There are many excruciating choices that I have had to make in my small and simple life - however I have found there is nothing more painful than marking and hunting down the perfect pair of denim encased leg tubes. Yes, I mean the most pert pair of jeans.


Making difficult choices is what life seems to be about - Matthew* or Richard**? Chicken Tiki or Beef a la Fungus? Risk the rah-rah skirt with obnoxious rhinestone'd tulle or play it safe in pencil-skirt chic? But nothing seems to compare to the dilemma that has been pushed onto me as winter approaches ever so quickly. Which jeans should I sodding well buy? Relaxed bootcut, slouch straight, skinny, vintage flare, skinny crop, slim tapered, original, straight, superlow, low rise, new fandangled super-skinny-super-low-slimly-tapered-but-slightly-flared-wth-7/8-crop? "They" say that there is a pair of jeans out there to suit every woman's body - yea, well "they" also said that there is someone out there for everybody and that has been proven to be a total crock too. One say I would like to meet those "they" and bestow upon them a good flick around the ear hole.

The problem with jeans is two-fold: first: it is rarer than a drug-free supermodel to be able to find the perfect pair. This simple problem is then exacerbated by the ruthless cycle of fashion and my yo-yo-ing body dimensions - which sternly dictates every 17 seconds that the waistline be dropped, raised or completely exterminated.

Back in the days when fashion was alot simpler (when I was rotating around the age of 6) my favorite pair of jeans were Stonewash-chic - The truly epic Olsen Twins (ie. Mary-Kate Olsen and Ashley Fuller Olsen) were clad in them and bumbling about the screen on Full House. In the glorious tradition of the entity known as Michelle Tanner (They played the one little girl on the show) they were embellished with delightful floral inserts at the pockets and had some charming elastic ruched around the ankles to add ever-important body and shape. Maybe they weren't your $350 Tsubi pair of whatevers, but I tell you, those jeans not only got me elected as Head of School Council in grade 7, but allowed me to stomp ever-so-justly around Adventure Playground - smirking winningly at all the other inferior-denim-wearers. THAT'S RIGHT, I'M LOOKING AT YOU, MAN. GET OFFA MAH SWING SET!

But, as it is with all things denim, the Stonewash Wonder has faded. And following a few brief flirtations with ripped knees, the horrible high waisted Halloween, flared fantasies and exceptionally low-riding jeans - I live on a constant lookout for the unspoiled pair of leg tubes that will suit my needs and ever-expanding love handles. In this morbid never-ending-search for perfection I discovered that I am not alone - my tall friends have to tolerate frozen ankles, the shorter friends float in fields of excess denim while my male friends sort between either pants of the poo-catcher variety or scrotal press emo-boy-tightness.

And now, the bears of jean shopping has once again reared its ugly head. With you only other options for winter leg apparel being cords (VELVET PANTS ALERT), tracky daks (Okay for lounging around at home and when you were 9) and leggings (Leggings are NOT pants - I don't care what anyone says - NO SUBSTITUTE! NONE WHAT-SO-EVER), it seems that I have no choice but to again begin my eternal search. So, I have decided to take the bull by the horns (or the denim by the dangly bits, as the case may be).

Soak my choices and stalk-outs and come with me, on this ride to find the pair of pants that will give me the arse-worship of Jennifer Lopez, the thighs of Charlize Theron and the undying-drool-strike-rate of Jessica Alba. FE4R I have found things to help me choose (Hooray - scans!) :D



* and ** names have been changed to save my sanity - this situation is also completely fictional and I should -on no account - be taken seriously. At any point. In my life. At all. Do you hear?

Labels: love, minirant, personal, scans

Truthfully, I have never ever been "with the times". In fact, my Times lie a good decade behind me - when I was but a chubby eleven year old, roistering through the world with nothing but a chewed-out pencil, knobbly nerd-nookie glasses and my fake Hello Kitty sneakers that read out "Lawrence", for company. Yes, that's right, my sneakers were so unashamedly fake, they proclaimed a random male name upon their synthetic surface. Lovely. Saying this, I stand hopelessly in a wallowing pit of melting glue when it comes to modern music. I have a shameful love for Motown. Yes. Motown. Shoot me now and bury my rattled body under a really big rock. Really big. Musical-taste sins aside, I also have a fear of incredibly hairy bands. Not simply in an all-over primate fuzziness (although, I am not conceding that this is not soul-scarring), but in the furry face variety - yes, I despise facial hair.


