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Monthly Archives: September 2012

Little boys

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It’s nice that, when you continue your long-held tradition of putting the fruits of your loins on carny-built contraptions…

…they still love you afterwards.


It’s fete

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Today is what is known in the parenting game as a s***fight.

9.15 – take Female Junior Cost Centre to a choir session to see whether principessa likey likeys for regular Saturday morning enrichment. So far, things not going well, so happily looks like Sat Slot 1 will remain relatively free.

10.00 – drop off cakes to Female JCC fete. Cakes that would have been larger and heavier but that they were victims of a Triv Batter Attack during production.

10.30 – embark upon schlep to gymnastics where both JCCs tumble and balance in manner of young Nadia Cs. Not.

12.30 – feed troops and hopefully self. Unpack Coles Online order delivered last night (chilled goods already in fridge). Draw breath.

1.30 – drive into innards of Harbour City to pick up ‘bibs’ for silly fun run La foolishly agreed to do with Female JCC tomorrow. Panic when realise have signed up for 9km rather than 3km trot.

2.00 – laundry to lovely David in Darlo due to being time-challenged working Trivialista.

3.00 – head to Female JCC fete to part with large chunks of discretionary cash.

4.45 – prep Female JCC for string ensemble performance at fete. Watch said performance in manner of proud yet slightly menacing stage mother.

6.00 – shuffle Signor Seriousimo over to burger stall to show what an old hand he now is when it comes to communal rissole flipping.

7.00 – head home, slam sugar-charged small people into bed.

7.15 – slam self into bed.

Enjoy your weekend, and remember it’s a time for rest.


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This was the sight that greeted me as I waited for la morning java jolt.

Gross.  Does this dude really think we want to share his tootsie sweat?  As if forcing us to look at him inside corporate walls in his cripes-I’m-middle-aged-I’ll-take-up-cycling-rather-than-buy-a-sportscar knicks wasn’t bad enough.  No, we also have to look at (and sniff) his stockinged feet.

In La viewalista, this does little to burnish the already less-than-sparkly reputation of Wide Brown Land menfolk as beacons of class and discernment.

Last night, the Triv Media Control Console directed the bank of mulitscreens to flicker onto Channel 9’s new home-grown drama, House Husbands.  Not bad.

However, what struck La most was who the hell Rhys Muldoon is looking scarily like these days.  Los cogs of la brain spluttered and creaked — and then — pling.

Kenny Branagh.

Man, I’m good.

House Husbands also stars La old friend, Julia Morris.  Julia and I went to school together at St Joseph’s, East Gosford, back in La day.  I was in Year 7, she was in Year 10, and it was L-O-V-E love.  I even tried to walk like her.  The height of my girl crush was watching her play Frenchie in the joint production of Grease with the St Eddie’s boys.

Why did she do all those dire years in TV sketch comedy and wait so long to take on a dramatic role?  She’s great on HH, where she plays the wife of dodgy old Gary Sweet.  Bet he longs for his Bodyline days.

Ah well, old age happens to La best of us, non?

But to fight it, I’m headed out with some ladyfolk tonight.  Look at my amazing Marc by Marc Jacobs clutch.

GOTCHA!  It’s not a clutch, it’s a make-up bag! Can you believe the lining of something so stylish is destined to bear foundation and mascara streaks?  It was a present from my friend Yankee Doodle. She gives great gift, that Miss Doodle.

Today I am wearing a dress that teeters dangerously close to nightie territory.  In fact, after a sustained period of EWIW (eating whatever I want), there’s a lot of reaching for the stretchy and the waistless going on in La Closetta.  This must stop.

Thus the return of la salad days and la walking.  There’s nowt else for it, apparently.


Smokin’ knobs

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The knobs at the Triv Media Control Console are smokin’, so ferociously have they been twiddled of late.  And here’s a taste of what’s flickered into view on the bank of multiscreens as a result.

This is a cracker — by someone called Meg Bignell who lives in Tassie. Go Meg.

Did you all catch Rakey on ABC1 last Thursday?  If not, here are some dialogular highlights.

