drama, the story up on screen couldn’t flatline any further in terms of dramatic dynamics.  In fact, if it had flatlined, I would not have noticed it.  It was a constant parade of four seasons in one emotional day.  And so much anger (the characters’, not mine).

One of the things screenwriter Billy Marshall Stoneking has to say about drama (and he has plenty to say) is that drama has to build and go somewhere.  It has to do something. I hope he doesn’t mind my quoting his writing on Dramatic Grammar:

A story’s power is proportional to its effectiveness in building and releasing energy in ways that are fresh, unexpected and thoroughly credible

When a story stops building energy, or is unable to effectively release it, the energy dissipates, which is another way of saying the story becomes undramatic.

You can join Billy on his hunt for truly dramatic storytelling at http://www.wheresthedrama.com.

Highly recommended if I do speak from experience.

Should I tell you the name of this film that altered my perception of cinema-going for all eternity?  No.  I have forgotten the name, and to be honest, I feel a bit mean slagging off the work of other artists.

But it was a growing experience.  I did learn something of storytelling value that afternoon.  It was naive of me to expect that a European film might, by sheer virtue of its being a European film, automatically provide a glowing cinematic experience.   It doesn’t mean diddly squat.

That’s the same as assuming that Australian films are broadly quirky, undramatic, or filled with horror.

Anyway, enjoy your choc tops, possums.


c. A Room of Heroine 2011.

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Back in first year uni, I thought suede was what Desert Boot uppers were made of.  I didn’t know it was a band too.

What was this ‘alternative’ music?  Alternative to what?  All I knew was the Top Forty, and listening to Friday Night Request Line.  I wasn’t that many years removed from a spiral perm and Roxette.   ‘She’s Got the Look’ wasn’t, I suppose now, that much different from Suede’s ‘She’s in Fashion.

It’s just that I was never in fashion.

I used to go blank on my city friends sometimes.  They never knew how desperately uncool I was.  Or perhaps they did and were too nice to tell me.

After all, one day when I wasn’t wearing a flanno (which I took to wearing out of homesickness, and ironically, never wore them so much as in the Big Smoke), I put on my best jumper and ribbon to ask out this nice older boy in my history tute, just before we went into a lecture.

He was so desperate to get out of going with me to a party that he actually went out and busted his leg playing soccer.  The full plaster cast and amnesia-about-being-asked-out combo.  Total blank on Monday after the game.  I was too shy to ask if he was still interested.  Not that I was selfish, but you know, it took a lot of being psyched up by the family I boarded with, and picking the right jumper and ribbon…

I stood there down the hill a bit from the history lecture hall, while one of my friends went on about some English band, Ride.  I should have known what that was about.  I mean, I couldn’t even sit on a horse long enough after it oninto a canter without trying to remember the stunt roll Mum told me about when I was a kid.  I knew enough about horses to know about a band called Ride.  Surely.  Yeah but nooooo, to paraphrase e of the great thinkers ofthe twenty-first century, Little Britain’s Vicky Pollard.

My friend enthused, her beautiful long dark hair and long skirt standing across from me, as she and our other friend gabbed on.  I stood there and realised that I had been left out of the cultural loop.

Where did you find this music?  Why had I never heard of it before?  What universe had I existed in?  I would never catch up.  I didn’t even especially like the Chili Peppers.

Sure I went to the Bar on the Hill on the occasional Thursday nights, and saw these great new Aussie bands play, but I didn’t collect music, and Triple J was new.  To me.  Not to the rest of the planet.  On the East coast, near the sea, where dreams are made in blue and green waves, not red ant hills.

Although I had not been in a dream world, not lived in one for nineteen years, that moment, standing on the hill at uni, felt as if I were coming out of one.  Not a sleep dream.  And I don’t even mean it wholly metaphorically.  I didn’t say anything.

Anyway, my friends knew that I was a country bumpkin from Broken Hill, but they never knew that it was a one FM radio station town, a station that I listened to sometimes on the wireless .   You know, back when a wireless was a wireless radio, and not something sticking out of the crack of a pair of skinny jeans worn by an arseless twat who has marginally more hair on his legs than I currently sport beneath my arms.  Well, up at the top of my arms and under a bit in a lovely warm hollow, and, if you wanted me to wave to you across the street, would stop traffic.  That’s how much I need to shave my underarms.  Who the hell invented that stuff?  Men.  So they could sell razors.  Bastards.

What is it with the pits?  They just grow so damned fast.  A girl doesn’t have time to daydream, procrastinate, create, and shave all in the one day.  No, she just gets a surprise in the shower when she washes her hair.  This is so taking me back to that dose of chicken pox I had when I was nineteen.  Man (pun intended), I could not shave under there for three months in case I knocked a pox off.

