Well, people, the 2011 blogging year is drawing to a close for me. Long story short, I’ve decided that due to work commitments this will be my last post for 2011 – but I will be back, all engines running, the first Monday in January to keep on sharing my thoughts and ramblings with y’all.
I suppose, then, that it’s appropriate to reflect on 2011 as a year. The more I speak to people, the more I realise that 2011 has been…well, if 2011 were a student, and I was talking to her parents at Parent Teacher Night, I’d probably say something along the lines of:
‘While I’ve really enjoyed having 2011 in my class, certain aspects of her behaviour have been…challenging. Problematic. Disruptive. Hurtful to me and the other students. Why can’t 2011 just leave me alone? I don’t understand!! I want my classroom back!!!!!!! I want my life back!!!!!!!!!’ (exits, sobbing, to the staffroom).
I’m not alone in feeling this way about 2011. Everyone I have been speaking to about this in the last few weeks has been looking forward to putting this year to bed and welcoming a new one. Change has seemed to be a pretty major element of what people in my life, and what I, have had happen in 2011. The kicker is, it’s not been easy or exciting change. Believe it or not, I normally like change. Shake it up, baby, turn and face the strain. What’s made this year’s changes that my crew and I have experienced non-easy and non-exciting is that they’ve been hard changes, changes that required leaps into the dark, naked without a parachute. Changes that, for some, involved painful choices to separate from significant others. Changes that involved for others giving up on some dreams. Or moving houses and lives, or just taking on a whole lot of hard hard hard work with the end in sight but a long way off. My year included all those things, and TWO bouts of the worst food poisoning I’ve ever had in my life, within a month of each other. If I’d have known what was ahead of me, gastro wise, in 2011, I would not have laughed so hard in the food poisoning scene in Briedsmaids. Just saying.
What I’ve learnt from 2011, other than sushi is always a seriously bad idea, is that people are made of pretty tough stuff. Because, in spite of 2011’s better attempts to break our spirits and run amok, we are all still here, still talking, still living, still believing in each other, and, most importantly, still hoping for a brighter 2012.
It’s in this spirit of hoping for a brighter 2012 that I’m sharing with you my wishlist for 2012. I stole this idea from Kitty Gilfeather, who, rather than making new years resolutions, writes a wishlist of what she hopes for in 2012. It takes away the threat of failure implied by resolutions, and instead replaces them with the warm, happy glow of anticipation. Here’s what I’m working with so far:
• Read more good books.
• Wear matching underwear at all times.
• Buy a fabulous thing for my apartment each season (I’m thinking my summer purchase might be a cowhide rug for le boudoir– thoughts?).
• Kick corporate wardrobe butt.
• Update my CV every 6 months to reflect awesomeness.
• Keep fresh flowers at my desk.
• Listen to albums in full, rather than skipping to singles.
And, most importantly, I feel:
• Drink mojitos, with lots and lots of ice, on my balcony, watching thunderstorms.
So bye for now, lovelies, and see you in 2012. Which, might I just say, already looks pretty swell.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Recipes That Keep On Giving: Fusion Dahl
Fusion cooking, a blending of two culturally diverse cuisines, was an early noughties fad. Like many fads, the concept was good, the execution problematic, and the adoption by plebs too high to sustain lasting chic. See leggings, chai, flares and boho anything.
However, when fusion works, you find yourself in a land of culinary world peace, ebony and ivory living in perfect harmony on your plate. Or, in the case of the recipe I’m about to share with you, Anglo stodge and Indian spice combining in one of the best, cheapest and easiest dinners going.
The quickest way to take you on this journey is to get you to do the following. Imagine a full English breakfast. Imagine a bowl of dahl. Imagine if we merged the two. What would you get? East meets West. Stodge meets Spice. Fusion dahl.
The basic concept of replacing the beans component of a full English breakfast with lentil dahl was one that A Bite To Eat, a Canberra institution, trialled a number of years ago. (A full English, for the uninitiated, consists of bacon, sausage, egg, beans, toast, and some sort of fried vegetable, usually tomato, mushroom, or spinach, or all three. In my opinion, a full English is not a patch on a full Scottish, the latter being superior on account of the sheer amount and type of sausage on offer, but let’s leave that simmering ethnic tension for another post). On an evening when I was at the buy-the-two-cents-a-tin-cheaper-tin-of-tomatoes end of a pay cycle, I decided to turn my favourite poor-girl supper of red lentil dahl into an experimental cross cultural peasent feast, by adding crispy bacon, sausage, egg and toast. And that’s when I blew my mind.
Something about the combination of salty spicy dahl, salty meaty bacon and sausage, gooey egg, crisp toast, and sweet butter speaks of the best of multiple culinary worlds. Indeed, it was the dish I cooked, in a fit of Rule (Modern, Multicultural) Britannia, to eat whilst watching the royal wedding earlier this year. It has been on high rotation ever since.
Last night, I played with the formula some more. Conscious of the looming Christmas meatfest (and sugar fest, and grog fest, and general fest fest), I decided to replace the sausages with green veg, the toast with mashed home grown parsnips from PapaK’s garden, and loose the egg altogether. The result was incredible, all the more so for being a virtuous cousin to the nutritionally cheeky salt and carb overload of the original.
Recipes for the cheeky and the virtuous are supplied below. Pick according to need.
Cheeky Fusion Dahl
Serves 2 hungry people
1 cup red lentils, soaked in hot water
Butter, oil, for frying
3 cloves crushed garlic
2cm knob ginger, grated
Teaspoon garam marsala
Teaspoon tumeric
1 teaspoon massell vegetable stock powder
1 teaspoon massell chicken stock power
Hot water
6 Rashes bacon, rind trimmed
6 sausages
4 slices toast
2 eggs
Heat oil and butter in a medium saucepan until butter is frothy. Fry garlic and ginger, with a pinch of salt, until softened. Add spices, stir till aromatic. Drain lentils and add to pan, turning down heat to prevent catching. Sprinkle over stock powder, cover with hot water, and simmer over low heat until lentils are tender and dahl is at a dahl like consistency (if I were Nigella, I’d ladle in a couple of innuendos here, but I’m not, so I’ll go tautological instead).
While dahl is simmering, cook bacon and sausages until crispy, keep warm on a plate in the oven. Fry eggs in bacon and sausage pan, at the same time toast your toast until toasted (tautology, again!).
Assemble as you see fit. My preference is: toast, buttered, topped with steaming mound of dahl, topped with runny-yolked fried egg, sausage to the side, bacon balanced delicately on top. And a sprig of coriander, for a token bow to greenery.
Virtuous fusion dahl
One quantity of dahl, as above
Good handful of parsnips, peeled, chopped roughly
Butter, pepper, salt
Green vegetables for two (I like kale and French beans)
4 rashers bacon
Make dahl as above, but place parsnips in a pot with water and set over high heat as soon as you start the dahl. Cook parsnips until tender. Drain, add a knob of butter to the pan, along with salt and pepper to taste, and mash until smooth. This improves if allowed to sit for five minutes. Cook bacon, as above, and toss your greens off in the bacon fat immediately before serving.
Again, preferences for assemblage vary, but I like a mountain of parsnip, foothills of greens, a volcanic flow of dahl on top and some precariously balanced bacon.
Of course, you could veganise this concept, if that’s your thing, by replacing the egg, bacon and sausage component with crispy fried tofu cubes, avocado, or oven baked mushrooms. Vegetarians can substitute haloumi for the bacon, or jut throw on some extra eggs. Whatever you do, it’ll be a brilliant, spicy, stodgy harmony.
However, when fusion works, you find yourself in a land of culinary world peace, ebony and ivory living in perfect harmony on your plate. Or, in the case of the recipe I’m about to share with you, Anglo stodge and Indian spice combining in one of the best, cheapest and easiest dinners going.
The quickest way to take you on this journey is to get you to do the following. Imagine a full English breakfast. Imagine a bowl of dahl. Imagine if we merged the two. What would you get? East meets West. Stodge meets Spice. Fusion dahl.
The basic concept of replacing the beans component of a full English breakfast with lentil dahl was one that A Bite To Eat, a Canberra institution, trialled a number of years ago. (A full English, for the uninitiated, consists of bacon, sausage, egg, beans, toast, and some sort of fried vegetable, usually tomato, mushroom, or spinach, or all three. In my opinion, a full English is not a patch on a full Scottish, the latter being superior on account of the sheer amount and type of sausage on offer, but let’s leave that simmering ethnic tension for another post). On an evening when I was at the buy-the-two-cents-a-tin-cheaper-tin-of-tomatoes end of a pay cycle, I decided to turn my favourite poor-girl supper of red lentil dahl into an experimental cross cultural peasent feast, by adding crispy bacon, sausage, egg and toast. And that’s when I blew my mind.
Something about the combination of salty spicy dahl, salty meaty bacon and sausage, gooey egg, crisp toast, and sweet butter speaks of the best of multiple culinary worlds. Indeed, it was the dish I cooked, in a fit of Rule (Modern, Multicultural) Britannia, to eat whilst watching the royal wedding earlier this year. It has been on high rotation ever since.
Last night, I played with the formula some more. Conscious of the looming Christmas meatfest (and sugar fest, and grog fest, and general fest fest), I decided to replace the sausages with green veg, the toast with mashed home grown parsnips from PapaK’s garden, and loose the egg altogether. The result was incredible, all the more so for being a virtuous cousin to the nutritionally cheeky salt and carb overload of the original.
Recipes for the cheeky and the virtuous are supplied below. Pick according to need.
Cheeky Fusion Dahl
Serves 2 hungry people
1 cup red lentils, soaked in hot water
Butter, oil, for frying
3 cloves crushed garlic
2cm knob ginger, grated
Teaspoon garam marsala
Teaspoon tumeric
1 teaspoon massell vegetable stock powder
1 teaspoon massell chicken stock power
Hot water
6 Rashes bacon, rind trimmed
6 sausages
4 slices toast
2 eggs
Heat oil and butter in a medium saucepan until butter is frothy. Fry garlic and ginger, with a pinch of salt, until softened. Add spices, stir till aromatic. Drain lentils and add to pan, turning down heat to prevent catching. Sprinkle over stock powder, cover with hot water, and simmer over low heat until lentils are tender and dahl is at a dahl like consistency (if I were Nigella, I’d ladle in a couple of innuendos here, but I’m not, so I’ll go tautological instead).
