Okay, which bastard thought it'd be hilarious to steal my Bedazzler? I am going to hunt you down as soon as I can stand, and pull your spleen out your left nostril. As some of you may have noticed my insane attempt to be perky at least one day a week has gone awry. Not like anyone is truly surprised, well except for that tiny delusional anal portion of my mind that still thinks it can do everything. With the absence of my metaphorical Bedazzler, these last few weeks at Château Rusty have been rather bereft of sparkly rhinestones and crystals. I have resorted to watching hours of The People's Court, and even made it through an entire episode of Paris Hilton's reality show without retching, or doing an Elvis and shooting my TV. Even I am scared. An intervention may be in order.
Well as I've managed to get my bp out of the toilet for two seconds today, I thought I'd have a bash at perkiness. "Got to be in it to win it", or so they say. Whoever the hell 'they' are? I'm pretty sure 'they' may be in cahoots with the pathologically cheerful purveyors of religion who keep knocking on my door at 8:30am. I'm starting to think there must be some sign on my house indicating that I am in desperate need of salvation. Mind you if they came after my morning sanity coffee I may actually be more receptive, well probably not, but definitely more civil regarding their message, and not set my large dog on them (good boy Thor). They really need to get onto their market research people. 8:30 on a Saturday morning is not the time to try and convert the heathen masses. Hell, 11:30 on a Saturday morning is not the time to try and covert the heathen masses. Only the insane are open to conversion at this time.
But I digress.
When my kids were younger we used to have MLT time one day a week after school. MLT being Mummy, rug rat L. and rug rat T. time. We would go to a café and have hot chocolates or lime spiders and chat about their week. Both of them had some tough times with bullies and the like so to try and refocus them from the crappy aspects of school we always ended with them picking three good things about their week. So I thought today I should try and have MLT time for one ,and find three good things from the last few weeks (and try valiantly to live in denial about the rest).
Number one: I had to go to a talk at the eldest rug rats school about learning to drive. Sounds crap right? But no. I scored big time. First I picked up the youngest rug rat from basketball practice next door and brought us each a chocolate Twix bar. We won two free bars. Now in my sad little life this was enough to make me do a little jig in front of youngest rug rats basketball mates and embarrass the help out of him (this is compulsory in every mum's KPIs). Next we returned to the talk only to win first a little squishy toy in the shape of a VW. For those of you who don't know I love a little VW bug and have always wanted one, though a combi comes very close in the love stakes. Next we won a big box of chocolates. Then we won a $25 gift voucher for a music store. Score!!! We made up for a lifetime of never winning so much as a used piece of gum, in one night. There may also have been more embarrassing dancing in front of eldest rug rats teenage friends.
Number two: Some of you may know I had some excitement in my street the other day. For some reason a rather strange man decided that he would run up and down my street for a couple of hours wearing nothing but a pair of poorly fitting jeans. It was about 5C, being the middle of Winter here in Aus so it was bizarre from the out set. He was possible the hairiest man I had seen in a while and in desperate need of an Epilady across his back. I was tempted to yell "Run Forrest, run" out my lounge window but I didn't want to break his stride. Even better was the fact that at each lap, thanks to his poorly fitting jeans, more and more of his money box came into view. I could have lost $100 down that furry coin slot. Alas he must have tired, and eventually disappeared. I am hoping he comes back though as he did provide me with a couple of giggle-filled hours.
Number three: I won a blog prize. Mr London Street (MLS) gave me a nod as one of his three best posts for That Was The Week That Blogged (TWTWTB). It was for The Wonder Years, which I changed my mind about posting about a dozen time. I was lucky enough to win one of these last year for Farewell to the Brandy Hag, and I was equally chuffed this time. When someone, whose writing you admire gives you an award it's rather exciting. I have suggested MLS as a blog to follow before and will again (and not just because he gave me an award and said lovely things, though I am not adverse to bribery). As his profile says, he is "Reading's Premier Humourist. Occasional nookie ocelot. Highly conflicted purveyor of high class smut and melancholy to the masses". If you like your humour dry and your melancholy dark, he is your man.
Okay I made it to three. I will now focus on free chocolate, naked hairy men and bask in the glory of my accolade for a while. Hopefully this will lead me back to my happy place and my elusive Bedazzler. I will now attempt to drag my body out of bed (it's 3:30pm), scull water and chug salt in the hopes of getting my bp up enough to go out to dinner with my physio girls. I may need a mule or a sturdy Sherpa to get me up the mountain to the restaurant but damn it I'm getting there.
Insert the world's greatest motivational music, ever.
Cheers
The "blame it on the lack of oxygen getting to my brain" Michelle :)
Showing posts with label Fabulous Friday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fabulous Friday. Show all posts
Friday, 13 August 2010
Friday, 9 July 2010
Fabulous Friday: Happy 1st Birthday Dear Blog
I couldn't have planned it better if I tried. My blog's 1st birthday falls exactly on a Fabulous Friday. Yay, 1 year old today. It doesn't look a day over 6 months. Oh, and I should say up front, offers of cake and presents will be gratefully accepted.
I think I'm supposed to get all sentimental and review my year of blogging. What has changed? What is still the same? What have I learnt? What do I wish I had never, ever, exposed to the world? What does the future hold?
What has changed? Well after careful examination, ie sitting here for half an hour alternately staring blankly out the window and faffing about with font styles, I think a couple of things have changed.
Discussions involving my bowels seem to have increased. But then again who doesn't find a poo or fart joke funny? Okay maybe just me, but I'm okay with that. I live in a house with teenage boys, a juvenile husband, and flatulent pets, plus I have IBS. The rear nether regions are thus a prominent feature of my day-to-day existence. Add to that, I am way too lazy to censor myself. So odds are in favour of bowel related discussions continuing.
As recently pointed out by the Vegetable Assassin, my open appreciation of men without shirts has also increased, leading to somewhat of a bloggy theme. But hey would you really rather me discuss my bowels or male eye candy? I know I should probably be more mature and discuss big meaningful issues, but lets face it that is not likely to occur any time soon.
(Gratuitous hot shirtless guy shot. Okay he may be a douchebag in real life,
but he is mighty easy on the eye)
I have made a concerted effort to move beyond the sick thing, hence the idea of the Bob-free Fabulous Friday. When you are chronically ill, being sick can become your whole world. You live and breathe illness. You lose sight of the rest of the world. That's not that unreasonable as illnesses like Bob, tend to control and curtail your ability to be in the world. But total focus, will lead to an eventual stay in crazy town. I know. I've been there. I still focus on being ill when I have to, but for the most part, I now try to have a life outside of the crap. Being sick is just one part of my life, it's not the sum total. Okay, that sounds way too Oprah or Dr Phil, (shudder). I refuse to have a "lightbulb moment". I will go and sit in the naughty corner until I can get back to my usual anti- touchy feely self.
I have met a lot of equally insane and truly wonderful people over the past year, who for some reason enjoy my blogging efforts. I'm pretty sure that there is a dot point somewhere in the DSM-IV-TR, that says liking my blog is up there with bed wetting and torturing small animals as a marker for psychopathology, but I could be wrong (please keep reading people, remember sarcasm). Unlike me, there are some very funny and very talented people out in the blogosphere, and I feel lucky to have been able to find them.
I've gone from feeling like the only person out there with Bob, to finding a whole community of people just like me. Good for me, but crap for them, I don't wish Bob on anyone. It's probably the one thing I really like about the internet. To give you some perspective there a sum total of 12 people on the Aussie Facebook site (I know there are more of us out there, but we are still few and far between). Add in the fact we are often not the most mobile people, and the internet lets you connect with people all over the world without leaving your couch. It's also kind of nice that my feeble attempts at writing are able to help others feel not so alone.
What has stayed the same? Lets see. Bob is still there. Bastard. He continues to be the pimple on the arse of Satan, that has taken to residing in my house. I still feel like crap on a daily basis. Despite being poked and prodded and used as a pharmaceutical guinea pig I am pretty much still in the same state of shiteness as I was 12 months ago. That is the joy of chronic illness. And really that is all kinds of dull and depressing, so no more of that.
What have I learnt? Well, the biggest would be that sarcasm does not always translate well to the written word. There are also some issues with the whole international thing. Little did I know that terms such as "Dutch oven", are not international. Is 'loo' really that strange? Or as I have recently been alerted to on Twitter and commenting on other blogs, "Bogan" and "Mexican wave" are only Australian terms. I shall thus refrain from the use of ethnocentric terms such as "Stone the Crows", and "Strewth". Maybe I need to develop a glossary or Dummies Guide (don't get excited, apathy will win out on that one, try this instead).
I simply don't/can't take life particularly seriously, unless I really have to. I make fun of me and of being sick. Call it a coping mechanism if you like, but hey as the Monty Python guys say:
"Life's a piece of shit when you look at it......
.......So always look on the bright side of life"
And to clarify for Anonymous comment person (why are they always anonymous?). My porcelain lover, is not a reference to some albino guy I am having an illicit affair with. This is my apparently very confusing, reference to my toilet. If you have Bob you spend a lot of up close and personal time with your toilet. As such, I felt it needed a new name. So Anonymous Einstein, I don't need to go to marriage counselling and I am not looking outside my marriage for solutions.
Porcelain Lover = Toilet.
Porcelain Lover = Toilet.
Perselain Lover = Toilet.
Are we all clear now?
I have also learnt that there a lot of people in the world who need a glittery pair of shoes in their life. I thought it was just me who had a thing for glitter, but apparently not. My one birthday wish would be for all my readers to go out and embrace their secret glitter love and make themselves a pair of heels, boots, thongs or uggs. No crocs though. I refuse to have beautiful glitter sullied by being associated with a pair of butt ugly crocs. That is glitter blasphemy.
