Black Beans are Versatile

Black beans accomodate all diets.
Start with the basic recipe:
2 cans drained (soak them if you have time but during the week, cans are easy. Fallon & Byrne sells Progresso, my preferred brand)
2 small red onions diced
3 habanero peppers minced
3 med red bell peppers (remove membrane & seeds)
3 large tomatoes (scoop out the seeds)
Heap of chopped fresh coriander (pick out the stems and only use the leaves)

Add lime juice and you have a great salsa. Put it in a tortilla with added rice and you have a vegan dinner.

This is one of my staples. It's the basic recipe with lots of shredded cheddar to make a quesadilla. Top with salad.

Add sauteed ground beef seasoned with chile powder and some crushed tomatoes and you have beef burrito filling when you add shredded cheese.

See, everyone's happy with black beans.

Think of Your Body as a Drawstring Sack

The supplement store GNC has a new ad campaign for a diet gimmick called Burn 60.

Their marketing tie-in wraps the snake oil in tablet form inside a sack featuring a woman's disembodied waist in a short skirt with thigh exposure.

Consumers are supposed to marvel over proof of the product's efficacy in pulling the drawstring taut to a smaller waist.

Bingo.

Magic.

Your waist will whittle down just as easily.

Or not.

Drop Those Hemlines

Stacy and Clinton abide an old fashion rule that mandates no mini skirts after a woman turns 35. I say bully to that, since plenty of women maintain active lifestyles to keep the stems in shape beyond their supposed expiration date. Youth is no true hallmark of fitness or muscle tone anyway.

The glossies in unison proclaim a longer hemline for this autumn.

Personally, I find the mid-calf drop a wee bit dowdy, depressing, mumsy and nun-like.

Skirts or dresses that fall just at the knee are kicky and much easier to wear.

This is another trend to ignore.

Dogs Do Delayed Gratification

The prospect of managing full-time dog duty on my own for a few weeks induced a case of the shudders recently. My stars, I do complain about the effort it takes to keep the pair exercised and sedate. If Omar doesn't get to run to the Pigeon House from Blackrock at least once a day he's a little poop head. Ditto for Kima's need to march down to Dun Laoghaire.

But then last week there was a moment where they had me almost in tears with a small gesture. Tromp, tromp down to the beach as always where I met two men who were having a chat and drew me in. One was a pensioner, the other a middle aged dude with a camera. I let the dogs off leash to do their job clearing the birds off the beach. The men extended the conversation beyond a few words. After about ten minutes I looked down to see Omar and Kima sitting on either side of me like my little canine sentinels. By far, it was the sweetest thing they've done for me to have the impulse control to leave the beach to make sure I was okay.
Yes, I am that easy.
Sniff.

The Hangover Part 2

"The Hangover Part 2" also known as "Due Date," set for a November release is yet another installment in the dude-bro hijinks picaresque where women will appear onscreen in brief scenes to yell vague threats in a mobile, in the modern day version of brandishing a rolling pin with their hair wrapped in curlers in the vein of Andy Capp's wife. Wives are shrews who make demands as they sit around waiting for the man to finish his adventure.

Someone tell the bearded Jodie Foster that he's not funny.
Shame on Robert Downey Jr.
The dog sure is cute though.

Hate the Name

As a woman with pale skin, it's a constant struggle to find foundation and powder that match without too much yellow or pink. Normally I'd jump to try the new range Nicola Roberts designed for folks low on pigment, but why did she have to brand the slap with such a horrible twee name such as Dainty Doll? The name for the cosmetic line sounds infantilised and insulting. I'm not dainty and I don't wanna be a doll.

How about Pale Face, Milk Skin, Glow in the Dark or any number of other ways to signify makeup for us honky ladies?

Ladies Have to Get Cancer to Stop being Doormats

On the surface, Showtime’s new series The Big C resembles AMC’s Breaking Bad since both centre around protagonists who teach high school and grapple with a terminal diagnosis. The big difference resides in how the characters react to the news that cancer has etched a rough expiration date on their mortal coil. Bryan Cranston plays a guy who decides that having nothing left to lose, he’s free to cook and sell drugs, commit murder, rape his wife and generally act like an insufferable bully. By contrast, Laura Linney’s Cathy Jamison uses her diagnosis as prompt to stop living like a doormat. Viewers get a clear sense of the dissonance between characters who vow to start living for themselves when only one of them can claim a loss of privilege or identity.

