Monday, June 30, 2008

Not So Wide, Please.

Is there ever a perfect time or manner to tell your dear friend that she's fat?

Two days ago, I entered the cinema crisp and fresh (like lettuce) and left wilted and suicidal. I had done it. After all of the encouragements and death threats, I had finally seen Teeth.

What's it about, you say? Ah, innocence truly is bliss. Well, it's about a very prudish girl, who has a wonderful father, a delightful mother, teeth in her vajayjay and a pervert of a step-brother. And no, it's not by Disney. Remember when we first saw Scream and how we could not answer the phone for a week?.... yea.

But this post isn't all about this very-safe-sex-promoting visual extravaganza. It's about mouths. With teeth. 

I seem to be one of those people who follow the wise and ye old philosophy of "speak before you think", because I can never seem keep those inappropriate comments to myself, where they belong. 

Sample (but unreal.......) scenario: Kate and I going to the cinema to watch Teeth. Kate wears an empire-waist tube top with straps hanging from the middle. Kate gets popcorn and a bottle of water (cliche, but real.)  I wait for her outside the toilet. She comes over. I notice her top. I go: "You better not tie those straps around, or that top will look like maternity wear." Kate looks pissed. Obviously. I do damage control by saying: "Well, I didn't mean it like that." End of scenario.

Now, I shall give a million to anybody who could have handled this situation better. Any takers?

Photo Source

Friday, June 27, 2008

Near Death Experience

I window-shopped and walked around Northern Ireland so much, I could no longer feel any sensation below my navel. That's right, I went up to the North to shop. Dublin had become so familiar and everyday, I had to cross national borders to find new stuff. There I was held at gun point.

Mental and emotional gun point. The police were not involved, nobody was hurt. But my composure sure did receive quite a beating.

Eager to find gems, but lacking the bank account to go to Van Cleef & Arpels, Kate, my other friend Margaret, and I went up to the North to search for clothing gems instead. The mission, had we chosen to accept it, was to check out the exotic and mystical kingdom of Belfast. However, our empty, grumpy stomachs allowed us to drive only as far as Newry. There we found a horse-shoe-shaped shopping gem, imaginatively called "The Outlet". 

Being the ever decisive person that I am, I would say that the Outlet was sort of OK. I find it annoying that you are able to pay in euro but you get your change in pounds.

Part of the reason for our out-of-country excursion was the fact that Margaret had just broken up, rather dramatically and silly-ly (but this I kept to myself), with their boyfriend, now only referred to as X. 

Two weeks ago, they shared a massive, all-comsuming, Catherine and Heathcliff, type of love, the type of love only a pair of horny, hormonal teenagers can have. Three days ago, it vanished. Voila!

This next sentiment just might make me sound a lil' bit shallow and superficial, but whatever. I never really liked X because he was sort of dull and not very pretty. 

Somewhere between Starbucks and Marks & Spencer, Margaret asked me a fatal question. Kate had never seen the guy, so she had been asking her what X looked like. Margaret turned to me and said, "Go on, tell her what he looks like."

I stared at the barrel of a loaded gun. 

I was blessed with a lot of skills and talents, but what I do not have is the ability to tell a believable lie. That, and humility. Just how do you tell your friend that you hate her boy-squeeze because he's dull and fugly?

I looked as if I had just been stopped by customs at Dublin Airport after a weekend of non-stop shopping in Hong Kong. I just sort of walked on, my mind slavishly working, deciding how to deal with this politically incorrect hot potato. 

When it comes to your friends, how do you stay politically correct? (God, I just sounded like an amateur Carrie Bradshaw there.)

I never did answer her, of course. Much thanks are due to the fashion gods for the luring bargains at DKNY. In retrospect, I think I could have handled that situation better, had I enough time and enough X to think about how to describe X.

Five hours later, I'm clicking on the "Publish Post" button to announce to the whole world just how shallow I am.

Just another day.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

Hear Ye, Hear Me

There's nothing like 20 minutes of  fairly aerobic-intensive jogging, and another 20 minutes of yoga at 7:30 in the morning to make me feel like I'm on morphine. Everything was sunshine and lollipops until I turned on my iMac and realised that the end is nigh. Dum, dum, dum.

According to Fashionista, while at Tom Ford's party in Milan, one of the spotlights crashed down on a former male model. Well, at least the former model has nothing to worry about, image-wise. 

I, on the other hand, do. I don't just see this as weeding out the dumb, as the rules of evolution dictates, but more as an ominous sign from God. 