Cleaver Greene — amazingly, not bedding a single lady in this still from Rake, season two

  • Rakey referred to the court in which he was barristering as “a Palazzo of Justice” (!!!!! — the Junior Cost Centres, if they could, would likely argue for more justice in our palazzo, but I’ll reign as La Dictatalista for as long as I can)
  • Matt Day looking even spunkier than he did in season one — should he be admitted to the yurt?

There’s a lot to be said for a geek-made-good, in La book

  • Toni Collette as the NSW premier (“I’m queen of the f*****g prom!”) was a stroke of genius — as were her Kristina Keneally-esque side hair flicks
  • Cleaver on why he prefers to — ahem — “date” right-leaning women:  “Left wing women are vegan, all about ‘context’ and talk about an orgasm like it’s a pet spaniel”
  • Premier Toni busted by her husband sending naughty texts:  “Has Shane Warne taught you nothing?!?”

But the best — the very, very best — thing about the return of Rake, is that soon the Don Hany-sized hole on my screen will be no more! Yes — he’s back in all his televisual glory come this Thursday night! *grins in manner of Cheshire cat*

Don’s back — happy days for the Australian ladyhood

You’ll notice I’ve served up Don — à la Damien Trengrove in this week’s upcoming episode — extra large.  My treat to you.

In matters less trivial, regular readers will know La’s a huge fan of the radio program, This American Life.  Its poddies play almost constantly on the Triv Mobile Media Control Console (aka iPhone).  A regular contributor to the show was the writer David Rakoff, who died last month.  Last night’s knob-twiddling yielded a Rakoff gem:  his piece from the live show TAL staged in May this year.  Enjoyez.

If you liked this, you will inevitably love this, TAL’s recently-aired tribute to David.

Life:  it’s for living, non?   Ciao x

I got a new air guitar

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Geddit? *sniggers à la Mutley*

La was travelling to work this morning on la busalista, listening to ‘Regret’ by New Order, and twitching to do some air guitar to accompany that little riff that leads up to the bit that goes, “I would like a place I could call my own, have a conversation on the telephone..”  (Man, I’d like that too, Messrs New Orders!)

This is not me.

As we all know, there’s nothing more unseemly than the sight of a middle-aged white woman, dressed for a day at the Wordporium, air-guitaring on public transport.

So I sat on La fingers and contented myself with a bit of head waggling accompanied by some white woman overbite action.

Anyhows, onto serious stuff — a fash scan of the interwebs.

Couldn’t you just eat these gorgeous Christian Louboutin confections?  No ways they’re making their way across the threshhold of Palazzo Trivialista, though, for several reasons.

1. It’s the Era of Frugality.

2. Signor Seriousimo has cottoned onto the fact that red soles = costa lotsa wonga *curses*.

3. Corns and bunions.  (Can never remember which are which, just know I have both and they are unsightly and painful in equal measure.)

La would love to be able to swangle los tootsies into a pair of very delicate ladyshoes like these, but sadly that’s not to be.  Just don’t have the clodhoppers for it.

As you all know, digi prints rule and you should let them be all over you like a bunch of cheap suits.  Not sure about the asymm hem, but loving this eco-digi from Clover Canyon. Wearing this would be like pinning your eco creds to your chest.

La love of Mary Katrantzou is well banged-on about here at the virtual palazzo. Here’s yet more evidence of her peerless genius. Again, there are several reasons a parcel of this magnificence won’t be batting against my front door.

1. Ugly knees — the result of two arthroscopies, themselves the result of slipping on the grog-splattered dancefloor of BrisVegas’s Cafe Neon in 1990 while dancing with Brunswick Browser to Whitney Houston.  (Kindly, Brunny continued to boogie around my prone, pained form, later telling me she just thought I was “just having a rest.”)  This injury was exactly what I deserved for dancing to Whitney Houston.  Wonder why I never got lucky?

2. Purchasing any more Mary would require more financial engineering nouse than even I’m capable of — where are those ex-super senior Babcock & Brown boys when you need them?  Oh, that’s right, they’re on YACHTS in the MED*.