The first episode of The Big C consists of a series of revelations wherein Cathy negotiates all the expectations from her husband, brother, son, students, neighbours. Her brother Sean (John Benjamin Hickey) calls her boring because she’s obsessed over trivial matters such as replacing a couch stained with fruit punch by Cathy’s husband Paul (Oliver Platt). Having thrown Paul out of the house, she consents to a dinner to talk and asks him to respond to her brother’s assessment of her humdrum personality. Paul confirms Sean’s perception by noting that he likes to have fun and she doesn’t; he spills punch on cushions and she doesn’t. Now, aside from the skewed definition which equates fun with being a slob, Paul’s observation points to a larger truth for many married women. Paul doesn’t have to worry about spillage or much else, since he knows that his wife will take care of it, clean it up, restore order and all the rest. The series underscores this nugget of truth later in the episode when Cathy tells her petulant son that she had Paul move out because she’s only choosing to raise one child, not two. All too often wives and mothers get stuck in the killjoy role while the man in the house gets to be the carefree scamp. Cathy says that she wants to be the fun one for a change and sets about doing it.

The multiple scenes where Cathy turns off the internal censor based in the norms of gender propriety are delightful. Even the difficult moments when she harshly tells a sarcastic student (Gabourey Sidibe) that she can’t be fat and mean, she has to choose between either fat and jolly or being a skinny bitch, Linney makes every scene feel authentic. She calls the old woman across the street a cunt, which shocks the woman (played by the wonderful Phyllis Somerville) out of her lonely somnambulance to forge a connection with her neighbour.

At some level, the premise that it takes cancer for a woman to speak her mind and hold ground over her own personhood remains a depressing prospect. Talk about dire straits for it to take cancer for a woman to grow a spine. Aside from that, The Big C promises a host of stellar performances around Cathy’s awakening

Dublin City Council's Anti-Litter Campaign

Dublin city council's new PSA campaign strikes a more civic-minded tone than the previous one. The past anti-litter campaign featured the tag line "Litter is Disgusting/ So are Those Responsible," which really seemed unlikely to win hearts and minds through insulting the public. The new approach strikes the right tone with an emphasis on the unappealing nature of rubbish thrown on the street. The simple instructions to bin the refuse will be more likely to influence litter bugs than harsh admonishments.

Enough with the Aviator Jacket Trend Already

Glossies for a flight are a must have.

The September British editions of Elle and Vogue were proclaiming the big autumn trend of the aviator jacket. The new Grazia concurs.

Yack, I say.

Shearling is heavy, adds bulk and does shorter women like myself no favors.

I'm already tired of looking at them and it's still August.

Every other woman walking down the street will have one in a month's time.

Do yourself a favor and skip this trend.

2 Days in Amsterdam

Mr. M had some business in the (hinter)Netherlands so we had a diversion in a small town before taking the train to Amsterdam. My guess is we would have enjoyed the city more had we gone at another time when it was not a prime holiday period with swarms of people around. Both the Van Gogh and Rijksmuseum housed masterpieces, but they were so full of folks it was hard to view the pieces properly. Rembrandt's "Nightwatch" was worth the trip alone.

We walked all over, as usual along the pretty canals and tree-lined streets. I told the husband that if I spent any time there I'd probably grow to despise cyclists, a group who were outrageously aggressive, unpredictable, all over pedestrian spaces and always acting as though they had the right of way. We witnessed several screaming matches among them which kinda put a damper on the notion of cycling as a civilised urban development.

Mr. M looking contemplative outside a cafe along a canal.

The line for Anne Frank's house snaked around for almost two blocks so we settled for pictures.

Here's some pussy in the Red Light District. That was going to be the title for the post only I feared the deluge of creepy google searches.

I read a post somewhere online about coffee shops, the places that legally sell weed in the city, which rated the Bulldog chain as the equivalent of McDonald's. When in Rome, I told the husband as we entered their shop in the Leidseplein. The bar was packed with a predictable enclave of neo-hippie kids. To the left stood a woman behind the counter and an inscrutable menu with whimsical names for the herb. By law you can purchase up to 5 grams. We're not big pot smokers so we opted for the smallest amount they sold: 4 joints for 12 euro. The last time we smoked together was probably during our honeymoon in Antigua 16 years ago.

Right after I said "Gee, we've smoked three quarters of this and I feel nothing" *blammo* it hit me like a sledgehammer. My tongue swelled to treble its normal size. Add in heart palpitations to the sensation that I had a boulder strapped across the bottom half of my pulmonary system and there was no mellow for anyone to harsh. We went back to the room where Mr. M fell asleep and I watched "Murder She Wrote" and that show with an evil Dick Van Dyke, wondering about both if they were truly that awful or if the weed was to blame.