The truth of the matter is, pretty much the entire population in and around the age of 9 to about 62 seems to be obsessed with the rock band Kings of Leon. (Yes, even their fiery ballad "Sex on Fire". Let me tell you, it's disturbing to hear "You, your sex is on fiiiirrreee" utter from the lips of your 62 year-old-co-worker) - but I'm not a fan at all. And frankly, it's all because of lead singer Caleb Followill's dirty, manky man face parasite beard.

Blokes under 40 who sport a shaggy beard have a tendency to look dirty, unkept and even homeless at times - cue pant-holey pictures of the fallen pseudo-rapper-who-wears-corduroy pants, the ever illustrious - Joaquin Phoenix. Subsequently, cue shudder. Now, old dudes can pull it off and the facial bouffant is almost expected of them - fluffy enough to hide chooks in. But frankly, the young men make it look crap and well it makes them look ... homeless.

The absolute worst of the worse is the mo, made popular by the Movember charity craze (A completely virtuous cause - but flattened-mice seem to plague the upper lips of the city's manfolk around this time). The fact of the matter is - a mustache should only be grown by 70s-era porn stars, elderly male news presenters in polymer-weave suits and dodgy used car salesmen with too many teeth in their mouths. Unfortunately, creeping-sideburns that grope down past the humble ear-hole are also at the top of the Utterly Repulsive List - having a look that is justly aligned to that of two cheek-caressing strips of pubic hair.

However the growth style that revolts me to the deepest pits of my humble digestive system is that little triangle of hair below the lip - apparently referred to as the "flavour savour" and sported by Australian Idol runner up Shannon Noll for several years. What the hell is that thing leeching off your facial juice? A miniaturized goatee?

"You've got pognophobia!" an amused friend declared when I declared my burning hatred. I promptly feigned ignorance and Googled it when I arrived home. As it turns out, pognophobia is crippling fear of beards and can cause breathlessness, excessive sweating, heart palpitations and a full-blown anxiety attack. That's a little more extreme than what I feel when I see a truly manky beard or mo, but I'd prefer is facial hair went back to being something aging, balding and insecure men with earrings reveled in- not the majority of young, hip dudes in skinny jeans and oversize glasses.

I'm thinking my aversion most likely comes from my cultural upbringing - the majority of Asians cannot grow facial hair more than that of a hairless cat (creepy!) and many do not attempt it in fear of being a) laughed at, b) giggled at or, c) completely humiliated as more people are pointing and hiding their faces behind their hands than chimps on amphetamines.

I saw an awful scraggly bead this morning on a middle-aged man with a myriad of tattoos, wearing a tight sweat-stained singlet and high-waisted - tight - denim shorts. With the bottoms torn. I am truly scarred. Scarred for life.

Now I take the time to mentally scar my poor readers! PH33R THE BAD BEARDS! Truly, why would you dye anything attached to you blue? WHHHHHHHHHHHHHYYY?



Want more of the beardy glory? I don't, but I did accidentally stumble across Beards.Org, where you too can watch Beard Videos and visit the Beard Gallery and maybe even arrange to touch someone's beard. I'm not joking with you either. It's like a beardy-cult of hideous facial pubes! ARGH!

Labels: minirant, personal

So I was going to type something deep and thrilling, but I think I'll settle with typing up something mundane and self-satisfying: my un-famousness! Hooray! After putting-off looking through my Flickr mail for a good two months, I have discovered that one of my images was selected to be "immortalized" in an online guide to ... well, the World - Schmap. This makes me sound much more skilled than I really am - but that's something that I am apparently good at. +5 Self esteem!


It gives me a tingly feeling to know that someone out there appreciates my attempts at amateur photography - or thinks I'm marginally skilled, or at least minutely skilled ... or, at least thinks that image looks not too bad. Or at least thinks I'm brave enough to wander among the trannies, piles of used syringes, body-fluid sprayed abscesses and STD ravaged scarlet women to get a couple of shots.

So in classic opportunistic style, VIEW my lovely newly uploaded Lomography Fisheye pictures! The first set coming from images taken last year. Yes, my Powers of Procrastination are truly epic in proportion!


Yes, I do love my Fisheye dearly! It has made me very happy! Other things that have made me happy recently? A beautiful bling'd Swarovski heart necklace from my dear Nan-boy :D Such a lovely pick-me-up from the glum-ness of work! And it suits so many outfits! The boy has correctly-advised fashion sense (Haha) :D

Happy Fishery-Fisheye upload!

Labels: friends, personal, photography

Jayne is a 22 year-old scientist. She revels in applying sarcasm, adjectives and commas at every given moment. She enjoys laughing like a complete moron at nothing in particular and has a wholly inappropriate sense of humor. She can be found at Poupee ; Twitter ; Flickr and rarely on Facebook. But NEVER on Myspace, as she believes it to Satan's dirty work. Jayne is a massive dork and frequently falls over her own feet. Jayne ♥'s JIM PARSONS.