And finally, what do I wish I had never exposed to the world? Hmmm.... I know I should probably regret something, but I don't. I mean I'd like to have at least a Grade 2 level of grammatical prowess, but that's just not going to happen, and other than that, nothing really jumps out. I'm not even ashamed that I outted myself with regards to my love of all things ANTM. Generally, I push the 'publish post' button, grab a coffee and forget. My blog is what it is, the dross from my head. Life's to short to worry about what I put out there. Besides there are a lot more freaky and disturbing people than me in the world. In fact, a quick review of some of the blogs out there and I feel positively normal.
What does the future hold? My guess is more sarcasm and a continuing dedication to mediocrity. I shall no doubt continue to make fun of 40-year-old women with 'Team Edward' t-shirts, and anything Justin Bieber related. Inappropriate jokes will abound and Bob will undoubtedly rear his ugly head. I also plan to start some sort of fund raiser for the glitter deprived. See big plans people. Big plans. I know you are all completely under-whelmed with excitement.
So,
Happy 1st Birthday Blog
And thanks to every one of my super intelligent, witty and dead-sexy readers. You all have a special place in my heart.
Until next year,
Cheers
Michelle:)
Friday, 25 June 2010
Fabulous Friday: I Am Woman Hear Me Roar.
Politics as a Fabulous Friday topic? I know you all think I've finally lost the plot. First it was my need a slap, woe is me post, and now it's politics, clearly I am in need of help. I'm as shocked as you that I'm writing about politics on a Friday but it's happening.
The last two days have been a bit of a political roller coaster here in Oz. And I am still regaining my feet.
I never thought that one little moment in politics could make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. But at 12:30pm on the 24th June 2010 it actually happened, and I find it Fabulous.
Now before anyone poo poos this. I don't think she will make a better PM simply because she is female, only time will tell if she is any good in the roll or not. Nor do I ascribe to her politics. But as a woman, I feel a whole lot of girlie excitement.
Whilst it has been possible for a woman to take the top office, this is the first time the dream has ever been realised and for me that raises it to a tangible possibility as of yesterday.
It was the first time I have ever spent hours watching political TV. Watching her being sworn in I actually got a bit teary. I was totally surprised.
The first female Prime Minister being sworn in by the first female Governor General.
It was just one of those moments where you feel a little like you stepped through the looking glass. A bit bewildered, but very excited.
I wont bore you with the political wrangling behind it all, there's plenty on the net if you are interested, because in many respects I think that is superfluous to what the event represented.
Growing up in the 80s I never could have foreseen this moment. Politics has always been the domain of middle-aged white males. There have been women involved (and I certainly wouldn't have envied them trying to break into and survive that boys club) but men still dominated. The women who made those pioneering inroads into politics should be applauded for their achievements. Click here for a quick history of women in Australian politics.
Julia Gillard has taken it that step further to take the top job as leader of our country. She also represents a move from the traditional cookie cutter politician. Apart from the obvious female factor, she also:
Personally, I can't wait until gender is no longer a news worthy issue (I think its called the 'Watching Way Too Much Star Trek' effect) and it's all about who's best qualified for the job. But that's for another fabulous post in a future where poorly fitting lycra body suits are fashionable for both sexes. Today I'm enjoying a bedazzling moment in our nations political history.
Cheers
The slightly misty eyed Michelle :)
In honour of Julia's achievement I give you the arse kicking Annie Lennox and Aretha Franklin.
The last two days have been a bit of a political roller coaster here in Oz. And I am still regaining my feet.
I never thought that one little moment in politics could make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. But at 12:30pm on the 24th June 2010 it actually happened, and I find it Fabulous.
Australia now has it's
first ever female Prime Minister,
Julia Gillard.
Woo Hoo!
Now before anyone poo poos this. I don't think she will make a better PM simply because she is female, only time will tell if she is any good in the roll or not. Nor do I ascribe to her politics. But as a woman, I feel a whole lot of girlie excitement.
Whilst it has been possible for a woman to take the top office, this is the first time the dream has ever been realised and for me that raises it to a tangible possibility as of yesterday.
It was the first time I have ever spent hours watching political TV. Watching her being sworn in I actually got a bit teary. I was totally surprised.
The first female Prime Minister being sworn in by the first female Governor General.
It was just one of those moments where you feel a little like you stepped through the looking glass. A bit bewildered, but very excited.
(PM Julia Gillard and Governor-General Quentin Bryce. photo from here)
I wont bore you with the political wrangling behind it all, there's plenty on the net if you are interested, because in many respects I think that is superfluous to what the event represented.
Growing up in the 80s I never could have foreseen this moment. Politics has always been the domain of middle-aged white males. There have been women involved (and I certainly wouldn't have envied them trying to break into and survive that boys club) but men still dominated. The women who made those pioneering inroads into politics should be applauded for their achievements. Click here for a quick history of women in Australian politics.
Julia Gillard has taken it that step further to take the top job as leader of our country. She also represents a move from the traditional cookie cutter politician. Apart from the obvious female factor, she also:
- Was born in Wales, emigrating to Australia with her family when she was 4.
- She is currently 48.
- Is in a long term de facto relationship.
- Has no kids, and
- Was also our first female Deputy Prime Minister.
Personally, I can't wait until gender is no longer a news worthy issue (I think its called the 'Watching Way Too Much Star Trek' effect) and it's all about who's best qualified for the job. But that's for another fabulous post in a future where poorly fitting lycra body suits are fashionable for both sexes. Today I'm enjoying a bedazzling moment in our nations political history.
Cheers
The slightly misty eyed Michelle :)
In honour of Julia's achievement I give you the arse kicking Annie Lennox and Aretha Franklin.
Friday, 18 June 2010
Fabulous Friday: Monkey Magic
Friday of Fabulosity is here once more and this week I am in a bit of a quandary. Last weeks ode to the Dorothy Shoe's turns out to have been my biggest post ever. It was like glitter appreciation went viral, and women world wide lost their glitter-deprived minds. Thanks to all for the inundation of comments, messages and emails. Glad my little pair of heels could brighten all your days. If you took the challenge and broke out the wine and glitter I'd love to see pictures.
But how do I top that? Frankly I doubt I ever can, so I'm just going to tap away on the keyboard and embrace my 'meh'.
Today I thought I'd celebrate one of my favourite childhood TV shows. I don't know if it was ever a hit any where other than Australia, but it was TV gold and the world needs to know and appreciate the brilliance that was, MONKEY! (you have to shout it in a bad Asian accent or it's just not right).
Now if you are Australian, and you grew up in the 80s, you know Monkey. It was part of the after school line up on the ABC, along with other classics like, Dr Who (Tom Baker will always be my the Dr to me), De Grassi Junior High, The Goodies, You Can't Do That on TV, and various cartoons like Danger Mouse, Roger Ramjet, and Banana Man.
Monkey was an integral part of my childhood, and my after-school ritual.
Step 1: make up a plate full of dry Weet-bix, slathered in margarine and strawberry jam.
Step 2: make large glass of milk with chocolate Quik.
Step 3: sit in my parents bedroom and turn on their tiny portable black & white TV.
Step 4: sit on the edge of the bed and watch show after show until tea time. Or plead with mum to let me eat my meat and 3 veg in front of the TV.
Monkey at 6pm was always the highlight. How can you pass up a show about a magical monkey king who flies around on a cloud?
For those of you who have never experienced Monkey (and I do feel sad for you) I'll give you a quick synopsis.
Monkey was an English dubbed, Japanese TV program, based on a classic 630AD Chinese story. It was only produced for two seasons (1978-1980), but thanks to repeats I swear I saw every episode about 20 times (which may explain why I can quote large sections). Looking at it now I wonder how they ever got it on TV, but it was a product of its time and as a child you were simply mesmerised by the exotic fantasy of the whole production. On a television dominated by British, Canadian and American content, Monkey stood out, and grabbed the imagination of a whole generation of children.
It had the perfect over the top Asian accents. What Australian child didn't go around the school yard saying "Ahhhh Tripitaka" or "Oi....Pigsy"? Or know how to summon their magical flying cloud or fighting staff? The acting was as over the top as the accents and I loved it.
The whole show is about Monkey and his friends heading from China to India in search of holy scriptures. Tripitaka, the virtuous priest (played by a woman for some reason) is the only pure one, or "Holy Fool" as he/she was frequently called, in the group. The others Sandy (water monster and ex-cannibal), Pigsy (pig monster consumed with lust and gluttony) and of course Monkey had all been expelled from heaven for various reasons and part of their journey is to find redemption, whilst kicking lots of demon arse along the way. They were later joined by Horse (an ex-dragon), but I was never a huge fan.
This site gives a better round up of the whole story than I could, so if you want to know about Jade Princesses, Heavenly Naval Forces, and the like head there for a wrap up. The story took almost every fable and fairy story from the Chinese culture and packed them into an action packed, hilarious series. Mind you as a child I was not really aware of the complexities of the story and they really aren't necessary to ensure enjoyment.
Thinking about it now, Monkey was our 80s version of Buffy. There were monsters and demons in all shapes and sizes. Great fight scenes. Evil was vanquished. The Princes was saved. Redemption was sort and found. What more could you possibly need. No wonder it has become a cult classic. Even now, as a 37-year-old woman, I continue to love Monkey. I may or may not, have wasted the better part of an afternoon watching episodes on YouTube, all in the name of research. I may or may not, go back and watch some more episodes after I press the post button. I almost think I can hear the chocolate milk and Wheet-bix calling me back to 1985:
I leave you with a fantastic compilation of all that made Monkey great. Enjoy.