Four posts ago, I talked about how Victoria Beckham will be launching her pseudo-collection of "Posh frocks". That was yet another tragic sign of the complete annihilation of Man. But perhaps the biggest one would be this: 

Michael Jackson launching his very own fashion line.

Evidently, his presumably understated collection, will be sold exclusively at LA boutique Kitson (yet another reason why LA will never be a fashion capital). Owner Fraser Ross says, "I think people will think it's hip to wear his line". What breed of people, Fraser?

Hearing all of this disturbing news has thoroughly depleted all the serotonin that had, at one point in the last five minutes, cursed through my body. 

More jogging, I say.

Photo Source

Wednesday, June 25, 2008


Yesterday I lost my passport. 

Even Nostradamus did not see that coming. 

Two posts ago, I had written something to the effect of, I passed the trial of fire that is the Driver Theory Test. I left the testing centre in Drogheda with a letter saying that I had passed and a certificate with a deeply, grossly, abnormally unflattering photograph of somebody that kind-of, not-really, resembled me. I was an eye test away from gaining my driver license. Provisional.

The next day, I went to this place with a tacky name, to apply for it. I had to bring along my passport, the one with the photo of what I would look like, had the 11B bus ran me over. Twice. Really, why does everyone's passport picture look so fugly? That is THE eternal question, along side the meaning of life and how to find the perfect stone-washed jeans. They needed it for identification. OK, good luck with that.

Flash forward to five hours later, and my father starts looking for the receipt that apparently, I got. I got no such thing, of course. Then this happened. (I'm Carrie, obviously.)

Without the receipt, I could not claim my passport. Like I ever use it.

Yesterday, I lost my passport. For an hour. He went back to the thing and asked the thing for that wretched thing. He got it.

I can't wait for my license. I'll get via snail-mail in 5 to 7 days. *Fingers crossed*

Btw, am I getting good at making up puns for titles, or what?

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Unexplained Desk-overy

Remember those days when you wake up, and the first thing that you could think of is what you desk looks like on camera? 

I had that.

So, in the spirit of frivolity and utter, mind-numbing, bordering-on-suicidal boredom, I present to you, my desk.

I think this photo perfectly encapsulates who I am. Lets dissect this photo, item by item, in microscopic detail, shall we?

1. A two-day old, unread and un-flipped-through copy of the Irish Times that I keep on my desk, just to show people (my parents, especially) that I can be quite capable of pretending to be high-brow and educated.

2. A three year old, massive, boulder of an iPod that I only ever use when I like to re-listen to Duffy's song "Mercy". After that, I re-listen, and re-listen, and re-listen...

3. An old copy of Reader's Digest, existing from before the Berlin Wall fell, which I actually read for its jokes, some of which I don't even get. And the vocabulary bit is nice as well (where did you think I learned the word "frivolity"?)

4. A lil' notepad plus a pen - how else could I jot down my earth-shakingly profound Buddhist-like philosophies? Or my shopping list?

5. My passport, which often-times I leave embarrassingly open, so people (my parents, especially) could see how little it has been used and/or abused.

6. Driver's Theory Book of Completely Inane, Which Light Comes After A Flashing Amber Light, Questions. (Answer: green only)

You know how Morrie in Tuesdays With Morrie said something philosophical, to the effect of, living each day fully - as if it's your last? Good luck with that.

Monday, June 23, 2008

License To Drive

As of 12:32 this afternoon, I am officially a successful eye-test, a filled-in application form, and a week away from receiving my license to kill, more legally called a diver's license (driver's license, sorry - typo).

Yes, it's only provisional and no, I may not drive at all without a professional license-holder with me, but it's a license anyway.

This morning I woke up with an ulcer so big you could fit half of Trinity College through it without too much effort. Survival by means of nutrition was the last thing on my mind. I had my Driver's Theory Test the next day.

(People living with me in this little island called Ireland, skip this bit. For those lucky enough not to belong to that category, a Driver's Theory Exam basically comprises of 40 questions out of a billion, where you get asked what the road signs all mean and how not to claim compensation from your insurance company. Get five incorrectly and you fail.)

Fortunately, I literally passed with flying colours (I wore every colour in a rainbow - red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet - don't ask how. Suffice to say, I could have done the Benetton campaign had I not displayed rabies-like symptoms.) Not only did I pass the exam, but I got every question correct. And without Adderall too. All with the magic of cramming - cramming and countless cups of coffee and countless hours of yoga. 