Dinner at Lucius up on the Spuistraat was a highlight of the trip. The restaurant was loaded with gems from the sea. I stared around at people's plates in envy. My sole complaint would be the American-sized portions.

Short Holiday

Off to Amsterdam for a few days.

Up 'Do with Attitude

The pics from the Goodwood Vintage Festival in the UK are full of style on parade, including this masterful, sweeping hair creation that's adding a few inches to a lady's height. I'd wear it without hesitation. The pink: Not so much.

Discount Designer Goldmine

Just as I was almost out of a shop today I glimpsed this pair of Chloe trousers.

They're what I'd consider formal jeans.

The fabric is a fancy grade of denim.

Patent lining at the front pocket and ankles.

Skinny zippers at the bottom hem.

Medium rise, as I prefer.

40 Euro at checkout.

You can find similar bargains from designer houses such as Prada, Versace, Dolce & Gabbana, Jimmy Choo, Max Mara, and Dior at Ruby Couture on the second floor in the Blackrock Shopping Centre.

Michael Moore Asks: What Would Jesus Do?

Aside from the novelty of archival film clips, including the shock horror of Ronald Reagan administering an open handed smack against an unsuspecting woman onscreen, Michael Moore’s screed against capitalism was disjointed, hyperbolic and presented little evidence to make the case. His work is knee jerk liberalism at best. We jeered at the screen for much of it and then turned it off before the end.

You can’t make an argument about the merits or pitfalls of capitalism without first talking to any economists or even folks who are degreed in political science. Wallace Shawn, an actor beloved by many, does not really fulfill the ‘expert’ call to explain the mechanics of an economic system. This has to be the most juvenile assessment of capitalism outside a dorm room filled with pot smoke. Most of his examples illustrate evidence of corruption, cronyism, anti-union, corporate lobbyist greed. All of that could exist under any form of economics.
Moore lost me entirely when he played the jeebus card. In a segment that went on far too long, he consults priests about the evils of capitalism while he intones how much god loves the poor. Moore says “Jesus would refuse to be a part of capitalism.” Who cares what your mythical figure thinks? The sanctimony was so thick I nearly had to rub a cloth over the screen. Thanks, but don’t mind if I refrain from taking any advice from an organisation which disclaims the full human identity of women and the LGBT community, not to mention the authorisation of raping children.

After being unable to make it through this propaganda, seeing any of his future work seems unlikely.

Brow Fixation

Among the endless examples of the makeover onscreen, few appear as dramatic and life changing as the experience Bette Davis’ character Charlotte Vale has in “Now, Voyager” (1942). In the film she’s transformed from a matronly wallflower into the arch beauty poised by imperious glances and chin tilts, those staple maneuvers Davis mastered on film. In the switch from wearing shifts with a limp belt to evening gowns topped with a sequined butterfly cape, the most arresting part of Vale’s appearance is the eyebrow wax. More than the weight loss, clothes and up ‘do, Vale tweezes down the caterpillar above her eyes and emerges a great beauty. You can tell I have a brow fixation on par with the ladies at Beaut.ie. A woman’s brow create a bold parenthesis to her mien and maquillage. In my aesthetic economy, a thicker brow connotes strength, intelligence and empathy.
There are so many enviable brows onscreen.
Elizabeth Taylor, Kim Novack, Ava Gardner, Rachel Welch, Ali McGraw, Halle Berry, Brooke Shields are among the standouts.

Soap Hunt

When I was waiting for Mr. M to join me in Bergamo not long ago, I popped in a shop to buy facial soap and what with my lack of language skills, purchased the box the nice lady picked out. Now I've run out of the Collistar multivitamin soap and would love to find more. The soap is velvety smooth, gentle on my face and has only a faintest scent.

This stuff is heaven on my skin.

Tired Dogs are Good Dogs

There's nothing like the hush that falls over the house after Kima and Omar have had a run on the beach.

Violence Against Women Marketing Tool for VW

Copyranter has a post on this campaign for the VW Beetle.

He calls the subtext one of multiracial blowjobs.

Looks more like two women with a bloody mouth clenched in pain.

Images of violence against women are all over the industry.

Boo hiss.

Has J Crew Jumped the Shark?

Hard to believe there's not a pretty dress to be seen in the email advertisement J Crew sent out.