Cheers
The Monkey Loving Michelle :)
*Two great fan sites for Monkey are:
Monkey Heaven
Monkey: Great Sage Equal of Heaven
But how do I top that? Frankly I doubt I ever can, so I'm just going to tap away on the keyboard and embrace my 'meh'.
Today I thought I'd celebrate one of my favourite childhood TV shows. I don't know if it was ever a hit any where other than Australia, but it was TV gold and the world needs to know and appreciate the brilliance that was, MONKEY! (you have to shout it in a bad Asian accent or it's just not right).
(From left to right: Sandy, Monkey, Tripitaka, & Pigsy, photo from here)
(Monkey Opening Theme)
Now if you are Australian, and you grew up in the 80s, you know Monkey. It was part of the after school line up on the ABC, along with other classics like, Dr Who (Tom Baker will always be my the Dr to me), De Grassi Junior High, The Goodies, You Can't Do That on TV, and various cartoons like Danger Mouse, Roger Ramjet, and Banana Man.
Monkey was an integral part of my childhood, and my after-school ritual.
Step 1: make up a plate full of dry Weet-bix, slathered in margarine and strawberry jam.
Step 2: make large glass of milk with chocolate Quik.
Step 3: sit in my parents bedroom and turn on their tiny portable black & white TV.
Step 4: sit on the edge of the bed and watch show after show until tea time. Or plead with mum to let me eat my meat and 3 veg in front of the TV.
Monkey at 6pm was always the highlight. How can you pass up a show about a magical monkey king who flies around on a cloud?
For those of you who have never experienced Monkey (and I do feel sad for you) I'll give you a quick synopsis.
Monkey was an English dubbed, Japanese TV program, based on a classic 630AD Chinese story. It was only produced for two seasons (1978-1980), but thanks to repeats I swear I saw every episode about 20 times (which may explain why I can quote large sections). Looking at it now I wonder how they ever got it on TV, but it was a product of its time and as a child you were simply mesmerised by the exotic fantasy of the whole production. On a television dominated by British, Canadian and American content, Monkey stood out, and grabbed the imagination of a whole generation of children.
It had the perfect over the top Asian accents. What Australian child didn't go around the school yard saying "Ahhhh Tripitaka" or "Oi....Pigsy"? Or know how to summon their magical flying cloud or fighting staff? The acting was as over the top as the accents and I loved it.
The whole show is about Monkey and his friends heading from China to India in search of holy scriptures. Tripitaka, the virtuous priest (played by a woman for some reason) is the only pure one, or "Holy Fool" as he/she was frequently called, in the group. The others Sandy (water monster and ex-cannibal), Pigsy (pig monster consumed with lust and gluttony) and of course Monkey had all been expelled from heaven for various reasons and part of their journey is to find redemption, whilst kicking lots of demon arse along the way. They were later joined by Horse (an ex-dragon), but I was never a huge fan.
This site gives a better round up of the whole story than I could, so if you want to know about Jade Princesses, Heavenly Naval Forces, and the like head there for a wrap up. The story took almost every fable and fairy story from the Chinese culture and packed them into an action packed, hilarious series. Mind you as a child I was not really aware of the complexities of the story and they really aren't necessary to ensure enjoyment.
Thinking about it now, Monkey was our 80s version of Buffy. There were monsters and demons in all shapes and sizes. Great fight scenes. Evil was vanquished. The Princes was saved. Redemption was sort and found. What more could you possibly need. No wonder it has become a cult classic. Even now, as a 37-year-old woman, I continue to love Monkey. I may or may not, have wasted the better part of an afternoon watching episodes on YouTube, all in the name of research. I may or may not, go back and watch some more episodes after I press the post button. I almost think I can hear the chocolate milk and Wheet-bix calling me back to 1985:
"Born from an egg on a mountain top The punkiest monkey that ever popped He knew every magic trick under the sun To tease the Gods And everyone and have some fun Monkey magic, Monkey magic........."
I leave you with a fantastic compilation of all that made Monkey great. Enjoy.
Cheers
The Monkey Loving Michelle :)
*Two great fan sites for Monkey are:
Monkey Heaven
Monkey: Great Sage Equal of Heaven
Friday, 11 June 2010
Fabulous Friday: Glitter Dreams & Dorothy Shoes
What would a Fabulous Friday be without some glitz and glam? I refuse to believe that just because I'm over 30, that I am somehow beyond my sparkly years. If I want to break out the glitter and make myself some killer, sparkly, red heels I'm going to do it.
You better brace yourself because today I am going to get all crafty on your arse.
A few weeks back the lovely, and all-around Australian fashion goddess, Phoebe Montague from Lady Melbourne made her very own pair of Dorothy heels, following some muse-like inspiration courtesy of an Alison Goldfrapp album. I developed a very unhealthy need to possess those shoes at the first glance. I mean they are red and they are glittery, what more could any girl want.
I have taken Lady M's basic idea and added a few steps to ensure maximum adhesion and minimal dispersal of glitter. Whilst it's cute to leave a trail of your own pixie dust in the form of glitter, I imagine there are many shop and restaurant owners who would be less than impressed with a trail of red glitter throughout their establishments. Besides, no one wants a pair of heels that look like they have developed the mange. And really a pair of heels missing large chunks of glitter is just sad.
Now there is no huge trick to these shoes of fabulosity. Even I could manage it, and considering Eunice has been on long service leave, that means they are uber easy to make. They are a 3-day project, thanks to drying times.
Preparation is everything. So here are the basic preparation steps.
Day 1:
(Even better black & white hides a multitude of sins)
Cheers
The New Dorothy :)
Happiness, Goldfrapp (2008)
You better brace yourself because today I am going to get all crafty on your arse.
A few weeks back the lovely, and all-around Australian fashion goddess, Phoebe Montague from Lady Melbourne made her very own pair of Dorothy heels, following some muse-like inspiration courtesy of an Alison Goldfrapp album. I developed a very unhealthy need to possess those shoes at the first glance. I mean they are red and they are glittery, what more could any girl want.
I have taken Lady M's basic idea and added a few steps to ensure maximum adhesion and minimal dispersal of glitter. Whilst it's cute to leave a trail of your own pixie dust in the form of glitter, I imagine there are many shop and restaurant owners who would be less than impressed with a trail of red glitter throughout their establishments. Besides, no one wants a pair of heels that look like they have developed the mange. And really a pair of heels missing large chunks of glitter is just sad.
Now there is no huge trick to these shoes of fabulosity. Even I could manage it, and considering Eunice has been on long service leave, that means they are uber easy to make. They are a 3-day project, thanks to drying times.
Preparation is everything. So here are the basic preparation steps.
- Buy or recycle a pair of battered, and or super cheap heels (though I can't see why you couldn't do some ballet flats or go all outside the box, and bedazzle your ugg boots). I got my heels of tackiness, from the sale rack at Target. Mr Grumpy always says that a sale sign is really a "come in Michelle sign" and frankly, he's right (but don't tell him I said that. Can't go around letting your man know he is right about such things). I did a little dance of joy at my $10 price tag. I would have used an old pair of my own heels, but I love them all too much, and it would have been like bedazzling one of my children.
- Grab a bottle of PVA glue. PVA is cheap as chips, and you can get it anywhere. Luckily I have about 8 bottles at home in various cupboards. It's one of those items that I see on a shelf in a store and think "that'll come in handy", so buy yet another bottle. It's a sickness really.
- Grab some red glitter. You could go any colour glitter really. Hell, you could go all unicorn farty and get rainbow coloured glitter (What you didn't know unicorns farted rainbows? Sheesh keep up people). Though why you would want a pair of shoes that looked like a unicorn had farted on them I don't know. But I won't judge. Now, where was I. Oh yes glitter? You don't need much, so don't be like me and buy the biggest jar of red glitter they had, and end up using about a bees dick worth. One of those little tubes could just about do it.
- Grab a piece of sandpaper. Any old sandpaper will do. I only used a small piece that I had lying around. A mid-level grade of sandpaper does the trick.
- A spray can of high gloss enamel. Again you can purchase a can for minimal dollars, but I shelled out a few more dollars and brought some of the better stuff to avoid yellowing. Because let's face it, no one wants a pair of heels that look like someone has peed on them.
- Old paint brush. Luckily I delude myself into thinking I'm an artist so I have a few old brushes hanging around. One that's about 1cm across works well.
- Old Newspaper. This is one messy project. Glitter is worse than sand and ends up everywhere, and I do mean everywhere.
- 2 old plastic shopping bags.
- Wine. Now I'm a sauvignon blanc or pinot gris girl, but you can pick whatever you like. I think this is almost compulsory given that you are making sparkly party shoes, but if you have to abstain you can always just bust out the non-alcoholic cider or a nice juice and add a cocktail umbrella.
- Music. Again these are party shoes. To impart the magic into them you need to play music. For me, I did disco tunes, Donna Summer, Bee Gees and the like. I did also put my Goldfrapp album on the playlist in homage to Lady M.
Day 1:
- Take a sip of wine and press play on your stereo.
- Give the heels a light sand. Rubbing all over the surface creates a better surface for the glue/glitter to adhere to. Wipe them down with a damp cloth to remove all traces of dust.
- Take another
gulpsip of wine. - Paint on a decent layer of glue. Using the paintbrush you can get into little joins and be more precise in your glittering areas.
- Shake glitter all over the glued surface. Shake off the excess. Luckily PVC is bright white when wet so you can see anywhere you missed.
- Leave shoes to dry for a day.
