Monthly Archives: February 2013

So, here’s little Carey Mulligan looking fetching in Gatsby mode.

L’am too scared to tell her how much I love her cherubic-faced, embryo-aged hubby, Marky Mumford. That bloke is a chubby little musical genius.

Here he is in action in the SiriusXM studios in LA with his banjo-plucking sons. WARNING to readers of delicato sensibilities: he really lays into the big marquee f-word  in this number — and all the better, La says.

La just can’t get enough of those former public school boys who go a bit rough’n’ready and rock’n’roll. And yes I’m talking to you, Chris Martin and Co. Now, eyes to the front of the room and pay attention or there’ll be detention.

Srsly, if you’re ever stuck at computer with nothing to do (as if) — or even with loads of really important stuff to do — have a look at Sirius’s live sessions channel on YouTube. Pink singing “Who Knew” is an absolute revelation. That woman has one srs set of pipes.

Time for a reader poll. Why is it — apart from geographical convenience — that I always go here…

…for one of these ricotta and blueberry monsters…

…before I go here?

It’s never going to end well stuffing one’s freshly de-toxed face (better than bo-toxed face) full of muffin before flicking through the rails at a skinnylady store like S&T.

Bless those Scanlans, though, as I still managed to find a couple of extra special somethings.

Mystery bloom of the day:  anyone know what they are? Love them, as do the Fat Bird and the blue sofa.

Watched the Foxtel IQed Oscars last night. Overall, yawwwwwn. When it came to commentary, though, Signor Seriousimo left Seth McJuvenile eating his dust. Highlights from the big man included:

“Sheesh, there’s lots of songs.”

“That girl in the foofy dress who won the Oscar tripped over on purpose! That was just some kind of publicity stunt.” (WTF-?!?! What kind of prima donna, attention-seeking antics is that man used to putting up with?!?)

“That Ang Lee’s a great bloke. He’s the only one who had the decency to thank his lawyer.”

Happy Thursday x

Since La received my “eating plan” from Dr Liu last week, you know, the one Chairman Mao laughed uproariously at in la last post, I’ve been taking a different path and partaking of the finer fruits of the earth.

Due to his recommendation that La eats no more than half a Lebanese cucumber each day for seven days, plus sachets of sino-sludge, Dr Liu and I have temporarily parted ways.

La celebrated this divorce and the end of a super-busy stint at the Wordporium with a drink with Bateman’s Bay at Palmer & Co, where, happily, we bumped into Sarah Terrific-Home and her chums Wenty and Becster.

Bateman’s and I met at 5, and I figured I’d be home to relieve La Nanny Trivialista by 6.30, 6.45 at a pinch.

But believe it or not, La Lushalista tottered out of there on los towering Bionda Castanas at 10.15.

Signor Seriousimo was gracious enough not to make a big deal of la late repatriation to the palazzo in such a ruffled state. Bless that bloke.

Was still feeling ever-so-slightly grog-poisoned yesterday morning; yep, it proved to be that wiliest of beasts, the nasty two-day hangover.

So I dragged the Junior Cost Centres off to Eveleigh Markets so Kylie Kwong could personally cook me an organic, locavore, super-sustainable restorative street food brekkie of pork buns.

Those markets are so awesome; love them sick.

The male Junior Cost Centre chose market-appropriate neckwear.

And the girlchild coordinated her rain-repelling attire.

“Holy crepe!” we cried in unison, then went in for the kill.

La was in bloom heaven.

There are loads of happy poochalistas at Eveleigh.

And L’am back on the bean, but only one a day.

Lord knows what Dr Liu would make of all this. Think I prefer the Kylie Kwong regime to his, though.

Ciao x

It’s been busy busy busy here at the Wordporium. Los pod colleagues and La have been squeezing important words out like a bunch of egg-laying hens.

But today, my words fly off into the ether and la work here is done. Or I should say then it’s back to just la normal grind of producing words with far fewer material ramifications for the share portfolios of Wide Brown Land citizens.

So today, la cloak of seriousness is to be shed for what this blog does best – superficiality, surface and frippery.

Yup, it’s time for some fash. And today, it’s all about Mary.

Here I am in my much-teasured Dorchester blouse by l’amazing Mary Katrantzou. Sadly, these days every two-bit starlet harbouring dreams of starring in her own sex tape is frocking up in Mares, but La’s fanhood goes back a long, looooong way. Like, 2.5 years or something. (That sound fash enough?!)

