White Walls

While the bloggers of The Cut are gratuitously ogling the bulges, guns and abs of the Phelps from all around the world, while Bryanboy is yapping about latex leggings recently seen tightly hugging the barely-there thighs of an Olsen, this upstart is knee deep in white paint. And no, I am not trying to do a Jackson Pollock.

So many words, and so much more names, but do these things and these people really mean anything to me? Not really.

Because somehow, I have managed to cut them off from my life for what seemed like decades, but was really just two days. As I have said, I was knee deep in white paint - painting every square inch of my brand new bedroom. 

And now, it's finished.

What has amazed me though, apart from the discovery that my tears of disappointment seem to dilute oil-based paint, is that achieving white walls is one of the harder things to achieve in interior design. I am of course speaking as an amateur, a charlatan who knows nothing about interior design. 

Being ever so quick in transmuting from confused to Confucius, I realised, from my sparklingly anal white walls and the metaphor that has arisen from it, that simplicity is one of the harder things to achieve.

My walls took four coats of paint in order for them to to fine. And another two to make them fabulous. All in all, I have added a depth of two inches to my walls, and consequently reduced my room in that proportion.

Similarly, simplicity takes a lot of coats to master. It requires considerable precision and restraint. You have to know when to put down that brush, otherwise the walls would be too white - if ever such a thing existed.

And clearly, this drunken fool has not yet mastered the art of writing simply. Why use just one word when you can use ten to beat around the bush with?

Photo Souce: nymag.com

Severe Opulence

It was a considerable challenge to my creativity when I was given a bare, blank canvas of a room, which I could decorate in whichever way I pleased. I was given this liberty not just because I have impeccable taste and humility, but also because this room would be my own.

I say that decorating a room considerably strains one's mind because of the multitude of design concepts that rush into the brain in their millions, leaving one confused and suicidal. Well, perhaps the latter was a wee bit of an understatement. 

I think it would be the easiest thing thing to decorate a room opulently, filling it with everything that one could possibly think of, from favourite picture frames in their thousands, to comfy, fluffy, pillows in their hundreds of millions. That would be staying in your comfort zone. That would be easy. With this upstart of a principle in mind, this upstart decided to go against first impulses and instead go with the direction of fashion - severe opulence. 

This is the phrase that Tim Blanks of Style.com has coined for fall/winter 08-09. Collections such as Balenciaga and my personal favourite, Yves Saint Laurent, have strayed far far away from the blings, rhinestones and ruffles and went back to basics. Inspired, I decided to go minimal with my room. 

That meant white walls. Blindingly, Im-afraid-if-I-touch-it-it-would-stain white walls. Fabulous.

Though it may not be opluent, it definitely is severe. And austere. And Jane Eyre-at Lowood-like.

Non-sense ends here.

Seen-icism

This morning I decided to be a cynic. 

Over a complete whim, I underwent a  complete personality overhaul.

There are two key things that have made me decide this. Now, I'm not really the type of person who watches documentaries for the sheer fun of it, but every once in a while, in pop documentary titles in the channel guide that I just have to see from start to finish. Or at least the first five minutes of it, until yet another re-run of Sex & the City begins.

Such a documentary was called "Dispatches: Sandwiches". This 60 minute mini-film explores how blatantly the sandwich industry breaks health and safety regulations. And that, by the way, was an understatement - sort of like saying, Paris Hilton looks kinda trashy. Anyway, this lil' documentary has made me adamantly refuse to eat another ready-made sandwich, the way The Blair Witch Project has made me absolutely reject the idea of even considering the prospect of camping in the woods.

Days after, this documentary, whose name I could not remember due to what seems to be early-onset Alzeihmer's, airs. It's about the part-time abstract artist, full-time little girl, Marla Olmstead, who apparently is a "child prodigy". Her abstract paintings had been selling for thousands of dollars, until a "60 Minutes" episode presented what seems to me as more-than-credible conspiracy theories, questioning whether it really was her who painted her pieces, or whether she had more-than-little help from her father.

Ultimately, I don't even think that these two documentaries really were significant enough to completely change my attitue. I believe that I had already been harbouring a lil' cynic in me.

