Monthly Archives: August 2013

Been feeling under-equipped with social chit-chat and hard-hitting insights for use at your weekend gatherings and soirees since la demise of The Wrap? Well, it’s back. The reason for its disappearance? Cost-cutting at the Triv news desk. Ever since the death of classified advertising on blogs it’s been hard to turn a coin through news-hounding. Anyhow, this week a kind philanthropist (Seriousimo) stepped in and agreed to underwrite The Wrap for at least a week, so our hacks are back on the beat and filing like crazy.

Palazzo Collapses Into Florida Sinkhole. Yee-ouch, eh? Do you think they have special insurance in the State of Sunshine for this kind of thing? Dusty, spore-covered rafters are one thing, but collapsed rafters are another thing altogether. Maybe it’s the gods’s way of punishing unsightly, McMansion-esque architecture?.

Mad Vlad and POTUS Look Thrilled to Catch Up. Wonder if the conversation and body language headed south at the mention of gay marriage. Doesn’t look like they’ll be inviting each other to their personal luncheons and soirees outside of work hours anytime soon, does it? POTUS — a good friend of this blog, as longtime readers can attest — said Poots can look like he’s “slouching” and like “the bored kid in the back of the classroom.” Can you imagine how frustrating it must be to be a world leader of elegance, sanity, sophistication and intelligence, having to deal with someone who’s your complete polar opposite in every respect? Give the man at left a pay rise, I say.

Nasty Lady Beats Up On Gwyneth in Hamptons. So, apparently, at this book signing event at East Hamptons Library — where there are so many authors sat at tables with pens poised to sign their oeuvres it must look like a literary factory farm — writer Christina Oxenberg had the misfortune to be assigned the table next to La Gwyn. So peeved was CO by the multitudinous GO groupies crowding out her table — “The worshippers blocked my view of the whole world,” she whined — that she headed to the buffet and piled her plate high with “sloppy hamburgers” and “stinky steak sandwiches” in order to discombobulate “vegan” Gwyneth and her “vegan children”. All was repeated in the New York Post. Now, this is what gets up la goat — FALSE REPORTING. As any half-dedicated Gwynaliser would attest, she is not a vegan! She eats duck ragu! She butterflies and roasts chickens! Remember?!

We will have no Gwyn hating here beneath the virtual dusty rafters. And absolutely no false accusations of veganism.

Australian Federal Election Campaign All About Asylum Seekers — and Boobs. What kind of hellcat crazy world are we living in here in the Wide Brown Land? First up ToneAbs describes a female candidate’s top qualification for the job of representing the great burghers of her electorate as her “sex appeal”. Then his flacks try and chalk it up to a “daggy dad joke.” What?!? Il Pappa Trivialista has never made such sexist and unfunny jokes in his life! On that basis alone — oh, and also on the basis of his well-groomed, style-signature moustache — he should be PM. Just when we though it could get no more cringe-worthy, yesterday we had KRudd barely able to keep his eyes off the rack of this innocent Perth fitness instructor. The poor pet’s at work in a raw nut bar at a Perth shopping mall, then out of the blue, two ageing, pudgy-faced Raw Nuts approach her and start ogling her assets. Girl’s just trying to make a buck! Ugh — this election campaign, and the reporting of it — is revolting me. PENNY WONG FOR PM!

And suddenly, just like that — poof! — our funding’s exhausted. We really need to devise a profitable news business model here at The Wrap. May go paywall soon. Hopefully our kind philanthropist has left me $8 in the media kitty for a Kylie Kwong steamed Berkshire pork bun for breakfast at Eveleigh Markets.

Good weekend x

It was a bella morn in the Harbour City.

Decided to match this crazy, bright anti-winter weather with acid neon and a Jenna-style, top button done up (thanks, Josh Goot, for equipping me with my first set of collar stays for super pointy collar action!), sparkly neckwear situation.

La seeks only to make Jenna proud.

Been a busy period here at the Wordporium, so treats are in order. Hmm, help me choose.

1. a herbal tea?

2. four almonds?

3. a sultana?

Loving *NOT* the 12WBT regime on frenetic Wordy days such as this. Particularly when the corporate catering gods rain down their tasties on us in order to keep us sated and productive.

