why can't i be you.

Words cannot describe the chronic three-day headache that goes hand in hand with an ambitious three-day juice cleanse. It hit me like an atom bomb, somewhere between the first hour and the second “green juice” which I’m revolted to admit consisted of silverbeet, cucumber, parsley, spinach and celery. Being one of my first metaphysical experiences, I watched in horror as the sheer throbbing of my skull caused my mood to shatter, spilling emotional debris all over my living room. As the saying goes: all juice, no carbs, makes us all frenzied lunatics.

Although “detox” seems to be the term du jour, people in my circles tend rather to turn up their noses once the conversation shifts in this direction and proceed to light another cigarette, wine at the ready. If for nothing more than an agonizing experiment, I have convinced myself that this hellish ordeal has restored my moral fibre by means of liquefaction. It was either that, or finding an alternative way to justify a third of my weekly wage on a juice-induced migraine.

Speaking of virtuosity, it’s no secret that my love and reverence for the divine STELLA McCARTNEY will almost certainly persist until I’m six feet under, provided I never embark on another liquid cleanse. The remarkable mother of four launched her first collection in 2001, after a brief stint at Chloe, having graduating from Central St. Martins several years earlier. It never ceases to amaze me that after all this time she has still maintained her ethical perspective and a sense of relaxed femininity that is so quintessentially hers.

So naturally, upon admiring her SPRING 2011 collection, I was thrilled to stumble across several minimalistic 1960’s cut pieces with eccentric fruit prints just in time for my internal baptism to come to a very welcome end. If only I could have brought myself to put these through a juice extractor, the whole experience would have been much more enticing. 

(thanks style.com for the delicious images)

yesterday threw everything at me.

To my surprise, I was in unusually high spirits yesterday when I heard that Miranda Kerr had given birth to a baby boy in Los Angeles. Having never considered myself particularly maternal, I felt befuddled at my sudden fascination with what would otherwise be regarded as a very intimate occasion for Kerr and her husband Bloom, alone. However, in a euphoric state of intrigue, patriotism and sisterly pride, I found myself detaining every person I came into contact with, prying them for skerricks of information about “how she was doing?”. To put it simply: my hormones were raging.

Disregarding the fact that I have never physically seen Kerr, let alone made her acquaintance, I took it upon myself to flick through the January 2011 edition of VOGUE AUSTRALIA of which she features on the cover, and reminisce. Page 146 of the issue demonstrates a nude photograph of the wholesome, elongated and glowing Kerr by Carlotta Moye that puts any single, childless woman to colossal shame. Like it’s not discomforting enough to have countless Amazonian exports in the likes of Catherine McNeil, Gemma Ward and Abbey Lee Kershaw giving the rest of the world an incredible bench mark for what regular Australian girls look like, I now have to accept that I couldn’t even compete with Kerr at six-and-a-half months pregnant. That picture was like taking a bullet from the vanity gun.

Speaking of cultivating an unrealistic self-image, I read an article about Kerr’s organic skincare line KORA couple of months ago. In it she spoke of her healthful diet consisting mainly of lean proteins and an abundance of pure fruits and vegetables. She, like every six-foot, divine, Lagerfeld-muse-worthy model, was adamant that she refused to poison her temple with sugar, processed anything and refined nasties. She also mentioned something called a “Goji” berry that instantaneously had my best friend and I buckling up on route to our nearest health food store.

Pregnant or not, I’d deem every piece of diet advice that escaped the ample lips of Kerr as if it came from the Virgin Mary herself. I maintain this about myself, based on nutritional studies suggesting that Goji berries have in fact been bequeathed by the hand of God directly into my mouth. These desiccated, little, red pellets are laden with antioxidants, vitamins A, C and E, are a rich source of Carotenoids, Calcium and Thiamin, contain over 18 Amino Acids and house 21 trace minerals. Talk about miracle! It’s no wonder Kerr has been a longstanding devotee to this heavenly Tibetan super-food.

So now that we share a common bond (that doesn’t relate at all to the overtly brash young gentleman at Bondi Beach who asked me if I was pregnant and upon my answering “no”, responded with, “would you like to be?”) I feel I deserve the right to extend my congratulations to Kerr, Bloom and their new little Goji berry. I wish them many restful nights all the happiness the world has to offer.