While dahl is simmering, cook bacon and sausages until crispy, keep warm on a plate in the oven. Fry eggs in bacon and sausage pan, at the same time toast your toast until toasted (tautology, again!).
Assemble as you see fit. My preference is: toast, buttered, topped with steaming mound of dahl, topped with runny-yolked fried egg, sausage to the side, bacon balanced delicately on top. And a sprig of coriander, for a token bow to greenery.
Virtuous fusion dahl
One quantity of dahl, as above
Good handful of parsnips, peeled, chopped roughly
Butter, pepper, salt
Green vegetables for two (I like kale and French beans)
4 rashers bacon
Make dahl as above, but place parsnips in a pot with water and set over high heat as soon as you start the dahl. Cook parsnips until tender. Drain, add a knob of butter to the pan, along with salt and pepper to taste, and mash until smooth. This improves if allowed to sit for five minutes. Cook bacon, as above, and toss your greens off in the bacon fat immediately before serving.
Again, preferences for assemblage vary, but I like a mountain of parsnip, foothills of greens, a volcanic flow of dahl on top and some precariously balanced bacon.
Of course, you could veganise this concept, if that’s your thing, by replacing the egg, bacon and sausage component with crispy fried tofu cubes, avocado, or oven baked mushrooms. Vegetarians can substitute haloumi for the bacon, or jut throw on some extra eggs. Whatever you do, it’ll be a brilliant, spicy, stodgy harmony.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Summer of Steinbeck, Or, Why I Miss My English Major
Summer 2011-12 is the Summer of Steinbeck. There, I’ve declared it. Five days and two books in, it’s proving to be a most enjoyable venture.
In my hazy undergraduate days, I was both an English and a Sociology major at the ANU. If we’re judging purely by pleasure, I think I enjoyed my English courses slightly more than my Sociology courses, although I think that had something to do with the exceptionally good company offered by my English classmates (hello Clementine Kemp and Kitty Gilfeather). As I’ve gone on to do Honors and a PhD in Sociology, I clearly enjoy the challenge that Sociology presents, but English was, and remains, my first academic love. Whilst Sociology and I are happily, contentedly, farting-in-front-of-each-other married, I can’t help but miss my first tortured love, and yearn for the simpler days of reading big books and thinking big thoughts.
(In my darker PhD moments, I wonder what my life would have been like if I’d broken the mould of bright, bookish, sensitive girl and studied something wild and crazy like dentistry. I could be brining oral hygiene to the masses right now. A tempting thought, as I’m oral hygiene’s biggest cheerleader …but I digress.)
The thing I specifically miss about my English major is the discipline of reading, not just for fun, but with purpose and with a desire to understand something beyond just the story. Although I am a voracious reader (it’s the best way to pass the extra hours that insomnia gives you), I have allowed myself to become soft and slack over the last few years, when I’ve been reading solely for fast pleasure and not the deep satisfaction of reading a text that demands more from you.
So it’s in this spirit of wanting a more deeply satisfying reading experience that I’ve set myself the challenge of reading or re-reading all of Steinbeck this summer. John Steinbeck is one of my favorite authors, and, fittingly, one of the first ‘serious’ writers I fell hard for. Steinbeck wrote a lot, which is partly why I’ve chosen him for this summer’s project – I needed a writer with a big enough titles list to keep me amused all summer long, and prevent my attention from straying to other, simpler, literary pleasures.
I began with The Grapes of Wrath, arguably Steinbeck’s most famous novel, and well worth a read. I won’t spoil for those of you who haven’t yet read it, but the ending makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Last night, I finished The Wayward Bus, which I hadn’t heard of until Veronica Silver suggested it and kindly loaned me her copy. I loved it, and was highly impressed by Steinbeck’s descriptions of clothing and make up in The Wayward Bus – I’d never had Johnny boy pegged as a writer of women and women’s secret mirror rituals. Today, on the bus to work, I began Travels With Charley, another loan from Veronica Silver, and am planning on tracking down In Dubois Battle later this week. Already, I’m taken back to those first heady days of my English major, deeply satisfied yet yearning for more.
In my hazy undergraduate days, I was both an English and a Sociology major at the ANU. If we’re judging purely by pleasure, I think I enjoyed my English courses slightly more than my Sociology courses, although I think that had something to do with the exceptionally good company offered by my English classmates (hello Clementine Kemp and Kitty Gilfeather). As I’ve gone on to do Honors and a PhD in Sociology, I clearly enjoy the challenge that Sociology presents, but English was, and remains, my first academic love. Whilst Sociology and I are happily, contentedly, farting-in-front-of-each-other married, I can’t help but miss my first tortured love, and yearn for the simpler days of reading big books and thinking big thoughts.
(In my darker PhD moments, I wonder what my life would have been like if I’d broken the mould of bright, bookish, sensitive girl and studied something wild and crazy like dentistry. I could be brining oral hygiene to the masses right now. A tempting thought, as I’m oral hygiene’s biggest cheerleader …but I digress.)
The thing I specifically miss about my English major is the discipline of reading, not just for fun, but with purpose and with a desire to understand something beyond just the story. Although I am a voracious reader (it’s the best way to pass the extra hours that insomnia gives you), I have allowed myself to become soft and slack over the last few years, when I’ve been reading solely for fast pleasure and not the deep satisfaction of reading a text that demands more from you.
So it’s in this spirit of wanting a more deeply satisfying reading experience that I’ve set myself the challenge of reading or re-reading all of Steinbeck this summer. John Steinbeck is one of my favorite authors, and, fittingly, one of the first ‘serious’ writers I fell hard for. Steinbeck wrote a lot, which is partly why I’ve chosen him for this summer’s project – I needed a writer with a big enough titles list to keep me amused all summer long, and prevent my attention from straying to other, simpler, literary pleasures.
I began with The Grapes of Wrath, arguably Steinbeck’s most famous novel, and well worth a read. I won’t spoil for those of you who haven’t yet read it, but the ending makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Last night, I finished The Wayward Bus, which I hadn’t heard of until Veronica Silver suggested it and kindly loaned me her copy. I loved it, and was highly impressed by Steinbeck’s descriptions of clothing and make up in The Wayward Bus – I’d never had Johnny boy pegged as a writer of women and women’s secret mirror rituals. Today, on the bus to work, I began Travels With Charley, another loan from Veronica Silver, and am planning on tracking down In Dubois Battle later this week. Already, I’m taken back to those first heady days of my English major, deeply satisfied yet yearning for more.
Monday, November 28, 2011
The Nativity Story
Last Christmas (I gave you my heart, but the very next day, you gave it away…)
Excuse me, Wham! and I share a profound spiritual connection. Anyway, last Christmas, I wrote about how much I love the silly season here on this blog. This year (to save me from tears, I’ll give it to someone special…) I would like to share with you again my yuletide yearnings.
Christmas, in my family, is the big kahuna of celebrations. And in a family that celebrate exceptionally well and regularly - we end every week with a Sunday night feast - the big celebration really is...big! Maxtreme is probably a closer definition.
To give you an idea, MamaK’s list of Christmas baking (this is just for us, not Christmas gift baking, or Christmas deserts, or Christmas main meals, or Christmas snacks…), consists of the following items:
Shortbread
Cranberry Macarons
Pistachio Macarons
Amaretto Macarons
Almond Pears
Rum balls
Biscotti
Marmalade and Macadamia Cookies
Nigella’s spiced nuts
(This list has been revised downwards from previous years. Believe.)
It has been ever thus in our household, and here begins our nativity story. From my earliest memories of Christmas, we’ve had this nativity set. I don’t know where MamaK got it from, although I believe she’s had it since before she married PapaK, which makes it pretty old.
Anyway, the ceramic figures of Mary and Joseph, the wise men, the shepherds, the angel (my favorite) and Baby Jesus, whose face had been lovingly glued back on after a minor face-separating-from-body mishap, were the most special part of decorating our house at Christmas time. After all the other decorations had been placed carefully, after all the cards were hung on strings around our house, after I’d draped myself in itchy tinsel and admired the effect, the nativity was taken from its special bag at the bottom of the suitcase of Christmas decorations. Carefully, we would unwrap the pastel tissue protecting each piece, tissue as soft and filmy as silk from careful folding and refolding, year after year.
In the Disney version of family:
We’d then gather around, hushed and reverent, as MamaK retold the journey of Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem, and the birth of the baby in the manger. My two brothers and I would be filled with wonder at the birth of the Christ child, and proceed to sing Silent Night in perfect harmony, as we gazed upon the serene faces of Baby Jesus and Friends.
What actually happened in the real life version of our family:
We’d have an epic, EPIC battle about who got to arrange the nativity. Which would inevitably end in a truly un-Christ-like morass of hair pulling, sulking, screaming and pouting. I don’t know why arranging the nativity, of all things, was the pinnacle of Christmas decorating (see my earlier comments about my tinsel love), but the chief nativitiser was a bitterly sought after position in our pecking order. The losers would inevitably profess that life was so unfair and that they never ever got to do anything they wanted to do, EVER. Poor MamaK’s please for sharing and being nice would fall on six deaf little ears.
Things simmered down a bit as we passed into our teens, although the nativity always occupied pride of place in our Christmas display, and everyone freely expressed their opinions on where it would be best placed. So, it was with much surprise that MamaK and PapaK, over ciders and schnitzels at the Durham (again, celebrating – the cause this time? Because it was Wednesday), announced that their new nativity set had arrived.
What? New Nativity? But what about the old one?? We all cried in perfect harmony.
Well, we don’t need two…the parental sheepishly said.
The thought of Mary and Joseph, wonky Baby Jesus, the shepherds and the wise men and the angel, sitting in the bottom of the Christmas decoration suitcase, ensconced in their silky tissue, unloved and un fought over, was clearly too much for my brothers and I to bear.
Before I could open my mouth with a suggestion, my BigLittleBrother suggested that perhaps, now we were all living in our own places, we could have a shared care arrangement of the nativity set, each of us having custody on a rotating basis. And in refutation of our lifetime-long nativity rivalry, my brothers both suggested that I should have the nativity in this, the first year of its rotation, as I am the eldest.
So, this year, I’m looking forward to having Baby Jesus and the whole motley crew in my apartment, watching over my Christmas. But more importantly, I’m looking forward to wrapping them in their crumpled, soft tissue, and passing them on to my brother and Tessy Halberton next Christmas, to watch over them in their turn. After all, Christmas is all about sharing and being nice. We know this now.
