Author Archives: latrivialista

La’m missing my holidays. Or “holidoodles” as we call them beneath the dusty rafters of Palazzo Trivialista.

Easter saw la famiglia Trivialista-Seriousimo retreat north of the border, up where it’s summertime and the livin’ is easy eleven months of the year. (The living is hard for a month if Queensland loses that wretched thuggish interstate mansports competition.) And where La Mamma Trivialista’s cooking is within easy gobble.

Then we went to Nyoooooooooooosa.

Prepare yourselves for some srs holiday p**n. You may find this titillating if you go in for that palm frond-fringed, blazing blue sky, mauve-hued sunset, lychee-bobbing cocktail kinda thing. If not, head here for something to tickle your chilly bits.

Nyoooooooooooosa was divine. We essentially based ourselves at Ricky’s on the river, as is our wont. If one more ignoramus bangs on to me about beachside dining on Hastings Street, I’ll slap them with a hard-backed menu. Trust La, the river’s the place to be.

Watching some wedding preps happen, Signor Seriousimo and I debated the merits of renewing our vowels, but decided instead to settle for another martini (me) and mojito (him), clinked with a robust “cheers!”. Seemed cheaper.

See — a cocktail and a wedding ring. That’ll do for now.

Oh, and we shared a T-rex T-bone to cement our love.

La Mamma and Il Pappa Trivialista visited from the Bane of Bris. As you can see, Il Pappa continues to rock a salt’n’pepa mo’, despite it only seeming groovy to the rest of the population in Movember. And how on-trend is he with his snow-white watch and loom band wristlet?

Lali and K of Fab McK Women fame visited for a luncheon. It was great. Lali and La have a very long tradition of lunching. Seems to be something we do well.

Surfing, eating, playing Monopoly, “Tom Gates”…all that holiday action was too much for the male Junior Cost Centre (JCC), who slept froggy-like most nights. “Child’s pose”: those yogis sure know what they’re talking about, non?

But that was then, this is now…

Happy May x

This is the sun rising in the east, as it does, yesterday morn.

May the symbolism not be lost on you, as this, la virtual home of La Trivialista, also rises from the ashes of laziness.

La took the sunrise piccie completely illegally and probably much to the chagrin of other drivers. As I was actually driving at the time.

Risked incurring wrath like this, which I recently snapped affixed to some parking-challenged sod’s windscreen near los markets at Eveleigh.

In case you can’t make out los messages, the polite one on the right says, “Difficult to get past you, especially as the garden is now in the street…please consider parking closer to the gutter.”

No words, however, are minced at left. It reads, “Learn to park, you f****** moron.”

In other Harbour City car news and weekend goings-on, the male Junior Cost Centre (JCC) spied this car, to which its enterprising owner had affixed his (guessing at gender there, but bet I’m right) own go-faster gaffer-tape stripes.

Meanwhile, Signor Seriousimo wheeled La about the town on Saturday  night, because, as we all know…

He’s no mug, that Seriousimo, as he said he would prefer to avoid having me shout at him…

Killing la vibe recently have been increasingly distant memories of la famiglia Trivialista-Seriousimo’s New Year getaway to snowy alpine climes. We miss those monts.

We also miss this spiky guy, who oversees proceedings looking like the kind of stereotypical peak a four-year-old loin fruit would draw.

Locals love him too, which is why they render him in everything from pizzas…

…to hairdressing salon mirrors.

Yes, La had los locks done in a salon that thought it aesthetically acceptable to shape mirrors like Matterhorns. Needless to say, the blowdry was iffy — a moussed-up version of “The Mushroom”, reminiscent of Hillary in early White House days, or Krystle Carrington.

But there was one thing this teutonic 80s throwback of a salon did well — and that was welcome clients’ canine chums.

Read some German lingua fash mags to pass the time and avert los eyes from the disaster unfolding on my head. In my next, Mushroom-free life, I want to be called Lala Berlin.

Fell in love with these Yves Klein Blue specs. Time to once again fake an eye-test fail as I do every decade or so, just so I can add some four-eyes funk to la look.

The expression on the moosh of this pooch, spied on the way home from the Wordporium last week, about sums it up.

Time for more holidays.

Ciao x

So yesterday, los ladies embarked upon a coach trip. A coach trip to what revealed itself as Outlet Hell.

Never one to shy away from the scent of a bargain, La was a willing participant in the excursion, however I did express doubts as to whether we would need three hours at Waikele “Premium” (my quotes, not theirs) Outlets.

La gut proved spot on: because, as Brunny so eloquently put it while we waited in the dead retail wastelands for our return coach trip, “There’s time — and then there’s Waikele time.”

The shops were c**p, the clientele looked like the most inked seafarers from a Carnival cruise liner and the smelly toilets came complete with piped Hawaiian muzak.

Rewarded Laself with this.

Returned to the serenity of our divine hotel.

Here’s Brunny and La-La taking in the ambience, poolside.

