i experiment with style

As my girth steadily decreases, it occurs to me that increasing my weekly exercise would make it possible for me to eat more.
I can think of nothing more perfect.
At the moment I do dancey practice at home twice a week for an hour. Step-step-triple-step, step-triple-step and very little else – so dull it’s almost frightening. The dullness has not deterred Crinks from declaring – regularly – that she’d like to join me. I’d like to think that it’s my scintillating personality that attracts her, but I’m actually sure that it’s more a combination of extreme dance nerdery and a lack of daytime occupation. I say no to her pleas because I’m not sure I want anyone else to see me jiggling up and down like a fool, determined to keep my hips parallel and ankles strong. It’s not even something I can share with The Squeeze.
Beyond that, I also go to yoga twice a week for an hour and a half, onesies and bubs. I love it dearly, have a smarting crush on my teacher (it’s an alignment thing), and have discovered that my Ankles Are Weak. I dread the thought of being thought weak ankled, or having anyone notice my less-than-stable ankles, so I am working on them. Both my Down Dog and my 20s Charleston basic have improved imeasurably since making the ankle discovery.
I also social dance three times a fortnight, from 8.30 til 11.00 and 9.30 – 11.30 or thereabouts. I ride to dancing on Thursday nights (half an hour each way) and ride my bike everywhere. The new bike is truly Built for Speed. And I am increasingly looking as if I too were designed in a wind tunnel. So to speak.
On other fronts (no, that wasn’t a clever way of moving on to further discussion of my physique), I DJed for the first time to a Melbourne audience. It seems I’ve completely reneged on my previous decision to abstain from DJing, and have suddenly decided I like it Very Much. The $25 for a 1.5 hour slot has in no way influenced my thinking, nor has the contribution it will make to my private yoga class next week.
And I am sure that my new interest in entertaining the swing dancing masses has absolutely not a thing to do with my new found love of the stage. New found in that the stifling stage fright of my teens has been replaced by a definite interest in standing in front of a large group of people and doing exactly as I like, sure that it is all about Me for anywhere between 5 and 95 minutes.
If I do seem in danger of becoming a crazed megolamaniac, limelight-grabbing glory hound, be sure to step in, will you?
To round off this week, it seems the Ps have discovered the previous post about their house and the included accusations of mental instability. I have not denied it. In response to my father’s comment that “all our friends have said they like it” I could only respond: “all your friends are polite.”
I’m sure he’s now sure that I am the most conservative member of the family.
This does not mean that I am ashamed of my parents. It’s far too late for that – I would never have survived adolescence if I was that delicate.
On the topic of familial decoration, my brother has acquired his first ink.
While he is 29 this year (4 years younger) I don’t doubt that my father is still imagining he’s 14 and somewhat in shock. I’m sure my mother, however, is secretly terribly excited and has already broadcast full details to all of Hobart, Brisvegas and now Melbourne. My father did concede that though he wasn’t comfortable with the thought of the pain involved, he did think that it was a very nice piece of art. I will post photos as soon as they come to hand.
I, however, remain undecorated, and offer only this post as my contribution to the family’s Experiments with Style.

blue house

My parents have gone insane. Why did they think smurf-blue was a good idea?
Well, at least it lends itself to creative gardening…
You know how there are ‘feature colours’ in the pre-packaged colour packs at the paint shop? My parents tend to choose all of the feature colours – they don’t waste their time with dull filler colours.
And yes, that’s actually the front of their house. Mostly because the back is where the action is, with a wall of windows looking out onto these views:
mood #1: daylight over Mt Wellington and whatsit bridge
mood #2 pensive afternoon
mood #3: sunset. Yes, that’s the real, genuine, actual colours of that evening. I have a million more, but you’d expire from boredom.