Excuse me, Wham! and I share a profound spiritual connection. Anyway, last Christmas, I wrote about how much I love the silly season here on this blog. This year (to save me from tears, I’ll give it to someone special…) I would like to share with you again my yuletide yearnings.
Christmas, in my family, is the big kahuna of celebrations. And in a family that celebrate exceptionally well and regularly - we end every week with a Sunday night feast - the big celebration really is...big! Maxtreme is probably a closer definition.
To give you an idea, MamaK’s list of Christmas baking (this is just for us, not Christmas gift baking, or Christmas deserts, or Christmas main meals, or Christmas snacks…), consists of the following items:
Shortbread
Cranberry Macarons
Pistachio Macarons
Amaretto Macarons
Almond Pears
Rum balls
Biscotti
Marmalade and Macadamia Cookies
Nigella’s spiced nuts
(This list has been revised downwards from previous years. Believe.)
It has been ever thus in our household, and here begins our nativity story. From my earliest memories of Christmas, we’ve had this nativity set. I don’t know where MamaK got it from, although I believe she’s had it since before she married PapaK, which makes it pretty old.
Anyway, the ceramic figures of Mary and Joseph, the wise men, the shepherds, the angel (my favorite) and Baby Jesus, whose face had been lovingly glued back on after a minor face-separating-from-body mishap, were the most special part of decorating our house at Christmas time. After all the other decorations had been placed carefully, after all the cards were hung on strings around our house, after I’d draped myself in itchy tinsel and admired the effect, the nativity was taken from its special bag at the bottom of the suitcase of Christmas decorations. Carefully, we would unwrap the pastel tissue protecting each piece, tissue as soft and filmy as silk from careful folding and refolding, year after year.
In the Disney version of family:
We’d then gather around, hushed and reverent, as MamaK retold the journey of Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem, and the birth of the baby in the manger. My two brothers and I would be filled with wonder at the birth of the Christ child, and proceed to sing Silent Night in perfect harmony, as we gazed upon the serene faces of Baby Jesus and Friends.
What actually happened in the real life version of our family:
We’d have an epic, EPIC battle about who got to arrange the nativity. Which would inevitably end in a truly un-Christ-like morass of hair pulling, sulking, screaming and pouting. I don’t know why arranging the nativity, of all things, was the pinnacle of Christmas decorating (see my earlier comments about my tinsel love), but the chief nativitiser was a bitterly sought after position in our pecking order. The losers would inevitably profess that life was so unfair and that they never ever got to do anything they wanted to do, EVER. Poor MamaK’s please for sharing and being nice would fall on six deaf little ears.
Things simmered down a bit as we passed into our teens, although the nativity always occupied pride of place in our Christmas display, and everyone freely expressed their opinions on where it would be best placed. So, it was with much surprise that MamaK and PapaK, over ciders and schnitzels at the Durham (again, celebrating – the cause this time? Because it was Wednesday), announced that their new nativity set had arrived.
What? New Nativity? But what about the old one?? We all cried in perfect harmony.
Well, we don’t need two…the parental sheepishly said.
The thought of Mary and Joseph, wonky Baby Jesus, the shepherds and the wise men and the angel, sitting in the bottom of the Christmas decoration suitcase, ensconced in their silky tissue, unloved and un fought over, was clearly too much for my brothers and I to bear.
Before I could open my mouth with a suggestion, my BigLittleBrother suggested that perhaps, now we were all living in our own places, we could have a shared care arrangement of the nativity set, each of us having custody on a rotating basis. And in refutation of our lifetime-long nativity rivalry, my brothers both suggested that I should have the nativity in this, the first year of its rotation, as I am the eldest.
So, this year, I’m looking forward to having Baby Jesus and the whole motley crew in my apartment, watching over my Christmas. But more importantly, I’m looking forward to wrapping them in their crumpled, soft tissue, and passing them on to my brother and Tessy Halberton next Christmas, to watch over them in their turn. After all, Christmas is all about sharing and being nice. We know this now.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Wardrobe
I mentioned in a previous post that I’ve recently moved into an apartment on my own, and I’m enjoying it very much. I think at least 80% of that enjoyment comes from my the size of my new wardrobe.
It’s at least three meters of built in, mirror fronted, all hanging goodness (I’m a hanger, not a folder – less ironing!). It’s massive. It’s huge. It’s amazing.
I never thought that having a big wardrobe would change my life and the way I approach getting dressed in the morning, but it does. Every morning, I slide open the doors and consult my clothing options (sorted into sections: tops/skirts/short and mid dresses/long dresses). My shoes are stowed in handy hanging shoe racks (thanks, IKEA). Belts and camisoles have a respective drawer. It’s all organized, all ordered, and all beautiful.
The cultural zeitgeist at the moment seems to be all about doing things Mindfully – usually eating or walking. My thoughts on this? Big Yawn with Arm Stretch. I love food, love eating while I read the paper, love eating while chatting with friends and family face to face and on the phone, love munching on a really good apple while I go for a walk. I don’t have the time or the inclination to roll a raisin around on my tongue for ten minutes before eating it. Enough already. Just eat. Same with walking. I have no desire to do walking mediations – left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. I’m too busy indulging in rock star daydreams, MA15+ conversations with girlfriends, and deep diving into vitally important issues (global warming, education systems, celebrity baby names). I just like to get out and enjoy myself, no complex mindfulness procedure necessary.
Pondering the pleasure that I get from my wardrobe and dressing in the morning, though, I can’t help but wonder if I’m a mindful dresser, if not a mindful eater or walker. That ten minutes I spend absorbed in choosing, combining, trying and adjusting is ten minutes in my day when I’m entirely focused on one task, and one task only, appreciating every piece of clothing in my well planned wardrobe, feeling like a glamorous diva, in the manner of Beyonce, even when I’m just pulling on track pants.
Mindfulness? Wishful thinking? Whatever it is, I like it, a lot. And it’s all thanks to my big wardrobe.
It’s at least three meters of built in, mirror fronted, all hanging goodness (I’m a hanger, not a folder – less ironing!). It’s massive. It’s huge. It’s amazing.
I never thought that having a big wardrobe would change my life and the way I approach getting dressed in the morning, but it does. Every morning, I slide open the doors and consult my clothing options (sorted into sections: tops/skirts/short and mid dresses/long dresses). My shoes are stowed in handy hanging shoe racks (thanks, IKEA). Belts and camisoles have a respective drawer. It’s all organized, all ordered, and all beautiful.
The cultural zeitgeist at the moment seems to be all about doing things Mindfully – usually eating or walking. My thoughts on this? Big Yawn with Arm Stretch. I love food, love eating while I read the paper, love eating while chatting with friends and family face to face and on the phone, love munching on a really good apple while I go for a walk. I don’t have the time or the inclination to roll a raisin around on my tongue for ten minutes before eating it. Enough already. Just eat. Same with walking. I have no desire to do walking mediations – left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. I’m too busy indulging in rock star daydreams, MA15+ conversations with girlfriends, and deep diving into vitally important issues (global warming, education systems, celebrity baby names). I just like to get out and enjoy myself, no complex mindfulness procedure necessary.
Pondering the pleasure that I get from my wardrobe and dressing in the morning, though, I can’t help but wonder if I’m a mindful dresser, if not a mindful eater or walker. That ten minutes I spend absorbed in choosing, combining, trying and adjusting is ten minutes in my day when I’m entirely focused on one task, and one task only, appreciating every piece of clothing in my well planned wardrobe, feeling like a glamorous diva, in the manner of Beyonce, even when I’m just pulling on track pants.
Mindfulness? Wishful thinking? Whatever it is, I like it, a lot. And it’s all thanks to my big wardrobe.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
High Beams
One night earlier this year when I couldn’t sleep, I channel surfed until I came upon Embarrassing Bodies. Have any of you seen it? If you have, you’ll know what I mean when I say that I absolutely can’t unsee some of the things that I saw that night. And I’m told I watched a particularly ‘PG’ episode.
The whole discussion around embarrassing bodies, though, is a fascinating one, as a sociologist and as an owner of a body. A discussion which I’d put to the back of my mind, until my body did something rather embarrassing yesterday.
You see, it’s warming up here in the capital, which means that I am abandoning my favoured cardigans and scarves for a more seasonally appropriate look. I’ve also been dipping back into some summer classics, and reinventing them in some new ways.
Yesterday, I wore my favourite tangerine Country Road cap sleeved blouse, tucked into my amazing look-a-size-smaller Veronica Maine pencil skirt (not that people need to look a size smaller – although sometimes a little flattery gets you everywhere). Because my favourite top is getting into its third year of wear, and starting to lose opacity, I layered it over a nude slip, so as not to unintentionally expose my appalling lack of planning in the lingerie department (summer is almost upon us and I have no nude coloured bras). I checked my look in the mirror, and decided that not a thing needed changing.
Wardrobe win, right? WRONG.
My body decided that yesterday was the day to do something embarrassing. As mentioned on this blog before in the context of bra shopping, I have a large bust. Favourable comparisons to Christina Hendrix have been made (thank you Jordan Hawthorne, Kitty Gilfeather, Amity Merryweather et al). Sometimes, they get in the way of functional daily life, but mostly, my boobs and I get along. I say mostly, because sometimes by boobs get together and decide to completely sabotage my life. I’d imagine the conversation going something like this:
Left Boob: Hey babe, I’m bored. Let’s stir this thing up.
Right Boob: SNAP! It’s like we share a brain. What did you have in mind?
Left Boob: Hows about we deploy a chronic attack of the high beams, ALL DAY LONG, for no good reason? That’ll show her Upstairs.
Right Boob: Right on! We could make this even more difficult for The Boss if we each pointed our beams in completely opposite directions – what a laugh!
Left Boob: We are so clever and entertaining for inanimate body parts. You take the high road and I’ll take the low road...
Right Boob: And I’ll embarrass Peggy before ye! Ignite super erect high beam nipples…NOW.
I think they would take over the world if they weren’t securely attached.
Anyway, back to yesterday. There I was, minding my own business, grabbing lunch with a colleague, sitting out in the sun before December drives me indoors in the name of UV avoidance. Walking through the corridor, I cheerfully greeted a number of vastly senior figures in my school, chatting away animatedly about the weather. Until I walked past the mirror in my office: The Horror, or, my particular version of the Horror - Beam Me Up (and Down) Scotty. Quickly, I established that, no, it wasn’t cold, and, no, Dwigh K Schrute was not awaiting me in my office with the sole purpose of making all my Christmases come at once.