Now, after numerous, tormenting months of Braxton Hicks contractions - and a further sixteen hours of laborious pushing and deep-inhaling, I had finally given birth to my little cynic.

Foot-lost

My friend Kate absolutely could NOT believe that I have NOT seen Footloose until it was shown on TV last night. Evidently, EVERYBODY had seen it. 

I have NOT heard of it until I flicked through the channel guide thing and happen to accidently switch to that channel. Anyway, now that I've slept on it, I realise what all the strum & drang was all about.

However, it wasn't just the addictive and heady music that clung to me. The film also made me think about the past in general - my past, anyway. It all came flying back to me, one overall at a time. Now, I was not born in the 80s (I'm only 17 after all), but I assumed that the 90s were sort of, not really, similar to the decade before it, in that the fashion of those times are very much eyebrow raising to modern viewers such as myself. 

When I was young overalls were de-rigeur and now, flipping through the dusty and antiquated photo albums that were banished into some corner of the attic, I realised that they might be the most hideous thing ever made by the hands of man. My only excuse for wearing them, and the one which I defend myself with, each and every time, was my youth and my innocence. I was not old enough to figure out what looks good and what looks like a drab costume from the set of To Kill A Mockingbird.

Even though the idea of overalls is nauseating, seeing myself in them, I personally think that I don't look that bad. I have a theory that the only people that can truly get away with anything are, not the Paris Voguettes, not Cate Blanchette, but the toddlers. Anything seems to look sweet and adorable on them.

I have long lost that Midas touch. I will be stuck posing eternally in front of the mirror, analysing what I have on, each and every time I go out. 

It seems shallow because it is. And I am. 

Ordeal By Rollerskates

Sometimes I have those moments when everything that I had never done when I was young (and by young, I refer to the 6-10 age bracket), I do in a single day. 

Yesterday was such a day. I emerged from the rock that I had been living in, in my seventeen years of existence, and had entered one of those quaint little photo booths in an very-busy, very-claustrophobic, elevator of an arcade. Also, I had put on my very first rollerskates - which were borrowed. Yuck. Plus I wasn't wearing any socks because I didn't wake up thinking that I would be rollerskating that day. Yuck-er. 

So I tentatively put on those bacteria-infested, cheap suede ankle boots on wheels, very much aware that I could well take my foot out of them with hepatitis, or some form of scabies and/or an STD. But my hygiene-related fears were soon extinguished because a whole other, even worse fear had arisen. 

I was so much engrossed with freaking out about the possible health-related repercussions of putting on these loaned skates, that I did not, in the slightest, think about the embarrassing fact that I could NOT rollerskate. Stepping into that rink, I no longer cared if my feet were covered with pus and/or scales, post-skating. I cared more about NOT falling on my ass, keeling over and dying - perhaps the first person ever to die on rollerskates. And I was unwilling for the world to remember me just as that.

I had my moments of panic. There was a moment where I was very close to running over this five-year old (who was excellent at skating btw), and there was one where I could not figure out how to slow down - or more importantly, how to stop. Despite all of these stroke-inducing moments, there was a self-realisation that I had, that, in retrospect, over-shadowed those multiple near death experiences.

Somewhere in between those 45 minutes of horror, gasping, breathlessness, severe dehydration, and permanent blushing, I realised that the reason why I had embarked on that semi-suicide was because I was trying to make up for the fact that I never did those things in my childhood. 

Not for the first time, I thought about this theory that I have - that I would grow up, being one of those people who are perpetually wishing to be younger, because sub-consciously, they feel that they had incomplete childhoods, and have unsatisfied lives.

Maybe my body's way of compensating for the incompleteness of my childhood is by forcing me to do things such as roller skating and  photo booth-ing. And maybe that's a good thing. Maybe my mind is making a secret "What to do before I die" list and now, rollerskating and photo booths have checks beside them. Maybe I am two checks closer to that elusive state of happiness and contentment, that seven hours of yoga a week doesn't seem to be able to reach.

My fingers are perpetually crossed and my toes are perpetually sore.

Not Much

Influenced by an overwhelming tide of nostalgia, I decided to delve into the archives of the past. Today is the anniversary of the night when our house had been burgled. Seriously.