- Note glitter in your eye HURTS. Make sure you wash your hands, thoroughly.
- Finish off the glass of wine and bust out some disco moves.
- Start as in day 1, wine and music.
- Give shoes a tap to remove loose glitter.
- Sip wine.
- Take shoes into a well-lit room or into the sunshine to find spots you missed.
- Re-do glue layer and re-glitter.
- This gives good glitter coverage and requires further celebration because they are now so pretty.
- Finish off the glass of wine and bust out disco moves.
- Start as in Days 1 and 2, wine and music.
- Stuff shoes with crunched up shopping bags to stop spray going inside shoes.
- Give can of spray varnish a good shake.
- Make sure nozzle is pointing at shoes and not at your face. I add this step for you dear reader, as I did not do this check, and varnished my face. Extra tip have turpentine close by to remove varnish from face and glasses.
- Have an extra glass of wine to wash away the taste of spray varnish. It tastes very, very, bad (shudder).
- Give shoes a good coating of varnish. Leave to dry overnight.
- Have another glass of wine to celebrate finishing shoes. Dance with wild abandon.
- Beautiful Dorothy shoes! So exciting. Time to party on down. Break out the bubbly to celebrate.
(Warning:
Wearing Dorothy Shoes may cause you to break into random moments of Blue Steele)
(Watch out Heidi, Vogue here I come)
(Note clever use of bright red heels to distract the eye from my colourful cankles).
*Big thanks to my eldest and his ability to not laugh when taking photos of his mother, and for his judicious use of photoshop.
So there you go, dear readers. Now you can make your own magical Dorothy shoes. In reality, it doesn't matter if you wear them or not (although I fully intend to) they are art. Simply having them on display to look at, is bound to bring a little magic into your day.
Cheers
The New Dorothy :)
Happiness, Goldfrapp (2008)
Friday, 4 June 2010
Fabulous Friday: Soylent Green Anyone?, World Environment Day June 5th
After last weeks Friday faux pas, I have pulled out all the stops to make sure I do my Fabulous Friday on time. This week I'm bedazzling my world in shades of green in honour of World Environment Day which is happening on June 5th.
I've always been a bit of a Greenie at heart. It was inevitable really. Green is my favourite colour, I'm a Taurean which is apparently and earthy sign, and I always had a thing for Kermit the Frog, the Hulk and the Green Lantern.
My first act of social activism was to join Greenpeace in my teens. This was a great disappointment to my super conservative parents, who equated my membership to my joining a cult that sacrificed small furry animals in worship of Beelzebub. I progressed to joining the World Wildlife Fund, spouting lectures at the dinner table about the environmental apocalypse that would occur if they damned the Franklin River in Tasmania, and dropping super cool environmental slogans like "You can't hug your kids with nuclear arms" at every opportunity. Man, I was obnoxious.
I listened to Sting's, Dream of the Blue Turtles on loop (well I'd play it, flip the cassette, fast forward, flip again, and press play once more. I loved my pirated copy with it's grey lead song titles and little picture of whales drawn on the lable). I even have a battered cassette recording of me belting out Russians, backing song tapped from the radio (Casey Kasem, American Top 40, of course). I had pictures of Brazilian rainforests tapped up next to my pictures of Johnny Depp and Don Johnson (yes I know that last one is now exceedingly sad, but I loved Miami Vice back in the day and I don't care what anyone thinks. He had a pet alligator on his boat and drove a Ferrari Daytona Spyder 365 GTS/4, you didn't get cooler than that in the 80s). I read everything I could get my hands on about the nuclear arms race, animal friendly beauty products, endangered wildlife and organic vegetables. I still have my over-sized, "Reuse, Recycle, Refill" t-shirt from the Body Shop all those years ago.
I'm pretty sure my parents considered some sort of intervention during my teenage years. Luckily their fear of public shaming, should anyone in our small town find out that they had birthed a lefty, pot-smoking (not that I ever did they just decided I was ganja girl), non-shaving, hemp-wearing, patchouli-smelling, incense-burning, flower-child, outweighed their desire to 'fix' me. Though I do think there was some discussion about sealing me up in the attic, like the mad aunt that nobody ever talks about. But that would have involved some sort of DIY, and luckily my Dad wouldn't know a hammer from a chain saw. Instead we did the dance of denial, of which my family are the current World Champions. I was allowed to wear my hippie skirts and listen to Midnight Oil (sadly Peter Garrett sold his soul, and is now yet another ineffectual politician) and good old Sting, as long as I did these things at my friends' houses, and kept my mouth shut around their friends.
Now I'm older and my permanent state of 'meh' prevents me from any huge demonstrations of environmental activism. I still have a desire to save the earth but I would prefer to do it from the comfort of my couch and preferably with a glass of vino in hand. Now it's World Environment Day and I feel like I should pull my finger out, and do my bit for the planet. As I've mentioned previously I do the "if it's yellow let it mellow, if it's brown flush it down" water saving tip, recycled loo paper, environmentally friendly cleaning products, buy local, compost, drink tap water, and recycle and reuse, as much as I can.
Even my garden is a wildlife wonderland of overgrown bushes and un-mown lawns, fertilised generously and naturally, by two large dogs and numerous randy possums. My dog also eats the cat poo, so technically she is recycling too (though when she is trying to give me a puppy kiss with a face covered in kitty litter I am not thinking environmentally friendly thoughts, well except for calculating how many of my plants I could fertilize with her gross poo-eating body). I often wonder what more I can do for good old Mother Earth, and more importantly what more can I/we do with the least amount of effort?
So yesterday I spent an exhausting 5 mins on Google Search, researching exciting, cutting-edge environmental solutions. And what did I find. Poo. Yep, that's right poo, nards, turds, what ever you want to call it (did you know someone has actually complied a poop thesaurus?), is the solution.
Basically, we all need to give a shit about the environment.
Here are a few of the great articles I found:
Scientists discovered that the bugs that eat poo create rocket fuel as a by-product. Go bugs.
In Rwanda, an entire prison is powered by the gas given off from human waste. Now whilst this is a big YAY on the cutting back of wood consumption, and no poo going in the rivers, I really don't know if I'd fancy having my food cooked on a stove powered by farts. Maybe, I could stomach my own farts, but I don't know about other people's farts, ick. But still YAY Rwandan prison officials, making a shitty situation, well....shittier.
Even NASA has spent millions researching poo and come up with a solution. They have estimated that a six man crew would create at least six tons of human waste products on a two-year trip to Mars. Now there's a job to aspire to, poo mathematician. Their solution to a space poo problem, recycled drinking water, fertilizer and poo-generated electricity production. Tang, velcro and a poo-powered battery. Go NASA.
Poo. Saving the environment one odifourous nard at a time.
Alternatively we could go with the Soylent Green (1973) solution. Reading the synopsis, it just seems so appropriate:
"a dystopian future suffering from pollution, overpopulation, depleted resources, poverty, dying oceans and a hot climate due to the greenhouse effect".
Not only does it deal with the problem of over population, but also food shortages. Perfect. And I can think of a few people I'd like to mince, though not necessarily eat.
(Oh Charleton, Moses, guns and cannibalism, you did it all.)
On that note, dear readers, I am off to grab my green sequins and ablute for Mother Earth. What will you do for World Environment Day?
Cheers
Michelle :)
Beds are Burning, Midnight Oil (1987). We all need to dance like Peter Garrett at least once a day.
Saturday, 29 May 2010
Fabulous 'Faux' Friday: Finding Your Muchness, Or At The Least Your Red Dress.
Short of doing a Superman and flying round the earth backwards, faster than a speeding bullet, I am going to have to accept the fact that it's Saturday here in Oz and Friday has past without any bedazzling. Potentially, if I can get this sucker together in time, I may get it posted for it to still be Friday somewhere in the world. But in the event that this may not occur I'm going with a Fabulous 'Faux' Friday post.
Mind you, I do have a valid excuse in the form of two days of joyless dentistry. Think classic torture scene from Marathon Man, and you get the idea. I am still a tad tired but I will wrap my pink feather boa around my neck and battle through.
Today's post has been inspired by a recent post by Jenny Lawson aka The Bloggess. I love The Bloggess. She is the good kind of crazy, with a side of sass, and a healthy dose of irreverence, that just appeals to my sense of humour. She's the kind of woman who is proud to put her crazy out there, thus making the rest of us feel kinda normal (well it does for me, but then again the inside of my head resembles the rec room from One Flew Over the Cookoo's Nest).
If you haven't read The Bloggess, you may want to start with the Zombie Apocalypse incident on Twitter, although you could start with pretty much any post. I love this one as it's a kind of international, multi-player, version of folie a deux, and that just tickles my, previous life as a psych, funny bone. This is what Twitter was created for. Not for tweets that let me know that you just had a shower or put a new roll of loo paper on the holder, cause I really don't care you attention seeking freaks. And yes I know, I've gone to the dark side and now have a Twitter account. I feel dirty. But I promise I will not alert anyone to the boring as batshit, minutia of my daily life, well no more than I do on here anyway.
This week The Bloggess put up a a great post. In it she writes:
So she did. She decided she was worth it, and challenged her readers to accept that they too were worth it and to find their own personal red dress.
I love the whole concept. It's something I have struggled with since I was a kid. I was brought up to believe that you do for others and ignore your own needs. That you need to be level headed, and practical at all times. Swallow those pesky irrational feelings, never step on the cracks, wear sensible shoes, never ever wear blue and green without a colour in between, and always wear matching underwear just in case I happened to cross paths with the proverbial bus. Judgement and scorn were the only things that came from unpuckering that sphincter (try being diferent in a conservativesmall country town). I've been told so many times that I'm 'quirky', 'too independent', or that I like 'weird' stuff, that it all starts to stick. I wonder if I cae across the Mad Hatter would he say to me as he did to Alice, "You used to be much more..."muchier." You've lost your muchness".
