Six Random Things Game

Yes, yes I know this seems horribly familiar, and you’re quite correct. I’ve blogged on this before. However Saintz tagged me, and since Lela’s brave enough to do it twice, I guess that means I have to.

Being a narcissist, I’ve been waffling on about myself for so many years now that you really know practically everything about my sordid little life already, but I’ve been racking my brains and come up with a few things you really didn’t want to know:

1. When I write, I try to subscribe to The 24 Hour Rule. Basically this means I normally wait at least 24 hours before I actually publish a post. I’ve found this to be a valuable safeguard over the last couple of years, usually because I mostly write total garbage (usually after too much Chardonnay, it has to be said) and when I look at my draft the following day, I often change it completely or delete it altogether, depending on its quality control levels (unfortunately the quality is inversely proportional to the volume of alcohol consumed!) Please note I did not subscribe to this rule in either this post or my last (with hindsight I really regret posting yesterday. See, the rule works.)

2. I have twenty-two clocks (not including computer clocks) in my house (thanks to my younger son for counting them all.) Guess I have time issues, huh?

3. My cat left me three mouse skulls and various unidentified bloody entrails on the carpet when I got up, bleary-eyed, to make tea first thing this morning. Yes I know it’s a sign of undying love for one’s mistress (we all have our own unique ways of expressing our feelings after all), but it’s actually quite scary. You never quite know what you’re going to find of a morning.

4. Unfortunately I never ever stay in bed, naked, until noon (you’ve no idea how much I’d like to though.) I get up with raging insomnia at 3.30 and usually blog or talk to whomsoever of you folks is around also with raging insomnia at 3.30, or who is on U.S. time and hasn’t gone to bed yet. Do email me at 3.30. I’m usually around, watching the clock mostly.

5. When I was a kid I had webbed toes on my right foot. Of course I was teased mercilessly at school. Fish feet, freak, mutant, just what you’d expect from kids I guess. So I got a pair of scissors and cut out the webbing. A miracle I didn’t get blood poisoning really. It was at that point in my life that I realized I had a high pain threshold.

6. I also collect slutty purple underpants. Strange, gross and more than you needed to know...

I can guess what you’re thinking now. TOO MUCH DETAIL (believe me you don’t wanna see the other two I didn’t post.)

Still, looking on the bright side, hopefully that’s the last time I’ll get tagged for a while. And no, I’m not tagging anyone, except possibly my cat (she deserves it.)

The question I do want to ask, however, is Why Did The Rule Shrink From Ten to Six?

Where did the other four rules go???

Iveta 1035

Iveta

The Serious Hat

Last month Rich experienced something resembling a minor identity crisis. I blame Scott Church.

This predicament arose as a result of Scott’s London workshop, not because the workshop was bad (in fact it was most excellent) but because when he walked through the door of the Roost, he met himself, many times over. Every other photographer was in his forties, bearded, slightly overweight, wearing a black t-shirt and clutching a Canon 5D. It was like being stuck in that horror movie where there was a room of mirrors and his reflections came alive and talked to him (in the movie the reflections hacked the hero to death, but I am assured there were no axes at said workshop.) However, small wonder the poor chap returned somewhat traumatized.

Now Rich has always hated the very idea of conforming to any normal social stereotype, so an immediate makeover was mandatory. Individual STYLE had to be acquired, and pretty darn sharpish too. A new trendy man-wardrobe was acquired (no I don’t choose his clothes and I hereby disavow all responsibility for his attire), heavy on the leather jacket and tailored shirts I might add. He contemplated shaving his beard. I threatened divorce (I like my men furry, thank you) so he kind of shelved that idea, but then he decided to buy A SERIOUS HAT.

Now Rich has never worn a hat in his life (other than a bright red beanie for two months when he went through a snowboarding phase a couple of years ago, but that ended with a very wet and nasty fall, and the snowboard-plus-beanie were shelved in favour of an obsession with flying very fast, and therein lies a whole different story.) Anyhoo, back to the topic in hand. Well I am ever the supportive and devoted wife, so I put aside my reservations, and embraced The New Nude Photographer II The Sequel, remodeled, upgraded and improved for the new millennium. With The Serious Hat.

Few things define a man as clearly as a hat does. It is the most instantly noticeable thing he wears, and it emphasizes not just who someone is, but who he wants to be. It was therefore imperative that he chose the RIGHT hat. Now Rich is 6 ft 3”. He is not a small man, and any hat added several inches to his height. I suggested a fez (à la BT style) but hell would apparently freeze over before he emulated another photographer. So after several hilarious attempts, and largely because the latest Indiana Jones movie was on at the cinema, he chose a fedora. I refused to have anything to do with it (Harrison Ford is not normally my thang, too much whipping) so his Mum bought him one instead. Unfortunately she was a bit hazy on the concept of what constitutes a quality fedora, so he kinda ended up with a fedora-sorta-bush-hat instead.

