Things to tell the younger Amoir

There’s a whole lotta introspection going on in the blogosphere of late. Maggie Mason of Mighty Girl fame has been counting 100 things she’s glad to have done and 100 things she wants to do before she kicks off the earthly espadrille and Lifehacker has asked what advice would you give your younger self.

As a lady who enjoys periodically dipping a nicotine-stained finger into the zeitgeist, I’ve felt compelled to steal some sugar from their bowl.

Top 5 memories I want flashing through the mental trinitron when I expire:
* Watching Interpol perform live and celebrating my freedom
* Riding with the Seagull on the bike through Byron Bay. Wearing high heeled boots and being heckled by friends driving by.
* Running through the Torii at Fusimi Inari Teisha, giggling with enchanted glee
* Seeing my name in print
* Squealing with mania under a storm with the Lad and Mrs Lad who shall not be named dancing and shrieking under the night sky. Oh, and half naked.

Advice Older Amoir would give to the Younger Amoir:
* Please don’t wait until the age of 31 to find a decent set of hair straighteners.
* There are things in life to fear. Things to fear and then persue and embrace. Confined or widespread zombie attack is not one of them.
* Life is too short to waste it watching a David Arquette film.
* Shut up and get on with it
* Calm down: it’s way stranger and funnier than you could ever imagine.

To come: Top 5 things I want to do before hectoring St Peter for a smoke. Currently at #1, placing the Intoxicating Dubliner in a painful figure four lock before extracting from him all the admissions and agreements I choose. And lifetime tea making services.

Mighty Girl Mondays Pt 6

Every Monday, I’ll be selecting a topic from Maggie Mason’s book “No one cares what you had for lunch”. As the whimsically witty and multitasking creator of Mighty Girl and Mighty Goods, it should surprise no one that she’s also a contributor to ReadyMade Magazine’s Blog and The Morning News.

Today’s blessings

• I really was amused about fainting
• By fainting against the wall I was able to avoid doing an upturned turtle routine on the floor due to my somewhat ridiculous backpack. This is also known as the Venkman.
• Fainting provides a wonderful excuse to binge up on sugary treats…all in the name of medicine.
• It also leaves you feeling amiably confused as fuck
• A friend returned from Japan with a packet of Peace cigarettes for me
• I did a happy dance realising I’ll be there in a short time
• A friend gave me a lift home
• So I walked through the amazing Fitzroy Gardens
• Then lolled in the bath and gave the empty apartment a vigorous rendition of Tailights Fade by Buffalo Tom.

Mighty Girl Mondays Pt 5

Every Monday, I’ll be selecting a topic from Maggie Mason’s book “No one cares what you had for lunch”. As the whimsically witty and multitasking creator of Mighty Girl and Mighty Goods, it should surprise no one that she’s also a contributor to ReadyMade Magazine’s Blog and The Morning News.

I’m just going to come out and admit it. I have all the sartorial style of, as my mother once memorably said to me, “a downs syndrome girl that’s been allowed to dress herself”. No, that’s a direct quote, people. I didn’t make that up. And, given she was in a jovial mood that day in 1991, she wasn’t really aiming for critical.

The boho look is lost on me. I can’t do frill, though flirt with vintage. Female tramp does not work on this figure (cue bitter Kreboppel–esque laughter) and I rarely wear dresses because, despite what the Goddess may occasionally dream of me, I only wear black leather boots. Kinda big ones. Those ballet flat slippers? Give them to someone who likes kittens. Or dieting. Or exhibiting their calves in any way or form. Generally a bad form, at that. Plus, I generally only wear black because it removes the colour coordination conundrum.

So, despite the fact this all makes me sound like Rollins, I generally think I present well. Ok. Alright, pretty shabby but hopefully in an endearing way. So, I hem my trousers solely with scissors. And get obsessed with jackets. But the Purdy Jane says I dress like an NYC hipster and I will cling to that belief irrespective of evidence or logic. I’m blind to it like Largerfeld is to double digit dress sizes. NYC hipster, people. Commit. It. To. Memory.