What can I say? I'm a health junkie.

To those who are about to take the exam, don't believe the hype (if there ever was one). Know every single question off by heart, and you'll be OK.

Seriously, don't believe the hype. The Driver Theory Test is the Sex & the City movie of the transportation-world.

Photo Source

Why New York Is Fast Becoming The New LA

Meet Victoria. A woman so very absolutely fashionably powerful, she made bobs on par with fishnet stockings and pleather, and Birkins, well, less-than-desirable. So what's new with Vicky, did you say? Well, the supreme overlord of everything t*cky will be unveiling "POSH frocks" during NY fashon week. Frockin' exiciting, don't you agree? Hmm?

Well, Victoria has said that her "POSH frocks" collection will be "very upscale" and "very expensive", using obscenely "very expensive fabrics and finishes, lots of embroideries". Fabulous. Evidently, this collection is something "completely different from what I've ever done". So would that mean we can expect to see no camel toe-inducing frocks? Would it?

Victoria has said that she has "picked up knowledge" from good pal, and ruler of everything in good taste, King Roberto Cavalli. Well, if you got advice from Cavalli, what can't you do? This time, this isn't a rhetorical question.

In conclusion, I expect to see illegal and be-dazzling amounts of glitter and rhinestones, bra straps coming out of pink suede corset dresses, finger-less motorcyle gloves a la Lagerfeld, hot hot hot pants, and loads of six-inch f*ck me pumps.

I can smell a CFDA nomination, can't you?

Photo Source

Sunday, June 22, 2008

Summer Vs. Wintour

Photo Source

Excuse me, but since when are daughters the new IT accessories? It seems as though Anna and Carine have been pitting their daughters against each other in a giant fashion cockfight, thus provoking people, myself included, to compare these belles du jour.

Photo Source

Personally, I'm a lil' bit leaning on Camp Roitfeld, only because I prefer Carine's Parisian chic over Anna's, well, yea.

However, I do give Anna some much-deserved kudos for courageously naming her only daughter after an air-borne insect. 

For more info click here.

Saturday, June 21, 2008

Puns Are The New Black


I say this because the shopping centre was so mundane and non-extraordinary that I had enough time to write two posts in a day.

Earlier I had said that shopping (window or otherwise) in Grafton Street (or otherwise) was not possible because of the hellish weather. I had no other choice but to go and check out the shopping centre in Blandchardstown. On a side note, I would just like to say that the weather report on the Irish Times is completely inaccurate. I did not read the text that accompanied it, of course, but from the picture of a sun shining brightly and surely, I was guaranteed a sunny sunny day. I got stormy stormy instead.

Kate absolutely adored the place. And I respect her (poorly defined) reasons.

To me, almost every shop in there was an amateur-ish version of its flagship in the city. Zum Beispiel, the Topman store was twice as small and thrice as crowded as its flagship. Zara looked like a complete mess. Topshop... well, I have nothing. H&M was packed like a bus stop on a rainy day. In fact, all of the shops were packed. That's the other thing that I disliked about the place - overcrowding. Calcutta-esque. 

Perhaps it was because of the pouring rain outside, or the low low prices inside that drove people to it in millions. I felt that it was too stuffy and claustrophobic, despite its dinosaur-like size.

WAIT!!!!............. I think its more the weather in Blanchardstown (and in the whole of Ireland, for that matter) that I hated. 

*Epiphany*... a ray of heavenly light upon my erratic and overly-brash head...

The stores may be crowded and small, but they're not THAT bad. Topman may have been small and crowded, but their pretty 2 for 15 euro shirts and the eye candies behind the counter more than made up for its diminutive size. In retrospect, Zara wasn't too bad. H&M either.

So scratch the opening pun and chunk it into a bin somewhere (do not litter). I take all of it back. Sitting in front of my grossly out-dated iMac, I realise that the shopping centre, as a whole, wasn't too bad. It wasn't Dublin 2, but it was a pretty OK alternative. Plus the parking was free.

However, there is one sentiment that I won't take back. Puns REALLY are back.

Posts such as these absolutely justify my name.

Summer Sole-stice

In theory, this date is special because:
1. Today is the longest day of the year (aka astronomical heaven)
2. Today is the second day of the much-awaited summer sale in Dublin.