We did some highbrow reading.

Later on, after a few lychee martinis, things devolved.

Unbelievably, it was La first karaoke experience. If only I wasn’t so shy when it comes to standing in front of a room, commandeering a microphone and belting out a torch song, I might actually have had a good time.

Jokes, of course. Turns out, La’m a natural.

Bondi Beach one day, Lanikai the next.

La Triv is currently sunning laself in Hawaii with two of los besties, Brunny Browser and Amo-is-La-La. But as great as los beaches are, the best bit by far about the trans-Pacific escape is no homework, no cooking and the complete absence of squabbling Junior Cost Centres.

Here’s some gratuitous hotel p**n.

They srsly know how to take care of jaded working-mother Trivs here at The Modern Honolulu. Handsome young men are most forthcoming with poolside cocktails and bite-sized serves of berry sorbet. It’s enough to make a cougar tip. Big.

But the best part is, of course, quality ladytime spent with Brunny and La-La. So very much mindless chat on which to catch up. Pictures of Kardashia to critique in trashy mags. Absent Junior Cost Centres to alternately moan about and miss, in equal measure.

Oh, and shopping to do. But that’s another story for another palm frond-fringed, blue-sky day.

Mahalo x

Some find snails to be such a pain in the wotsy this time of year. Thank los heavens for a completely concrete backyard.

As you know, the funking up of the Signor Seriousimo Spectacular is an ongoing quest, and possibly one without pay-off or end. Pleased to report we’ve made some progress on the shirt-tails front for weekends: they are no longer tucked in. Yay! Met Ball here we come.

Spied this for him. Might be just the catalyst for change he needs, and should go some way toward hiding the high-riding trews on Saturdays and Sundays when the shirt tails disappear into the waistband. As you well know, La refuses to be seen in the company of Harry Highpants.

That said, this is a famous menswear designer whose name I’ve forgotten. Think you’ll agree he conveys an impression of style and success. And he’s an out-and-proud Harry Highdacks. So maybe Seriousimo’s onto something and La needs to do what’s known in the wife trade as Lay Off.

Thought I looked pretty fancy in my latest J Crew sparklepiece not long back, and evidently so did il locale barista.

When this heart-starter arrived, the Male Junior Cost Centre — gutted — shot me a look and asked plaintively, “Doesn’t he know you’re married?” Oh, if only the two — my improved appearance in said sparklepiece and this crema love-heart — were connected.

Stepped through a wrinkle in the space-time continuum recently and ended up here…

…to buy one of these:

Shocked? Me too.

Got diverted by the “Norms”.

And the “baby Jesuses”.

Might need to start praying to them soon for forgiveness. Los neighbours will not be happy about my leaf-blower. Maybe concrete backyards aren’t all they’re cracked up to be and a large crimson snail would make all la difference.

Ciao x

As old Robert Frost would say, “I took the road less travelled by / And that has made all the difference.”

Well, actually, La took the dog poo-strewn bush path to grab the JCCs from school and the only difference it made that sunny afternoon was to the health of the soles of los trainers.

There’s a srs bottleneck of blog posts building up in the Triv psyche. (As an ex once commented, “Your mind is one scary neighbourhood — you shouldn’t be allowed to roam it alone.” Didn’t work out so well for him.) So there’s nowt to do but get on with it, in a highly randomised order.

Bought the little male JCC these “boths” (his term for in-and-out-of-water fashion trews). He’s inherited La love of a retro poolside motel digi print. This is how he showed his appreciation.

Think he’s twerking? Am embarrassed I had to resort to the deity YouTube to find out what that was. How could that portly throwback Clive Palmer know what twerking was when La Triv didn’t? Anyhow, turned out I knew what it was, just didn’t know that was what it was called. So there.

Headed out with Seriousimo one Saturday night, because…

Hell yeah! And lucky Princess got one.

Seriousimo still has not succeeded in untucking his shirts or introducing his trousers to his natural waistline on weekends. It was OK when we were sitting down at 4Fourteen, but I walked a bit ahead of him on the way there lest anyone should think La was hitting the town with Harry Highpants.

We scoffed some amazing dessert with dulce de leche and white chocolate ice cream and some biscuity toffee sheets. OMG. Michelle Bridges would have king hit me with one of her toned guns.

Saw a fillum (as La Nona Joan would have said). It was no blockbuster.

However, the colour of the theatre was apt, as la fillum was “Red Obsession“. It was great. Featured an interview with a Chinese tycoon who’s supposed to have one of the most amazing private wine collections in the world, valued at $60m. And he’s amassed his fortune by manufacturing s*x toys. The footage of bored factory workers clutching great handfuls of freshly-minted mauve vibrators was not to be forgotten in a hurry.

And speaking of s*x toys, spotted this on the walk home from the cinema. Thankfully Harry H was some distance behind me so I could secretly photograph it without creating unrealistic expectations that he might one day find it hiding beneath the Marital Bed of Deceit.

Giddy up!

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.