I’m enamoured of items with beautiful lines or quirky motifs. I follow fashion press and constantly look at what people wear. Just as there are times when I flirt with colour and design, there are times when it all falls apart with hindenbergesque results.

Like the time I went to this literally underground boutique and spent a great deal of time delighting in the amazing designs. Dresses of near archetypal perfection, accessories befitting Karen o (that warrior deity), tops that made you weep with envy. I tried on several pieces with the help of the adorably kitted out assistant who cooed and gave advice.

Towards the end of the fitting frenzy, I found myself trussed and bound within an exotically sumptuous and edgy piece that defied description. It wrapped around curves and tied off at cute angles. I coveted something I never knew existed. This piece was to define me as a cutting edge maven o’ style! The sales assistant spun me around and declared the piece never looked as good on anyone as it did on my frame. We squeaked with a unified glee during the transaction and I walked out dizzily smug.

That is, until I tried to put it on for a party a week later.

Let me break it down for you people: I paid over $100 for an apron. Under the guise of avant garde fashion.

Amoir: not only an idiot but also receptive to idiotic advice.

(p.s. yes this is two days late. No, it’s not called Mighty Girl Wednesdays, fuck off, etc.)

Mighty Girl Mondays Pt 4

Every Monday, I’ll be selecting a topic from Maggie Mason’s book “No one cares what you had for lunch”. As the whimsically witty creator of Mighty Girl and Mighty Goods, it should surprise no one that she’s also a contributor to ReadyMade Magazine’s Blog and The Morning News.

What child demands “MEDseen” and rifles through the fridge looking for Children’s Panadol like a late Judy Garland in search of a chat show?

My daughter, that’s who.

No, it’s not on offer with any regularity.

I’m quietly preparing for the day I get a phone call from childcare that she’s been found fleecing the other toddlers of their pasta-art by playing Three-Flashcard Monte.

Mighty Girl Mondays Pt3

Every Monday, I’ll be selecting a topic from Maggie Mason’s book “No one cares what you had for lunch”. As the whimsically witty creator of Mighty Girl and Mighty Goods, it should surprise no one that she’s also a contributor to ReadyMade Magazine’s Blog and The Morning News.

Matthew Baldwin is also tackling this over at Defective Yeti but doing it in a far more creative way (though it plays on my love of lists, it plays against my love of sloth and torpor. Plus, I don’t have his traffic.)

There are people in this world who are easy to buy gifts for. No matter what you buy, stick a ribbon on and thrust in front of them they will weep and squeal with delight. Or perhaps they have a soft spot for something in particular that is always easy to locate.

Surely it surprises no one that I fall into neither category.

Picky bitch.

However, there have been highlights to cross the threshold of my neurotically high standards.

Age 4. Present: microphone
As a anklebiter, I was a determined chanteuse. Naturally the best way to express this was to sing into anything vaguely resembling a microphone (hairbrushes, various sticks, the winder on the clothes line) and dream of the day I could change my name to Paula so I could be closer to Paul Stanley. Well, that or Ace. My father, a former musician, noted the obsession and decided the perfect gift for a 4 year old was a studio-quality microphone. No, really. I discovered that if I plugged the mike into the stereo and sang along to cassettes it would record my voice over the music. I still have it. The Seagull and I fight over who gets to sing with it. We also fight over who gets to play with the Octopus while in the bath. But that’s a story for another day…

Age 14. Present: the works of Kurt Vonnegut
I so need to share my “Girl, Interrupted” period sometime. It was after Catholic Girls School and before hippy school. It was while at hospital (where I was marooned and recuperating after a comatastic suicide attempt) that the legendary Cave Thing decided that what a young girl, who was exhibiting her depression via a bizarre display of follicle neglect and wholesale chomping of pills, the collected works of Kurt Vonnegut. Thus began my love of literature. And baiting psychiatrists.

Age 23. Present: a Mugwump.
Perhaps you’re not aware of the Mugwump. Here’s an excerpt from William S. Burroughs masterpiece Naked Lunch:
Mugwumps have no liver and nourish themselves exclusively on sweets. Thin, purple-blue lips cover a razor sharp beak of black bone with which they frequently tear each other to shreds in fights over clients. These creatures secrete an addictive fluid through their erect penises which prolongs life by slowing metabolism. (In fact all longevity agents have proved addicting in exact ratio to their effectiveness in prolonging life.)

