Yes, the moment that I have been waiting for for almost half a year, ever since I saw the pilot, has arrived! Yesterday, in the adverts during Cucumber (a channel four program which is actually proper good and gets seriously interesting on episode six) I saw the first little trailer for Raised by Wolves.
Written by Caitlin Moran, who wrote the book How to Build a girl and regularly writes for the Times newspaper, and her sister, it’s based on their eighties childhood but taken into the modern-day setting.
The pilot was AMAZING, it’s on 4od right now and it’s something that I recommend everyone should at least try because it was so cute and funny and real and gah!
Basically, I’m really looking forward to it. Hopefully the rest of the series is as good as the pilot was.
And yes I’m just sort of writing this so that if it becomes really popular I can cite this as my hipster “I liked this before it was cool” evidence. Unashamed 😉
Also, might rename the blog… Will see. Not that anyone cares
I think for me, little and as poorly as I do it, the appeal of writing is that you’re creating something. No matter how awful or boring or drivelly that it is, you’ve created it all on your own and it’s yours. It’s yours to publish, to praise, to be proud of or to squirrel away and only find, years later, and cringe at. It’s yours to plaster all over the internet or keep it to yourself and quietly improve it as you go along. It’s something you can share or keep secret, do alone or collaborate and talk about.
Most of all, for me at least, it’s about writing something down, putting a voice to a thought, that someone, somewhere might share. Many have encountered that breath-stealing, fingertip-tingling, face-breaking-with-bitten-back-grin feeling when you read your own thoughts that someone, soomeone you have never met and never known, perhaps thousands of miles or centuries away from you, has laid down. It’s a magical feeling. And thinking that maybe, just maybe, you’re creating that connection with someone else, forming a bond, building a bridge of shared sentiment over the oceans and mountains and under the boundaries of time…
That’s what’s so great about writing.
Anyway… that’s just what… um… I think about my, um,
No, no I’m actually not referencing Hetalia, this time. And no I’m not trying to say Pasta in an american or Irish or Any other kind of accent. I’m not even falling off a cliff whilst eating well known Italian Specialties that have been adopted all around the world (seriously, saw a place that called itself “Chinese-Style Mediterranean Pizzeria”. Was seriously confused.
No! I’m tres excitamunded because today I *asks for drumroll*
*is met with eye-rolls and indifference*
*Does her own damn drumroll*
And I don’t mean I cooked pasta. I made it! Out of, like, dough! Because, you see, we bought Dad a pasta-maker for Christmas and we finally tried it out today. All it is is this little metal contraption that you trun the handle of and it squishes and rolls it out between two spinny-cyllinders and… wow. Best description EVER. *saracstic head shake*
We even improvised a pasta rack out of two undbended metal coat hangers stretched out over two chairs
And it was so fun…
And tasted so good…
And was probably, like, ten times the amount of calories of normal pasta which is vraiment calorifique anyway…
But it tasted so good!
Garrrg… I’m going to go get into my nice loose pyjammas
From elastic-waist trousered pasta bliss, F x
P.S – what on earth do all of those random letters when you click on google images mean? It’s like, google is just http://www.google.co.uk but images has like W=weujIOHYGYBIEHUHIOMHBHBUHUSHU athuser idijGAAHH + AGhsij3doj at the end of it.
I’ve started listening to this band called the Neutral Milk Hotel and I really like them. A few of the comments talk about them being a hipster band but I don’t know enough about them to comment. I like the music and I reckon that that should be enough, right? It shouldn’t matter whether they’re mainstream or sidestream or hipster or whatever. But it kind of does… I hope they’re not too hipster
I’ve posted quite recently and I know that, probably luckily, nobody reads this, but I’ve been in my head a little bit too much this week, dithering in the darker corners of my conscious and not really liking what I’ve found there.
I don’t know what exactly it is but recently… I’m realising more and more that I’ve dug myself into this deep dark hole and I’ve been digging for so damn long, hoping that I’ll end up at the other sides, and now there is no way that I could claw my way back up the walls to scramble out. I’m stuck. I’ve dug my shallow grave and now I’m sure to be buried alive.
That probably makes no sense unless you are inside my head. I was trying to be all poetic but it just came across as emo and overly-depressed. I really do realise that it’s not that bad and it’s not that I’m depressed about it but more… sad and reluctantly resigned.
You see, like a flaw in an argument of critical thinking, I’ve restricted the options. But this time instead of options to do with library funding or historical buildings, I’ve restricted the options, the confines of my personality.
