Sex,Life & Frilly Bits

Sins: To Covet

I don’t believe in the ‘think it and you’ll be it’ new-age philosophy, but I do have fun pretending, just for the laughs.
Yesterday at the restaurant, I wanted a tour of the wine cellars and out of curiosity, asked about the champagne. There I was, looking at them, when I was shown a case of Dom Perignon Rose Vintage 1994.

The packaging is impeccable. Think eau de parfum (Chanel or Joy), but huge. Each bottle is boxed individually within a padded box with a fancy purple stripe, and it slides open (like pricy French perfume). There was another gift box with two champagne flutes that featured a beautiful instructional pamphlet on how to serve champagne, and believe it or not, there are a few important things to keep in mind: never serve champagne in chilled glasses and always make sure the glass is scrupulously clean, because residue can taint the taste. That aside, I had to find out how much each bottle was and I did:

“Five hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Really? That’s all right for 1994 vintage,” I said.
“Wholesale.”
“Wholesale price, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Oh…(!!!)…so that would make it over a thousand per bottle on the menu.”
“Around that.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, like we were talking about Twinings English Breakfast tea. I’ve tasted other varieties back in the bartending days, but this Rose vintage looked better by the second…

It’s so much easier (and affordable?) to covet thy neighbors spouse…Actually, what a great idea for a Paypal Donate button: "The Dom Perignon Fund." I'm only kidding (or am I? - I am joking)

Putting a Sock in It

The confession I’m about to make may freak women out.

I loathe shoe shopping.

That’s it, in a nutshell. I entered my own dark place while shopping for ankle boots. I figured, with it being winter, that it was high time I had a pair of closed shoes; my feet have been freezing these last few weeks in open toed wedges. If I see another pair of cuffed ankle boots, I’ll scream. What is it with cuffed boots? Sydney shoe stores are inundated with cuffed ankle boots, and just when you  need a pair of sturdy everyday boots, they all feature lofty stiletto heels. I visited more than ten shoe boutiques, and I wasn’t happy because I couldn’t find the type of shoe I was looking for. As for the five inch (and upward) hell. Who am I kidding? I hate the recovery process - painful toes (or pre-bunion roots) and the strange sensation that arrives the moment you set your feet on the floor. Then there’s calf muscle shortening. I don’t miss that, and I haven’t experienced it for years. I don’t plan on reverting either.

The store assistants in small boutiques always annoy me. Not a minute passes, and they greet you with, ‘hi how are you?’ like you’re their next door neighbour. Some stores assistant in these small trendy stores are either lazy or they aren’t impressed with the idea of you purchasing a single pair of shoes. If you don’t like one pair, it’s not like they’ll suggest another. I kept on nagging housemate for us to go to one of the department stores  because I reached my limit with lackluster assistants and morons who couldn’t understand why I didn’t want flat heeled Pirates of the Caribbean boots or hated kitten heels. I don’t get the kitten heel. I had a pair of kitten heels in the Nineties and I came close to falling on my arse countless times. I haven’t yet seen the way the kitten heel enhances women’s legs. I call them 'granny heels'. All women I’ve seen, look like they’re missing something when they’re wearing kitten heels. To me, they scream indecision: ‘Am I sexy or not?’ When I see women wearing kitten heels, I think, "She wants to a mix: femme fatale & demure." It's like pairing a lime green shirt with shocking pink hotpants. It’s the sort of heel you’d wear to church on Sunday - and even then there are other alternatives. A dry shag is more exciting than a kitten heel.

I eventually found my boots in Myer. They weren’t over the top in terms of pricing, but they weren’t Payless. I complained to housemate, “we could have come here first instead of traipsing around one of the biggest malls in the Southern Hemisphere.” \ Many small common boutiques have strange shoe ranges. A range (clothes, shoes, anything) is like a story. Enter some of the smaller shoe shops, and it’s like you’ve entered a crap novel that takes you all around the world without getting to the freaking point. And that’s how it felt. My patience thins out until my brain feels like it’s going to vomit. I’m peeved, because most decent shoes are far too pricey for me to consider, and the affordable shoe outlets have 80% crap that ought to retail for twenty, instead of eighty dollars. So I settled with a hundred and forty, for the boots, and felt the sweet sense of relief claim me.