I call him “Merv”, though the Seagull calls him “Daddy”.

The lovely friend who does not get named had this made for me while, not knowing his Christmas gift plans, I sourced a typewriter like the one used to type the Naked Lunch. It was just like Gift of the Magi, but with semen and drugs. And a truckload of crazy.

Mighty Girl Mondays Pt2

Every Monday, I’ll be selecting a topic from Maggie Mason’s book “No one cares what you had for lunch”. As the whimsically witty creator of Mighty Girl and Mighty Goods, it should surprise no one that she’s also a contributor to ReadyMade Magazine’s Blog and The Morning News.

Matthew Baldwin is also tackling this over at Defective Yeti but doing it in a far more creative way (though it plays on my love of lists, it plays against my love of sloth and torpor. Plus, I don’t have his traffic.)

You know, I’m fairly consistent at admitting my many failings (they’re even in list form). But here’s one I’ve never admitted: while growing up I was a world champion liar. If, you know, liars were awarded for their efforts at blurting absolutely crappily unbelievable shite. ‘Cause if that were the criteria, I’d be up on the dais. Fo’ sho.

This one time, I was sitting with my best friend Petula. Petula’s family were Chinese and going to her house was fantastic, mainly because there were beds everywhere, fantastic toys and, inexplicably, her Grandmother routinely decapitating chickens in the back yard. They had a restaurant in Chinatown but I could never work out if the chickens were for the restaurant or just for home but the Nana swung some major cleaver action. Bkerk, indeed.

Anyway, so Petula and I were sitting and chatting about things that 8 year olds do. This is rank, that’s ace, Alison’s a dog and Shea is dreamy. Naturally, this is the PERFECT time to let slip my stunning revelation, a relevation so earth-shattering it was in no way based on my devouring copious amounts of Japanese animation as a kid.

That revelation? I was…a robot. Naturally, it was against the lab’s rules for me to show my inner workings or talk about my assignments. But I had to let Petula know that Animatronic Amoir was state of the freakin‘ line, baby.

I’m guessing I was more Atom/Astroboy-style robot than Bishop from Alien (though seriously, what 8 year old wouldn’t want to be that handy with a knife?). This is strange given I’ve always thought the ability to fly was totally overrated.

Robots were sexy to me as a child – my first memory of watching a film was “Barbarella”. I loved every second of the film but the most indescribably sexy part for me was the chomping quasi-robotic dolls that nipped at Barbarella’s hosiery. I should be thankful that Bjork’s film clip for “All is full of love” didn’t come out when I was a child.

Mighty Girl Mondays

Every Monday, I’ll be selecting a topic from Maggie Mason’s book “No one cares what you had for lunch”. As the whimsically witty creator of Mighty Girl and Mighty Goods, it should surprise no one that she’s also a contributor to ReadyMade Magazine’s Blog and The Morning News.

Matthew Baldwin is also tackling this over at Defective Yeti but doing it in a far more creative way (though it plays on my love of lists, it plays against my love of sloth and torpor. Plus, I don’t have his traffic.)

Truly, the world would rotate more pleasingly if people would just stop driving cars. And when I rule the world as the only Supreme Being to require a pack of smokes and hair-straightening irons as alms, it will be so.

Sure, there are many benefits to this. Like, the environment….and stuff. Plus, with the exception of Rover P6s, Karman Ghias and the Citroen SM, most cars are incredibly ugly. But I cannot be a deceptive supreme being and must admit the truth. I can’t drive a car and am too scared of cars to ride the superlatively fabulous Smoke in daily traffic. Plus, I’m just a little bit uncoordinated. But you will overlook that considering I am your Supreme Being, k?

Naturally, the only solution to this is for people to stop driving cars altogether.

I may also issue a decree about that whole leggings under skirts thing but I am a busy Supreme Being with many medical dramas to watch .