If La’m not careful, though, will end up looking like this:

The fat fella today served as the inspiration for the female junior cost centre’s Book Week Parade guise:

She’s joined here by her own little stuffed Dogmatix, and of course Wally, as in “Where’s..?” Would love to show you their cute head get-ups (including woolly red moustache and Viking helmet at left and Wally specs and bobble hat at right) but can’t for fear that some Crazytown resident might ID them, then nab them, then hold them hostage until I agree to hand over my  J Crew sparkly necklace collection.

But La missed the parade, due to Wordy obligations. Sometimes working mammahood sux.

Am off to stuff la face with corporate sandwiches. What’s that you say? Emotional eater, moi? Surely not!

Ciao.

So. What are your thoughts on The Boob?

This is how he is affectionately referred to by one of los besties, Brunnie Browser. Do you think The Boob — or Il Boob as he shall henceforth be known here beneath the virtual dusty rafters — is one of those performers who’s fair-to-middling popular on home turf, but Huge in Australia? Anyone remember Italian stallion Patrizio Buanne’s salad days of popularity in the Wide Brown Land? If you don’t, I bet your nonna or mamma does. She probably said, during one of his Down Under tours, “He can park his slippers under my bed anytime!” This is what my grandma used to say to me, aged 7, about Channel 10’s Tim Webster.

From the looks of Mrs Boob’s maxi-draped waistline, La’s guessing there’s a baby Boob on the way.

Brunnie loves a crooner, and a croon, too. Every Triv birthday (bloody wretched things keep rolling around despite los best efforts) she dials the Palazzo Trivialista answering device and trills her special cabaret/lounge version of “Happy Birthday To You”. Or some years it’s more of a torch song version. Somehow it alleviates the pain of becoming yet another year older than 40 35.

Usually, La reciprocates. But this year I forgot Brunnie’s birthday. Well, technically, I remembered it on Friday, then again on Monday, but forgot to check la diary on the weekend to remind Laself a croon was in order. Bad friend. Hope she’ll still come on LadyFest 13 with me in approximately 89 days. But who’s counting?

On la topic of birthdays, La Mamma Trivialista recently unearthed this great shot of an extraordinarily cute baby blowing out la candle on her numero uno cake.

Look at stylish Mamma, all of about 21, with her ring-pull zip top and funky ‘do. Clock the mashed potato-stuffed devon rolls at left, and La (much-missed) Nonna Joan’s super retro fridge. This amazingly gorgeous bambina is cutting into an ice-cream cake — very ahead of its time for 1971 1982.

Mamma Triv, if you’re reading (as I know you do, La being your super-special first-born loin fruit and all), what’s the pointy, tall, off-white thing in the cup to the left of the gateau? A candle? Some sort of whacking stick for disciplining errant one-year-olds?

As the years rolled on, this baby grew so Big in Australia (was it the devon rolls? Or the ice-cream cakes?) that she now finds herself a couple of days into the 12WBT Michelle Bridges business — the latest rung on the never-ending ladder toward svelteness.

Let’s hope that, in 11 weeks, the only one on this blog who’s Big in Australia is Il Boob.

Ciao.

And the shame of it is that Naomi’s already snapped him up.

For several weeks now the Triv Media Control Console has been firmly fixed on Ray Donovan, starring the impressive jawline of Liev Schreiber, streamed super-fast from the US each and every Tuesday night. Gods bless that Showtime channel.

It’s a great story, but not one for delicate flowers. Ray and his two bros are from the wrong side of South Boston (read: trouble!) and the biggest slice of wrong in their lives is dastardly pater, Mickey.

Enter Jon Voight.

I know Angelina and her dad have had some issues in the past, but she should really forgive him and invite him back into her life and the lives of her multitudinous loin fruits, because he is srsly SMOKIN’ on this show. Menacing, scary, louche, lewd, profane — the works. Jonny must have thought it was the best script to come his way since Midnight Cowboy.

But it’s Hollywood fixer Ray (Liev) who holds it all together: the classic anti-hero we all seem to love so fiercely these days. Cut from the cloth of Tony Soprano and stitched in the pattern of Batman (yes, srsly! Though maybe that’s just the jaw…) he mooches and broods and simmers his way around Tinseltown, mopping up after his superstar clients, having the odd extra-marital transgression and trying to placate his screechy, self-absorbed harridan of a wife (ya think the last two might be linked?).