3. Fear of beetroot escaping down front from lunchtime sandwich.

Quite liking this maxi skirt from Ginger.  Haven’t mastered the maxi yet — any tips?

Oh, and by the way, have I told you about the BEST PANTS EVER IN THE WORLD?!?

This is them:  the Rag & Bone Malin.  The grey ones reside in La Closetta Trivialista, and they are choice.  Great length, flattering on bums and hips, teeny tiniest bit of stretch, and they’re Rag & Bone, so you immediately feel groovier than you are (that is, if you happen to be La).  You can buy the salmon pinks here (and return free of charge if you no likey), the greys here, and even some black ones here, but only if you happen to be a US size 6.

They look skinnyskinny in the first picture, but don’t be put off.  They are fab.  And that’s from a woman whose backside is built for comfort, not speed.

La loves this jacket/gilet doozie from Sass.  Looks slightly bizarre, but in the real flesh and blood it’s stunning.  Sparkly studs on heavy linen.  Who’d a thunk it?  Would be a welcome addition to la closetta — we could make beautiful music together.

Enough consumerist clap trap.  Time for a coffee.


*Apologies to readers married to nice, ethical former B&B boys.  You know who you are.

Carny folk

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Apparently, schools need money. Who knew (save Signor Gonski)? Faced with phalanxes of raffle tix, well-intentioned emails requesting volunteer person hours and Great Walls of entertainment books to be sold, La’s often been tempted to march into the office, flapping chequebook in manner of a white flag, screaming, “Just tell me how much a bloody electronic whiteboard costs!!!

But those days are over. I’ve gone native. Now, I bake.

Does this photo make you as happy as it makes me? Behold la batter for la blueberry and sour cream cake, courtesy of La Martha. And because it’s wholesome Americana cakey fare, you can be sure it has more of everything than a beating heart needs in a lifetime: 340g butter; nine — yes, nine — eggs; and one pound (!!!) of flour. That made two cakeys, but both were huge.

Both Seriousimo and Cost Centres male and female were out, so it was just La, a wooden spoon and the batter. Happy, happy days *smiles dreamily*.

So off we went, cakes in tow, to the male JCC’s fête. Within the walls of our famiglia’s schools, Signor Seriousimo is nowt but a phantasm, a ghostly spectre, more myth than reality. (He finds it very hard to resist the siren call of the legal briefs.) In his ongoing absence from los school grounds, La took the opportunity to sign him up for as many stalls and barbie duties as possible before my pen ran out of ink.


Here he is (red hat), assembling some sausie sandwiches for the masses for the first time. It seemed like a rite of passage: now, he’s a real dad.


This crazy carny sign alarmed me. “Tham”? Eek.


But I put aside my alarm over the spelling, hoping this ride would prove to be a triumph of engineering over grammar, and let the JCCs hop on. They lived. As my friend Ms Nic pointed out, “Everyone knows clowns can’t spell.”

La’s been a Mamma Trivialista for almost eight years now, and it still never ceases to amaze me the carny-built ‘traptions I’ll agree to allow los fruits of my loins to ride.

Ciao lovelies.

Vote 1: Seriousimo

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Today we brought out the vote for local councillors in the great state of NSW. Those of us who feel slightly over-governed object to the glut of local spods we have in La country, but hey ho, voting’s compulsory ($55 fine for abstainers) so there’s no point moaning.

I toddled off to vote (but not for Clover, who’s not quite looking down the barrel in her election poster — implies a lack of trustworthiness.  Might be hard to see in this pic, but trust La, the line to vote was long and I had time to notice something shifty in her eyes.)

Would you buy a Harbour City from this woman?

Signor Seriousimo has never forgiven Clover for banning the use of the word “Christmas” in any and all posters and decorations in Sydney a couple of Yuletides ago.  And once Seriousimo’s put you on the naughty list, you can abandon all hope of a Christmas stocking bulging with anything but fat lumps of cole.