But you don’t want to know about my teen pox episode.  Well, you do, but I’ll save that for another post.

Anyway, so, I have been listening to Suede lately, on Youtoot, um, YouTubaclosis, no, YouTube.  It’s so… poppy, that may be it was never alternative.  Just wanted to see what all the fuss was about, even though, by now, I’ve heard them often enough.

Anyway, the beautiful thing is that my gang of uni friends and I may be grown up now, but I have a feeling that we all still love music.

And I suppose I know what the alternative is.


c.  A Room of Heroine 2011.

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Sunshine and All that Stuff

Sunshine and all that stuff.

You know, I think I am going to make this a category all of its special own.

Currently I am sitting in my cold bedroom, instead of the warm, sun-filled lounge room.  And eating cold rolled oats and linseeds.

Argh, it’s been a little chilly in Sydney of late.  Of late what?  Library books.  Oh don’t get me started, I’ll go nuts-a-loo writing all sorts of stream-of-consciousness and metaphor-raising floosziebiloolio stuff.  And making up words.

This is the sunshine blog.

This morning I stood in front of my kitchen window, like Rapunzel at her garret – er, tower bedroom, waiting for that slack-arsed prince to stop fucking his horse and rescue her.  What is it with princes on horseback?  Can’t they walk?  Geez.  Poor bloody horses.  A lardy-arsed prince AND a suit of armour, not to mention saddle and a belly full of primeval mediaeval oats.

Back to sunshine.  So, standing in front of my window, thinking about a telephone call I had to make about an opportunity that I believe is there, and slightly psyching myself up, and embracing the sun, curiously enough, at the base of my belly.  Exactly where a girl needs it when she wants to achieve something professionally.

A good blast of sun right in the base chakra, but around the front, because who the hell would turn their back on all that beautiful sunshine?

I’m going to deliberately finish – in the middle – by saying that the only reason Rapunzel knew her prince was coming is because she was facing OUT the window, sunshine of my miiiiind (some sixties pop song in my head I think, and if not, must be the seventies, must look up all sunshine songs).

Tricked you.  I didn’t finish in the middle.  See what happens when one edits oneself before the outpouring of minor creativity has concluded its merry swish through ones mind, behind the beads, the eyes, the Rapunzellian eyes of the soul?

So I was grateful for that sunshine.  And thanked the Sun.  And my ancestors.  And I felt good, and mission simplified, the right message coming through to me, as to WHY I should share in that opportunity.  Then I thought about lots of other stuff which was highly distracting, irrelevant, and slightly negative but constructively negative.  Then I got back into the sunshine state of mind.  No, not Queensland.  It’s not always about Queensland you know.

But you know, I already knew last night – or the wee whoooours of this morning – what my method for tackling the opportunity mission would be, et-sunny=-cetera.

I love the sun.  And right now, I am going to finish my rolled oats, and get ready for work.  Between the train and I is about three quarters of a kilometre of sunshine.  I shall embrace it through my sleeves, my stockings, my sunshiny spirit.

Love and Blessings (Sunny Blessings) to you, Sunshine, dear Sunshine.xxx


c. A Room of Heroine 2011.

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Kanye Bugger off West and Never Come Back?

To be honest, despite being a feminist, I don’t tend to read many feminist blogs, and I think that Naomi Wolf needs to take a ride in the real world.

But this post by Melinda Tankard Reist in The Punch got my goat this morning.  And it’s not hard to see what got hers.    Kanye West presenting sexually objectifying, degrading and torturous depictions of women in his latest video clip, Monster: http://www.thepunch.com.au/articles/counterpunch-women-arent-playthings-slaves-and-bitches/.

If she hasn’t already, I think Naomi Wolf will shit herself with feminist delight when she sees West’s clip: something to really get her critical teeth into.  And why not?

Frankly, I am so repulsed by the image, first, of a woman hanging dead in front of Kanye West seated on a throne, that I don’t want to watch the video clip.   I can’t stand graphic horror.  Maybe I should**, if I am to comment with the ‘authority’ of anything beyond secondhand information and the ensuing Reist blog post debate amongst her readers, some of whom mention the satirical perspective which West takes in his narrative.  Maybe I should, to discern for myself whether the video clip and lyrics really are a satirical commentary upon shallow women who use their wiles to garner the attention of rich men, such as West, and prostitute themselves for the connections with benefits.

However, if I wish to read about shallow women, I can stick my nose inside WHO Magazine any day of the week, or watch Keeping Up With the Kakas.

There is nothing wrong with West using satire to critique and challenge women who sell out such traditional values as not giving head jobs to music industry power knobs, and spilling their milkshake around the yard on missions of self-aggrandisement. If that was his intention.  But when he catches up with the women in his family, and they ask,  ‘What have you been working on lately?’ what is he going to say?  What is he going to say to every woman and girl whom he loves and respects, about a video clip which muddies a purportedly satirical message about women and self-respect, against visual footage of not only overt female sexual objectification, but women being tortured and decapitated?