The sexiest shoe shopping experiences occur in high end stores, for two reasons: quality shoes and great service. Everywhere else, or the little boutique with supposedly trendy shoes (Shoobiz, Novo, Payless, etc) are terrible, with the capacity of stretching the patience of a saint, and there is nothing that annoys me more than a shoe sales assistant that knows nothing about shoes.  I had a girl try to sell me a pair of boots today, and on closer inspection, the shoes she brought for me to try (in the box) had scuffed heels (even a tiny scuff mark is enough to put me off - between 1 to 2 millimeters). Admittedly, I did commit the cardinal sin. Shopped for shoes at the wrong time of day - in the late afternoon, when my feet tend to bloat more (which makes constant try-ons a pain), but there is the other thing:

The best time to shop for shoes is when you don’t really need them. Murphy’s Law tends to kick in when you need a particular shoe.

There has to be something wrong with me, for me to find shoe shopping a nightmare. I’d like to say it’s a sexy experience, but the only way it can be a sexy experience for me is if I miraculously wound up with a cute male store assistant with a foot fetish (for the free foot massage) or won the national lottery. That’s an idea. Why aren’t there foot masseurs in shoe stores? I’d pay twenty dollars extra for a fifteen minute foot massage. Shopping is exercise.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to soak my footsies in my electric foot spa.

Image: (Shoes that I can't afford) Christian Louboutin

Restaurant Trivia/Humor of the Day

I am blogging away from home, from a restaurant after polishing off a plate of salmon, wild rice and veges. From where I'm sitting, it feels like I'm at a 'bring your daughter to work,' day. Housemate wasn't impressed with a customer telling me, "Your dad's a nice guy." I didn't say anything, and housemate (luckily) didn't hear him, but when I told him straight after, he stood speechless. "What the hell?" he asked, "When did he say that?" I told him it was his fault to begin with. I wanted to go to JB Hi-Fi to look at DVD's and housemate went into a tizz as he was organizing a function booking: "Don't spend money!"

"You sounded like a testy father frustrated with his impulsive daughter," not that I'm overly impulsive or anything...well it all depends. 

I decided to hang out at house mate's work, and shortly after my arrival here, I was in fits of laughter. Diners are hilarious, especially after a few drinks.

Housemate to me (about last nights customer):What do you get after drinking two bottles of Heineken beer, two bottles of red wine, three cocktails and five ports?

Me: Is this restaurant Trivial Pursuit or something?

Housemate: Answer the question.

Me: What do you mean 'what I'd get?' I'd be over the frigging limit, legless and looking forward to the hangover from Hell.

Housemate: Well this customer had all that last night, and after five hours, decided to leave, saying, "I better not, it's getting late and I've have to drive home."

Me: Are you joking?

Housemate (laughing): Does it look like I'm joking?

Naomi's Bedroom Bill

What are billionaire boyfriends for?

I, for one, don't believe the latest story about Naomi Campbell. If you check out the price of the presidential suite and dinner, you'd see why. What is two hundred pounds when the nightly rate exceeds ten thousand pounds? I don't know what is more strange. The price of the room, or the fact that the cost of the sheets is two hundred pounds (cheap, in comparison to the suite).

Life is tough at the top...sigh.

Meet Alexius Wolfgang from Nigeria

My lifetime on the Internet has taught me one thing: all national lotteries and wealthy benefactors are from Nigeria.
It's nice to know that I'm a charity to these people. And it isn't just me. I'm guessing millions of people have received the customary e-mail promising more riches than Fort Knox.
More Nigerian scam info after the jump...

Attack of Daytime Television, Bachelor Repeats & Toddler Men

Daytime television is weird. I'd forgotten how weird until I took a break and sat down to watch the two-hour Bachelor – Rome. It's a repeat, but I missed it the first time round. The Bachelor – Rome sees Prince Lorenzo Borghese search for the 'love of his life.' The beginning had me riveted. Lorenzo, a resident of New York, stated the difficulty of finding women within his city. Methinks the boy works far too much; then again, he has a mini empire to maintain. A quick introduction to the women, and their excitement at having a chance at a prince, is funny and a little perverse; how many women can recall the little girl fantasy? I know I can. The idea of marrying a prince is fun when little, it brings all the fairy tales to mind, and everything always ends well in Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Cinderella and Rapunzel.

The interesting thing about shows like The Bachelor is the behavioral observation; women compete, they reveal their bitchy side, and will do practically anything to bag the perfect bloke. They go on outrageously expensive dates, dine at places they'll probably never afford to dine in again, and it can lead to danger.