The last few years I've had to do a light speed re-imagining of my life thanks to "he who shall not be named" on a Fabulous Friday. Part of that re-imagining has involved relocating and giving myself permission to embrace the parts of me I've shed over the years to be practical, to fit into the cookie cutter world of acceptability. Well damn it, I want to find my muchness once more.
As any regular readers know I can't exactly swim with sharks (although I'd love to and if I can ever persuade my body to get with the program I will) thanks to the fact that my body has been put together by one of those dodgy tradesman they are so fond of exposing on A Current Affair. So I've had to be creative with my red dress dreaming and actualising. I periodically do things just cause I want to, naysayers be damned. Sometimes it's the little things as much as the big that mean so much.
One of the things I do everyday is wear Chanel No 5. I know that doesn't sound like much of a red dress moment, but when you are pretty much stuck in your house 24/7 you need to do something. So regardless of if I'm stuck in bed, or getting milk at the supermarket, I wear my Chanel. I may not have brushed my hair in a week, my underarms may look like a wookie's rear end, and my teeth may feel like they are clothed in felt, but I still squirt on my Chanel. If I wait for a special occasion to wear it I will be waiting for ever, (or at least until the actual zombie apocalypse arrives, and I do intend to smell pretty whilst I take out the un-dead beating down my door). So each day I pamper myself with expensive perfume, just cause I can.
Even we sickies can pamper ourselves. I drink my 4 litres of water from a cranberry coloured cut glass carafe and matching glass. I keep my chocolate stash in a beautiful green depression glass butter dish. I brought sparkly zebra ballet slippers with red bows, and I have a pair of black silk pjs I had made in Singapore, which cost way to much but which make me feel pampered each time I put them on.
We all need to find our own red dress. Sometimes it's running barefoot in a graveyard in a beautiful red ball gown, sometimes it's about making even the most practical thing something special just cause you can. We are all worth it we just need to believe.
I'm going to embrace me. I'm worth the effort. I'm going to find my red dress and my muchness. Will you?
Cheers
The feather boa wearing Michelle :)
Feeling Good, Nina Simone (1965), my favourite play it loud 'kick some arse' song.
Mind you, I do have a valid excuse in the form of two days of joyless dentistry. Think classic torture scene from Marathon Man, and you get the idea. I am still a tad tired but I will wrap my pink feather boa around my neck and battle through.
Today's post has been inspired by a recent post by Jenny Lawson aka The Bloggess. I love The Bloggess. She is the good kind of crazy, with a side of sass, and a healthy dose of irreverence, that just appeals to my sense of humour. She's the kind of woman who is proud to put her crazy out there, thus making the rest of us feel kinda normal (well it does for me, but then again the inside of my head resembles the rec room from One Flew Over the Cookoo's Nest).
If you haven't read The Bloggess, you may want to start with the Zombie Apocalypse incident on Twitter, although you could start with pretty much any post. I love this one as it's a kind of international, multi-player, version of folie a deux, and that just tickles my, previous life as a psych, funny bone. This is what Twitter was created for. Not for tweets that let me know that you just had a shower or put a new roll of loo paper on the holder, cause I really don't care you attention seeking freaks. And yes I know, I've gone to the dark side and now have a Twitter account. I feel dirty. But I promise I will not alert anyone to the boring as batshit, minutia of my daily life, well no more than I do on here anyway.
This week The Bloggess put up a a great post. In it she writes:
"I want, just once, to wear a bright red, strapless ball gown with no apologies. I want to be shocking, and vivid and wear a dress as intensely amazing as the person I so want to be. And the more I thought about it the more I realized how often we deny ourselves that red dress and all the other capricious, ridiculous, overindulgent and silly things that we desperately want but never let ourselves have because they are simply “not sensible”."
So she did. She decided she was worth it, and challenged her readers to accept that they too were worth it and to find their own personal red dress.
I love the whole concept. It's something I have struggled with since I was a kid. I was brought up to believe that you do for others and ignore your own needs. That you need to be level headed, and practical at all times. Swallow those pesky irrational feelings, never step on the cracks, wear sensible shoes, never ever wear blue and green without a colour in between, and always wear matching underwear just in case I happened to cross paths with the proverbial bus. Judgement and scorn were the only things that came from unpuckering that sphincter (try being diferent in a conservativesmall country town). I've been told so many times that I'm 'quirky', 'too independent', or that I like 'weird' stuff, that it all starts to stick. I wonder if I cae across the Mad Hatter would he say to me as he did to Alice, "You used to be much more..."muchier." You've lost your muchness".
The last few years I've had to do a light speed re-imagining of my life thanks to "he who shall not be named" on a Fabulous Friday. Part of that re-imagining has involved relocating and giving myself permission to embrace the parts of me I've shed over the years to be practical, to fit into the cookie cutter world of acceptability. Well damn it, I want to find my muchness once more.
As any regular readers know I can't exactly swim with sharks (although I'd love to and if I can ever persuade my body to get with the program I will) thanks to the fact that my body has been put together by one of those dodgy tradesman they are so fond of exposing on A Current Affair. So I've had to be creative with my red dress dreaming and actualising. I periodically do things just cause I want to, naysayers be damned. Sometimes it's the little things as much as the big that mean so much.
One of the things I do everyday is wear Chanel No 5. I know that doesn't sound like much of a red dress moment, but when you are pretty much stuck in your house 24/7 you need to do something. So regardless of if I'm stuck in bed, or getting milk at the supermarket, I wear my Chanel. I may not have brushed my hair in a week, my underarms may look like a wookie's rear end, and my teeth may feel like they are clothed in felt, but I still squirt on my Chanel. If I wait for a special occasion to wear it I will be waiting for ever, (or at least until the actual zombie apocalypse arrives, and I do intend to smell pretty whilst I take out the un-dead beating down my door). So each day I pamper myself with expensive perfume, just cause I can.
(Yep, that's my feather boa in the background)
Even we sickies can pamper ourselves. I drink my 4 litres of water from a cranberry coloured cut glass carafe and matching glass. I keep my chocolate stash in a beautiful green depression glass butter dish. I brought sparkly zebra ballet slippers with red bows, and I have a pair of black silk pjs I had made in Singapore, which cost way to much but which make me feel pampered each time I put them on.
(So pretty)
We all need to find our own red dress. Sometimes it's running barefoot in a graveyard in a beautiful red ball gown, sometimes it's about making even the most practical thing something special just cause you can. We are all worth it we just need to believe.
I'm going to embrace me. I'm worth the effort. I'm going to find my red dress and my muchness. Will you?
Cheers
The feather boa wearing Michelle :)
Feeling Good, Nina Simone (1965), my favourite play it loud 'kick some arse' song.
Friday, 21 May 2010
Fabulous Fridays: All Hail the Mighty Geek.
Well it's that time of the week again when I break out my rose coloured glasses, staple that slightly deranged and ecstatic smile on my face, and leave the realms of reality to live in a land of puppies, lollipops, fairy dust and moonbeams.
I must admit its a tad more difficult today as I am currently battling a very virulent form of pestilence brought home by the Ebola ridden, youngest monkey boy. And when you are already scrapping the bottom of the health barrel it's not pretty site.
I apologise to all the trees that have been felled so I can have something to catch the litres of fluids making an break for it via my tender nostrils. Normally I am recycled paper girl, but not today. My Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer impersonation requires silk touch, aloe vera soaked, triple ply, bleached and pulverised old growth rainforest tissues. Tomorrow I'll get back on my Green soap box, but not today. Besides I figure it's all balanced out by my use of happy eggs, dolphin friendly cleaning products, recycled loo paper and the water saving philosophy of "if it's brown flush it down. If it's yellow let it mellow".
Old Eunice is valiantly battling through the truckloads of mucus that have chosen to reside in my noggin, to try and get me through this, so be prepared to be wowed by my mediocre efforts. Tip for the day: if you close one eye and screw up your face, it takes the edge off the jack hammer pounding away in your head when you are looking at a computer screen. Alternately it could be the litre of cough mixture and Nurofen I had for breakfast, who knows. So just bear with me whilst I chant my perky mantra to try and brainwash myself into pathological optimism:
Going to my happy place
Going to my happy place
Going to my happy place
Okay. My glass is once more half-full, maybe half-full of mucus of varying densities, but half-full none the less.
All right now before I OD on Lemsip and Vicks Vapour Rub fumes, I thought today I'd write a post to celebrate the nerds and geeks of this world. I have been inspired by a recent news story here in Australia and I think that it behoves me as a proud Aussie to share it with the world.
Now prior to the story I should acknowledge the controversy surrounding the terms 'nerd' and 'geek'. I often use these interchangeably but apparently this is a huge faux pas. So to save you this embarrassment I give you this link to explain these different groups (to lazy to do it myself today). And what would a discussion of geeks and nerds be without a Venn diagram to help explain this contentious issue.
On May 1st 2010, in the fair city of churches, Adelaide, Sth Australia, a robbery was thwarted by Spiderman, two Jedi and The Flash. Well geeks in a comic book store, on International Free Comic Day, dressed as Spiderman, Jedi knights and The Flash, foiled the robbery. And what was the evil doer stealing you may ask, why a comic book of course. An X-Men Omnibus no less. Yep the evil geek was captured by the good geeks. Go geeks. Now the evil comic napper nearly got away with it as bystanders at first thought it was a case of LARPing when the spidie suit-clad owner apprehended the theif, but luckily the Jedi with their super mind powers knew better and called '000'. Love it! You can read the full story here.