So off I trotted to the local educational institution to cast La vote.  As I stood in line, I could have taken the chance to reflect on the amazing gift of the opportunity, the significance of being once again on the precipice of exercising my democratic right, the glorious effectiveness of compulsory voting and the palpably jolly feel of election day.

But on these matters, La reflected not.

Instead I thought back to the first time Signor Seriousimo voted after we’d moved to Australia from those great United Kingdoms.  (He’s a Pommy Aussie who, until then, had never lived in the Wide Brown Land.)  He signed in, took his ballot papers and proceeded very seriously over to the bank of cardboard voting booths.  But he leant just a little too heavily on his cubicle, and caused the whole bank of booths to collapse.  Srsly, over like dominoes.  Him too.  His loyal wife, who’d just forced him to abandon his home country and move to hers, stood in a distant corner pretending not to know him, snickering like Mutley from the Wacky Races.

“I just put a whoopy cushion on Dick Dastardly’s car seat!”

Anyhows, today La vote was cast, but — as I mentioned — not for Clover, and not for Zahra Stardust of the Sex Party.  Though curiosity almost caused me to tick that box.

As I was leaving, Clove herself turned up to press the flesh and frottage a few innocent babies.  Proving she’s a master of sensitivity and tact, she took one look at the poor punters stuck in the gargantuan line-up and announced, “You know there’s hardly anyone down at the secondary college..?”

Trivialista-Seriousimo electoral duty done.  It might seem glib not to appreciate our right / obligation to vote.  But Seriousimo  — whose booth stayed happily upright this time round — summed up our mutual feelings when he arrived back beneath the dusty rafters and declared, “There we go then — just saved us $110.”

Clap trap wrap

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You know when you go to a party, soirée or luncheon and you see That Person in the corner?  You know That Person, the one captivating the attentions of all and sundry…witty, charismatic, knowledgable about all there is to know, in the best possible way.  Read on through Los Wrappos, and this weekend That Person will be you.

Harry Makes First Appearance Post Nude Romp — and Charms the Kiddies.  Regular readers would know La Triv has a soft spot a mile wide for Harry, who made light of his Vegas peccadillo with a bunch of sick kids.  Front-footed, very classy recovery Haz.  La loves that in this piccie he looks to have the same human touch with the common peeps as Diana.  Poor motherless child.

Clinton Romps it in For Barack.  The master orator at his very, very best.  PresClint’s full speech at the Democratic Convention is worth a look.  I know I promised no intifada chat or GFC analysis on this blog, but La feels it necessary to declare an interest:  here beneath los dusty rafters we’re hoping for Another Four Years.

Mrs O Issues Yet Another Call to Arms.   This woman, who is almost 50 years old, literally makes me want to get up off la squishy bum currently seated on la squishy sofa and start pumping iron.  She is ridiculous in her gorgeousness and fitness.  La minus los bingo wings…change we can believe in, indeed.

Putin Takes to Skies to Lead Crane Migration.  The Russian leader is, indeed, a friend to all creatures great and small.  Mad Vlad flew a motorised hang-glider to lead a flock of endangered baby Siberian cranes on part of their migration to Asia.  Apparently los cranes, “raised in captivity, do not know how to fly south, and environmentalists [had] to devise an imitation lead crane to show them the way.”  And that is all I will say on the matter for fear of La life; look no further than the cautionary tale of Ms Politkovskaya.

Maybe this is the kind of thing The Real Julia could do more of to garner a bit more electoral love..?

Antonia Kidman Urges Us to ‘Keep it Simple’.  The incredibly fecund 42-year-old, married to an investment banker and sister to a global mega-wealthy megastar, who lives in a city where it wouldn’t be unusual to have two live-in helpers, has penned (with ghostwriterish help) a tome telling us how we can all get back to basics.  Ploise — spare me.  I wish her well in her quest for literary success.  However, La would like to be the one to tell her — as mother to both Hamish and James — that she has given two of her offspring the same name.  Maybe number six can be christened Seamus to round out the trio.

