My Dad loves nothing more than meeting new people (preferably in a crowded room) to loudly chew the fat, find out all about them, and above all, give his opinion.
My Mum, however, loved nothing more than staying home with the TV on, a magazine, a book, a crossword, and a quiz in front of her, stirring only to potter about the garden.
You’d think that the offspring of these weirdos would be a delightful mélange of the two; able to swim effortlessly from crowded gig to sketching and reading, then back again. But nay. Continue reading
Further to Women Laughing Alone With Salad I bring you: Women Who Shush.
Direct eye contact is a very powerful force. Think of the history of portraiture, photography, sculpture. Long before Michelangelo first experimented with shadow, the ancient Greek statues, with their empty stone Gorgon orbs, demanded to be noticed. It’s why every Year 9 art project features a human eye, fringed with long, globby acrylic paint lashes. It’s why Luis Buñuel’s famous eye scalpel shot still makes us wince, 80 years later. Continue reading
Yoga ladies have become the scourge of every advertising campaign on the planet. They used to promote yoghurt and vitamin pills, and now they’re everywhere: insurance, property, even pet food (entendre on ‘downward-facing dog’, hilar).
Woman on the right: I like the cut of your jib.
God forbid we should see a yoga lady promoting an actual yoga studio! And men don’t do yoga, everyone knows that. Or anyone who isn’t white.
In ye olden days of advertising, chirpy housewives with tiny waists did nothing but beam next to their toasters and shriek uncontrollably at the sight of a fridge. We endured dumb and disembodied women in the ‘70s and continue to suffer through all of Dove’s nonsense. So what did we do to deserve the Lorna Jane hordes?
When did the yoga lady come on the scene to haunt our dreams?
Does it have anything to do with nut allergies and everyone feeling ‘stressed’ and ‘busy’? What are ad agencies trying to say with the yoga lady? Continue reading
Aside from Hockey’s botched budget, one of the grimmest documents of recent times has to be this dairy and gluten-free cornbread recipe I found online.
Yes, friends. It’s that bad. After a lifetime of delicious fairy bread, Vegemite and cheese on toast, tuna mornay and Nescafé sucked through a Tim Tam, it appears that my digestive tract is no longer accepting and tolerant of gluten. It does not want gluten to win any more Academy Awards. It will not let gluten sit on the bus.
Exhibit A: Silvia Colloca. Laughing prettily and showing her ‘best side’. Two bucks that spoonful never made it to her lips.
After much denials and wailing, I took to the foodie blogs to track down something to eat other than a handful of hot gravel. I discovered that these days in the food blog world there’s an odd split. On one hand: deep-fried bearded chicken wings, tattooed burgers as high as a small child, and milkshakes made from bourbon, cream, and the contents of Elvis Presley’s aorta.
On the other, there is the natural online woman. Continue reading