Ever since that night when my parents, my brother, my sister and I came home to a closed, yet unlocked door, I have persistently asked myself this one question: What's to stop a complete stranger from breaking into your house and robbing not only your personal belongings, but also the security that you have in your home? Your house alarm? Their innate, yet suppressed morality and conscience? I highly think not.

Not much protects us from crime.

Our neighbours, the people to whom I occasionally give a polite, yet indifferent nod when I meet them on my way to the bus top, were also targeted by the thief. Or thieves, who knows. 

Ironically, in a way only fate can create, this burglary turned out to eventually over-compensate us for those that we had lost. Not only have my family made new close acquaintances, but I also have been re-compensated by the insurance company for the laptop that was unceremoniously taken from me.

Mas-Oh-Chism

There is a fairly thin line between consciousness and unconsciousness - and yesterday afternoon, on a relatively sunny day, on a relatively nice tennis court, I was treading on it.

I fell from the rooftop of the GPO and landed on a cart of nails. Twice. At least that's what my body felt like when I woke up this morning. I had no idea that playing tennis for three and a half hours would bring me so much pain. 

In retrospect, perhaps I was aware of that. Maybe I enjoyed the pain.

As I stood there, my unattractively sweaty hands attempting to grip the tennis racket, waiting for my friend Kate to serve, feeling like at any moment, my body would just keel over and die - I realised that I had the capability - and more significantly, the freedom, to stop this amateur tennis game and take a break. But I never did. I was pushing my body to the limit, the way I do my mom's credit card. 

Maybe it's the adrenaline. Maybe the feeling of being invincible, while at the same time, fatally breathless, was addictive. Maybe adrenaline was my recreational drug of choice.

Maybe I'm reading into this too much.

Anyway, I didn't ask for a break. The three bottles of Evian were left unopened and un-drunk. I just kept going. 

As I attempt to write this post (even my fingers hurt like a bitch), I realise that I'm a masochist. 

Like writing this insignificant blog, I push myself to the edge because it feels so good when I stop.

When Silence Is Insufficient..

.. I listen to this:

Btw, I do not at all get the title. 

My brain seems to be running slower than my DSL connection.

Collector's Needles In A North Dublin Haystack

Evidently, the all black issue of Vogue Italia is selling out everywhere. According to Bryanboy, the issue has "collector's item written all over it." 

So imagine my surprise when I popped by Easons in the north of Dublin this afternoon, and find six, pristine, wonderfully swathed in plastic, Vogue Italia issues. I had found six needles in a haystack. And I didn't even put in any effort - just like going to church. 

I was in such a rush to get home that I had forgotten to take out a 10 euro bill from my wallet, queue, and buy one.

The magazines were all hudled beside each other, looking out sadly, like those pathetic little puppies in the pound, eager for sometbody, anybody, to adopt - or in this case, buy - them.

How is it that such gems are left alone, at the very bottom of the shelf, without the oogling, savage eyes of hardcore fashion junkies, suspiciously eyeing everybody - in case they might get the issue for themselves?

It Takes Three To Tennis

I figure that this would be the perfect time to start another post which is sort of, not really, related to sports. I say this because the 2008 Olympics in China will be starting in.. well, soon.

I had one of those moments where it was hilarious in retrospect, but completely not at the time. After spending the entire week cruising the sales racks, I decided to give my wallet a break from all the work out. I decided to give myself an actual workout that isn't yoga, pilates or yogilates. I decided to play tennis. 

I decided to attempt to play tennis.

Today I woke up, fresh and ethusiastic about the physically-demanding, hydration-demanding day before me. I had my cliche white outfit on, my SPF 134 sunblock, three bottles of water, and my brand-new, light as Renee Zellweger (pre- Bridget Jones) tennis racket. 

I arrived at the court sunny and optimistic. 

Like the Irish weather, that soon changed. 

It takes three to tennis. Two rackets and a ball. I had a racket, Kate had a racket. Between us we had no ball. We had the classic "I thought you were gonna bring it" conversation, where both were talking and nobody was listening. 