(I love the fact that in the 2001 census over 70,000 Australians classed their religion as Jedi).
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not paying out geeks. I love me some geeks, especially being a geek myself (I am wearing a Wonder Woman t-shirt as I type). I even married a computer geek (a very hot computer geek, but a computer geek none the less). I am proud to say he doesn't own a pocket protector or Spock ears. And thankfully he didn't propose to me in Klingon, but he is the kind of guy who thinks Jean Luc Picard is cool and whose list of ideal women over the years have included, Dana Scully, Samantha Carter and Seven of Nine.
In fact I do call him Comic Book Guy (from The Simpsons) and have brought him a little figurine of his alter ego. His secret identity was confirmed when Comic Book Guy utter the classic words, "And I would like an hour on the holodeck with Seven of Nine", a Mr Grumpy fantasy of long standing.
Star Trekkin', The Firm, (1987). Luv it and I still know all the words. Made it to No.3 on the charts in Australia. So proud.
I must admit its a tad more difficult today as I am currently battling a very virulent form of pestilence brought home by the Ebola ridden, youngest monkey boy. And when you are already scrapping the bottom of the health barrel it's not pretty site.
I apologise to all the trees that have been felled so I can have something to catch the litres of fluids making an break for it via my tender nostrils. Normally I am recycled paper girl, but not today. My Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer impersonation requires silk touch, aloe vera soaked, triple ply, bleached and pulverised old growth rainforest tissues. Tomorrow I'll get back on my Green soap box, but not today. Besides I figure it's all balanced out by my use of happy eggs, dolphin friendly cleaning products, recycled loo paper and the water saving philosophy of "if it's brown flush it down. If it's yellow let it mellow".
Old Eunice is valiantly battling through the truckloads of mucus that have chosen to reside in my noggin, to try and get me through this, so be prepared to be wowed by my mediocre efforts. Tip for the day: if you close one eye and screw up your face, it takes the edge off the jack hammer pounding away in your head when you are looking at a computer screen. Alternately it could be the litre of cough mixture and Nurofen I had for breakfast, who knows. So just bear with me whilst I chant my perky mantra to try and brainwash myself into pathological optimism:
Going to my happy place
Going to my happy place
Going to my happy place
Okay. My glass is once more half-full, maybe half-full of mucus of varying densities, but half-full none the less.
All right now before I OD on Lemsip and Vicks Vapour Rub fumes, I thought today I'd write a post to celebrate the nerds and geeks of this world. I have been inspired by a recent news story here in Australia and I think that it behoves me as a proud Aussie to share it with the world.
Now prior to the story I should acknowledge the controversy surrounding the terms 'nerd' and 'geek'. I often use these interchangeably but apparently this is a huge faux pas. So to save you this embarrassment I give you this link to explain these different groups (to lazy to do it myself today). And what would a discussion of geeks and nerds be without a Venn diagram to help explain this contentious issue.
Oh Venn diagram, how I love thy overlapping circles of knowledge.
On May 1st 2010, in the fair city of churches, Adelaide, Sth Australia, a robbery was thwarted by Spiderman, two Jedi and The Flash. Well geeks in a comic book store, on International Free Comic Day, dressed as Spiderman, Jedi knights and The Flash, foiled the robbery. And what was the evil doer stealing you may ask, why a comic book of course. An X-Men Omnibus no less. Yep the evil geek was captured by the good geeks. Go geeks. Now the evil comic napper nearly got away with it as bystanders at first thought it was a case of LARPing when the spidie suit-clad owner apprehended the theif, but luckily the Jedi with their super mind powers knew better and called '000'. Love it! You can read the full story here.
(I love the fact that in the 2001 census over 70,000 Australians classed their religion as Jedi).
Now don't get me wrong, I'm not paying out geeks. I love me some geeks, especially being a geek myself (I am wearing a Wonder Woman t-shirt as I type). I even married a computer geek (a very hot computer geek, but a computer geek none the less). I am proud to say he doesn't own a pocket protector or Spock ears. And thankfully he didn't propose to me in Klingon, but he is the kind of guy who thinks Jean Luc Picard is cool and whose list of ideal women over the years have included, Dana Scully, Samantha Carter and Seven of Nine.
In fact I do call him Comic Book Guy (from The Simpsons) and have brought him a little figurine of his alter ego. His secret identity was confirmed when Comic Book Guy utter the classic words, "And I would like an hour on the holodeck with Seven of Nine", a Mr Grumpy fantasy of long standing.
("Lucite hardening... must end life in classic
Lorne Greene pose from Battlestar Galactica
Lorne Greene pose from Battlestar Galactica
... Best... Death... Ever."
Comic Book Guy as, "The Collector". Photo from here)
For those unfamiliar with Comic Book Guy, a tribute can be found at Alt.Nerd.Obsessive.
I'll even admit that I didn't mind the new Battlestar Galactica (and I am very anti-remaking of the classics), though in my own geekdom I will say that Dirk Benedict will always be Starbuck to me (see I have been a geek for years). But I do think the use of "Frack" as a swear word was pure geeky genius.
I'll even admit that I didn't mind the new Battlestar Galactica (and I am very anti-remaking of the classics), though in my own geekdom I will say that Dirk Benedict will always be Starbuck to me (see I have been a geek for years). But I do think the use of "Frack" as a swear word was pure geeky genius.
(Lt. Starbuck (Dirk Benedict).
Photo courtesy of The Geek Bookworm).
Now just as long as they don't try and re-do Buck Rogers In the 25th Centrury. A modern day version of Twiki would be just wrong, or as he would say "Beedeebeedeebeedee...". Oh wow, I think I just out geeked myself.
On that note I shall say good on you middle-aged men of Adelaide who are brave enough to wear your underwear on the outside and carry your lightsabres in public, whilst defending the world against evil. "Live long and prosper", my dweeby brother and sisters, and "may the Force be with you".
Cheers
The geeky and very phlegmy Michelle :)
Friday, 14 May 2010
Fabulous Friday: Happy Birthday Cougar.
Yes it's that time again. The one day of the week I am determined to be queen of optomism, perkiness and the glass half full. This week has been all about me. Me, me, me, me, me, me. It's my birthday (well on Tuesday it was, but "it's my birthday on Tuesday just gone", sounded crap) and I am embracing my aging and character-filled body.
The big 37, or 73, not sure which. Depends on the day really. Having seen Betty White on Saturday Night Live, I have realised that even old chicks can be hip and happening, so I am equally comfortable with 73. Well for today anyway, don't ask me tomorrow as I may be less relaxed about the whole aging thing and be forced to throttle you. I have moved from my mid-thirties to the land of possibilities that is my late-thirties. Yep, Alyssa Milano, Cameron Diaz and me, 37 is hot! (Shut up! It's my birthday and I can be as bedazzelingly delusional I want to be).
I realised the universe was sending me a hint when MaryMac over at Pajamas & Coffee put up a post about Cougar Crushes on my big day. Yep, that's right, I can now be classed as a Cougar. I believe I get some sort of official card in the mail, plus a Team Cougar jacket, and learn the secret butt-grabbing handshake. I'm pretty sure it's like the Stonecutters, but with better shoes, more cocktails and discount botox vouchers.
Now I should clarify that I have no intention of becoming Mrs Robinson per se (especially on the off chance my mother should read this and be totally horrified), for me hitting this milestone means that I am now officially obligated to perve on guys who were born when I was already in school and even some who are of an age (over 18, all legal) that I could have technically given birth to them (now that makes me feel just a teensy bit old). Not only do I get chocolate birthday cake and pressies, but I must drool over hot younger men. I shall force myself if I must, I can't let the cougar sisterhood down. Besides it's my birthdy and I'll perve if I want to.
So for all my lovely readers I think it's only fair that I put up a picture of my cougar crush. We all need a little eye candy in our life. Sweet dreams dear readers, sweet dreams. See even on my birthday I'm thinking of you.
Oprah tells me I now know myself much better now than in my 20s. Apparently I have reached the guru swami level of spiritual equalibrium. I know what I want and how to get it. Things are all peachy from now on. Acording to a recent episode I should soon be jumping out of planes and doing roller derby. Lucky I still have my old roller skates, and I think I remember my Xanadu routine. Just give me a week or 6 to limber up. And lets face it, if Oprah says it, it must be true. I still believe she and her guests are on a steady diet of Prozac and tequila shots but hey whatever gets you through the day. I'm willing to get with the program.
According to medical science I am also now at my sexual peak. Apparently I have it goin' on. Okay, even I can't say that with a straight face. Mr Grumpy, stop laughing, wipe your eyes and pick yourself up off the floor. So my favourite part of Sex and The City was Carrie's closet full of Jimmy Choos, but hey I'm sure I picked up a trick or two sub-consciously. Is it possible that having it 'goin on', refers to flannelette pajamas, a carfully crafted muffin top, sparkly slippers and flossing out the spinach from between my teeth before bed? If so, I am officially a sex-bomb. Watch out honey, bom chiki wah wah, call me when you finally make it up the chandelier.
So coo, coo, ca-choo, Mrs Robinson, and a happy birthday to me.
Cheers
The Trainee Cougar Michelle :)
Simon & Garfunkel, Mrs Robinson 1968
The big 37, or 73, not sure which. Depends on the day really. Having seen Betty White on Saturday Night Live, I have realised that even old chicks can be hip and happening, so I am equally comfortable with 73. Well for today anyway, don't ask me tomorrow as I may be less relaxed about the whole aging thing and be forced to throttle you. I have moved from my mid-thirties to the land of possibilities that is my late-thirties. Yep, Alyssa Milano, Cameron Diaz and me, 37 is hot! (Shut up! It's my birthday and I can be as bedazzelingly delusional I want to be).
