Egor… Fetch me my Bum-Bag

Good morning dear readers, seeming as I am a horrible blogger and no doubt you have all fled to greener pastures (blogs that are updated less sporadically) I will post anyway and cross all my fingers and toes that there are still people in the world who care about me and my mundane life.

Update: So you already know that I quit my job (confetti explosion), and that I have applied for a university course in mass communication (trumpet fanfare). I am currently completely out of money, contemplating a possible relocation to Chateau de la Mumsy and waiting rather impatiently for the next round of Uni offers which will decide my fate for the next few years. In other news since joining the ranks of the unemployed I have been spending oodles of time with Little Big Sister and her husband, and my inbuilt instinct to be where the free food is has also thrown me into spending oodles of time with Dear Mumsy.

 Those of you who have already been introduced to the maternal donor of half my genetics will roll their eyes and wonder what on earth the poor woman has done this time to grant a mention in my fabulous blog. Well, hold onto your hats bucko for I am about to spill the beans as it were.

A few weeks ago Mumsy and I were out and about having coffee (Mumsy’s shout) and lunch (Mumsy’s shout) which was all rather pleasant untill it came time to pay. Now the money side of things was no trouble to my revered mother, instead, the item from which the funds emerged had sparked my immense disapproval.

Mumsy, to my horror, is in the habit of going about her business with a bum bag. Indeed you have read correctly. Now this is no ordinary run of the mill bum bag that can be worn discreetly around the waist without the general public being made glaringly aware of it. It is a behemoth of grotesque proportions that she endeavors to hide under her blouse worn at the back and making it look like she has either a monumental derrière or some sort of Quasimodo-esk hump going on. Needless to say it is not a good look.

Now for all of you who are fans of the bum bag and are right now phrasing in your brain-space how you are going to word your rebuttal in refuting my claims on the evils of the device, I am speaking only of the bum bag worn by my Mumsy. You have to look at the full picture, of all the is Mumsy if I may. Picture now if you will, a tiny little lady, about 5 foot tall, with crocs, mum jeans, an oversized multi-hued blouse, pig-tails and the bum bag from hell. It is not a good look.

My revered siblings and myself have all campaigned both individually and en mass to stop this luggage menace to no avail. The bum bag lives on, blighting the landscape which is Mumsy and spitting in the eye of every fashion conscious person who crosses her path.

 I will soldier on in my mission to rid the world of this present evil, wish me luck.

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Another one bites the dust

And so we come as we inevitably must to Little Brother’s graduation. Last night, Little Big Sister, Big Brother, Mumsy and I all got our formal freak on and journeyed down to the Gold Coast to watch the kick off of our youngest’s Grade 12 Formal.

Observation 1:
Invitations should not say hors d’oeuvre will be available if there are no hors d’oeuvre to be had. I did my hair and makeup, squished myself into a dress and heels and braved the throngs of glittered seventeen year olds under the impression that I would at least be treated to sub par finger food, and all that was to be had was orange juice with too many pips, apple juice, lemonade and Pepsi. Who even drinks Pepsi anymore?

Observation 2:
High Heels should not be worn if the wearer is unable to walk in them. During the 45 minutes I was there, I witnessed no less than 5 girls who were teetering about precariously in fickle footwear while negotiation the perils of hooped skirts in the confined of a cluttered dining hall. I had to restrain manic laughter every time I saw a girl grab at the nearest chair back/passer-by in an effort to remain upright when her shoes upset her motor skills.

Observation 3:
I don’t care how much Hollywood Tape you’re using. Dresses need more than an Iron Will to stay in place.  To the girl in the silver strap-less dress with the train that stretches a meter behind you. Someone is going to step on your dress and when that happens, I sincerely hope your dress stays where you put it.

Observation 4:
Teenage boys are hilarious. I was standing in line with Little Brother and various family members waiting for our photo to be taken and overheard the boys talking about their suits and exclaiming over the awesomeness of the inside pocket. Obviously for most of these young men, this was their first encounter with ‘The Suit’ and despite their best efforts to appear all nonchalant and sophisticated, they all looked rather a lot like kids playing with their cool new toy.

Observation 5:
Elevators are potential death traps. For some reason unknown to me, this particular formal committee felt the need to have their formal at the top of an 80 story hotel. Which meant that my family and I, along with 5 or 6 other formal going strangers, were stuck in a small box, hurtling up and down an elevator shaft at speeds previously not experienced in elevators during my lifetime. I’ve never been one to be afraid of heights, but it turns out that this particular elevator gives me the heebie jeebies something fierce.

Observation 6:
Strangeness runs in my family. I have realised that I am not the only odd ball in my gene pool.