After five minutes of freaking out and one minor sun-stroke, we had sobered up and began to think of a solution to this very hot potato, while simultaneously re-applying sunblock. But we could come up with nothing intelligent. Like the tennis balls, our brains were left at home.

We were literally on a crossroad, traffic lights and heavy-traffic included. To the left was the way home and to the right was the way to our work out. We, of course, took the right way. I figured my wallet had rested enough.

There comes a time when, like Victoria Beckham's fashion line, there is no other option but to give up.

Define-ding Friendship

My friend Kate turns 18 in two weeks and has come up with the idea of hosting a small get-together of her closest friends on the eve of her birthday. 

I suggested that she make a list of all her friends, so no one gets left out, swears eternal revenge, and curses her future child - who one day touches the pointy tip of a magic spindle and sleeps for millions of days, until Prince Charming, with his blindingly white smile, kisses her and concludes her early life to the much-aspired and often elusive stage of happily ever after.

I handed her a post-it, on which to write out a couple of names to invite. Instead, she grabbed my A4 pad.

As she began to write down the names of her closest and dearest friends, watching the list grow and grow until it no longer looks like an invitation list but more like the phone directory, made me question (internally), just how close a friend she is with all these people. 

Is it humanly possible to have so many friends? How can one person juggle school, appearance and weight, and at the same time maintain friendships with so many people? Maybe our definitions of what a friend is, are completely different. Maybe she's just not very selective with her friends - calling the guy, whose mobile phone she once had to use when she ran out of credit, her friend. Or maybe I am just an elitist snob who is too uptight with labelling people as friends.

What exactly defines a friendship? Is this a question that has no concrete answer, like the meaning of life, or how long should I leave the hair conditioner on?

My volatile theory seems to be that a friendship, just like all relationships, is defined by another. X and I must be relatively friends because, compared to my relationship with Y, we get along well. Is friendship something relative?

Regrettably, I had asked this question to my friend Margaret, to which she shrugged her shoulders and said, "Did you know that Naomi Campbell and Stefano Pilati are both gonna be on the cover of August's issue of i-D?" Were we even friends? Or are we just people who hang around together, sharing similar tastes in fashion, music and the like?

And what exactly are the ingredients to a friendship? Is it platonic affection and altruism (in which case, I have few friends)? Is it a shared, common interest in something (in which case, I have a lot)? Or is it all of those (in which case, I have one or two)? 

Whether I answer this philosophical sudoku or not, the small get-together of a hundred thousand people will go ahead.

I end this post scratching my head. Not in a I-have-headlice-manner, but in a confused one.

Burning Realisations

I am sorry to say that for the last three days or so, my life has revolved around my lips. I have a feeling that this bizarre waft of shameful vanity will continue to permeate up to the end of this week.

One of the best things about not being in school and being on vacation is that you have all of this time to spend. 

One of the worst things about not being in school and being on vacation is deciding how to spend this time. Wisely. 

This also applies to money. 

A month has already flown by, and I still could not think of anything at all that I did or that had happened to me, that I could grossly exaggerate and recount to people in school. Nothing. At all.

For instance, for the last three days, my complete existence revolved around my lips. My chapped lips. Forcing my very red, very stingy, very stubborn lips to undergo lip therapy was very hard indeed. By lip therapy I mean Vaseline - and the occasional apple-flavoured Chapstick.

Everyday, I see more and more of myself in the caricature that is Mr. Woodhouse from Austen's novel, Emma. Everyday, I realise that I am a hypochondriac. I seem to be a hyper-hypochondriac.

And reading an article from june's issue of Reader's Digest about the CA-MRSA bacteria (which could kill a person in 3 days), helped little. But, through the magic portals of wisdom that are Google and Wikipedia, I have thoroughly researched everything there is to know about the very serious condition that is chapped lips. Seriously, quiz me.

Now I realise that there are absolutely more important goins-on in the world today than my sore lips. Oil is at an all time high, lots of Burmese people are migrating illegally to Thailand to search for jobs, and there is that debate about women bishops in the Church of England. 