I realised the universe was sending me a hint when MaryMac over at Pajamas & Coffee put up a post about Cougar Crushes on my big day. Yep, that's right, I can now be classed as a Cougar. I believe I get some sort of official card in the mail, plus a Team Cougar jacket, and learn the secret butt-grabbing handshake. I'm pretty sure it's like the Stonecutters, but with better shoes, more cocktails and discount botox vouchers.
(All hail the Queen, Anne Bancroft, The Graduate, 1967)
Now I should clarify that I have no intention of becoming Mrs Robinson per se (especially on the off chance my mother should read this and be totally horrified), for me hitting this milestone means that I am now officially obligated to perve on guys who were born when I was already in school and even some who are of an age (over 18, all legal) that I could have technically given birth to them (now that makes me feel just a teensy bit old). Not only do I get chocolate birthday cake and pressies, but I must drool over hot younger men. I shall force myself if I must, I can't let the cougar sisterhood down. Besides it's my birthdy and I'll perve if I want to.
So for all my lovely readers I think it's only fair that I put up a picture of my cougar crush. We all need a little eye candy in our life. Sweet dreams dear readers, sweet dreams. See even on my birthday I'm thinking of you.
(Mmmm....Jensen Ackles.......mmmmmm.......sorry what was I saying?
I think I lost my train of......mmmmmm).
According to medical science I am also now at my sexual peak. Apparently I have it goin' on. Okay, even I can't say that with a straight face. Mr Grumpy, stop laughing, wipe your eyes and pick yourself up off the floor. So my favourite part of Sex and The City was Carrie's closet full of Jimmy Choos, but hey I'm sure I picked up a trick or two sub-consciously. Is it possible that having it 'goin on', refers to flannelette pajamas, a carfully crafted muffin top, sparkly slippers and flossing out the spinach from between my teeth before bed? If so, I am officially a sex-bomb. Watch out honey, bom chiki wah wah, call me when you finally make it up the chandelier.
(Mr Grumpy brought me the best gluten free chocolate cake ever.
It has also been great for breakfast and lunch for the last few days).
Cheers
The Trainee Cougar Michelle :)
Simon & Garfunkel, Mrs Robinson 1968
Friday, 7 May 2010
Fabulous Friday: There's No Place Like Gnome.
Well it's Fabulous Friday once more. Time to break out the bedazzler (or Tequila, your choice), whip out the feather boa, and find that little gold lamé and rhinestone loving part of ourselves, that we normally hide away for fear of shame and ridicule.
Today I will publicly celebrate my love of gnomes.
Kitch, Naff, Dorkapalooza, I can hear your derisive laugh from here, but I don't care. I love me some gnomes. A garden is just a bunch of plants and dirt without a gnome.
So I'd like to introduce Norman, the gnome in residence at Château Rusty, And being Fabulous Friday you know he's got some bedazzling going on.
Of course being my gnome, Norman, is a bit of a spiffy fellow. He chooses to shine. None of this boring red hat and blue pants crap for him, oh no. Norman has a thing for the Silver Surfer, and has gone for the whole body shiny silver look. Norman knows he has it going on!
Now for those of you who feel it is wrong to keep gnomes, rest assured Norman in no way works in our garden. Norman is a gnome of leisure. He relishes his role as gnome eye candy, and is content to sit back and look pretty. He loves the way his silvery curves catch the sun and loves nothing more than to sit back and catch some rays.
Norman also gets to travel. He travels up trees, behind pots, under ferns and to different garden beds. Mostly this occurs with the aid of Mr Grumpy (the husband) or the rug rats, and mostly to mess with my head. Apparently it's hilarious to place Norman in new and exciting areas around the yard and watch me try to find him. This has even extended to the rug rats friends who also get in on the merriment. But at least Norman gets to view the world from new and exciting vistas each day.
If however you are concerned for gnome welfare I have some sites of interest for you.
Free the Gnomes:
The public face of the Gnome Liberation Front, this site provides information relating to how to free a gnome, gnome freedom stories, and gnome freedom organisations around the world. Since 1997 it is believed that over 6,000 gnomes have been freed by the GLF.
Barga Gnome City, European Gnome Sanctuary:
The official gnome sanctuary for Europe, Barga is a place of safety for all gnomes. This site provides information of gnome abuse along with feel good stories of their rehabilitation following emancipation. There are also beautiful pictures of gnomes running free and playing in parks.
Garden Gnome Liberation:
This site details many instances of gnome liberation around the world. For example:
"In September of 2001, camouflaged personnel scaled a 3.5m (10ft) wall, navigated barb wire and an electric fence, and rescued the garden gnome from the house of the South African version of the TV Show, Big Brother. It was then taken to a pub".
It should be noted that unlike Norman's life of luxury, many gnomes continue to suffer abuse and gnomism permiates world wide. Perhaps the most famous instance of gnomism is the continued gnome ban at the famed Chelsea Flower Show in the UK. In 2009 contoversy arose when gnome advocate Mrs Jekka McVicar, breached these rules to place her gnome, Borage, in her design and was threatened with disqualification. Borage was relocated but was proud that his presence had brought light to the important issue of gnome rights.
So lets all stand up against gnomism and gnome abuse and celebrate gnomes in all their glory.
Cheers
Michelle and Norman :)
NB. Living with Bob, is a pro-gnome blog.
(okay so I didn't design this, it can be found here)
Today I will publicly celebrate my love of gnomes.
Kitch, Naff, Dorkapalooza, I can hear your derisive laugh from here, but I don't care. I love me some gnomes. A garden is just a bunch of plants and dirt without a gnome.
So I'd like to introduce Norman, the gnome in residence at Château Rusty, And being Fabulous Friday you know he's got some bedazzling going on.
Of course being my gnome, Norman, is a bit of a spiffy fellow. He chooses to shine. None of this boring red hat and blue pants crap for him, oh no. Norman has a thing for the Silver Surfer, and has gone for the whole body shiny silver look. Norman knows he has it going on!
(Norman is such a camera tart).
(Norman also fits well into our household as he's not quite right, note the large hole in his back. But we are happy to welcome such a 'special' gnome into our home.)
Now for those of you who feel it is wrong to keep gnomes, rest assured Norman in no way works in our garden. Norman is a gnome of leisure. He relishes his role as gnome eye candy, and is content to sit back and look pretty. He loves the way his silvery curves catch the sun and loves nothing more than to sit back and catch some rays.
Norman also gets to travel. He travels up trees, behind pots, under ferns and to different garden beds. Mostly this occurs with the aid of Mr Grumpy (the husband) or the rug rats, and mostly to mess with my head. Apparently it's hilarious to place Norman in new and exciting areas around the yard and watch me try to find him. This has even extended to the rug rats friends who also get in on the merriment. But at least Norman gets to view the world from new and exciting vistas each day.
If however you are concerned for gnome welfare I have some sites of interest for you.
Free the Gnomes:
The public face of the Gnome Liberation Front, this site provides information relating to how to free a gnome, gnome freedom stories, and gnome freedom organisations around the world. Since 1997 it is believed that over 6,000 gnomes have been freed by the GLF.
Barga Gnome City, European Gnome Sanctuary:
The official gnome sanctuary for Europe, Barga is a place of safety for all gnomes. This site provides information of gnome abuse along with feel good stories of their rehabilitation following emancipation. There are also beautiful pictures of gnomes running free and playing in parks.
Garden Gnome Liberation:
This site details many instances of gnome liberation around the world. For example:
"In September of 2001, camouflaged personnel scaled a 3.5m (10ft) wall, navigated barb wire and an electric fence, and rescued the garden gnome from the house of the South African version of the TV Show, Big Brother. It was then taken to a pub".
It should be noted that unlike Norman's life of luxury, many gnomes continue to suffer abuse and gnomism permiates world wide. Perhaps the most famous instance of gnomism is the continued gnome ban at the famed Chelsea Flower Show in the UK. In 2009 contoversy arose when gnome advocate Mrs Jekka McVicar, breached these rules to place her gnome, Borage, in her design and was threatened with disqualification. Borage was relocated but was proud that his presence had brought light to the important issue of gnome rights.
So lets all stand up against gnomism and gnome abuse and celebrate gnomes in all their glory.
Cheers
Michelle and Norman :)
NB. Living with Bob, is a pro-gnome blog.
(okay so I didn't design this, it can be found here)
Friday, 30 April 2010
Fabulous Friday: Boobquake (Shake Your Groove Thing)
Problem: Make a crazy sleep deprived decision. Announce it to the world. Catch a fleeting glimpse of reality and realise you have now committed yourself to posting every Friday. Not only that, but the first one can't be some lame fluffy bunny story, because my readers would wonder if I had been lobotomised (hell I'd wonder). Well in truth they probably already wonder, but have just been polite enough not to say.
Solution: Boobquake. The story that kept me laughing all week. It's the logical choice as it has the Bedazzling built in, particularly if you chose to participate by embracing pasties as part of your official Boobquake uniform.
The power of the mighty boob. We all knew they were powerful, especially when combined with a Wonderbra or a well made corset. But little did we know that the humble boob can actually cause earthquakes. Yep, that's right all those jokes about "did the earth move for you" had absolutely nothing to do with the horizontal ramba, and everything to do with evil Boob power.