It was a clear case of mammary mutiny.
Normally, when this occurs, I foil the cunning plans of my misbehaving breasts with artful draping of cardigans, scarves, and coats. Yesterday, though, I had no such option, and the bright orange colour of my ‘I’m ready for summer’ blouse only served to magnify the extreme beams.
The only solution available was to grin and bear it, and spend ten minutes in the university toilets with my blouse ruched up around my neck, manipulating my naughty norks and adjusting my bra so my headlights were at least even. This procedure meant I was ten minutes late for my much anticipated catch up with Amity Merryweather, who, fortunately, could see the funny side of my embarrassing body. We agreed that the reason why these sorts of things don’t happen to Christina Hendrix is because she pays someone to be her professional high beam monitor, sort of like one of those people at airports waving coloured paddles around to let the planes known when it’s safe to take off.
I’m considering advertising a similar position. Serious applicants only.
The whole discussion around embarrassing bodies, though, is a fascinating one, as a sociologist and as an owner of a body. A discussion which I’d put to the back of my mind, until my body did something rather embarrassing yesterday.
You see, it’s warming up here in the capital, which means that I am abandoning my favoured cardigans and scarves for a more seasonally appropriate look. I’ve also been dipping back into some summer classics, and reinventing them in some new ways.
Yesterday, I wore my favourite tangerine Country Road cap sleeved blouse, tucked into my amazing look-a-size-smaller Veronica Maine pencil skirt (not that people need to look a size smaller – although sometimes a little flattery gets you everywhere). Because my favourite top is getting into its third year of wear, and starting to lose opacity, I layered it over a nude slip, so as not to unintentionally expose my appalling lack of planning in the lingerie department (summer is almost upon us and I have no nude coloured bras). I checked my look in the mirror, and decided that not a thing needed changing.
Wardrobe win, right? WRONG.
My body decided that yesterday was the day to do something embarrassing. As mentioned on this blog before in the context of bra shopping, I have a large bust. Favourable comparisons to Christina Hendrix have been made (thank you Jordan Hawthorne, Kitty Gilfeather, Amity Merryweather et al). Sometimes, they get in the way of functional daily life, but mostly, my boobs and I get along. I say mostly, because sometimes by boobs get together and decide to completely sabotage my life. I’d imagine the conversation going something like this:
Left Boob: Hey babe, I’m bored. Let’s stir this thing up.
Right Boob: SNAP! It’s like we share a brain. What did you have in mind?
Left Boob: Hows about we deploy a chronic attack of the high beams, ALL DAY LONG, for no good reason? That’ll show her Upstairs.
Right Boob: Right on! We could make this even more difficult for The Boss if we each pointed our beams in completely opposite directions – what a laugh!
Left Boob: We are so clever and entertaining for inanimate body parts. You take the high road and I’ll take the low road...
Right Boob: And I’ll embarrass Peggy before ye! Ignite super erect high beam nipples…NOW.
I think they would take over the world if they weren’t securely attached.
Anyway, back to yesterday. There I was, minding my own business, grabbing lunch with a colleague, sitting out in the sun before December drives me indoors in the name of UV avoidance. Walking through the corridor, I cheerfully greeted a number of vastly senior figures in my school, chatting away animatedly about the weather. Until I walked past the mirror in my office: The Horror, or, my particular version of the Horror - Beam Me Up (and Down) Scotty. Quickly, I established that, no, it wasn’t cold, and, no, Dwigh K Schrute was not awaiting me in my office with the sole purpose of making all my Christmases come at once.
It was a clear case of mammary mutiny.
Normally, when this occurs, I foil the cunning plans of my misbehaving breasts with artful draping of cardigans, scarves, and coats. Yesterday, though, I had no such option, and the bright orange colour of my ‘I’m ready for summer’ blouse only served to magnify the extreme beams.
The only solution available was to grin and bear it, and spend ten minutes in the university toilets with my blouse ruched up around my neck, manipulating my naughty norks and adjusting my bra so my headlights were at least even. This procedure meant I was ten minutes late for my much anticipated catch up with Amity Merryweather, who, fortunately, could see the funny side of my embarrassing body. We agreed that the reason why these sorts of things don’t happen to Christina Hendrix is because she pays someone to be her professional high beam monitor, sort of like one of those people at airports waving coloured paddles around to let the planes known when it’s safe to take off.
I’m considering advertising a similar position. Serious applicants only.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
My Place
I was intending on writing a follow up piece to last week’s theoretical deconstruction of DFO, but that’s going to have to wait until another day, as something terribly exciting has happened this weekend.
I’ve moved into my very own apartment. All by myself. (Ok, with the help of mamaK and papaK and some fantastic removalists for the heavy stuff, but it’s just me living there).
Long story short, I was intending to move later on in the year. Circumstances conspired to make me more than willing to make the financial commitment of paying double rent for 6 weeks to get into my own place sooner. Luckily, the fact that I speak fluent real estate meant that I had an offer made within 24 hours of viewing an apartment that I truly loved. (If you ever need to know the secrets to this strange dialect of sales speak, inbox me and we can liaise – that’s real estate speak for talk, FYI).
This weekend just passed was moving weekend, and those of you who know me well, or can deduce my interests from this blog, would appreciate that moving all my books, clothes and kitchenware down and then up three flights of stairs was no mean feat. But it’s done, and, with the exception of my bedroom and a few other bits and pieces, my new place is ready for me to spend the first night there later this week.
What’s really thrilling slash eerie slash awesome about this new apartment is that it has more space to call my own than I’ve ever had in my whole life. Both the family homes I grew up in, in Sydney and Canberra, were quite little for the amount of people we had living in them. I can remember being awed when I went to other people’s houses and they had spare rooms, rooms that existed entirely surplus to requirements, with pretty floral bedspreads and a mildew smell from disuse. Or rumpus rooms: a room entirely for kids to do kid stuff in. Wicked, but a totally foreign concept at my place, where every space had double or triple functions.
When I moved out of home in 2009 and into various share houses, the same applied – I had my room, but all other spaces were shared, which resulted in some pretty super hilarious fun times. But again, I found myself wondering what it would be like to sleep in a room that didn’t serve as a workspace, lounge room, dining room and laundry all at once.
This week, I’m going to find out what that’s like, because my new place has two bedrooms : a bedroom for me, and an actual spare room slash study slash extra place to store my clothes. In my spare room there’s a futon for when Merry Helliwell, Kitty Gilfeather, Clementine Kemp or Katriona Winston-Stanley come and stay for a visit. My grandfather’s writing desk sits in a corner, waiting for me to write that novel, the novel that’s nipping steadily at my heels with more than a little encouragement from Mimi Goss and Zsuzannah Verona.
My bedroom, now just a bedroom, is now a space freed up for dreaming about all these possibilities. And, of course, for storing my clothes in the obscenely large built in wardrobe.
I’ve moved into my very own apartment. All by myself. (Ok, with the help of mamaK and papaK and some fantastic removalists for the heavy stuff, but it’s just me living there).
Long story short, I was intending to move later on in the year. Circumstances conspired to make me more than willing to make the financial commitment of paying double rent for 6 weeks to get into my own place sooner. Luckily, the fact that I speak fluent real estate meant that I had an offer made within 24 hours of viewing an apartment that I truly loved. (If you ever need to know the secrets to this strange dialect of sales speak, inbox me and we can liaise – that’s real estate speak for talk, FYI).
This weekend just passed was moving weekend, and those of you who know me well, or can deduce my interests from this blog, would appreciate that moving all my books, clothes and kitchenware down and then up three flights of stairs was no mean feat. But it’s done, and, with the exception of my bedroom and a few other bits and pieces, my new place is ready for me to spend the first night there later this week.
What’s really thrilling slash eerie slash awesome about this new apartment is that it has more space to call my own than I’ve ever had in my whole life. Both the family homes I grew up in, in Sydney and Canberra, were quite little for the amount of people we had living in them. I can remember being awed when I went to other people’s houses and they had spare rooms, rooms that existed entirely surplus to requirements, with pretty floral bedspreads and a mildew smell from disuse. Or rumpus rooms: a room entirely for kids to do kid stuff in. Wicked, but a totally foreign concept at my place, where every space had double or triple functions.
When I moved out of home in 2009 and into various share houses, the same applied – I had my room, but all other spaces were shared, which resulted in some pretty super hilarious fun times. But again, I found myself wondering what it would be like to sleep in a room that didn’t serve as a workspace, lounge room, dining room and laundry all at once.
This week, I’m going to find out what that’s like, because my new place has two bedrooms : a bedroom for me, and an actual spare room slash study slash extra place to store my clothes. In my spare room there’s a futon for when Merry Helliwell, Kitty Gilfeather, Clementine Kemp or Katriona Winston-Stanley come and stay for a visit. My grandfather’s writing desk sits in a corner, waiting for me to write that novel, the novel that’s nipping steadily at my heels with more than a little encouragement from Mimi Goss and Zsuzannah Verona.
My bedroom, now just a bedroom, is now a space freed up for dreaming about all these possibilities. And, of course, for storing my clothes in the obscenely large built in wardrobe.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Theorising DFO Part One: Barthes
Roland Barthes was a French cultural theorist who, like most theorists, had a lot of interesting things to say. Sadly, understanding Barthes is like sawing through steak with the lid of a Tupperware container. You know that there is a reward for persevering, but your perceptual equipment isn’t sharp enough. His writing, too, poses some challenges. It’s like an over-pastryed sausage roll. A tasty sausage of knowledge is hiding for you beneath a thick, crusty, flaky layer of wordiness, which you have to eat your way through.
Which is why I feel it’s best to start with the familiar when exploring difficult theoretical ground. So let’s head to DFO.
(Incidentally, two meat related analogies in the one paragraph could perhaps indicate an iron deficiency on the part of the author. Or it could herald the start of summer barbeque season…)
DFO (Direct Factory Outlet, for the uninitiated) is located in Fyshwick. I have written before about my great love of this maligned Eastern suburb of Canberra, and the conspicuous presence of DFO is a significant part of why Fyshwick and I are goin’ steady. DFO is a large warehouse, with outlets of many, many, many different companies and stores. It’s loud, because the building isn’t properly insulated (it literally is a warehouse) and each of the poorly partitioned stores dials up the volume on the sound system to compete for aural dominance. There are also spruikers – terrifying people with microphones enticing you into their store with the promise of bargains, bargains, bargains.