How does a girl return to her normal life after dating The Bachelor? How does a small town girl from Texas cope with European sophistication by way of Italian nobility, and cope with possible elimination, to return to the family farm?  Rosella, a make up artist, from Chicago thinks her selection is a sign; she's Italian, and she thinks flying to Rome to meet the prince is a favorable omen. Other scenes showing the girls walking around Rome, noticing the name Borghese on monuments like The Vatican animates the reality of Lorenzo's heritage – which includes a Pope.

Preening takes on more dimensions as the girls, after meeting Lorenzo, do their best to impress him. It ranges from an operatic balcony solo to a trashy, 'you want to see me shake it.' You just know that 'shake it' girl isn't going to make the cut. Vulgarity and desperation are twin siblings. When two native Italian girls crash the party, the American contenders are slightly livid and I don't blame them. Italian women would rather anger God than wear track pants.

Enough about the girls (who are more in love with the idea of marrying a prince than anything else)…it just makes you wonder. Prince Lorenzo Borghese looking for love on The Bachelor? What the?

What do you buy a man who has everything?

A reality check?

~~
I couldn't be bothered waiting for the repeat-final, watching all the women bitch, complain, compete and the smooch fest; watching shows like The Bachelor and Bachelorette is enough to turn me into Howard Hughes (in terms of developing germ phobia). It makes you realize that the person you're kissing has an entire sexual history, but this show reinforces that more. It's a little humiliating, and women/men can't really avoid feeling like an 'option' when bachelors ask permission from both sets of parents.
Anyway, Prince Lorenzo chose Jennifer Wilson, however didn't propose marriage. Although he expressed his love (and present a 'family ring' but not an engagement ring), he didn't feel he was ready to propose. It makes one think, 'oh Christ, there I am on national television and you don't have the balls to propose!' Jennifer didn't do that. Instead, she transformed into the perky doormat: "Wow, this is so overwhelming but ya, I think you're incredible, I've fallen in love with you somewhere along the way," Jennifer replied. "I'm elated right now and I want to make it work with you and I see myself as a New York City girl!"

Ya! Wow!

It gets better (just when you thought that your past will disappear, the Internet cache is fabulous for keeping records), just like a soapie. He breaks up with his final pick, returns to previous runner up/reject Sadie Murray, dates her for a little while, and breaks up with her, his reasoning based on Sadie's party girl lifestyle as well as her inability to take her job seriously. Marrying a millionaire isn't easy because - and this is a really wild guess - a woman's job is her husband. This doesn't mean cleaning houses, ironing his shirts or cooking lamb roasts: it's about being presentable, demure and a fine accessory. 'Rich men's wives are seen and not heard.'

Returning to the premiere (repeat in Australia) and Lorenzo's reason for being single: the difficulty of finding a partner in New York (population, density, stress, etc), I think men have difficulty concentrating. You put a thousand women in front of them and they experience a short circuit. The idea of playing the field to find the right person tends to backfire; too many people, so little time and the growing panic of not finding the perfect person. It tends to create an existential crisis or paranoia. Even if the person thinks they've found the best match, they second guess themselves, as Lorenzo (and millions of men do) did. Men ought to be placed on an island (I'd say leash, but that would be cruel and unusual treatment that would have PETA up in arms) with a limited supply. Maybe high flyers like Prince Lorenzo should be given a permit with an annual quota. That way, they don't muck about and waste a woman's time. I don't think it's about a man's personal tastes (refined or whatever), it's about indecision. People think women are indecisive? The modern male is more indecisive than a woman shopping in a department store with Pre-Menstrual Tension.

It kind of takes me back to early parenthood and toddlers.

"I'll have that one...um...no I like that one," for you to by your little boy the red train, for you to go home, look forward to a coffee/glass of wine/smoke/'you time' with your vibe, for them to veer toward another path, "I also liked the green one mum, can we also get the green train?" and before you know it, you're in UN like discussions with a toddler about the entire freaking train set:

"It's not the right time to get the entire set (which is like, 'this isn't the right time to invade nation X')"

For toddler lad to roll his eyes, tense his little mouth and state his case:

"But I want it!" and let's not forget, "It's NOT FAIR!"

The only pisser in adulthood is that you can't put your foot down and tell a man:

"No more back chat or you get no dinner."

This only works in early childhood, and toddler lad doesn't dare risk missing dessert. Unfortunately, adulthood is a different story altogether. Men tend to listen to their mothers or they're conditioned to think they can fertilize every woman within a twenty block radius - that it's their god given right (never mind the delusional aspect of it all: where is the time?), and who are you to interfere with their divine right?