Because I am Mary’s BFF on Facebook, I’ve been flicking through her latest collection from London Fash Week, and, boy, does that girly know her way around a digi-print.

We love Mary here beneath los dusty rafters* of Palazzo Trivialista.

We also love Emma Cook — she’s a whiz with a digi too. How gorgeous is this summer holiday silky top? Thing about a fab digi is that it does so much more than merely protect one’s modesty.

And how cool would your loin fruits think you were if you got about in a silk sharky tunic?

Maybe it says something about my predatory, perpetually starving loinies that they would really dig me in this. Maybe your Junior Cost Centres are more the panda/koala digi-print-types. Each to their own.

To do my Dorchester justice I’ve strapped on some Bionda Castanas, seconds sold to me über cheap by my other fash bestie, Natalia (the Castana in Bionda Castana).

Srsly l’am so, so tall in these shoes, I feel like an all-towering, all-powerful deity. Obviously pretty much how my six-foot-one chum Bateman’s Bay feels 24/7.

Meeting Batemans this afternoon for a drink at one of Justin Hemmes’s gaffs, Palmer & Co. Does that man now own every single watering hole in the Harbour City? Feels like it. But he gives good mojito, so we’ll suffer on.

“Triv, what happened to your abstinence and sino-sludge starvation cleanse regimen?” I hear you ask. More on that later. Suffice to say, L’am no longer a contender for Red Star Weight Loss Superstar of the Week.

Chairman Mao, reading La Triv’s “eating plan” from Dr Liu and finding it near impossible to mask his amusement. “It’s the Great Chinese Famine of ’61 all over again,” he thinks.

Happy Thursday x

* Oops, La accidentally typed “farters”. La keyboard is obviously onto La Poocha Trivialista, Diggers’s, dirty, stinky secret. I promise we’ll take him to the vet. Soon.

Here La am, live-blogging from starvation cleanse central.

Had a major wobble last night – that shepherd’s pie I’d prepared for los famiglia troops proved just too tempting, what with its cheesy gratinated mash top and alluring sprinkle of paprika…

And let’s not get into my — ahem — testing of the leftover choc-dipped strawberries I’d prepared to sit atop pancakes for the JCCs as a Shrove Tuesday treat.

Sheesh — I think I’m becoming a “feeder”. (For the elucidation of los readers in Bulgaria who may be unsure of my meaning, rest assured I tried to link to more information but the pics on every single “feeders” web page are wa-hay too eye-popping. They are also what La’ll look like if I don’t ease up on the caramel slice and come round to Dr Liu’s way of thinking STAT.)

However, all’s back on track this morning. But why does that track always seem so much easier to be back on in the morning, and so hard at 5 o’clock in the afternoon?

Was told by Dr Liu at the centre yesterday that once I’m burdening the earth with six kilos less of my mass, he will give me my “eating plan”.

Don’t get excited though, as La sneaked a peek at one last week and noticed los words “lebanese cucumber” featured prominently. Scanned and scanned for mentions of Toby’s Estate caramel slice and shepherds pie, to no avail.

However, it’s not all sino-sludge, bone-crushing massage and 41 acupuncture pins here. Each morning I get to entertain myself with gems such as this: a mint condition 1983 Cleo.

L’article that caught my eye, of course, was “Superbodies — is perfection worth all the pain?” Ah, dunno…ask me when the 41st pin goes into my right shin.

Here’s Linda, Heather, Christie and Jane going at it. Don’t you just love Linda’s white legwarmers? Apparently her astrologer helped her remain in tip-top shape for all those ’80s years of glittery Dynasty frocks. Personally, I’d be happy to borrow a few sets of her power-suit shoulder pads from back in the day — think they’d balance los hips out nicely. Then La could bid huí tóu jiàn to Dr Liu and my mugs of sino-sludge for-evuh.

Huí tóu jiàn.

I know, I know, the silence emanating from beneath the dusty rafters of Palazzo Trivialista has been deafening.

But the time’s come for La to step up and proffer some explanations, and I swear I’ll do a better job of it than Lance Armstrong or Eddie Obeid.

Am sure you’ve seen the paparazzi pics of me sneaking into Westfield Bongo Junction at obscenely early hours, and leaving a short time later, sporting tousled bed-hair.

Contrary to gossipy media reports, La’s not conducting an illicit affair with the barista at Toby’s Estate for the purposes of securing a lifetime’s supply of caramel slice. Though, there’s an idea…*

And despite what the hacks say, I’m not sharing Boris Becker broom-cupboard moments with the brawny bloke who wields that crazy floor polishing machine, or the Coles trolley collector fella.