What, might you ask, does DFO have to do with Roland Barthes? Well, quite a lot.
Barthes postulated in his discussion of literature that, broadly, you could divide texts into two different sorts: readerly texts, where the author’s intent was clearly conveyed and there was little ambiguity, and writerly texts, where the author’s intent was unclear and a high degree of ambiguity existed. Barthes argued that writerly texts extended an invitation to the reader to participate in interpreting the meaning of the text, and, as such, created a dialogue. Readerly texts, on the other hand, presented a sealed, closed off narrative, to be read, enjoyed, and absorbed, but ultimately untempered with.
DFO is the shopping world’s equivalent of a writerly text. It’s rough around the edges. You don’t know what’s going on a lot of the time, and any assumptions you bring to the text/DFO will be thrown out the moment you step through the doors. Don’t try and approach a writerly text with a firm idea of what you wish to get out of it. Guaranteed your quest for pencil skirts or nude wedge heels will result in failure. You may, on your exit, emerge without skirts or shoes, but with a Sheridan quilt cover for $20. Multiple layers of meaning, and multiple R&B soundtracks, fight for dominance in the one cultural space. Clothes, shoes, home wares are presented in a haphazard way – piled onto racks, crammed together, piled on benches, disorganised, chaotic. Stock can be anywhere from up to the minute to three seasons (or more!) old, and is often climatically inappropriate. Staff are too busy unloading stock to provide you with a helpful narration through this quagmire. You, the shopper, are presented with a delicious invitation: here are the goods. Make of them what you will.
Of course, the DFO experience, like a writerly text, can be exhausting. Sometimes there is no way of making sense of the disorder. Sometimes you want to be taken by the hand and be guided by a reliable narrator through Alana Hill’s Spring collection. Sometimes you want your ideas, your dresses, shoes, and jeans, presented clearly and in isolation, sorted by size and price.
Yet sometimes, the order and prescription of shopping at, say, the Canberra Centre’s Veronika Maine store leaves me cold. Beautiful dresses on mannequins beg to be ruffled. Neat racks, salesgirls who can tell you in an instant what stock is available out the back should you require a size down, the hermetic seal of up-to-the-minute trends, make me long for having to work a little harder, dig a little deeper through the piles of 6’s and 8’s for that elusive size 14. For the challenge of creating meanings and great outfits of my own, as I go about my shopping at DFO.
And of course, for the bargains, bargains, bargains.
Which is why I feel it’s best to start with the familiar when exploring difficult theoretical ground. So let’s head to DFO.
(Incidentally, two meat related analogies in the one paragraph could perhaps indicate an iron deficiency on the part of the author. Or it could herald the start of summer barbeque season…)
DFO (Direct Factory Outlet, for the uninitiated) is located in Fyshwick. I have written before about my great love of this maligned Eastern suburb of Canberra, and the conspicuous presence of DFO is a significant part of why Fyshwick and I are goin’ steady. DFO is a large warehouse, with outlets of many, many, many different companies and stores. It’s loud, because the building isn’t properly insulated (it literally is a warehouse) and each of the poorly partitioned stores dials up the volume on the sound system to compete for aural dominance. There are also spruikers – terrifying people with microphones enticing you into their store with the promise of bargains, bargains, bargains.
What, might you ask, does DFO have to do with Roland Barthes? Well, quite a lot.
Barthes postulated in his discussion of literature that, broadly, you could divide texts into two different sorts: readerly texts, where the author’s intent was clearly conveyed and there was little ambiguity, and writerly texts, where the author’s intent was unclear and a high degree of ambiguity existed. Barthes argued that writerly texts extended an invitation to the reader to participate in interpreting the meaning of the text, and, as such, created a dialogue. Readerly texts, on the other hand, presented a sealed, closed off narrative, to be read, enjoyed, and absorbed, but ultimately untempered with.
DFO is the shopping world’s equivalent of a writerly text. It’s rough around the edges. You don’t know what’s going on a lot of the time, and any assumptions you bring to the text/DFO will be thrown out the moment you step through the doors. Don’t try and approach a writerly text with a firm idea of what you wish to get out of it. Guaranteed your quest for pencil skirts or nude wedge heels will result in failure. You may, on your exit, emerge without skirts or shoes, but with a Sheridan quilt cover for $20. Multiple layers of meaning, and multiple R&B soundtracks, fight for dominance in the one cultural space. Clothes, shoes, home wares are presented in a haphazard way – piled onto racks, crammed together, piled on benches, disorganised, chaotic. Stock can be anywhere from up to the minute to three seasons (or more!) old, and is often climatically inappropriate. Staff are too busy unloading stock to provide you with a helpful narration through this quagmire. You, the shopper, are presented with a delicious invitation: here are the goods. Make of them what you will.
Of course, the DFO experience, like a writerly text, can be exhausting. Sometimes there is no way of making sense of the disorder. Sometimes you want to be taken by the hand and be guided by a reliable narrator through Alana Hill’s Spring collection. Sometimes you want your ideas, your dresses, shoes, and jeans, presented clearly and in isolation, sorted by size and price.
Yet sometimes, the order and prescription of shopping at, say, the Canberra Centre’s Veronika Maine store leaves me cold. Beautiful dresses on mannequins beg to be ruffled. Neat racks, salesgirls who can tell you in an instant what stock is available out the back should you require a size down, the hermetic seal of up-to-the-minute trends, make me long for having to work a little harder, dig a little deeper through the piles of 6’s and 8’s for that elusive size 14. For the challenge of creating meanings and great outfits of my own, as I go about my shopping at DFO.
And of course, for the bargains, bargains, bargains.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
The Most Amazing Goldfish Names In The World
Mimi Goss and I spent the best part of a walk around the lake on the weekend working out the ultimate thematic name groupings for pet fish.
Be prepared to have your mind blown.
Theme: Prince Song Titles
TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld
RaspberryBeret
LittleRedCourvette
NothingCompares2U
DiamondsAndPearls
Theme: Ridiculous Politicians
TonyAbbott
AmandaVanstone
BobKatter
BobHawke
PaulKeating
JuliaGillard
BarnabyJoyce
StevenFielding
FredNile
Theme: 70s and 80s Recording Artists
PhillCollins
GunsAndRoses
ThinLizzie
BonJovie
StingAndThePolice
Bananarama
JohnFarnham
DuranDuran
Theme: Various titles of Prince
Prince
TheArtistFormallyKnownAsPrince
TheLoveSymbol
Theme: Feminist Theorists
JudithButler
GermaneGreer
SimonDeBoviour
Bellhooks
NaomiWolf
BettyFreidan
Theme: Ungrouped but Too Awesome To Not Consider
SnakesOnAPlane
!!!
&*%#
NapoleonPerdis
Clearly, it’d been a long week for both Mimi and I.
When I move into my new apartment at the end of next month and acquire said fish, I’ll let you know which theme was selected. Although I strongly suspect that I can’t not have a fish called TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld…
Be prepared to have your mind blown.
Theme: Prince Song Titles
TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld
RaspberryBeret
LittleRedCourvette
NothingCompares2U
DiamondsAndPearls
Theme: Ridiculous Politicians
TonyAbbott
AmandaVanstone
BobKatter
BobHawke
PaulKeating
JuliaGillard
BarnabyJoyce
StevenFielding
FredNile
Theme: 70s and 80s Recording Artists
PhillCollins
GunsAndRoses
ThinLizzie
BonJovie
StingAndThePolice
Bananarama
JohnFarnham
DuranDuran
Theme: Various titles of Prince
Prince
TheArtistFormallyKnownAsPrince
TheLoveSymbol
Theme: Feminist Theorists
JudithButler
GermaneGreer
SimonDeBoviour
Bellhooks
NaomiWolf
BettyFreidan
Theme: Ungrouped but Too Awesome To Not Consider
SnakesOnAPlane
!!!
&*%#
NapoleonPerdis
Clearly, it’d been a long week for both Mimi and I.
When I move into my new apartment at the end of next month and acquire said fish, I’ll let you know which theme was selected. Although I strongly suspect that I can’t not have a fish called TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld…
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Sprung
Spring has sprung, people. The ten to twelve weeks of perfect weather in the Nation’s Capital are top on my list of reasons why I adore living here. Particularly because spring means it’s time to indulge in one of my favorite things…
Spring fashion. Oh my word.
See, I love me a bit of a mullet – an incongruous combination of business and pleasure. Spring fashion provides plenty fashion mullet moments. Bare legs and cardigans. Maxi dresses with boots. Sunhats on top, lacy tights on bottom. A hybrid, combining the best of your winter wardrobe with the cream of the early summer crop.
Spring is also a catalyst, enabling you change things up in your wardrobe. I know I only wrote about wardrobe clear outs a few months ago, but I’m all about change as soon as the first daffodils push their sunshiny heads forward. Whilst I didn’t get rid of too much this weekend just passed, spring cleaning my clothes was a great opportunity to get reacquainted with a few old friends. Vintage kaftan - I missed you. Let’s not leave it so long next time, alright?
Spring does have its downsides. Those first few cleavage sunburns, hay fever, and having to clear the winter undergrowth from my legs are not things I enjoy. But oh, to stroll bare-legged through campus on a sunny morning is worth all the sneezing, peeling skin, and razor burn.
Spring fashion. Oh my word.
See, I love me a bit of a mullet – an incongruous combination of business and pleasure. Spring fashion provides plenty fashion mullet moments. Bare legs and cardigans. Maxi dresses with boots. Sunhats on top, lacy tights on bottom. A hybrid, combining the best of your winter wardrobe with the cream of the early summer crop.
Spring is also a catalyst, enabling you change things up in your wardrobe. I know I only wrote about wardrobe clear outs a few months ago, but I’m all about change as soon as the first daffodils push their sunshiny heads forward. Whilst I didn’t get rid of too much this weekend just passed, spring cleaning my clothes was a great opportunity to get reacquainted with a few old friends. Vintage kaftan - I missed you. Let’s not leave it so long next time, alright?
Spring does have its downsides. Those first few cleavage sunburns, hay fever, and having to clear the winter undergrowth from my legs are not things I enjoy. But oh, to stroll bare-legged through campus on a sunny morning is worth all the sneezing, peeling skin, and razor burn.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe
I’ve had a rather embarrassing song stuck in my head for the last couple of days. It’s Barry White, and ‘Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe’.