the littler things

When at times the world seems just a little too irritating for words (like the times when the dress you’ve laboured over all day turns out just plain CRAP and you realise you’re STUPID for using the WRONG type of fabric, or when the International Slapper Quota is exceded), it’s nice to remember the little things.
Or the things that should be little but are actually strangely, Aardmanesquely giant

brown. browner. brownest

Having my scholarship extension approved has resulted in an immediate downing of tools. Don’t tell the Supes. No, I’m not telling off chauvinists in the shopping centre, though I did almost get into a fight with a guy in a big red car who nearly killed the cyclist in front on me on Sydney Rd last weekend.
Though I’ve exchanged keyboard for sewing machine.
I scampered out to Brotherhood* earlier this week to find a new couch to replace horrible old Brownie. Last time I was at Brotherhood I picked up Reddy (formerly a Brownie, as all good rental/sharehouse couches are) for about $20. Prior to that I picked up a nice three piece (also a Brownie), covered the cushions and all for $90 including nice fabric. This week they had nothing under $100 and I was a bit shocked. Goddamn teenage hipsters moving in the ‘Wick and pushing up prices. Go back to Brunswick Street.
Yesterday, prompted by a late night drive-by on Sydney Rd near Bismi, I drop in to the Salvos and find us a new couch. $65 seems a bit much, but heck. It’s a score. Only parts of it are brown. It is (was), for the most part, mushroom pink and a lovely velour (and a 3 seater). I then scooted down to Fabric Central further south on Sydney Rd and bought 8m of nice fabric which looked burgendy with goldy stripes. Got it home and The Squeeze decided it was a ghastly shade of brown. He is colour blind, so I ignored him. This morning, checking out the three cushions I covered last night (I am a couch cushion covering DEMON), I decided he might be right. Oh well. I’m hoping a couple of red and gold cushions (made from fabric from the sari fabric shop) will make it look like a hippy couch rather than a brown sharehouse couch. There are some bits upholstered in pink, but I’m considering covering them (either with a cover or getting jiggy with a staple gun). Either way, the pink matches the fabric so it’s ok.
But the new couch is very nice. It’s actually quite well made, and is comfortable. It feels soft, but has structure. The Squeeze declared that he liked the way his feet didn’t touch the ground when he sat in it. A definite improvement on Brownie, where your knees were at chin height owing to the fucked up base.** I’m fairly sure he also liked the feel of the pink velour against his bare skin, but didn’t mention it, seeing as how I’d probably be a bit short, considering the whole covering-cushions project.
I go back to the fabric shop to get the rest of the fabric today (which, by the way, was a great upholstery fabric for only $10 a metre – 140cm wide).
Right now the potato lady is driving past in her truck. She calls out “Potatoes, potatoes. Fresh and new”. They come in from the farm and drive around Brunswick selling potatoes, tomatoes, strawberries, grapes, melon, etc. All of the locals who’d troop out to haggle (this is the ‘Wick – this is what we do. There’s not much else for us stay-home-types*** to do otherwise) thought it was a bit pricey.
It was only a month or so ago I discovered they sold organic stuff. And today was the first time I’d heard them advertise that fact. Their sales have improved, but people still try to haggle.
*the charity shop on Brunswick Rd – Brotherhood of St Laurence
**Brownie now lives in the shed. Soon I will have to buy a couple of Bob Marley ‘fabric posters’, a couple of bottles of Orchy juice and take a bucket out there. Then, when I’ve lured in a few of those goddamn teenagers, I can start culling.
***mostly Greek widows, Italian poppas and phd students who’re kind of cabin feverish and delight in long, complicated discussions with strangers. And haggling.
fyi: there is a Brunswick Street (in Fitzroy/Nth Fitzroy), a Brunswick Road (running perpendicular to Sydney Road, and pretty much the point at which Carlton Nth turns into Brunswick) and the suburb Brunswick (and Brunswick East, Brunswick North, Brunswick East). They’re all in the same general part of Melbourne, just not in the same suburb. Think that’s tricky? I catch a bus on Victoria St that runs east til it hits Victoria St which runs Nth/Sth. That’s where I get off. It then crosses another Victoria St further Nth. None of these are the Victoria Pde or Victoria St which runs East/West across the top of the CBD from Nth Melbourne to Collingwood.

What do people know about that Diary of a Geisha? Book or film.
I’ve avoided the book because it looked like soft porn.
The film previews look like CRAP: sort of a Woman’s Day story about hookers in the Mysterious Orient.
Has anyone actually read the book?