These days, you tell your bloke they're not getting any sex (or dinner), and you're likely to be told, 'hey, that's cool I'll log onto the Internet and have a wank, no skin off my nose.' Either that, or they'll order a Big Mac at the nearest drive-thru McDonalds, and happily settle in front of the computer, television or play with their frigging iPhone.

Where is the fairness?

I'm now wondering if the contestants on the Bachelor and Bachelorette attend special 12 Step Programs to recover from opulent dates. Ordinary dates would never be the same again. It's like the Crocodile Dundee 'that's not a knife' moment; picture a former contestant sitting with her poor date in a regular restaurant, saying, 'this isn't a date! I'm accustomed to a private jet. Don't you know who I am? I am contestant number 12 from season five of the Bachelor for chrissakes.'

Nightmare on Park Avenue

Gold diggers are hilarious. The finale to the Tricia Walsh-Smith's plight is apparently final. She has been ordered to leave the apartment. In her April 2008 video Tricia has a tantrum and goes all drama queen but it doesn't really explain the most recent request for more money. She didn't understand the prenuptial agreement.

Ah Tricia, a nice job in an office or in a nursing home will do you the world of good. Maybe she can turn her domestic theatrics into a musical: The Rise and Fall of a Park Avenue Drama Queen?
The height of modern vulgarity is airing out the dirty laundry on YouTube. Maybe Tricia will create a blog and add a 'please donate' button? (like Ugly Debty - married to a banker, but needs donations to 'survive')

Walsh's hilarious quote: "It brought attention to my plight and the plight of a lot of other women," she told reporters. "A woman should not be thrown out of her home for no reason."

Somehow, I don't think other ordinary women would be able to identify with being thrown out of a plush Park Avenue penthouse, not only this, she doesn't really tell the full story. YouTube videos are short and they need to contain the juicy bits. No one really knows the full story of the relationship but that didn't stop Tricia stooping to Stygian depths to humiliate her husband and his daughters.

Then again, poverty to a Park Avenue socialite means being unable to buy a Hermes handbag on a whim, or passing the day at Saks Fifth Avenue. One can't help but sympathize with this affluence effluence.

Not Only Erotic...but Dirty?

It may only be me, but I don't get why the word 'dirty' is a requirement for erotic stories. The search keyword for today is 'dirty erotic stories'. Lord knows how people end up on this site. I don't think, and I definitely can't recall using the word 'dirty' in this blog. Probably because I don't find sex dirty? Maybe it's the parent in me. Every time the word 'dirty' pops up anywhere, or in any title, my mind goes to the laundry bin and soil. There you go...I'm perverted.

People are strange....

It's not like you'd walk up to a book shop assistant and ask about 'dirty erotic stories'. You'd ask for erotic fiction, or erotic romance, but not, 'excuse me, where can I find the dirty erotic stories section.' But out there on Google...anything goes. I wonder if I should apologize to random pop ins to this blog. Then again...who cares?

The Islamic Polygamy Issue in Australia

Polygamy is always the subject of speculation, debate and outright controversy. I don't think there is any difference between polygamy in Utah or in Saudi Arabia (okay, the Saudis may be wealthier perhaps?). Polygamy is polygamy - a husband having more than one wife. In western societies, polygamy is just polygamy. There are few regulations or rules, and many women can be exploited, and men can (and do) take advantage. I've been surprised, on my online travels, to see men with a selection of 'slaves' who work for their master. In other words, the man is exploiting the females in his life, and they pretend they are sexually independent or assertive women.

Here's an interview that appeared on Sunrise about polygamy, that goes into the subject of Islamic polygamy and what it really takes to be polygamous in this community (the short version: if a man can't afford to equally balance finances, intimacy and love, then they're not allowed more than one wife:

iPhone Confusion in Australia

I’m not sure how other countries run their telecommunications operations but one thing is true in Australia. Australian Telcos are still regulated and the iPhone is creating many headaches for users. It makes you wonder why data is so expensive on a monthly basis. Personally, I’ve never understood why it costs so much to have access to wireless Internet and there is never any real explanation during my time working within that industry. It’s how it is. It’s how it’s priced. There is no real hard data supporting the high monthly cost of accessing wireless Internet.