Why is it always guilty musical pleasures that get stuck in your head, and not something legitimately cool? This, and other mysteries, I will have to ponder further and get back to you. For now, though, in an attempt to exorcise the disco classic from my brain, here’s some things I Can’t Get Enough of, Babe.
Layered Tights: It’s so close to warm weather here in Canberra, I’m loathe to buy new pantyhose, which means that I’m wearing tights that ought to have been retired to light duties three weeks ago. The nifty solution? Layering lace or mesh tights over a pair of opaques. The lace or mesh overlay obscures the worst of the holes, and the interplay of colourful tights peeking through black lace is a nifty way of dressing up an otherwise plain ‘teaching day’ outfit.
Bananas: Bananas, I’ve missed you. Luckily, you have finally come down to something I can (just) justify - $8.99 per kilo at my local grocers!
The Panics: Now, this is the kind of music I wish would stick in my head a little more than tacktastic disco. Their latest album is rocking my world particularly hard right now.
Crazy Cat Names: It’s a family tradition that cats get slightly whacky names. My brother’s cat’s full title is Jethro Francis Patrick Anthony Margret (he’s a special boy). If things go as well as I hope they will, I may find myself adopting a cat for myself in the next little while. Which means it’s time to work on whacky cat names. Current favorites are Ferdinand, Henrietta, Vincent, Dwight or Bettina. Or possibly all of them at once. Thoughts?
‘The Tudors’, Specifically the Duke of Suffolk and His Amazing Beard: Mimi Goss leant me her DVDs of all four seasons of The Tudors. It’s seriously addictive television. Particularly when Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, grows a beard in Season Four. Google pictures to understand why. I promise it’s worth it.
Why is it always guilty musical pleasures that get stuck in your head, and not something legitimately cool? This, and other mysteries, I will have to ponder further and get back to you. For now, though, in an attempt to exorcise the disco classic from my brain, here’s some things I Can’t Get Enough of, Babe.
Layered Tights: It’s so close to warm weather here in Canberra, I’m loathe to buy new pantyhose, which means that I’m wearing tights that ought to have been retired to light duties three weeks ago. The nifty solution? Layering lace or mesh tights over a pair of opaques. The lace or mesh overlay obscures the worst of the holes, and the interplay of colourful tights peeking through black lace is a nifty way of dressing up an otherwise plain ‘teaching day’ outfit.
Bananas: Bananas, I’ve missed you. Luckily, you have finally come down to something I can (just) justify - $8.99 per kilo at my local grocers!
The Panics: Now, this is the kind of music I wish would stick in my head a little more than tacktastic disco. Their latest album is rocking my world particularly hard right now.
Crazy Cat Names: It’s a family tradition that cats get slightly whacky names. My brother’s cat’s full title is Jethro Francis Patrick Anthony Margret (he’s a special boy). If things go as well as I hope they will, I may find myself adopting a cat for myself in the next little while. Which means it’s time to work on whacky cat names. Current favorites are Ferdinand, Henrietta, Vincent, Dwight or Bettina. Or possibly all of them at once. Thoughts?
‘The Tudors’, Specifically the Duke of Suffolk and His Amazing Beard: Mimi Goss leant me her DVDs of all four seasons of The Tudors. It’s seriously addictive television. Particularly when Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, grows a beard in Season Four. Google pictures to understand why. I promise it’s worth it.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Leaps of Faith
Shopping for clothes online is a leap of faith. So much could go wrong – wrong colour, wrong size, just wrong . Yet so much could go right, too – beautiful clothes delivered to your door, colours and cuts not available in Australia, the ‘ahhhh’ moment when you unwrap an airmail parcel.
I’ve got it wrong, badly wrong, in the past, but when a leap of faith pays off like it did for me last week, all past online disappointments fade away.
Back in early July (JULY!!!!!!) after months of emailing each other links to dresses we liked, Zsuzannah Verona and I bit the bullet and agreed to order some dresses from a US company called Shabby Apple (this blog has no paid posts, folks, so as in the past when I’ve recommended something to you, it’s done without any financial inducement on my part. So it’s with my hand on my heart that I can strongly recommend plugging ‘Shabby Apple’ into Google and checking out their website for some seriously gorgeous dresses).
I waited, and hoped, and waited, and hoped. I sent some polite emails, and got a US postal service tracking number, so I could log my parcel’s journey, which, at times, felt painfully slow, especially as I wasn’t yet sure if my leap of faith would pay off. Would all this waiting be worthwhile, or would I wind up disappointed and dissatisfied after weeks (months!) of longing for something of which I’d had only the most intangible of glimpses.
After a two day hold up at my comically mismanaged local post office, the USPS box was in my hot little hand. So excited was I to see if my leap of faith had paid off, I opened the parcel while waiting at the traffic lights on my way into work.
Oh my, how the faithful are rewarded!
Zsuzannah and my dresses were fantastic. Amazing. Beautiful. True to the pictures and fit descriptions. Better than I could ever have imagined, and all the better for a leap of blind faith - and a six to eight week wait.
I’ve got it wrong, badly wrong, in the past, but when a leap of faith pays off like it did for me last week, all past online disappointments fade away.
Back in early July (JULY!!!!!!) after months of emailing each other links to dresses we liked, Zsuzannah Verona and I bit the bullet and agreed to order some dresses from a US company called Shabby Apple (this blog has no paid posts, folks, so as in the past when I’ve recommended something to you, it’s done without any financial inducement on my part. So it’s with my hand on my heart that I can strongly recommend plugging ‘Shabby Apple’ into Google and checking out their website for some seriously gorgeous dresses).
I waited, and hoped, and waited, and hoped. I sent some polite emails, and got a US postal service tracking number, so I could log my parcel’s journey, which, at times, felt painfully slow, especially as I wasn’t yet sure if my leap of faith would pay off. Would all this waiting be worthwhile, or would I wind up disappointed and dissatisfied after weeks (months!) of longing for something of which I’d had only the most intangible of glimpses.
After a two day hold up at my comically mismanaged local post office, the USPS box was in my hot little hand. So excited was I to see if my leap of faith had paid off, I opened the parcel while waiting at the traffic lights on my way into work.
Oh my, how the faithful are rewarded!
Zsuzannah and my dresses were fantastic. Amazing. Beautiful. True to the pictures and fit descriptions. Better than I could ever have imagined, and all the better for a leap of blind faith - and a six to eight week wait.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
People Watching
People watching. One of my favorite things, and one of the greatest activities being a sociologist legitimates. It’s fortunate that my office has a window that overlooks one of the main campus thoroughfares, so all I have to do is turn my head to the right to get my people watching fix as I sit at my computer. Otherwise, I’d have to invent excuses to go downstairs multiple times a day (perhaps in the lead up to swimsuit season, this might not be a bad thing…)
There are certain groups and types of people I find particularly fascinating to watch. People alone in crowds or cafes, and whether they are comfortable being alone, or if they have props like phones or books or laptops to make themselves look less isolated. Parents and children, too, are always good to watch, especially how different people talk to their children. Lovers, of course, are people watching Mecca, although lately I’ve felt increasing urges to drive pencils through the eyes of those engaging in all-too-public displays of affection. I think that says more about me than about the lovers.
My favorite group of people to watch, though, is friends. There’s nothing as heartening on a cold winter’s day as watching a pair of friends chatting and gesturing wildly on the grassy common in Union Court. Or having serious consipirital chats in cafes, looking over each other’s shoulders to catch eavesdroppers like myself with a glare.
Better yet are the friends who unintentionally mimic each other. Case in point, Amity Merryweather and Beatrice Spencer, when I caught up for coffee with them yesterday, were wearing sartorial variations on a theme – pink tops with a black animal print graphics and jeans. They both looked fierce, and didn’t realize that they were unintentional wardrobe twins until I pointed it out. And then they laughed, in unison, as true friends do.
It’s so lovely watching these pairs of friends because it’s a pleasant reminder that I’ve been blessed with so many of my own. I see mirrored in the people I watch my own crazy hand movements, code languages, and meaningful looks exchanged with my nearest and dearest. A pleasant reminder of all that is shared, spoken and unspoken, with those we love.
There are certain groups and types of people I find particularly fascinating to watch. People alone in crowds or cafes, and whether they are comfortable being alone, or if they have props like phones or books or laptops to make themselves look less isolated. Parents and children, too, are always good to watch, especially how different people talk to their children. Lovers, of course, are people watching Mecca, although lately I’ve felt increasing urges to drive pencils through the eyes of those engaging in all-too-public displays of affection. I think that says more about me than about the lovers.
My favorite group of people to watch, though, is friends. There’s nothing as heartening on a cold winter’s day as watching a pair of friends chatting and gesturing wildly on the grassy common in Union Court. Or having serious consipirital chats in cafes, looking over each other’s shoulders to catch eavesdroppers like myself with a glare.
Better yet are the friends who unintentionally mimic each other. Case in point, Amity Merryweather and Beatrice Spencer, when I caught up for coffee with them yesterday, were wearing sartorial variations on a theme – pink tops with a black animal print graphics and jeans. They both looked fierce, and didn’t realize that they were unintentional wardrobe twins until I pointed it out. And then they laughed, in unison, as true friends do.
It’s so lovely watching these pairs of friends because it’s a pleasant reminder that I’ve been blessed with so many of my own. I see mirrored in the people I watch my own crazy hand movements, code languages, and meaningful looks exchanged with my nearest and dearest. A pleasant reminder of all that is shared, spoken and unspoken, with those we love.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Listing
I write lists. Shopping lists. Wish lists. To-Do-Today lists. To-Do-This-Month lists. Just-Do-It lists. Lists that masquerade as other things. Lists drawn as ideas maps. Lists in the round. If I do it, want to do it, or have done it, it’s on a list somewhere.
At the moment, there are six lists on my office wall. Looking at them is like looking at a portion of my brain, splattered onto A4, although slightly less gory. There’s an ideas map for a course I’ll be convening this summer. A list of my responsibilities for another summer course I’ll be involved with. Tutorials times, rooms, and essay due dates for the first year course that I’m teaching semester. A list of seminars I’m going to be running for a masters course, to prompt me to find some relevant readings. ANU principal dates. And, last but not least, a list of monthly targets I’ve set for my PhD thesis.
I never meant to have this many lists occupying wall space in my office. After all, isn’t the purpose of a list to collate information into the one place, efficiently, economically, putting all the pieces of the puzzle into their correct places? Theoretically, yes. But in reality, my lists seem to breed, one list begetting another, until suddenly my office is decorated with blu-tacked pieces of scribbled-on and crossed-out pieces of paper.