Iveta 1027

I didn’t quite know what to make of this hat thing, to be honest. Personally I’ve always found men in hats to be somewhat threatening. Freud maintained that when a man put on a hat, he was performing a phallic gesture. James Laver observed that times of extreme male dominance in history coincided with high hats for men. So was this sudden appearance of a hat just another example of Rich exerting his male dominance? After all, a hat goes on top of your brain, and it therefore emphasizes the presence of psychological power. Was this all about testosterone rather than style, and are the two mutually exclusive anyway?

Well, Rich certainly looked startlingly different in his fedora. It was a Borsalino lookalike, naturally (Harrison wore the genuine article, bien sûr, but that was outside mother's budget) and he had that distant, rugged, slightly sleazy look that comes from too much booze, women and adventuring for lost artifacts in far-flung corners of the world. Teamed with khaki trousers and a leather jacket he was a dead-ringer for Indiana Jones, so much so that all three kids took to humming the Raiders of the Lost Ark theme tune VERY LOUDLY whenever he entered the room, and we are now plotting a purchase of a bullwhip for his birthday.

Don’t you feel sorry for the poor chap? Who’d live with us eh? All he wanted to do was to look a little more individualistic, more stylish. And truth be told, he has achieved that certain level of jaunty elegance which goes with wearing a fedora. It’s taken me a while to get used to it, but I finally like it, at least I think I do. Trouble is, I’m not sure whether The Serious Hat changeth the Man, or whether the Man always was The Serious Hat underneath. Either way, it's actually kinda fun to be married to a movie hero.

And at least the models do seem to like it. Time for a new photographic series maybe…Nekkid Chix In My Serious Hat. Hmm…

Iveta 1026

Images are of fashion model Iveta, stylishy (and patiently) modeling The Serious Hat.

The Parable Of The Art Photographer

(Very vaguely inspired by an old Jewish story I heard many moons ago.)

A model was chatting to an art nude photographer friend of hers in a local coffee shop.

“Why is it that most of the good art nude photographers are always broke?” she asked. “In fact I don’t know any who actually make decent money from shooting art. Why is that? Are they just lousy businessmen?”

“Here take my camera for a moment,” replied the photographer. “Look through the lens. What do you see?”

“I see…a young couple kissing, a pretty young blonde waitress with big boobs who really should put on a bra, and an ugly wrinkly old guy with a dog who’s eyeing up the waitress.”

“Good!” said the photographer. “You see Life. Now put down the camera, get out your make-up powder compact from your purse. Open it and look in the mirror. What do you see?”

“I see myself.”

“Now you see,” said the photographer. “The lens is made of glass and the mirror is made of glass. You only need to put a little silver at the back of it, and immediately you only see yourself.”

Iveta 993

Iveta

Good Money For Good Teeth

Be nice to your kids...They pick your nursing home!
(Anonymous)

My oldest son admitted this week that he has a crush on a tall, willowy brunette in his class.

“Does she have nice teeth?” I asked.

“Oh Mum, give over about the damn teeth thing, will you?” He said, rolling his eyes in despair.

He’s right of course. I do have a thing about good teeth. Whatever else we economise on in our household budget (most things at the moment) teeth is not one of them. We have a really outstanding and expensive Egyptian dentist (who loves to be chased by raging bulls for fun and who is so incredibly posh that the plasma t.v. in his waiting room is bigger than my car), and my kids’ teeth are literally dazzling in their uniform shiny whiteness. So I expect nothing less from potential girlfriends (yes indeedy, I am going to be the mother-in-law from hell.)

Now it seems that my over-enthusiastic-orthodontic-obsession has been vindicated. Research by Glied and Neidell on The Economic Value of Teeth has found that the quality of your teeth affects how much you earn over your lifetime.

Looking at the earnings of people who grew up drinking different kinds of water, the researchers found that women who had better teeth because they grew up drinking floridated water, got paid 4% more than those with poor teeth. That doesn't sound like much, but over a lifetime, it really adds up.

This extends to other body parts too. Research from the University of Texas has shown that ugly people earn less than beautiful people (explains a lot in my case.) A London Guildhall University survey of 11,000 33-year-olds found that unattractive men earned 15 percent less than those deemed attractive, while plain women earned 11 percent less than their prettier counterparts. Looks triumph intelligence in the salary stakes. This may be morally wrong of course, but it still happens.

Luckily my kids are all very good-looking, so with any luck, by the time we’re old and doddery, they’ll all be earning so much because of their dazzling teeth and phenomenal good looks, that we’ll end up in a plush and opulent nursing home staffed by gorgeous young photogenic nekkid chix (oh and the occasional handsome young gigolo wouldn’t go amiss either.) Hey, I can dream.

Iveta 998

Iveta.