The womanly woman

There's a new trend. Big, curvy women are back. Or so I've heard. Apparently, in times of recession, curves are comforting. When people are having trouble feeding their kids, Kate Moss-like bodies stop being something to strive for. Quick, quit weight watchers!

You thought the old-fashioned pin up girls had curves? Check out the toil girls gallery. It's a voyeuristic kick. Les Toil makes modern day pin ups of fat women, "real" fat women, who send him their photos to draw from. On the site, you can see the photo the subject has sent him, as well as the final art.


Meet Cheryl, April & Deirdra.





For photos of them with their clothes on, have a looksy over at toilgirls.com

Last fashion post I promise (for now)

Alexander McQueen's knuckle-duster clutch. I'd give two-black eyes for one of these. They're also available in a snakeskinny red. I don't even want to know the price.

Perfume-clad

Mary Katrantzou's latest range- perfume bottle dresses!

Bangle, bangle, ring.

Designer Anthony Roussel makes jewellery from birchwood. Pretty cool. I discovered his stuff through neatorama, one of my favourite time-killing websites. Unlike me, they update frequently, so they're always worth a visit.

Thanks for sticking around guys. I'll try to update more often.

Boring little post

No mortgage.
No kids.

It could be worse. But I'm sick to my stomach with debt. In one way, or another, I owe everyone I know.

Re-rechecking under couch cushions for enough coins to buy bread. Putting gas in the car in $3 increments. This isn't an interesting tale I'm sorry.

At least we have a welfare system. So I'm allowed to queue. Stand in a crooked lie of tarted up young mothers, old hunched men, the aggressive, the mad, and more and more like me, suited up.

Because the government gives me money, any money I make goes back to them. I had a 40hr week of work, no breaks, an admin job. Paid 18 bucks an hour, after tax, and giving welfare their share, I get $2 an hour. $2, when to buy a loaf of bread and carton of milk costs more than $10. One orange costs $1.50.

Everyone (anyone) who has a job is afraid. Working for less, longer hours, and you're supposed to feel lucky. No sauntering in late with a crumpled shirt. It's redundancy fever.

The situations vacant section of the overpriced newspaper has shrunk to a slim column. Most of these are "Ladies Wanted" ads, shiny euphemisms pressing through. No jobs in my area, nothing even close. Even cleaners need diplomas now.

The shop downstairs used to give me the pastries at the end of the day. Then they started charging $3. Then $5. Now they sell them stale the following day.

My computer has been stacked in the back of a pawn shop, with my boyfriend's cell and mp3 player. That's one of my excuses for not writing. If the pawn shop would have taken it, they'd have our TV too. I hate being a statistic. A boring, depressing, whiny statistic.

It's been so bloody long since I've bought a pretty dress.