There are many excruciating choices that I have had to make in my small and simple life - however I have found there is nothing more painful than marking and hunting down the perfect pair of denim encased leg tubes. Yes, I mean the most pert pair of jeans.


Making difficult choices is what life seems to be about - Matthew* or Richard**? Chicken Tiki or Beef a la Fungus? Risk the rah-rah skirt with obnoxious rhinestone'd tulle or play it safe in pencil-skirt chic? But nothing seems to compare to the dilemma that has been pushed onto me as winter approaches ever so quickly. Which jeans should I sodding well buy? Relaxed bootcut, slouch straight, skinny, vintage flare, skinny crop, slim tapered, original, straight, superlow, low rise, new fandangled super-skinny-super-low-slimly-tapered-but-slightly-flared-wth-7/8-crop? "They" say that there is a pair of jeans out there to suit every woman's body - yea, well "they" also said that there is someone out there for everybody and that has been proven to be a total crock too. One say I would like to meet those "they" and bestow upon them a good flick around the ear hole.

The problem with jeans is two-fold: first: it is rarer than a drug-free supermodel to be able to find the perfect pair. This simple problem is then exacerbated by the ruthless cycle of fashion and my yo-yo-ing body dimensions - which sternly dictates every 17 seconds that the waistline be dropped, raised or completely exterminated.

Back in the days when fashion was alot simpler (when I was rotating around the age of 6) my favorite pair of jeans were Stonewash-chic - The truly epic Olsen Twins (ie. Mary-Kate Olsen and Ashley Fuller Olsen) were clad in them and bumbling about the screen on Full House. In the glorious tradition of the entity known as Michelle Tanner (They played the one little girl on the show) they were embellished with delightful floral inserts at the pockets and had some charming elastic ruched around the ankles to add ever-important body and shape. Maybe they weren't your $350 Tsubi pair of whatevers, but I tell you, those jeans not only got me elected as Head of School Council in grade 7, but allowed me to stomp ever-so-justly around Adventure Playground - smirking winningly at all the other inferior-denim-wearers. THAT'S RIGHT, I'M LOOKING AT YOU, MAN. GET OFFA MAH SWING SET!

But, as it is with all things denim, the Stonewash Wonder has faded. And following a few brief flirtations with ripped knees, the horrible high waisted Halloween, flared fantasies and exceptionally low-riding jeans - I live on a constant lookout for the unspoiled pair of leg tubes that will suit my needs and ever-expanding love handles. In this morbid never-ending-search for perfection I discovered that I am not alone - my tall friends have to tolerate frozen ankles, the shorter friends float in fields of excess denim while my male friends sort between either pants of the poo-catcher variety or scrotal press emo-boy-tightness.

And now, the bears of jean shopping has once again reared its ugly head. With you only other options for winter leg apparel being cords (VELVET PANTS ALERT), tracky daks (Okay for lounging around at home and when you were 9) and leggings (Leggings are NOT pants - I don't care what anyone says - NO SUBSTITUTE! NONE WHAT-SO-EVER), it seems that I have no choice but to again begin my eternal search. So, I have decided to take the bull by the horns (or the denim by the dangly bits, as the case may be).

Soak my choices and stalk-outs and come with me, on this ride to find the pair of pants that will give me the arse-worship of Jennifer Lopez, the thighs of Charlize Theron and the undying-drool-strike-rate of Jessica Alba. FE4R I have found things to help me choose (Hooray - scans!) :D



* and ** names have been changed to save my sanity - this situation is also completely fictional and I should -on no account - be taken seriously. At any point. In my life. At all. Do you hear?

Labels: love, minirant, personal, scans

Truthfully, I have never ever been "with the times". In fact, my Times lie a good decade behind me - when I was but a chubby eleven year old, roistering through the world with nothing but a chewed-out pencil, knobbly nerd-nookie glasses and my fake Hello Kitty sneakers that read out "Lawrence", for company. Yes, that's right, my sneakers were so unashamedly fake, they proclaimed a random male name upon their synthetic surface. Lovely. Saying this, I stand hopelessly in a wallowing pit of melting glue when it comes to modern music. I have a shameful love for Motown. Yes. Motown. Shoot me now and bury my rattled body under a really big rock. Really big. Musical-taste sins aside, I also have a fear of incredibly hairy bands. Not simply in an all-over primate fuzziness (although, I am not conceding that this is not soul-scarring), but in the furry face variety - yes, I despise facial hair.