I’ve built this wall around myself and all whilst I built this wall, others were building bridges and I commended myself for being different and putting up security where others built a weakness and now… I’m cut off. Bricked in. Stuck, locked and trapped between these walls of prickly comments and rolled eyes.
I’ve always been one of those people who “doesn’t do hugs” and for the longest time I’ve been shrinking away from open arms and clasping hands . I find them uncomfortable, I didn’t get good at hugging at the same time as everyone else did. And I was Okay with this. In fact, I was a little bit proud of this; I thought it made me quirky and made the hugs I did give meaning something more.
But now, I don’t know, but I feel like, even if I don’t want to be a person everyone is allowed to hug, I kind of want someone to at least try? I want someone to be a good enough friend to see boundaries but to be the best kind of friend who crosses right over them anyway? I suppose I just sort of feel like I might have missed out on something because hugging and contact… it seems to bring people closer together, establish a connection.
I’ve sewed myself up in a costume of a non-social girl who doesn’t want to be invited to things and doesn’t want to be hugged and who doesn’t like loud music and doesn’t like parties and would never try anything new and now I can’t not be those things. It feels like what everyone thinks you are is what you’re sort of forced to become. And, of course, I made myself be that person in the first place and now I’m not really able to change.
Sometimes I really wish that I could go back in time and do about a million things slightly differently, change my attitude and appreciate what I had back when I had it. I know that though right now I feel like I cannot change anything and that all is full of hope, that in a few years I will look back to this point and think of many things that I could have done and didn’t which makes me feel this massive pressure to try and do things right. I’m always making the same mistakes, always crashing in the same car.
I am made of regret and bitter sorrow.
Also, it’s the Birthday of one of my friends tomorrow and I completely forgot until about an hour ago and I have no idea what to do. Shall I just cop out and blame amazon? Bake a cake and make a card? Re-gift? Arggg life!
Okay so recently I watched the film “Ginger and Rosa” which is a really beautiful and cinematically lovely film starring Elle Fanning and Alice Englert. It’s a very thoughtful and yet sad film. I’ll just insert the movie equivalent of a blurb here so that you can read all about it.
A look at the lives of two teenage girls – inseparable friends Ginger and Rosa — growing up in 1960s London as the Cuban Missile Crisis looms, and the pivotal event that comes to redefine their relationship.
The main character was really Ginger, thankfully as Rosa was a rather unsympathetic, unlikable character, and it follows her navigating the rocky boundaries of her parents relationship and attending protests, learning to kiss and talking politics with her god parents. The pace is slow but the film isn’t boring and I thought the ending, although some have complained at it, was perfect
But the best part of it, in my opinion, was Elle Fanning who adopted a pretty convincing English accent, especially considering that it was her first time trying to use any kind of accent. her acting was excellent and she painted a very full and “3D” portrait of Ginger.
And so I was watching some interviews of the actors on You Tube and I discovered something…
Elle Fanning is so lovely!
She’s genuine and smiley and bubbly and so humble and modest. She’s just an incredibly talented and beautiful but normal girl and she seems so shocked and delighted at the fact that she’s become so successful. She’s just… great. I’ve spent too much time looking up interviews with her and the more I’ve heard her speak, the more I’ve admired her. She’s just so nice!
Plus she was a disnery princess so…
Elle Fanning = New Idol!
Oh! And here is Alice Englert, (i.e. Rosa) singing Necessary pains. She is rather good and ery beautfiul, sophisticated and refined and I sort of hate and love her at the same time? C’est possible? C’est bizarre? Ah! Je ne sais pas!
This is something we hear a lot of. Anytime someone who is talking about size issues or the perception of beauty or how curves look good on curves, they bring up Marilyn Monroe. “Marilyn Monroe,” They say, looking at you levelly as you picture the be-white-dressed, curvacious, smiling sex symbol of the 50s and 60s, “Was a size 14” And then they let that sink in.
But here’s the thing- Marilyn Monroe was a size 14, but she was a size 14 in the 50s. A little-known fact is that clothing sizes are altered so that they better represent the average weight and measurements of the population. Even if you took a size eight from the seventies it would be different to a size eight today.
Here are Marilyn Monroe’s measurements:
Height: 5 feet, 5½ inches
Weight: 118-140 pounds (Hollywood studios listed her between 115-120 lbs.)
Bust: 35-37 inches
Waist: 22-23 inches
Hips: 35-36 inches
Bra size: 36D
In fact, many of Marilyn Monroe’s clothes, especially from the earlier years, were around a size 6 or 8 in today’s terms and even at her largest she was only around a ten or a twelve, probably looking a bit like this:
And it is obvious that she is no where near a 14 or 16 as is often stated. Additionally it is speculated that she was pregnant here.