But then sometimes he just breaks down and sobs — and we love him and his big jaw, and feel sorry for him because he lost his mum when he was young, and his sister too, and a priest tried inappropriate things on him when he was little (and succeeded with his brother) and we remember he is Scarred and Flawed and that’s what makes for great telly.

Meanwhile, what the schnapps has been going on at Country Road? Has Sophie Holt been reading los postalistas? If so, hi Sophe! Because…behold:

Can you believe this dress is currently dangling from the CR rails? Could this mean CR is no longer off the rails? Hopefully fewer epic fails? Wind now in its sails? Will we flock to the sales? I know, ’nuff.

In other news, today is a busy day at the Wordporium, so tuff-cuff accessories were in order. With a feminine twist.

Very excited, as there’s a little package currently winging its way to La from our old china plates* at J Crew — stuffed with their amazing sparkly bling. After all, we should as often as possible be trying to dress like Jenna. What a legend.

Love the shirttails and cuffs hanging out. Love the over-the-clothes bling (something Trinny and Susannah said we should never do. How’s that working out for them these days?). She’s so cool she left her man for a lady, and — even after a storm of media coverage — followed that old Henry Ford maxim of “don’t complain, don’t explain.” Classy. She’s the complete antithesis of a Kardashian.

And she has a great jaw, just like Ray.

Ciao.

*Cockney rhyming slang for “mates”. Explanation provided for the benefit of our new readers in Russian Federation. Dobro požalovat! Is there anything you can do to get that horrid president of yours to listen to Stephen Fry and overturn the fascist anti-LGBT laws? Jenna is NOT HAPPY.

Ever wondered what parenthood looks like?

Some might think it looks like this.

Or this.

Or even this.

Well folks, La’m here to tell you They Would Be Wrong. Because parenthood, my friends, looks like this.

And, often, like this.

And, even more frequently, like this:

Parenthood, you see, is about two things, and two things only:  funds and raising.

However, in an effort to Raise said Funds, ladyfolk are under no circumstances allowed near one of these:

No-one’s really able to articulate why, but it’s possibly to do with paternalistic fears that female parents, most of whom in the normal course of their lives do so little cooking, might harm others or themselves (“Ouch! This big black thingamy-wotsit is hot! We need big strong men to manage these scary contraptions!”)

Yes, this timely reminder of the meaning of parenthood (and the place of women at a charity bbq event: prep buns, take orders, issue change but under no circumstances whatsoever touch los manstoves) took place yesterday at La City to Surf, at the gods’s own beach, Bondi.

Thankfully, had none with me, therefore none to lose.

All went well, despite the suspicion that L’odeur de Snag would be stuck in my hair and clothes for weeks, until I faced this:

See los black and yellow barricades? That’s where La had to be. And fast: Seriousimo was waiting at home with the loin fruits, but had to be at work sharpish. (Yep. On a Sunday. Like five weekdays of lawyers emitting their hot air and legal briefs into the atmosphere isn’t enough, then they have to go and pollute the blue planet on the weekends too!)

So: La waited and waited for a break in the phalanx of runners. Or at least for the heavily overweight, novelty dressed and walkers to come through. Alas, it didn’t look like it was happening anytime soon, so I had to jump into the mob, run a bit (in ballet flats — the horror!) then frogger my way to my right and toward GOS’s palazzo, where my wheels were parked (thanks GOS!).

This was the view from the right side of the road. Believe me, I don’t plan on taking la life in los hands like that again anytime soon.

After all that smelly Sport Billy craziness, order, beauty and a sense of internal calm were restored pronto when I spotted this window display at Mud in Edgecliff on la way home. Gorgeballs, non?

Between you and me, am srsly worried about Seriousimo. Something is happening on los weekends, and it’s none of it good.