The truth of the matter is, pretty much the entire population in and around the age of 9 to about 62 seems to be obsessed with the rock band Kings of Leon. (Yes, even their fiery ballad "Sex on Fire". Let me tell you, it's disturbing to hear "You, your sex is on fiiiirrreee" utter from the lips of your 62 year-old-co-worker) - but I'm not a fan at all. And frankly, it's all because of lead singer Caleb Followill's dirty, manky man face parasite beard.

Blokes under 40 who sport a shaggy beard have a tendency to look dirty, unkept and even homeless at times - cue pant-holey pictures of the fallen pseudo-rapper-who-wears-corduroy pants, the ever illustrious - Joaquin Phoenix. Subsequently, cue shudder. Now, old dudes can pull it off and the facial bouffant is almost expected of them - fluffy enough to hide chooks in. But frankly, the young men make it look crap and well it makes them look ... homeless.

The absolute worst of the worse is the mo, made popular by the Movember charity craze (A completely virtuous cause - but flattened-mice seem to plague the upper lips of the city's manfolk around this time). The fact of the matter is - a mustache should only be grown by 70s-era porn stars, elderly male news presenters in polymer-weave suits and dodgy used car salesmen with too many teeth in their mouths. Unfortunately, creeping-sideburns that grope down past the humble ear-hole are also at the top of the Utterly Repulsive List - having a look that is justly aligned to that of two cheek-caressing strips of pubic hair.

However the growth style that revolts me to the deepest pits of my humble digestive system is that little triangle of hair below the lip - apparently referred to as the "flavour savour" and sported by Australian Idol runner up Shannon Noll for several years. What the hell is that thing leeching off your facial juice? A miniaturized goatee?

"You've got pognophobia!" an amused friend declared when I declared my burning hatred. I promptly feigned ignorance and Googled it when I arrived home. As it turns out, pognophobia is crippling fear of beards and can cause breathlessness, excessive sweating, heart palpitations and a full-blown anxiety attack. That's a little more extreme than what I feel when I see a truly manky beard or mo, but I'd prefer is facial hair went back to being something aging, balding and insecure men with earrings reveled in- not the majority of young, hip dudes in skinny jeans and oversize glasses.

I'm thinking my aversion most likely comes from my cultural upbringing - the majority of Asians cannot grow facial hair more than that of a hairless cat (creepy!) and many do not attempt it in fear of being a) laughed at, b) giggled at or, c) completely humiliated as more people are pointing and hiding their faces behind their hands than chimps on amphetamines.

I saw an awful scraggly bead this morning on a middle-aged man with a myriad of tattoos, wearing a tight sweat-stained singlet and high-waisted - tight - denim shorts. With the bottoms torn. I am truly scarred. Scarred for life.

Now I take the time to mentally scar my poor readers! PH33R THE BAD BEARDS! Truly, why would you dye anything attached to you blue? WHHHHHHHHHHHHHYYY?



Want more of the beardy glory? I don't, but I did accidentally stumble across Beards.Org, where you too can watch Beard Videos and visit the Beard Gallery and maybe even arrange to touch someone's beard. I'm not joking with you either. It's like a beardy-cult of hideous facial pubes! ARGH!

Labels: minirant, personal

So I was going to type something deep and thrilling, but I think I'll settle with typing up something mundane and self-satisfying: my un-famousness! Hooray! After putting-off looking through my Flickr mail for a good two months, I have discovered that one of my images was selected to be "immortalized" in an online guide to ... well, the World - Schmap. This makes me sound much more skilled than I really am - but that's something that I am apparently good at. +5 Self esteem!


It gives me a tingly feeling to know that someone out there appreciates my attempts at amateur photography - or thinks I'm marginally skilled, or at least minutely skilled ... or, at least thinks that image looks not too bad. Or at least thinks I'm brave enough to wander among the trannies, piles of used syringes, body-fluid sprayed abscesses and STD ravaged scarlet women to get a couple of shots.

So in classic opportunistic style, VIEW my lovely newly uploaded Lomography Fisheye pictures! The first set coming from images taken last year. Yes, my Powers of Procrastination are truly epic in proportion!


Yes, I do love my Fisheye dearly! It has made me very happy! Other things that have made me happy recently? A beautiful bling'd Swarovski heart necklace from my dear Nan-boy :D Such a lovely pick-me-up from the glum-ness of work! And it suits so many outfits! The boy has correctly-advised fashion sense (Haha) :D

Happy Fishery-Fisheye upload!

Labels: friends, personal, photography