I looked at this disorder this morning, and, after momentary frustration, laughed. Because this tendency to write lists is one half of a symbiotic relationship with another tendency of mine: I love to cross things off. Is there a better feeling than running a thick, heavy pencil line through that particularly bothersome task that is now, in the words of a certain opposition leader, dead, buried, cremated? Or doodeling loopy biro circles over a list-task you did and enjoyed?
I write so many lists so that I can give myself that little moment of satisfaction, that feeling of a job, if not well, at least competently, done, and the restoration of some sense where there was previously befuddlement. And all triumphs of sense over befuddlement, in my humble opinion, ought to be celebrated.
At the moment, there are six lists on my office wall. Looking at them is like looking at a portion of my brain, splattered onto A4, although slightly less gory. There’s an ideas map for a course I’ll be convening this summer. A list of my responsibilities for another summer course I’ll be involved with. Tutorials times, rooms, and essay due dates for the first year course that I’m teaching semester. A list of seminars I’m going to be running for a masters course, to prompt me to find some relevant readings. ANU principal dates. And, last but not least, a list of monthly targets I’ve set for my PhD thesis.
I never meant to have this many lists occupying wall space in my office. After all, isn’t the purpose of a list to collate information into the one place, efficiently, economically, putting all the pieces of the puzzle into their correct places? Theoretically, yes. But in reality, my lists seem to breed, one list begetting another, until suddenly my office is decorated with blu-tacked pieces of scribbled-on and crossed-out pieces of paper.
I looked at this disorder this morning, and, after momentary frustration, laughed. Because this tendency to write lists is one half of a symbiotic relationship with another tendency of mine: I love to cross things off. Is there a better feeling than running a thick, heavy pencil line through that particularly bothersome task that is now, in the words of a certain opposition leader, dead, buried, cremated? Or doodeling loopy biro circles over a list-task you did and enjoyed?
I write so many lists so that I can give myself that little moment of satisfaction, that feeling of a job, if not well, at least competently, done, and the restoration of some sense where there was previously befuddlement. And all triumphs of sense over befuddlement, in my humble opinion, ought to be celebrated.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Adventures
Yesterday, Mimi Goss and I did something very brave. We went on a bushwalk, in the actual bush. For some of you, this may not seem like a challenging proposition. Indeed, I’m told people go bushwalking frequently, with overnight camping included, and return to tell the tale.
These people, though, can probably read maps. And probably have some vestigial sense of direction retained from hunter-gatherer days. I cannot read maps. I have no sense of direction. This is why bushwalking is such an adventure for me. I never know where I’ll end up. Literally.
Whenever I’ve bushwalked in the past, it’s been with school (awful, horrible scarring experiences to a one), or with the lovely Zsuzannah Verona when we holidayed in New Zealand together. Zsuzannah is one of those freakily gifted people who can take the creased and sweat-stained map from my frightened paws, turn it three times while I shriek hysterically about being lost, and magically establish the direction where we’re supposed to be headed, where the nearest toilets are, and how long it will take to arrive at them. She’s like Bear Grills without the freaky urine drinking. A big improvement.
My bushwalking companion, Mimi Goss, is one of those friends who has complete and total faith in me. It’s the loveliest thing when a friend as wonderful as Mimi believes in you, and backs your judgment 110%, on things like boys, career choices, and shoes. However, it’s a bit of a worry when Mimi places her faith in me when I have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA WHAT I AM DOING. Case in point: Mimi made me her navigational co-pilot on the car trip to Namadgi National Park. Or so she thought. Due to my awesome map reading skills (in the truest sense of the word, as my capacity to completely misinterpret maps inspires awe) we found ourselves, an hour later, at Tidbinbilla Nature Reserve. In my confusion, I had thought Tidbinbilla and Namagdi National Park were one and the same. Note to Peggy: they aren’t. The nice thing about taking so long to get to where we were going, though, was that it gave me and Mimi ample time to coin a new phrase or two. ‘Opus of Douchery’ was Mimi’s coinage. A finer contribution to the English language has yet to be made.
When we clarified that we were not, in fact, in Namadgi National Park but at the Tidbinbilla Visitors’ Center, it became apparent that plans of taking the Yankee Hat walk (yes, I picked it because of the hilarious name) would have to change. The not-too-friendly woman at the visitors’ centre suggested a couple of other walks we could take. I think she was in awe of my map (mis)interpretation skills. One of the suggested walks was the Ashbrook Fire Trail. Described as ‘moderate’ and of two hours’ duration, Mimi and I felt that it was perfect. That is, until I was handed the map of how to get there…
After hearing about my incompetence with maps earlier in this piece, it may not surprise you that we drove past the start of the Ashbrook Fire Trail walk. Twice. In my defense, the map was rather sparse and the sign was obscured by trees, Tidbinbilla being a nature reserve and all. It was at this point that Mimi reflected she was equally responsible for our predicament as she was the one who had placed me in charge of the park map. I found myself nodding agreement.
From that point on, things became simpler. There was a path, we got on it, and followed it. I’ve decided that people who don’t like maps (like me!) like, or should like, paths. We stopped for a cup of tea, and some almonds and apples. We marveled at how few birds there were – a big plus as birds are my nemesis (nemesi?). We debated the merits of various branches of feminist theory and whether or not to get maccas for lunch on the way home as we huffed and puffed our way up some long, steady gradients.
The final navigational fail on my part was still to come, however. On the drive home, I suggested we take the Point Hut Crossing road, as it would take us out ‘right near Kambah’. For those locals who are familiar with Canberra geography (unlike myself, despite having lived here for thirteen years), you will know that Point Hut Crossing actually terminates in Gordon, about eight suburbs and twenty minutes away from Kambah. I think this was the point at which Mimi accepted that bushwalking with Peggy is about the journey, rather than the destination.
It was a fantastic bushwalk adventure, from muddled beginnings to exhausted ends. My bushwalking kit is sitting in my cupboard, prepared with rain ponchos (from Legoland and Breast Cancer Awareness), Band-Aids, Panadol, Bettadine, a picnic rug, a space blanket, and emergency chocolate, ready for the next big adventure. Except, next time, Mimi’s in charge of the map…
These people, though, can probably read maps. And probably have some vestigial sense of direction retained from hunter-gatherer days. I cannot read maps. I have no sense of direction. This is why bushwalking is such an adventure for me. I never know where I’ll end up. Literally.
Whenever I’ve bushwalked in the past, it’s been with school (awful, horrible scarring experiences to a one), or with the lovely Zsuzannah Verona when we holidayed in New Zealand together. Zsuzannah is one of those freakily gifted people who can take the creased and sweat-stained map from my frightened paws, turn it three times while I shriek hysterically about being lost, and magically establish the direction where we’re supposed to be headed, where the nearest toilets are, and how long it will take to arrive at them. She’s like Bear Grills without the freaky urine drinking. A big improvement.
My bushwalking companion, Mimi Goss, is one of those friends who has complete and total faith in me. It’s the loveliest thing when a friend as wonderful as Mimi believes in you, and backs your judgment 110%, on things like boys, career choices, and shoes. However, it’s a bit of a worry when Mimi places her faith in me when I have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA WHAT I AM DOING. Case in point: Mimi made me her navigational co-pilot on the car trip to Namadgi National Park. Or so she thought. Due to my awesome map reading skills (in the truest sense of the word, as my capacity to completely misinterpret maps inspires awe) we found ourselves, an hour later, at Tidbinbilla Nature Reserve. In my confusion, I had thought Tidbinbilla and Namagdi National Park were one and the same. Note to Peggy: they aren’t. The nice thing about taking so long to get to where we were going, though, was that it gave me and Mimi ample time to coin a new phrase or two. ‘Opus of Douchery’ was Mimi’s coinage. A finer contribution to the English language has yet to be made.
When we clarified that we were not, in fact, in Namadgi National Park but at the Tidbinbilla Visitors’ Center, it became apparent that plans of taking the Yankee Hat walk (yes, I picked it because of the hilarious name) would have to change. The not-too-friendly woman at the visitors’ centre suggested a couple of other walks we could take. I think she was in awe of my map (mis)interpretation skills. One of the suggested walks was the Ashbrook Fire Trail. Described as ‘moderate’ and of two hours’ duration, Mimi and I felt that it was perfect. That is, until I was handed the map of how to get there…
After hearing about my incompetence with maps earlier in this piece, it may not surprise you that we drove past the start of the Ashbrook Fire Trail walk. Twice. In my defense, the map was rather sparse and the sign was obscured by trees, Tidbinbilla being a nature reserve and all. It was at this point that Mimi reflected she was equally responsible for our predicament as she was the one who had placed me in charge of the park map. I found myself nodding agreement.
From that point on, things became simpler. There was a path, we got on it, and followed it. I’ve decided that people who don’t like maps (like me!) like, or should like, paths. We stopped for a cup of tea, and some almonds and apples. We marveled at how few birds there were – a big plus as birds are my nemesis (nemesi?). We debated the merits of various branches of feminist theory and whether or not to get maccas for lunch on the way home as we huffed and puffed our way up some long, steady gradients.
The final navigational fail on my part was still to come, however. On the drive home, I suggested we take the Point Hut Crossing road, as it would take us out ‘right near Kambah’. For those locals who are familiar with Canberra geography (unlike myself, despite having lived here for thirteen years), you will know that Point Hut Crossing actually terminates in Gordon, about eight suburbs and twenty minutes away from Kambah. I think this was the point at which Mimi accepted that bushwalking with Peggy is about the journey, rather than the destination.
It was a fantastic bushwalk adventure, from muddled beginnings to exhausted ends. My bushwalking kit is sitting in my cupboard, prepared with rain ponchos (from Legoland and Breast Cancer Awareness), Band-Aids, Panadol, Bettadine, a picnic rug, a space blanket, and emergency chocolate, ready for the next big adventure. Except, next time, Mimi’s in charge of the map…
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Work it Out
It’s official. I’m not unemployable!
Whilst I’ll be taking a couple of weeks to work out exactly what my options are and the direction I want to take, the results at the moment are that I have a concrete offer and should be hearing most likely some positive news about another offer next week.
Aside from feeling relieved, I’m incredibly excited. About starting a new job, yes. About having greater financial freedom, yes. About new experiences, new people, new opportunities, yes, yes, yes.