He pops on his Lucky Brand jeans — no problem there. But then he proceeds to Tuck in His Shirt. This is not a good look, particularly as we live in the über-casual Harbour City. Fear I am going to have to shift along the spectrum from “subtly disapproving look” toward “overt comment re inappropriateness”. What’s worse is he stuffs his pants pockets full of BlackBerries (still the Camilla in our relationship), over-chocked wallets, change and various other accoutrements of manhood. This Cannot Continue, not least of all because los trousers have begun to Ride a Little Too High vis-à-vis the man’s natural waistline.

Obviously, a man bag is Out of the Question*.

What to do? And more importantly, if I tuck my shirt into my strides on a Sunday, pop lots of goodies in my pockets and mutter about legal briefs, would I get to work one of those manstoves next time?

Ciao.

*Distress obvious through extreme use of initial caps.

Love it when little boys’ hairs stick up at the crown. Especially when said heads are accessorised with jauntily-angled “Dark Vater” masks.

Last night, la poocha Trivialista, Diggers, was spied across the architectural vanity exercise courtyard making himself at home on the female junior cost centre’s (JCC’s) bed while we dined beneath the dusty rafters. Diggers knows lounging on beds is strictly verboten in Palazzo Trivialista. Clearly, if he was a schnauzer, he would understand German better and Know His Place.

Took Dark and his fellow Triv loin fruit to dinner here, our new favourite local gaff. Know many of you may not be as fluent in googling Italiano as La, so will tell you it translates to “shade”.

Fab tucker, lovely service, and their antipasto selection is to die for. Always thought that a strange word — how could one possibly be “anti” any arrangement of cheese, cured pork, bread, olives, grilled capsicum and eggplant all schnuzzling up to one another, accompanied by vino? La’m all for it.

This was the post-repast carnage — trust me, this photo does not do the mess justice. We tipped big.

Have been getting about the Harbour City a bit of late. We all know it’s a foodie’s paradise, but La thought this sandwich filling, spied recently at Sonoma (home of the smaller, personalised boule), raised things to new heights of insanity.

All the world’s leading fashionistas will tell us we should take inspiration from our surroundings, so when I spotted this marblework at Westfield Bongo Junction’s new Tiffany…

…los thoughts turned to this…

…from Whistles.

Couple of significant events coming up for which silk tops (and Tiffany bling for that matter) could come in handy: 25-year high school reunion (egads — are los bones really that old?  Kill me now!) and bi-annual Ladyfest trip Stateside with Brunswick Browser to visit Palisades resident and BrisVegas girl-done-good, Fancy Fowl. Our last catch-up was LAdyfest 2011 in Los Angeles and Palm Springs, which entailed much singing into hairbrushes and reminiscing about past frogs loves.

Thankfully on that trip, each of our husbandial specimens came up trumps vis-a-vis our past dalliances. Two years on I suspect little will have changed.

Unless, between now and then, Seriousimo curtails my Ladyfest shopping budget. Which could result in him being socked about the beefy cheek with a wanky sandwich.

Ciao x

This morning my little female junior cost centre (JCC) and La shimmied off to los marchés at Carriageworks. On the way we drove past what’s possibly one of los prettiest shopfronts in the Harbour City.

What a shame La’ve already bought the heirloom table, which currently every day has to be wiped clean of mould spores due to the extreme dustiness of the rafters at the new palazzo Trivialista-Seriousimo. Grr.

There’s no doubt the landscape on approach to los marchés is a bit of an urban gritfest.

But don’t let that turn you off, because inside it’s a greedy guts’s paradise.

Here’s the JCC with our new Spanish wheels: the Rolser, in large monochrome polka dot. We take this markets business srsly.

Hungry? How about some confused eggs?

Here, you know, you can even buy a small personalised boule from Sonoma with which to break your fast. Despite that, JCC opts religiously for sheep’s pecorino and a Sonoma mini-baguette, avec fresh juice.

For La, it’s Kylie Kwong’s Berkshire pork bun with housemade chilli all the way. Srsly, once you’ve had it you’ll wonder how you could ever go back to starting the day with Corn Flakes or even a small personalised boule.

Alex Herbert is here too, cooking up amazing brekkie rolls. Lines are long, so they must be good. Haven’t tried one though, as after two KK pork buns there’s little spare real estate in la gullet.

…and remember to mention to all your friends what a fabulous blog this is.