However, my much awaited stroll along Grafton Street is abruptly dissolved by the typically Irish weather conditions: rainy and Armageddon-ish (aka meteorological hell)

But (aka the silver lining), strolling instead  to one of my favourite sites (see right), New York magazine, one of the articles brought emotional sunshine upon me. This is what I'm talking about.

Evidently, Anna Wintour's right hand/chief assistant/body guard Andre Leon Talley has found a new fetish...... turbans. Who saw that coming?... Seriously?

Well, if you think about it, what else goes with a salmon-coloured alligator coat but an ivory turban with a giant brooch to boost?

Verdict: Tur-banned.

Photo source: New York Magazine

Friday, June 20, 2008


Yesterday my friend Kate called me, saying that she would be handing in her CV to a nearby shop. She wanted a summer job. After she had told me this, she went on about some minutia that, apparently, I JUST HAD to hear. 

But I had forgotten to listen. I thought about my own employment status: unemployed. I, by no means, come from a very wealthy family - but somehow, maybe because of laziness or lack of maturity or lack of independence - or in fact, all of these, I never felt the impetus to get a summer job, let alone create a CV.

However, my inherent competitiveness had overpowered my inherent sloth, thus forcing me to drag my ass in front of the computer and begin to think of things that would make me irresistible to employers. I could think of none. 

The plan was to "steal" the coveted position of cashier from my dear friend, guerrilla-style, but in order for this honourable deed  to be done, I would have to think of my skills and print them onto paper. Being able to speak and write German (well, sort of), is that a skill? How about being unbelievably photogenic? It was as though a herd of  rabid first years had invaded my mind, leaving my thoughts in a mess. 

I called Kate and demanded that she come over and show me her CV. I would use hers as a template. However, looking over her 40 page CV, it would be like using a Renoir as a template for an apprentice's first attempts. Captain of the badminton and tennis club? Treasurer of the Student Council? Class President from 1st to 6th class? Please, she was such a cliche - of a perfect employee. Meanwhile, I was completely green - with envy and inexperience. After seventeen years of existing on this planet, how is it possible that I had achieved nothing worth putting on a CV? Why is it that our friends seem to be completely perfect and flawless, while we are like walking train wrecks with nothing at all to recommend us? Is this reality or insecurity?

Two cups of green tea and half an hour later, I had completed my very first curriculum vitae. It looked very green and amateur-ish. Oh well, better than nothing right?.... Right? Kate had left to drop off her CV at another grocery shop. Bitch.

The next day, I stood at the parking lot of the store, the one where Kate had dropped off one of her immaculate records of her over-achieving life. One hand had a CV, the other had fingers tightly crossed. It was only 10 AM, so there weren't really a lot of customers, just the occasional men and women in power-suits, obviously late for their power-jobs. 

I never handed in the wretched thing, of course. It was totally embarrassing, Mariah-Carey-in-Glitter-embarrassing. I figured that until I had achieved something worth putting on paper, like a Pulitzer, this CV would remain under my bed, dormant.

Kate didn't get the job. Evidently, there were other people more perfect and more over-achieving. I'm still not sure how to feel about this.

Photo Source

Thursday, June 19, 2008

The Last One

I seem to unconsciously follow a pattern every year, one that I truly doubt will change in the near future. 

Every year, at the last week of school, the beginning of summer, I feel abnormally happy. There is so much optimism, so many expectations, so many hopes, that this summer will be THE one where I do something more humanitarian than vegetating in front of the television.

Every year, I am disappointed.

I have read Tuesday With Morrie, once in Religion class, and two hundred times on my own time, usually when I have those moments where I need something, anything, remotely inspirational and seize-the-day-ish. As I said, I have read Tuesday With Morrie a lot, and what I learn and re-learn every time is that one should always live everyday as if it's the last. Or something to that effect. But somehow, I  can never seem to wake up every morning with a fresh smile on my face, saying, "This day will be the day I  do something good." Instead,  I wake up looking like something that was once roadkill. 

I go about my day procrastinating, taking everyday for granted, like those universally ignored pamphlets that show up in the mail. And have I said that this is during the school year? Now that school is over, I fear that my habit, no, my vice, will be worse.

Instead of helping build clinics in Ghana, and using my time to help other people, I'm afraid this summer will be spent watching re-runs of Sex & the City, watching Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte sip their poisons and have anonymous, hilarious sex with hunky nameless guys.

Maybe it's the naivete of youth, but I am a lil' hopeful that this summer will be the last one where I take my life for granted. 

If not, I shall go to rehab.