Some might say that the joke is on the viewer.  Here is West using the merest smearing of ironic critique to get away with sexually and brutally objectifying women for his pleasure in a video clip.  One which could be seen by every woman and girl whom he loves and respects… as well as all of those whom he doesn’t.

Satis, I say.  Enough satire from you, West.   Perhaps in your next video clip, you  could even up the score by filming yourself  wearing lots of gold chains with money symbols, and having a wank in front of a mirror.  Or consider the recent rape  and beating of 60 Minutes journalist Lara Logan in Egypt’s Tahir Square, the online report of which brought tears to my eyes this morning, right before I read about a very muddy message about women, men, and self-respect.

**17/02/2011   Edited to Say:  Today I bit the bullet and watched the Monster. It did indeed ”cross tha line” (West). 


c. A Room of Heroine 2011.

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She moves in mysterious ways…

She moves in mysterious ways.

Best Blogs in Goddess Worship

Thank you.

Posted in Feminine Essentials | Tagged | 4 Comments

Femme/Feminine Essentials – An Abbreviated Lissssssst

Femme/Feminine Essentials:  what exactly are they?  And why do they matter?

I first heard of  ”feminine essentials” from a work colleague some years ago.  This terminology was a world away from ”women’s things,” the shy termininology I muttered at the blushing age of fifteen on a rural towns high school orchestra tour, to the elderly male bus driver who demanded to know my reason for wanting to get back onto the locked bus when everyone else was inside the hall tuning up.  Despite having a friend with me, I couldn’t bear to state the bleedin’ obvious.

Now I see that the term ‘feminine essentials’ has a broader application. 

As a member of the Femerati, with a doubtless biased opine-yon, I have decided to set sail (without help from real sailors) upon a M.O.G.I. (no, not a cat, rather a Mission of Great Importance) which explores the feminine-gendered kind.  Obviously it’s of some small concern that the ‘femme’ reference may go down a G.G.R. (Grossly Girly Route), so I’ve boiled it down:

To Discover: What Are the Top 100 Feminine Essentials?  And why.

Rules, Disclaimers, and Other Procrastivatory[sic] Bollux: the following is not an experiment in E.S. (Exact Science).  Probably because I don’t possess a white coat.  True, it has an objective (reverting to high school biology here, rather than the more dramatic GOAL which has been seconded by motivational types), and something of Methodology,  and it is possible that a conclusion or set of conclusions may be drawn from Evemadence[sic]… ooh, just notice a girly inscrimination[sic] there.

I invite you to think outside social stereotypes.  So please avoid the following, unless you can offer a particularly feminist reading upon your selection:

  1. Shopping
  2. Cosmetic surgery (for purely vain concerns of perfectly fine-looking persons)
  3. Other socio-gendered crap

This experiment is not for the fainthearted, the lazy, or the J.I.I.T.R.T.R.G.B. (Just in It To Read The Good Bits).  Au contraire, I offer you, the reader, the marvellous opportunity to contribute your own wild and fabulous examples of evidence which I will publish after a very long time into the future. 

And when the list of Feminine Essentials Reaches 100.

Thus, to begin with, a suggestion of my own, which one hopes you shall find charming and entrancing.

FEMMESENTIALS  – An Abbreviated Lisssssst

1. Firm Foundation Garments: what a Berlei-ooody load of gender-political bollocks.  Did Boadicea wear a brassiere?  Whilst cooking upon a brazier?  In brazen times of old…

The greatest women in history were very often triumphant with the firm foundations of strength of character, bbbbraaaaains, and spunk.  That’s Australian for good looking, and for guts.  Boadicea had better things to do than hitch her herself into an iron cage before hoisting herself upon her trusty steed.  Did Boadicea’s horse wear a bra?  No. And I’m sure that Napoleon’s didn’t bother either.

What say you are feminine essentials?  And why?

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A Leaf of Unexpected Abundance

A Leaf of Unexpected Abundance.

Posted in lovely, Sunshine and All That Stuff | Tagged | Leave a comment



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New Theme

Tried Matala last night.  No, it’s not Masala, but the Matala theme.  Tonight, trying out Twenty Ten for size.  Decisions decisions.  It’s enough to turn a girl to Masala in the bottle.  If she were likely to imbibe.

I really want a red header, for that mysteeeerious redhead vibe, and the ordinary mysterious vibe, but am impressed with the white background which makes my posts devamastaingly[sic] clear to read.  However, will have to learn how to rejig the header for a more captivating picture or colour block.

In red.

Yellow is so last night!

c.  A Room of Heroine 2012.

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