Rhubarb rhubarb! I would eat this, roasted with demerara and a cinnamon stick, seventeen times a day if it wasn’t for Seriousimo’s antipathy. How is that possible?, I ask him. He mutters something about bad memories of soggy nursery puddings at school in those Great United Kingdoms. Wish he would Move On.

JCC and I engaged in some competitive trolley-watching.

…and decided our Rolser was clearly the most stylish. Those poor punters had no idea what they were up against in the trolley style stakes.

Visited Hot Potato Guys (they said hi, Aunty Cait!). Got right up in their mixed grill and asked for a delicious mixed roasting bag — a steal at $5. Srsly, there’s something about that earthy spud smell that gets into your nostrils and makes you come over all soily and Druidish. Mmmmm…

Then we visited Sweet Mushroom Man and admired his fungal wares.

We’re frocking up tonight and heading off to dine with our good friends, los Grass Ponds, at their new gaff in Double Bay. They were renting, then bought the apartment two doors down the hallway. So to warm their new maison, La swangled up this bouquet from fleurs bought at los marchés. It’s a secret I’m now willing to put out there in everyone’s mixed grill:  La’m actually quite talented when it comes to flowers, having studied with master 1 and master 2 and all. But I’m not yet available for weddings or funerals.

So — not la first time I’ve urged you to join me for a pork bun at Everleigh Market, and it won’t be the last.

If I see you there next Saturday at 8am, buns are on me. Good weekend x

Regardless of what Gwyneth says about gluten being bad even for the average non-coeliac, La likes to start the day with a slice of toasted miche topped with raspberry Bonne Maman.

After all, whose life wouldn’t benefit from more smaller, personalised boules?

In other news, la famiglia Trivialista-Seriousimo recently moved to beneath some new and different dusty rafters. Only problem with the new digs is, ahem, the srsly dusty rafters.

La mentioned the problem of the dusty, mildewed, web-smothered rafters to someone recently who responded to la whinge with news that some place called “Bunnings” stocks something that will reach up to the nethers for the purposes of removing dust, spores and webs. What is this “Bunnings”, I ask you? And does it also stock Mary Katrantzou?

Speaking of Mary, and glancing back to la last post (hmm, sounds very ANZAC, non?), have been meaning to tell you all I did some Babcock & Brown-esque domestic financial engineering which meant that, in the end, la closet was able to benefit from the gobsmackingly amazing northern summer sales. Hallelujah! Voila — a selection of la loot.

Thanks to the generous sale gods at Matches, La scooped up this Mary K combo at 50% off… love love, and will wear next time I meet me ol’ China, Mares.

Notice the teeny tiny golden feet on the pouch? As it if could stand up on its own?!? And — aha! — I just noticed the little twenty quid insignias on the top; if Seriousimo asks how much it cost I do believe this is the figure I shall quote.

Nice, eh? And by this clever fella…

Gotta love picking Laself up a couple Erdem torso-coverings at 60% off from our friends at la Outnet.

Longtime readers of this virtual home of La Trivialista would be well aware of La’s love for Gwyneth. Often see piccies of her getting about Brentwood and Belsize Park sporting a fab shark-tooth necklace. So La copied, courtesy of Pucci at 60% off. (Specific information on percentage reductions is being included in case Signor Seriousimo ever overcomes his disbelief in blogs and happens to read of los shopping exploits.)

Scared the bejeezers out of a small Junior Cost Centre at the loin fruits’ school by telling him it was a walrus tooth I wrenched from the beast’s mouth after a bloody battle in Antarctica. Note to self: tone down the Steve Irwin yarns when dealing with five-year-old fruits of other women’s loins.

My super stylish friend M got me onto Markus Lupfer knits — too cute. Love the rainy one I bought super-cheap from Matches — apt, as it had been raining for about seven weeks in the Harbour City.

And this was possibly la bargainest purchase of all: a great piece of urban fatigue-wear. By Lot 78, this ‘parka’ was reduced from — wait for it — $780 to $250. One click, and that puppy was off the market.

Might not look like much, but am loving it. It’s posing here on some dusty slats.

How did you fare in the sales? The world outside our little bubble must really be hurting because they were goooood — even after factoring in the decimated state of our Pacific peso. Its reign as King of Currencies was good while it lasted…

Ciao x