(sources: www.gojijuices.net, Vogue Australia – January 2011 edition)

why the face.

Have you ever had one of those peculiar mornings where you actually wake up before being audibly bludgeoned by your alarm clock? Then, as you spring out of bed innately aware that the world is alive with possibility, your iPod take its cue and Phoenix puts a quintessential pep in your step. You go into the kitchen with an unusual confidence supported by the fact that there’s enough milk for your cereal, and it’s in date, and it’s skim. You feel amazing, indestructible, and raring to go. You glance suspiciously at the clock only to find you are in fact making record time and decide that a chapter or two of that fabulous new Mills and Boon you’re reading wouldn’t go astray.

And then the fates turn. Somewhere between his rippled abdomen and her emotional baggage, you’re late. You brazenly scrape up the contents of your Marc Jacobs tote, shaking it violently to verify your keys are actually lurking somewhere inside. Without time to double-check yourself in the mirror, you have a plaguing wariness that you still have hot rollers on the crown of your head and your unblended make-up is reminiscent of a scene from google maps: urban edition. Can’t deal, no time.

An inch of hope is restored as the surly waiter at your morning café hands you a double shot latte and curiously smiles. At this point you know the rollers are definitely still in your hair. Rushing down the footpath you start ruminating; if only you had have slept in until the “snooze” button defeated you. You keep berating yourself with the fact that maybe if you hadn’t been so cheerful and ambitious, you might not be on the brink of a mid-morning melt down.

You cross the road haphazardly and only just avoid being flattened by a semi-trailer. With your coffee still in hand and the wind offset by the near collision blowing your hair about the hot rollers, you make a left. At that moment, an elderly man with a cowhide complexion, discoloured dentures and beige chinos that had obviously seen better days, turns to you and says, “YOU $#%@ing little *%&#$! Why are you always in such a hurry! Can’t even sit at a table for five minutes and drink your $#%$ing coffee!”

There’s no turning back after this. All you can do is anticipate that your day will only go up hill, and regret that because you didn’t order those ALEXANDER WANG for LINDA FARROW cat-eye sunglasses from Opening Ceremony when you had the chance, you now have nothing to shrink behind.

(thanks thegloss.com for the pics... they'll have to do until the real things arrive x)

rain on me.

Despite promising myself I’d avoid all things cliché at any cost this year, I must begin by offering a particular mention of the festive season. If, like me, you too have enjoyed that extra glass of vino, crunched on copious amounts of crackling and had your cake and eaten it too (many times over), don’t despair. Unlike the unbearable heatwaves of years preceding that saw us flocking to the beach in swimwear possible of making even the Kardashians blush, this year the divine has smiled kindly upon us, and her name is El Nina.

This is why I am currently sitting in doors as it pours relentlessly outside, wearing camel Shakuhachi combat pants and a long sleaved striped knit, mulling over an extra layer. If I didn’t enjoy the respite from sun burn, a woesome addiction to frizz-ease and impossibly toned pre-teens roaming the streets in designer denim hot pants, I’d consider listening to Travis’ “Why Does It Always Rain On Me?” with vodka in hand, grieving over the summer that could have been.

Instead, I’ve found solace in ACNE’s Spring 2011 RTW collection. A Swedish sartorial dream, I can’t decide what’s more enticing; the effortlessly muted colour palette interspersed with shots of crimson and navy, or the juxtaposition of understated, hyperbolic silhouettes. As if already not enough to make my heart skip a beat, the organic cool exuding from textural layering make these pieces the perfect trans-seasonal accent to the weather of late. In fact, if you ask me, they are just as coveted in isolation of one another as they are united in their modish, stylised runway looks, cementing this collection as a desirable mix of practicality and luxury.

So, now that my first resolution has failed miserably via public forum, I will give credit where it’s due and congratulate myself for creating this blog as it has been the only resolution that I have managed to follow through with. Did I mention it’s only day three? Oh well, cigarettes, excessive spending and sticking to a personal training regime can be dealt with next year.

(thanks style.com for the images... and endless hours of entertainment x)