Take one Iranian cleric who shall remain nameless (as I can't be bothered looking up his name). Combine with some highly original, mysoginistic comments. Toss it on the airwaves. Add in a bright young thing from Indiana. And you have Boobquake.
Yes we immodest women are the cause of all the earthquakes on earth. Personally, I think there are many men out there with man boobs who should be taking some of the blame.
and let the girls out, all in the name of science.
Now as a science nerd myself, I am wondering if there is some sort of formula to this phenomenon.
As many of you will know I am not adverse to "freeing the twins". So I for one had my super twins decked out all day in the hopes that my two little peas could cause the next apocalypse. Alas it all appears to be a storm in a D cup or in my case AA cup, well if I put in the chicken fillets. The world didn't end. Apparently there were a couple of quakes but none of any significance. Apocalypse averted people we can all go home. Phew.
I love that Boobquake removed the religion and political aspects and focused on the simple absurdity of the original comment. Lets face it, Iran hardly has the monopoly on these type of comments. You could pretty much insert any fundamentalist religion in any country, into that story and find some mensa like anti-female (or gay, or race, or.....) statement.
An added level of hilarity was brought to the table by some groups of feminists who were up in arms at Boobquake, and formed Brainquake in response. I'm all for the power of the sisterhood, but really? Get a life ladies, being a feminist does not mean you have your sense of humour surgically removed.
There were also commentators who were angry that the Boobquake did not meet scientific standards. People the hypothesis was that boobs = earthquakes. Boobs? Earthquakes? Boobs! Earthquakes! This is not supposed to be Nobel level science, this is Homer Simpson level science.
I really love that there are official "I survived Boobquake 2010" t-shirts with 100% of profits going to charities like the Red Cross. Science, humour and charity work, what more could you ask for on a Fabulous Friday.
So thank you Boobquake, for making my first Fabulous Friday so sparkly. Humour truly is the solution to all life's problems.
I shall now pack away my miniature mammaries of mass destruction, and bid you all adieu.
Till next week.
Michelle :)
Side note: I realised as I was writing that my boobs tend to insert themselves into a lot of my posts. This is rather perplexing on a number of levels. In reality they have absolutely nothing to do withB.. He Who Shall Not Be Named, on Fabulous Friday. They'd also be lucky to be called poffertjes (pancakes would be dreaming), and even a Wonderbra would simply shake its head and walk away, after a glance in their direction. Small in size but big in attitude, watch out tectonic plates.
Solution: Boobquake. The story that kept me laughing all week. It's the logical choice as it has the Bedazzling built in, particularly if you chose to participate by embracing pasties as part of your official Boobquake uniform.
(Who knew you could buy hand crafted pastie tassels on Etsy, at Fondapetting Designs. For those with Bob, check out the purple furry heart ones. Now you can match your pasties to your feet.
I am learning so much doing this post.)
The power of the mighty boob. We all knew they were powerful, especially when combined with a Wonderbra or a well made corset. But little did we know that the humble boob can actually cause earthquakes. Yep, that's right all those jokes about "did the earth move for you" had absolutely nothing to do with the horizontal ramba, and everything to do with evil Boob power.
Take one Iranian cleric who shall remain nameless (as I can't be bothered looking up his name). Combine with some highly original, mysoginistic comments. Toss it on the airwaves. Add in a bright young thing from Indiana. And you have Boobquake.
Yes we immodest women are the cause of all the earthquakes on earth. Personally, I think there are many men out there with man boobs who should be taking some of the blame.
(Is Wonder Woman really a force for evil?)
In the name of science this theory was tested. On the 26th of April 2010, women world wide heard the official call to arms
and let the girls out, all in the name of science.
Now as a science nerd myself, I am wondering if there is some sort of formula to this phenomenon.
- Is it purely number of boobs, or is it size of boob?
- Are 2 inches of cleavage worse than 1?
- Is it a question of symmetry or directionality?
- Do plastic fantastics outweigh the au natural?
- What about if I choose to wear pasties?
- Are stars less points than tassels?
- Would the use of tassels cancel out the microscopic nature of my super twins?
As many of you will know I am not adverse to "freeing the twins". So I for one had my super twins decked out all day in the hopes that my two little peas could cause the next apocalypse. Alas it all appears to be a storm in a D cup or in my case AA cup, well if I put in the chicken fillets. The world didn't end. Apparently there were a couple of quakes but none of any significance. Apocalypse averted people we can all go home. Phew.
I love that Boobquake removed the religion and political aspects and focused on the simple absurdity of the original comment. Lets face it, Iran hardly has the monopoly on these type of comments. You could pretty much insert any fundamentalist religion in any country, into that story and find some mensa like anti-female (or gay, or race, or.....) statement.
An added level of hilarity was brought to the table by some groups of feminists who were up in arms at Boobquake, and formed Brainquake in response. I'm all for the power of the sisterhood, but really? Get a life ladies, being a feminist does not mean you have your sense of humour surgically removed.
There were also commentators who were angry that the Boobquake did not meet scientific standards. People the hypothesis was that boobs = earthquakes. Boobs? Earthquakes? Boobs! Earthquakes! This is not supposed to be Nobel level science, this is Homer Simpson level science.
I really love that there are official "I survived Boobquake 2010" t-shirts with 100% of profits going to charities like the Red Cross. Science, humour and charity work, what more could you ask for on a Fabulous Friday.
So thank you Boobquake, for making my first Fabulous Friday so sparkly. Humour truly is the solution to all life's problems.
I shall now pack away my miniature mammaries of mass destruction, and bid you all adieu.
Till next week.
Michelle :)
Side note: I realised as I was writing that my boobs tend to insert themselves into a lot of my posts. This is rather perplexing on a number of levels. In reality they have absolutely nothing to do with
Sunday, 25 April 2010
Fabulous Fridays: Bedazzling My World One Day At A Time.
Being chronically ill can kinda rain on your parade. I'm talking the monsoonal, flooding, keep an eye out for The Ark, kind of rain. So I've made a decision. Probably not a good decision as it was made about 3am this morning when I was contemplating the myriad of ways I could BBQ my dogs, who kept crying at my bedroom door because one of them was on the other's bed and they wanted me to get them off. So if this goes horribly wrong (think the decision to make Speed II or the Star Wars prequels) I am blaming my dog induced sleep deprived psychosis.
So what's the plan you ask? Well I'm going to pop my umbrella, put on my gumboots, and demand a colourful fabulous, Sydney Mardi Gra, kinda parade, for one day every week. I want sequins and feather boas. I want drag queens with better cheek bones and tighter buns than I could ever dream of, and perilously high, stilettos. I want sparklers and fireworks, disco balls, strobe lights and infectious electro-samba beats. I am over viewing the world through a big pair of nard coloured glasses, well for 1 day out of every 7 anyway.
So I am starting a new section on my blog, Fabulous Fridays. Fabulous Fridays will be a Bob-free zone. No woe is me, no glass half empty, no sitting sobbing in the corner, drowning my sorrows in a block, or 6, of Green & Blacks. I am going to give myself a big can of Harden Up Princess, and staple some rose coloured glasses to my pasty face.
Fabulous Fridays will be dedicated to the good things in life. I am going to delve into the old dusty box of craft supplies under the stairs, and Bedazzle the crap out of my life for one day a week. There may be moments of fluff, there may be moments of mindless insanity, and there may be moments of touchy feely, for which I apologise in advance. I have no real idea what will end up on the list but damn it I'm going to be annoying perky girl one day a week, even if it kills me, and it just might. I'm pretty sure I'm allergic to perky, (even my boobs have formed an anti-perky movement), so I'll have my trusty Epipen sitting right next to the keyboard in case my head decides to impersonate the Good Year blimp at the first sign of a positive attitude.
My new Friday motto is "Don't be dull. Be Bedazzling".
So put on your sequins, grab your rhinestones, and tune in next Friday. Prepare to be Bedazzled, and probably bewildered, befuddled, and be-what-thed?.
Cheers
The Bedazzling Michelle :)
So what's the plan you ask? Well I'm going to pop my umbrella, put on my gumboots, and demand a colourful fabulous, Sydney Mardi Gra, kinda parade, for one day every week. I want sequins and feather boas. I want drag queens with better cheek bones and tighter buns than I could ever dream of, and perilously high, stilettos. I want sparklers and fireworks, disco balls, strobe lights and infectious electro-samba beats. I am over viewing the world through a big pair of nard coloured glasses, well for 1 day out of every 7 anyway.
So I am starting a new section on my blog, Fabulous Fridays. Fabulous Fridays will be a Bob-free zone. No woe is me, no glass half empty, no sitting sobbing in the corner, drowning my sorrows in a block, or 6, of Green & Blacks. I am going to give myself a big can of Harden Up Princess, and staple some rose coloured glasses to my pasty face.
Fabulous Fridays will be dedicated to the good things in life. I am going to delve into the old dusty box of craft supplies under the stairs, and Bedazzle the crap out of my life for one day a week. There may be moments of fluff, there may be moments of mindless insanity, and there may be moments of touchy feely, for which I apologise in advance. I have no real idea what will end up on the list but damn it I'm going to be annoying perky girl one day a week, even if it kills me, and it just might. I'm pretty sure I'm allergic to perky, (even my boobs have formed an anti-perky movement), so I'll have my trusty Epipen sitting right next to the keyboard in case my head decides to impersonate the Good Year blimp at the first sign of a positive attitude.
My new Friday motto is "Don't be dull. Be Bedazzling".
So put on your sequins, grab your rhinestones, and tune in next Friday. Prepare to be Bedazzled, and probably bewildered, befuddled, and be-what-thed?.
Cheers
The Bedazzling Michelle :)
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