No — I’m shrinking.

That’s right, I go to WBJ every morning to shrink. Literally.

La’s in the clutches of a magical Chinese treatment program that promises to help me “live to 101 years old”. If that eventuates, I do hope to have at least one or two old muckers left to moan to about young people these days. Oh, and a tooth or three for eating caramel slice.

(In the famous words of Jack Brabham, I could shoot to “die without an enemy in the world. I’ll outlive the bastards.”)

But the by-product of the internal organ-rebalancing and yin and yang refocusing is extreme weight loss.

So how do they do it? Well, here’s my lunch.

Yup. And, believe me, tasty NOT. These sachets, combined with an hour of massage and acupuncture a day, mean that — in the famous words of Pulp — this is hardcore.

My Chinese friends show tough love.  When I complained one day about being really, really hungry, my favourite treatment man, Pei (who works a 7-day, 95-hour week and is therefore unlikely to be sympathetic to the whinings of overweight white women), said very sincerely, “I’m sorry.” And that was the end of that.

When I mentioned one morning after my treatment that I was heading straight to work from Bongo but had forgotten my breakfast and lunch sachets, the sweet receptionist responded, “I’m sorry.” No offers of spares to tide me over, no suggestions for alternative sustenance.  Just a caring, but tough, dose of “suck it up, Princess”.

Like La said, this is hardcore.

I cheat, and eat some veges every day, but am still so hungry most of the time I could tackle kids at the JCCs’ school and nick their lunch from them, los ungrateful little sods**.

And don’t get La started on the grief I feel at the loss of my beloved bean.

Ahh, those were the days…

Anyhow, am supposed to last another 2.5 weeks. Will see how I go.

Just know, though, that to approach La with food right now is — literally — to dice with death. Or at least grievous injury.

Ciao — I’m off for a soothing sachet of sino-sludge.

* Thankfully, I can put that out there as Signor Seriousimo still doesn’t believe in blogs.

** See?  This regimen is sending me loopy (I mean, who craves a Vegemite sandwich?!?)

Friday is a Wordporium-free day for La. Traditionally it’s been la day with the little male Junior Cost Centre (JCC). But that’s all over now, because next week he toddles off to school. *Sigh*. *Sniff*.

So today we had a hoot: swimming at Homebush followed by lunch at Los Grounds, the pastoral oasis in the middle of light industrial Alexandria.

Because pigs (more on them later) might fly before La’d post pics of herself in swimmers, there’s no visual record of us at the Olympic pool this morning.

But here’s how we fared at Los Grounds.

It’s awesomeness as a destination is unrivalled, even on an overcast day. The staff even stride up and hug you when you arrive.

Here’s male JCC investigating the kiddies’ shed, complete with windmill.

You know those times when you wish you had a shedload of fresh mint, you know, the round-leaf type, not that pointy old, harsh spearmint type? Il type that used to grow over my Nana’s sewage tank? Well, look no further than Los Grounds.

In la books, anytime’s a good time for thyme, and Los Grounds are thyme-tastic.

Lavender, anyone? Who the hell needs Provence when we have Alexandria? Srsly.

And, yes, it’s an honest-to-gods strawberry, still attached to la vine. Male JCC had no idea this was how they came into the world. Til today he thought punnets grew on trees. I had to point for David Attenborough-style emphasis.

There’s even a mini bike sculpture nestled in the greens.

And purple basil — so bloody hard to find for los Thai beef insalatas when you need it.

But the pièce de résistance was this guy — Los Grounds’s own micro pig, who’s set to take up residence next to los chooks this weekend. Great timing for the male JCC; we watched ‘Babe’ last weekend. He claims this is the first real-life piggy he’s ever seen. If that’s the case, why the hell do I bother tromping through the stinky beast-of-burden pavilions with him at the blasted Royal Easter Show every year, soiling my precious shoes with hay and dung? Dang blasted kids and their goldfish memories.

Male JCC was happy with his juice-in-a-jar.

And La was very happy with the burger (complete with Big Mac-esque sauce — needless to say, so much better than los Golden Arches).

Slurp.

And my apple crumble was sublime. But, because I am a bit of a…

…La gulleted it before I could remember to take a piccie for you. Next time.

And so we prepare for our littlest famiglia member to leave us for big école. How sad that makes La. He seems both too big to stay home and too small to head off. How can it be?

Like I said…*sigh*. *Sniff*.