Nasty Triv will turn off the ‘puter now and await her karmic retribution.

Ciao and buona weekenda.

Samantha Robinson, ceramicist par excellence

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A couple of weeks ago, La visited a temple of gorgeousness, Samantha Robinson in Transvaal Avenue, Double Bay.


I discovered this clever potter when my great friend, Miss Petey, gave me a lovely bowl for my birthday.  (We share one — all the best Pisceans/trivial people are born on March 16.  Petey and I are proof.)


Such fab pieces — and great entry-level pricing too.  Smallies start at around $70.


What’s not to love about these amazing watermelon bowls… I make a mean melon, feta and prawn salad and would give eye fangs to have one of these in time for the Christmas feast.  A massive-sized investment-scale one — surely a future heirloom —  runs at around $350.

20120904-120343.jpgSuch glorious colours, such enviable imperfections.  Worth a visit — and great for presents.


Southern high life

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On the weekend, La Caravana Trivialista-Seriousimo dragged itself to Moss Vale to celebrate Father’s Day.

We stayed in a button-cute cottage (no frottage) with a fireplace.  Seriousimo brushed away the stale legal briefs clinging to his Rodd & Gunns and got in touch with his inner caveman, lighting fires and whizzing back and forth to the Shell service station for replacement wood (sadly, no axe action) like greased lightning.

Only blight on the weekend was hearing the male Junior Cost Centre scream with blood-curdling terror as a “beetle” (i.e. cockroach) ran out of his baseball glove.  Srsly need to get these kids out of the big smoke more often.


La had read that that least PC of cuddly toys, the golliwog, was making a comeback.  And so it is:  here’s a colony of them in a Bowral toy shop.


Found this slightly alarming — swimmers for a seven-year-old, with built in boobies.  In La view, not good.

My friend Sarah Terrific-Home recently returned to the Harbour City from the Land-o’-Michiganders.  I installed myself beneath her dusty rafters for a couple of days to chat and help her unpack some of her goodies, among them her crazy tea set.  I got all re-inspired about my own, and bought three more bone china trios from Dirty Jane’s for $60.  Bargain.  No photo but.


Astute culture vultures would  know that Keithy and Nic have a bolthole in Sutton Forest called Bunya Hill.  Eye tried to spy it from Golden Vale Road, to no a-Vale.  Anyhows, the locals have obviously embraced the Urbmans, with this golden oldie from Keith’s back catalogue prominently displayed at a CD shop in town.  One could be forgiven for mistaking Keith for Nic in this pic.

Maybe more from his Caboolture days than his Nashville ones, non?

He’s come a long way…

It’d be no news to La’s three regular readers, including los dos blood relatives, that my photographic skills are virtually non-existent.  So you’ll just have to trust me that the cherry blossoms were amazing from Bowral to Berrima to Moss Vale to Robertson.  (I mean, srsly, look how bad this photo is!  Who buggers up cherry blossoms and cloud-spattered blue sky, I ask you?!?  I even had a private lesson with a nice and very patient Frenchman in Bronte.)20120904-115915.jpg

This is more than just another photographic travesty.  Before being mangled by La Triv it was (and probably still is) a dead cute higgledy-piggledy cottage in Berrima.


We munched some lunch at a little gaff in Berrima — next to Jimmy Barnes and his wife and what appeared to be a pre-school age grandchild.  All too cute, and a couple of notches up the celeb spot-o-meter from that morning’s other sighting, John Hewson.  (I swear that man checked me out.  How pervy.  Doesn’t he know he’s old enough to be my great-grandfather?)

And look..!  La did something she does as infrequently as pigs take to the skies:  bush-bashed.


Your eyes do not deceive you — that is an unsealed road!  La Beemer even got some dust on it.

After such out-of-character exertions, Father’s Day sustenance was in order.


Very tasty, but lots of that befuddling foodie concept du jour:  soil.

Then we hot-footed it back up the Hume to the familiarity of the Palazzo, just in time to tackle a mountain of laundry and banish the bush dust from Seriousimo’s beloved machina.