The spotlighted frock above looks to be little more than a shapeless cheap satin sack with a limp waist and tatty hem. I wouldn't wear it to bed.

Have they expanded too quickly in an attempt to capitalize on Michelle Obama's patronage?

The dress is seriously unflattering even on the super slim model.

Sabotage by Croissant

The Daily Hate Mail puzzles over a syndrome they identify as the “office feeder,” a woman on staff who pushes food on other women without indulging in any of the treats. There’s no great mystery behind a stock competitive ritual among women. Foisting baked goods or chocolates on women in the office is one of the many ways that women grin-fuck each other while smoothing over a competitive agenda. What are the office feeders competing for, you may ask? The same thing women are enculturated to vie for since knee highs: male approval. I’ve never met an office feeder, but I have no trouble picturing her or such methods of hoping other women gain weight while she keeps a prim mouth closed in abstention. Dear dogs, even though I’m a feminist and do my best to not perpetuate or participate in misogyny, still there is a heady rush one gets from approval for a slim body type. Yes, of course I know I should wipe the shit-eating grin off my face when someone compliments my ability to restrict calories. Really, it only rewards my collusion in the beauty mandate, something I’m not about to boast over or recommend. The natural extension of this weight contentment for many women is in turn to act as the treat bully, a horrible thing which I’ve never done.

Women should recognise this tactic for the Mean Girl behaviour it really is, as a base exercise in getting cookies of attention and regard from men. Lookit, in a culture entrenched in misogyny, women learn to hate and cast the side-eye at other women. Patriarchy reserves only a limited amount of free space for women to have a decent life. Instead of tearing each other up, sabotage by croissant, back-biting gossip, the rumour mill and all the rest of the tools in the passive aggressive female arsenal, why not call this crap out for what it is, an ugly set of tricks that belittle and thwart all women from full human status.

Ladies, you don't have to play those reindeer games.

Alan Ball, Stop Messing with Sookie Stackhouse

*Spoilers*

Episode 7 in the third season of True Blood was even better than the week before.

Debbie Pelt: Psycho Bitch.

Alcide is so much more likeable in the series than in the books.

The Mickens are lower than dog shit.

The dog fighting scenes were gut-wrenching. But holy hell did Sam Merlotte save the day and all those abused dogs. I never cared much for his character in the past but now he's on my list.

Same for Russell who had a brilliant showdown with the Magister.

This season is such a delight.

But then there's a glaring problem here in how Alan Ball has chosen to revise the books onscreen.

Charlaine Harris developed Sookie Stackhouse as a resourceful, independent woman who takes responsibility for saving herself and those she loves on more than one occasion.

In the books, Sookie killed Rene the serial killer by herself.

Yet in the series, it was re-written so that Bill and Sam came to her rescue.

Is it a case of imperiled blondes satisfy the crowds?

Because for as many other risky choices they've made in the production, why can't Sookie save the day for once? Or cover her own ass.

Now in this episode, Bill plays the major role in staking Lorena by pinning her with the chains.

Whereas in the books, Sookie battles it out on her own until Lorena's toast and then saves Bill.

Damn, Alan Ball.

Enough of the damsel in distress.

Let's see Sookie be the heroine she really is and kick some ass.

Overlook the Premise

"The Dinner Game" ("Le Diner de Cons") makes little sense in the opener.

The film's premise revolves around a bunch of alpha males playing a game where they each invite "losers" to dinner in order to mock them.

I'm not really seeing the joy or pleasure to be had in sitting at a table listening to the assembled "losers" drone on about their obsessive hobbies collecting boomerangs or creating matchstick models. When you're rich and powerful, it seems in poor taste to say the least to pick on random guys. Even worse, we hear that they used to play the game by competing to see who brought the ugliest woman, but then decided it was more fun to pick losers.

Aside from being mean-spirited, the ruse doesn't look like it's any fun.

We can see that when the man on the train's stuck listening to the guy with the matchstick compulsion. He's clearly bored to the bone.

I'm also unconvinced by the claim that the marks never figure out why they're chosen when in the one scene set at the actual dinner game, the alpha bros are rolling their eyes and making side gestures, which are so obvious that even the dimmest bulb would guess they were being had.

The surprise and confusion is that we only get the one scene from the dinner game while the rest of the plot's set in an alpha dude's luxurious apartment. By the end, when the smug guy says that he learned so much that evening, you get the sense maybe he's being sincere.

The Hollywood remake seems less concerned about showing us a jerk having an epiphany and more invested in having us laugh at the freaks around the table.