Frankly and superficially, they mean little to me and my chapped lips. What bothers me is the fact that I could not sleep well at night because of this supremely annoying sensation that my lips are on fire. Every morning, I have to check that my pillow is intact and unburnt. These chapped lips are my top priority at the moment. I even missed yoga for them.

More realisations follow as I write this post. One of these is how very much alike I am to Emma Woodhouse as well. She's superficial, I have my bouts of that too. She lived happily ever after, hopefully I will one day, too.

I seem to be the most shallow person in the world. 

After the tan people in The Hills.

To re-iterate, I seem to be one of the top 30 most shallow people in this planet. Not only have I let chapped lips occupy my days, now I am writing about them.

Mommy Nature

They say that a mother doesn't have a favourite child. 

I have always been a lil' dubious about this pseudo-saying. However, after seeing Nadal vs. Federer, I had completely disregarded it, the way I do every single season of Big Brother. 

Nature acted motherly today. She sent rain to pause the match after Nadal sort of injured his right knee, and then she sent a second one, perhaps to calm him, when Federer was dangerously catching up. Clearly, Mama has a favourite.

I am, of course, talking about the single men's finals at Wimbledon. That's tennis, by the way, to those living under rocks.

I had chapped lips for the entire day and had to reapply chapstick every minute, just to make sure that my lips didn't fall off. I had to put a pillow, a very thick one, on my lap because my thighs were red and stinging from me dementedly slapping them, everytime Federer scored. They are, to this moment, very sore.

The duration of that game was perhaps the longest that I have ever stared at a television, and I am quite sure that the quality of my eyesight has just dropped a couple of points. The game had my complete, undivided attention. Most of the time.

There were moments though when my attention span fleeted, and was that of a retarded goldfish. For instance, I kept asking myself these two questions every now and then: 

Number one: What do you call those pubescent boys and girls that scutter about the place, catching balls and handing towels?

Number two: Why the hell does Gwen Stefani look so bored?

At about 2:30 in the afternoon, I plunged down the waters of Wimbledon and had just resurfaced, at this moment, for much needed, life-preserving air.

Ultimately, Tarzan (aka Nadal), with his tan and bulging biceps, became the king of the Wimbledon jungle. He climbed his way up to his family, which included his bioloigical mother, and hugged/strangled them.

An upstart has to win someday, right?

This upstart, like that upstart, is exhausted. 

I'm Mrs. Dalloway

Nothing happened this week.

It's as if I went to bed on the night of the 30th of June and woke up in the very, very, very late morning of the 4th of July, exhausted, confused and freakin' hungry. I had over-slept and missed the Time-bus.

I suddenly began to think about Jane Austen, her life, how it was shaped by seemingly unextraordinary, unremarkable, common events, even perhaps those of historical insignificance. I say this of course, only as an ordinary reader, not as an expert. My knowledge of her life is mainly from the short biographies that usually occupies the first few pages of her novels (the cheap, 2 euro each, Penguin classic ones).

I thought then about my own life. How unremarkable, how irrelevant, how unspecial it must be to anybody outside my family and friends. And maybe even within it.

I still don't know what brought on this wave of depressing inertia. Maybe it's because I'm on the first few pages of Mrs. Dalloway, the part where she ponders about how silly her life is. Or maybe it's because I'm sick of watching re-runs of Friends (could it BE any less funny?). Maybe its not just me. Perhaps the whole world stopped as Angelina checked into a hospital in Nice to await the coming of her Messiah-like twins. But something brought this on. It may be foolish, but I never shall blame myself for this.

There are a lot of things that should have made me jump out of the bed in the mornings this week. Wimbledon is going on at the moment, even though the deepest I've ever thought about it is how tan and stoic-looking Nadal seems to look each and every time. Then there's the couture shows in Paris. Personally, I loved Givenchy. Also, my provisional license had materialised through the mailbox. But these silly little nuggets didn't seem to lift the languor.

This week remains a mystery. I end this foolish, unremarkable, irrelevant post, hopeful that the coming week shall start with a bang. Literally or otherwise.

If not, I shall put rocks on my coat and drown myself in the Liffey.

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

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.

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

Lostradamus

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?

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.

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

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.

                                                         

    

Puns Are The New Black

Bland-chardstown.

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

Green

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

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.