The iPhone and the confusing payment plans have baffled users and the ACCC (Australian Competition and Consumer Association) is set to investigate the numerous (confusing) iPhone plans offered by carriers. The ACCC has warned users to be wary as the iPhone 3G technology enables quick download of high amounts of data, which can mean higher costs. The three main Telcos in Australia have been criticized over their confusing phone plans for the iPhone: 1GB and 2GB isn’t adequate for intensive web browsing and other plans that offer higher data allowances limit the user to casual web browsing. It raises the other question:

What is the point? Isn’t it better to use the Internet at home and avoid being slugged by an excess data fee?

And there is more proof that wireless access need not be expensive. Rogers (Canada) reduced its monthly iPhone data fee to $C30.00 from $C100.00 for six gigabytes.

Are customers being charged an unnecessary amount for wireless Internet access?

It may be thought that regulation is bad. I know that certain telco CEO's whine about regulation but if regulation didn't exist, then these companies would be charging an arm and a leg (within Australia).

iPhones are a white elephant in Australia. If a person really needs one  for work/business (I don't know why, it's not like it'll kill people to press buttons - will touch screens extend life spans?) and can afford the confusing price plans, go for it, but if it's to impress others on buses, restaurants and trains, then I honestly feel sorry for them. 2 Megapixel camera...lol.

An apple a day may keep the doctor away, but in relation to the iPhone, it may not keep the debt collector away when excessive data usage enters the game.

This Week...

Ah what a week, and it’s only Tuesday. Pope Benedict XVI made his way back to The Vatican and Big Brother was evicted from The Ten Network, with a senior citizen as a winner.  I began my Monday rather well. I watched a re-rum of the Nanny at five in the morning - although I think that Fran Drescher’s voice woke me to begin with (my punishment for leaving the television on), and at half five, I thought I’d take advantage of the morning quietude and write. Three hours and five thousand words later, I amazed myself. It wasn’t an amazing literary feat or anything. The plain act of parking my butt down and writing something totally different to the usual mattered. Then I had to update my information for Social Security, head to the GP for the usual and update him on my fun work situation. For once, I didn’t have any government bureaucrats asking me why, when and how (could you still be employed but technically off work?).

Catching up on the usual media waffle offered much amusement. An article in the Sydney Morning Herald about Big Brother and how BB saved Australia (by making Australia smarter in the long run), had to be a content filler. It couldn’t be anything else. We happen to have a lot of cultural things happening Dowunder but we, unfortunately, have moronic television producers. Take Neighbours as one example. Its popularity has waned in the UK because many viewers think that it is too ‘Anglo Saxon’ - according to another newspaper. Is it? You betcha.

In the world of media, another women’s magazine arrived on the market - Grazia. I succumbed. Bought it and experienced the type of déjà vu that I didn’t think I’d experience. It felt like I broke a diet, because I asked myself why I gave in and indulged in more empty calories, and Grazia is the intellectual equivalent of Krispy Kreme. That’s all I’ll say about that. I think Grazia = Rush job, where articles were concerned, anyway, enough of my griping.

The thing that really caught me by the short and curlies in this morning’s headlines relates to the issue of sex bias. Another government enquiry into gender relations in the workplace and surprise, surprise, women still experience more harassment. Without detailing the entire article, the consensus is that women still have it shit in the workplace, and while such reports immediately bring men to mind, I’d like to take this opportunity to state that harassment is - ironically - equal opportunity. There are also women who harass other women, and women tend to be more creative where harassment is concerned. Sometimes one doesn’t even realize that one is being harassed by a woman because one tends not to associate gender discrimination toward women by women. What is the most simplest example? Being targeted by a childless  female superior and picked on for small things, like the lack of over time parents put in. It still falls under gender harassment, and the gender of the harasser doesn’t matter. In the area of customer relations, I find that women tend to find it easier to yell at other women; take the female checkout operator as an example, or any female customer service employee. Women tend to scream less at males. Why is that so and does it enter Freudian territory? I can recall many incidents that involved irate women over the phone. They’d never accept an explanation from me, and transform into bitches, to the point where I didn’t have time for their rubbish, to transform them to a male and when the male offered the same implantation, they accept it without hysteria. I don’t think my saying that is misogynistic. It’s the truth for many women who have experienced it at work. The female client listens to a male voice offering the same explanation, and they immediately accept it and calm down (either that, or they’re creaming their knickers: c’mon, what other explanation is there?).