So why is this important? Isn’t it good to have a role model who is beautiful whilst not being stick thin? Well, yes, it is but Marilyn Monroe is not that role model. She was curvy, that’s undeniable but throughout most of her career she was also quite slender and it’s important to acknowledge this. So next time you hear someone telling you this well-loved fact, take it with a pinch of salt.
However, she was beautiful and she was brave and bold and brilliant and she really has some wonderful quotes. Elizabeth Hurley (who said about MM: “If I was that fat, I’d kill myself”) is a fool.
Additional Fun facts!
Marilyn Monroe was not a real blonde- she actually had dark brown hair that she bleached after hearing that models with lighter hair were better received.
When the people who owned Marilyn’s house after she died attempted to replace the roof, they found an eavesdropping and telephone tapping system implemented that was very similar to the ones used by the FBI
Marilyn Monroe was originally called Norma Jeane Mortensen
Monroe spent a lot of her childhood in various Foster Homes and Orphanages and her Mum ended up in a Mental Institution.
In the 20 years after her Death, Marilyn Monroe’s second husband DiMaggio put fresh roses by her grave three times a week.
She had two miscarriages because she had the very serious and extremely painful condition, endometriosis.
She didn’t even like the name Marilyn, it was chosen for her by Ben Lyon who originally wanted to call her “Carol Lind”.
“Your clothes should be tight enough to show you’re a woman but loose enough to show you’re a lady.”
“No one ever told me I was pretty when I was a little girl. All little girls should be told they’re pretty, even if they aren’t.”
“In Hollywood a girl’s virtue is much less important than her hair-do. You’re judged by how you look, not by what you are. Hollywood’s a place where they’ll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss, and fifty cents for your soul. I know, because I turned down the first offer often enough and held out for the fifty cents.”
“People had a habit of looking at me as if I were some kind of mirror instead of a person. They didn’t see me, they saw their own lewd thoughts, then they white-masked themselves by calling me the lewd one.”
“Sometimes I think it would be easier to avoid old age, to die, young, but then you’d never complete your life, would you? You’d never wholly know yourself…”
Marilyn Monroe died at the age of 36 when she committed suicide with an overdose of Barbiturate.
I liked you so very much before, you were simple and easy to use. I liked the format WordPress, I thought it worked fine. Better than the new one anyway. You don’t seem to understand, WordPress, when I tell you things. You see to feel like it’s your duty to change the layout every so often so’s we bloggers don’t get bored. Oh WordPress! What are you like! We aren’t that flighty and fickle! We won’t skedaddle off to google blogging just because you dare to keep the layout the same for a while. We love you just the way you are, you know.
Blogging, I always think, isn’t like that bit when you first start dating someone- it’s marriage. A long and serious commitment that some people like the thought of and some people avoid like the plague. Every so often in a marriage someone will stop being quite so happy and normal- maybe annoyed at the other one. This doesn’t mean that they don’t love you- you don’t have to change to “liven things up”. They fell in love with you for you, not for this new person you’re trying to become.
I love this series. I haven’t watched the first series but so far I’ve really liked it.
This series is very interesting because it deals with zombies in a way that feels very real and treats the subject with… I suppose I want to call it respect? It seems to genuinely ponder how we as the human race would deal with this kind of event. It shows the good, the bad, the utterly ugly and the delicate and yet strangely durable beauty of humans. And, you know, zombie humans. It’s slightly creepy with issues about equality and politics and rights and… well I could spend hours babbling but I could (and should) sum it up in two words…
A lot of so called modern art is… not really what you might call art. I’ve seen a blow up bouncy castle and radio positioned in an abandoned swimming pool called an art exhibition and… it leaves me wondering, is it really art? Some modern art you look at and you think “Wow… that… that’s really clever.” But other times, although supposedly having some defining, enduring message of truth and honour and global warming, it just doesn’t really look as if it took very much skill.
I’m not saying that I don’t like modern art, some of it can be really cool and at times quite amazing. Other times? Not so much. It feels like some people say that they like modern art because they think that it makes them clever to pretend that they appreciate it- makes them feel a bit superior, you know? But then, I guess, I’m not them so maybe they actually do love it and ‘m just being a judgmental, cynical little being. But when I see a canvas with two orange stripes and a blue triangle with an essay length description of what it MEANS, I do start to wonder just a little bit.