Behold... Little Brother

Little Brother it appears either has some sort of repressed fetish for Kermit the Frog or he wanted to look like a Leprechaun on Acid. He pulled it off splendidly and turned more than a few heads. No-one even seemed to care that with the exception of one abominable dress, he had the brightest outfit there.

Friday is his official graduation ceremony *I am not crying… I have something in my eye* and then he’s initiated into the real world. He is going to be in for the shock of his life.

Anyone for a Doppelganger?

Did I tell you that I have a Doppelganger? Well dear readers, you had better believe it because it is true. A few weeks ago my chum Mr Incognito sent me a picture that he had taken while in a bookstore the previous day. It was a photo of the cover of some soppy romance novel that ordinarily I wouldn’t look twice at. Any who, the model on the cover of the novel looked like me. And not in a ‘oh yes she has some similar features’ this bird honestly looked like my identical twin. It was downright unnatural.

And speaking of Doppelganger… what happened to the good old days when girls ran around in groups all looking like clones of the others? I would walk past such a group with their heads together and their matching skirts swishing in time as they walked along, and chuckle to myself at the novelty and walk on smug in my superiority.

Something happened yesterday that threw me for a six. I have been noticing a growing trend in teenage boys lately with a  growing sense of alarm. The hair in particular is morphing into something between something out of a bad eighties rock video and something out of Dragonball Z. So as I was making my way through the shopping centre to get the motherload of photos printed from Sister Dear’s camera when I stumbled across a group of about 4 boys who looked to be 16. They each looked to be trying to look EXACTLY the same. From the power socket hair with the bleached blonde chucks pointing in all the same directions. To the school uniform with the half un-done ties to the sleeves rolled up to the same point on their fore-arms. The shirts half tucked in and the belt buckle poking out. The canvas deck shoes and various bracelets and ankle bracelets.

The world is going mad!!

Someone wake me when it’s all over

Ode to footwear of old

Could they be... MUM JEANS?!?!? *doom music*

Today it seems I have finally slipped into the abyss of old age. That dark place where your jeans are held up by elastic, your hair by plastic combs, your gums by dentures and your breasts don’t stay up at all. Why you ask is a spring chicken of the tender age of 20 thinking herself to be part of this aging demographic? Read on dear readers, all will be revealed.

I am a receptionist for all of you who were not previously savvy to this little gem of personal information. I get up in the morning, and in accordance with my contract get myself all pretty which lately consists of slapping on some foundation, running a comb through my hair, pulling on the closest semi-clean outfit, grappling with a pair of panty-hose and finally slipping my feet into shoes with a 5 inch heel.

not this bad

I love shoes, I adore shoes, and next to my books my most prized possessions are my range of fabulous footwear. Among my collection you are likely to find an assortment of high heels ranging from about 3.5 inches to a teetering 5.5 inches. Since moving offices and catching public transport to work every day my shoes have been taking a beating. In the past 9 months I have gone through about 5 pairs of heels because of all the walking I’ve been doing between office, bank, post office and bus/train stations not to mention the occasional 20 minute walk home from the train station when my trusted car driver (Mumsy) is otherwise occupied.

usual shoe choice

 So in light of my shoe abuse, this morning after pinning back my hair, zipping my skirt and giving up on the panty-hose I was faced with a dilemma. I had no shoes to wear. I have plenty of shoes, just none that I fancied forcing myself to endure for the next 11 hours with the inevitable wearing down to the heel untill I turned them into flats.

So I begrudgingly strapped on a particularly tall pair that have a tendency of slipping off my feet and made my less than merry way to work. It was coming up to lunch time and I found myself thinking of Mumsy. Mumsy has teeny tiny feet and is always gallivanting about the town in these hideous sandal type abominations with about 2 inches of padding to help her footsies be nice and comfy all day long. Not only are they fashion faux pas but they are so sturdy that they will live FOREVER!

 So I’m sitting here in my little reception bubble dreaming of the sandals of doom and I find myself googling comfy work shoes. One thing led to another and half an hour later I find myself in Rivers purchasing what Mum (not to be mistaken for Mumsy) would call ‘sensible shoes’. They are some of those rubber soled, padded leather inner grandmother affairs that 17-year-old Clare vowed she would rather die than be seen dead in.

Traitor shoe

You heard me correctly dear readers. Clare has forsaken fashion for comfort. I am now gallivanting about the town in flat, rubber soled padded leather lined shoes with a buckle on the toe. I might as well get in while the sales are on and stock up on mum jeans and button up shirts made of that sturdy material that will never wear out. Goodbye mini skirts, singlet tops and bedazzled shoes. It was nice knowing you.

For the record, let it be known that since purchasing these shoes, my right heel is now sporting a very impressive blister. That’s what I get for cheating on stilettos.