I also think men are on the receiving end of harassment, once again, by women but men don't report it as often as women do; a man says something inappropriate to a female and the female tends to scream sexual harassment but if a woman says something like, 'don't answer me back or I'll castrate you,' (even as a joke) this tends to be put aside by the male. It is subtle, almost indirect, but it works to humiliate the male. I’ve seen this on many occasions as well. Is it true to present women as vulnerable lambs? And do women - on some level - prefer to present themselves as vulnerable lambs when many are the opposite of what they let on? Where professional rivalry and ruthlessness is concerned, I think the genders are the same as each other. They both have the potential to be a royal pain in the ass.

The Crunch to End all Crunches?

People wouldn’t believe me if I say it, but it’s the whole truth, the entire truth, I swear by my morning hair and the fag dangling out of my mouth, but now as I watch CBS News, I’m slightly flummoxed by the dependency on credit cards for basic staples because, get this, I’ve never had a credit card.

Bankruptcy became a reality for me early in life. People I knew found it shocking for someone like me to go bankrupt in my Twenties. Did I have a business? No. Did I heavily invest in a project? Absolutely not. Did I overspend on luxury goods? No. I took out a loan. A measly little loan for an amount that was far too much for me to handle at the age of nineteen - two and a half thousand dollars. Such a pissy amount, I know, but that is how it all started for me, and ironically enough, to benefit me in the long run as I see people in supermarket checkouts put their thirty dollar groceries on credit.

The secret behind my bankruptcy is simple, and it was my first lesson in being young, stupid and trusting a bloke. I was sharing a house with three males (two co-workers), and over time they became like older siblings, keeping an eye on my ‘virtue’ and ensuring I didn’t date any idiots, and at one point the eldest flat mate decided I had to find a better job, one that was more savory than serving drinks in a caberet-nightclub bar. He loaned me money, against my will, to enroll in a travel agent course, and although I did learn one good thing (typing), other problems emerged, namely an overseas visitor friend of theirs who was the ultimate sleazebag. Needless to say, I had to move out because I offended them by rightfully accusing the visitor of making unsavory moves. One of my flat mates couldn’t  handle me saying it as it simply was: that their barrister friend was a predator, and that I wasn’t anyone’s whore.

"Are you Warm and Wet As Well?" Slips of the Tongue

Do you have days when you think that you're in need of a 12 Step Program for YouTube?

This series of news bloopers is hilarious. Keep an eye out for the UK clip about the 'warm and wet' weather, and yes, there's a 'pussy' blooper as well.

And before you can say 'blowjob', there's this ad for a self-help book:

When Little Boys Go Bad LOL

There's a little boy from hell that resides on Mad TV. Stuart Larkin. Don't ask me what made me remember Stuart as I surfed YouTube, but Stuart is -without a doubt- a crack up.

The Yummy Mummy Myth

Money, money and more money, some define money as the root of all evil, and while love of money is closer to the famous quote (the love of money), I wonder about the definition of love; love means different things to people. Bill Gates must surely love his money, but he's also pumping his cash into philanthropic projects. In this world, whether people like it, hate it or despite it, money is attached to a type of freedom. I say 'type' because there is no real freedom when famous individuals like Gates are cashed up; the media follows them around, reports on their activities, but they do have the freedom that many other individuals don't or are there different forms of freedom? To some, being free is not having a stress attack about the next lot of rent or mortgage money. To others, it means hopping into the nearest Lear jet at a moment's notice, and I can understand and appreciate those differences. I just can't stand the labels that companies use to make women feel under par.

Yummy Mummy's; the marketing term of the last decade, is real and it breathes each time a celebrity gives birth. Why, it was less than a fortnight ago that Nicole Kidman gave birth, but she stepped out looking like a model. After Pamela Anderson-Lee's births, one could swear that she had a flat stomach, and this led me to a sinister thought – do they have a tummy tuck and caesarian at the same time? Either way, the idea of the yummy mummy is like having an albatross perched on one's shoulder. The weight or pressure is there. A recent Australian survey indicates that Australian women are rejecting the yummy mummy tag. A high proportion of women say they're not into fashion or designer anything, and that all these appearance-related objects are low priority. Only one percent (of 3,865 women) named a celebrity mother as an ideal, and I don't blame them. Celebrities, as I've mentioned before, may as well be aliens, and you can't really blame them. If every woman had access to nannies, personal chefs and housekeepers, then looking good would be an everyday thing, making the term yummy mummy obsolete. At the present time, the concept of the yummy mummy belongs to celebrities, some of whom work a few months a year, and even if they didn't work after their babies, they don't have to worry about the next rental/mortgage payment, utility bill or fueling their cars.