About the chance to develop the world’s most amazing corporate cute wardrobe – HELLZ TO THE YEAH, TO THE POWER OF TEN.
Like applying for jobs, I’ve begun my background preparation well in advance when it comes to rising to the top of the Department of Amazing Corporate Cute Wardrobe. After recent closet upheavals I’ve blogged about previously, I’ve audited the existing garments and identified gaps to be filled. (Incidentally, this is how my supervisor suggested I start my PhD – by auditing the existing literature and identifying a gap. See, I am putting my academic skillz to good use in a workplace context already!) I’ve also consulted widely with experts in the field – Kitty Gilfeather, Mimi Goss, Zsusannah Verona and Clementine Kemp – and conducted observational research whilst waiting to pick MamaK up from her department. It’s from this extensive research base that I have developed a strong and clear strategic direction for the work wardrobe project, broken down into key priorities and areas for action.
The priorities, in order of importance:
Dresses in summer weight suiting
Pencil skirts
Cardigans – especially summer weight cropped, but also replacement of worn out winter woolies
Summer work shoes with a mid heel
(Again, prioritization – a highly transferable skill set)
Before I even knew I had a job, I’d sent MamaK and PapaK off to Malaysia with my favorite interview dress to be copied in summer weight wool suiting. They returned with five lovely dresses, which, after a few additional tweaks at the tailors, will be perfect for summer work wear. I’m confident that these dresses will transfer to winter work wear easily, with the addition of cardigans, tights and boots. Dresses in summer weight suiting – actioned.
As I’ve mentioned before, I base my wardrobe around dresses, and don’t anticipate that changing once I commence my grown up job. As variety is the spice of life, though, I felt that at least one pencil skirt, to combine with various tops and cardigans, would be a useful alternative for consideration. Flexibility is, after all, a valuable quality. A trip to Material Pleasures, my favorite second hand clothing outlet, turned up the perfect gray wool pencil skirt with a twist – the dinkiest pleat detail at the back! Only problem was, it was too small at the hips and too large at the waist. A few alterations later, and it’s ready to go. Pencil skirt – actioned.
Cardigans are proving to be more elusive. The particular style I like to wear with smart dresses, that is, cropped with short to mid sleeves, are sadly elusive. I have my grey-with-beading interview cardigan, and a recently acquired plain black Laura Ashley, but anticipate greater need of this key resource for covering upper arms and keeping warm in air conditioned offices. Cardigans have therefore been identified as an emerging priority in the key area of wardrobe planning.
Last but not least, summer work shoes with a mid heel round out my list of priorities. My favorite summer sandals that I blogged about at the beginning of this year could do at a pinch, but they are showing signs of wear. I have plenty of cute pumps, but most are suitable for cooler weather – closed toe, t-bar straps, in black or brightly coloured. I purchased a fantastic pair of red high heeled boots on the weekend, but they will be too sticky for January/February, when I start work. Taking action to rectify this situation, the key strategic direction I aim to take in this area is a nude or tan coloured, open toe, mid heel pump, sans strap, to achieve my goals of professionalism and leg elongation.
But with the rad wardrobe and academic skillz portfolio I’ve worked out over the years, I’m sure I’ll be all over summer work shoes and cropped cardigans like white on rice.
Whilst I’ll be taking a couple of weeks to work out exactly what my options are and the direction I want to take, the results at the moment are that I have a concrete offer and should be hearing most likely some positive news about another offer next week.
Aside from feeling relieved, I’m incredibly excited. About starting a new job, yes. About having greater financial freedom, yes. About new experiences, new people, new opportunities, yes, yes, yes.
About the chance to develop the world’s most amazing corporate cute wardrobe – HELLZ TO THE YEAH, TO THE POWER OF TEN.
Like applying for jobs, I’ve begun my background preparation well in advance when it comes to rising to the top of the Department of Amazing Corporate Cute Wardrobe. After recent closet upheavals I’ve blogged about previously, I’ve audited the existing garments and identified gaps to be filled. (Incidentally, this is how my supervisor suggested I start my PhD – by auditing the existing literature and identifying a gap. See, I am putting my academic skillz to good use in a workplace context already!) I’ve also consulted widely with experts in the field – Kitty Gilfeather, Mimi Goss, Zsusannah Verona and Clementine Kemp – and conducted observational research whilst waiting to pick MamaK up from her department. It’s from this extensive research base that I have developed a strong and clear strategic direction for the work wardrobe project, broken down into key priorities and areas for action.
The priorities, in order of importance:
Dresses in summer weight suiting
Pencil skirts
Cardigans – especially summer weight cropped, but also replacement of worn out winter woolies
Summer work shoes with a mid heel
(Again, prioritization – a highly transferable skill set)
Before I even knew I had a job, I’d sent MamaK and PapaK off to Malaysia with my favorite interview dress to be copied in summer weight wool suiting. They returned with five lovely dresses, which, after a few additional tweaks at the tailors, will be perfect for summer work wear. I’m confident that these dresses will transfer to winter work wear easily, with the addition of cardigans, tights and boots. Dresses in summer weight suiting – actioned.
As I’ve mentioned before, I base my wardrobe around dresses, and don’t anticipate that changing once I commence my grown up job. As variety is the spice of life, though, I felt that at least one pencil skirt, to combine with various tops and cardigans, would be a useful alternative for consideration. Flexibility is, after all, a valuable quality. A trip to Material Pleasures, my favorite second hand clothing outlet, turned up the perfect gray wool pencil skirt with a twist – the dinkiest pleat detail at the back! Only problem was, it was too small at the hips and too large at the waist. A few alterations later, and it’s ready to go. Pencil skirt – actioned.
Cardigans are proving to be more elusive. The particular style I like to wear with smart dresses, that is, cropped with short to mid sleeves, are sadly elusive. I have my grey-with-beading interview cardigan, and a recently acquired plain black Laura Ashley, but anticipate greater need of this key resource for covering upper arms and keeping warm in air conditioned offices. Cardigans have therefore been identified as an emerging priority in the key area of wardrobe planning.
Last but not least, summer work shoes with a mid heel round out my list of priorities. My favorite summer sandals that I blogged about at the beginning of this year could do at a pinch, but they are showing signs of wear. I have plenty of cute pumps, but most are suitable for cooler weather – closed toe, t-bar straps, in black or brightly coloured. I purchased a fantastic pair of red high heeled boots on the weekend, but they will be too sticky for January/February, when I start work. Taking action to rectify this situation, the key strategic direction I aim to take in this area is a nude or tan coloured, open toe, mid heel pump, sans strap, to achieve my goals of professionalism and leg elongation.
But with the rad wardrobe and academic skillz portfolio I’ve worked out over the years, I’m sure I’ll be all over summer work shoes and cropped cardigans like white on rice.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Cups Runneth Over.
I feel bad filing this post under the ‘recipe’ tag, because it isn’t. But, after evangelizing about the merits of oven roasted ‘shrooms, and happily discovering a high quality supplier of particularly awesome ‘shrooms at my local shops, I feel compelled to share my recipe, or, borrowing a Nigellaism, my ‘enthusiastic suggestion’ for preparing mushrooms.
(As an aside, I’ve recently been reading Nigella’s ‘How to Eat’ and ‘How to Be A Domestic Goddess’ not for the recipes, but for the writing. I love her stories, and I love the warmth that emanates from her prose. Give me Nigella over some of the more lauded novelists of our generation any day of the week!).
To begin your ‘shrooming, preheat your oven to 200 degrees. You don’t really need to preheat, and, as I often make these as a super fast lunch or dinner, I often don’t have time to, but it makes good sense to get your oven heating whilst you undertake the two minutes of preparation required.
Place your mushrooms, cup side up, on a baking-paper lined tray. I would allow about 5 palm-sized mushrooms per person, but then I tend to err on the side of gluttony so you may want to revise downwards. You should also consider size when selecting your ‘shrooms at the grocery store – you want mushrooms that have enough of a cup to catch the roasting juices, so buttons and the more exotic varieties are probably out. I usually stick to medium-large field mushrooms, which seem to be the tastiest.
Remove the stem from each of your mushrooms, being sure to keep the cup intact. Now it’s time to get creative. The basic rule here is that you need salt, pepper, and a little bit of fat – butter or olive oil – to give you that rich, delicious juice. However, if you are feeling fancy and have a good supply of fresh herbs to raid, pick a couple of the following and add them to the cups along with you basic seasoning: garlic, thyme, rosemary, sage, paprika, chilli, oregano, anchovies, capers.
Put the tray of ‘shrooms in the oven, and leave them for ten minutes. I find that cooking time varies wildly with these, depending on the size and freshness of your ‘shrooms, the amount of time your oven had been preheating, and the planets rotating through your sun sign (kidding). Basically, though, what you want to see, when you open the oven door, is a wrinkly brown mushroom with a pool of dark, richly scented juice in the cup. The visual, I’ll admit, is not appealing, but it’s honest. Your ‘shrooms will, and ought to, look manky at this stage.
At this point, you can proceed to the eating, but, if you are feeling really really fancy, or you’re just showing off, add some cheese (feta, mozzarella, and parmesan are favorites) and give your ‘shrroms another 2-3 minutes so your cheese begins to bubble.
Serve with a tossed together salad, or some wilted greens, and polenta or bread to soak up the juices. So now you know – you’re only ever 20 minutes, tops, away from complete culinary satisfaction. And if that isn’t a comfort in these troubled times, I don’t know what is.
(As an aside, I’ve recently been reading Nigella’s ‘How to Eat’ and ‘How to Be A Domestic Goddess’ not for the recipes, but for the writing. I love her stories, and I love the warmth that emanates from her prose. Give me Nigella over some of the more lauded novelists of our generation any day of the week!).
To begin your ‘shrooming, preheat your oven to 200 degrees. You don’t really need to preheat, and, as I often make these as a super fast lunch or dinner, I often don’t have time to, but it makes good sense to get your oven heating whilst you undertake the two minutes of preparation required.
Place your mushrooms, cup side up, on a baking-paper lined tray. I would allow about 5 palm-sized mushrooms per person, but then I tend to err on the side of gluttony so you may want to revise downwards. You should also consider size when selecting your ‘shrooms at the grocery store – you want mushrooms that have enough of a cup to catch the roasting juices, so buttons and the more exotic varieties are probably out. I usually stick to medium-large field mushrooms, which seem to be the tastiest.
Remove the stem from each of your mushrooms, being sure to keep the cup intact. Now it’s time to get creative. The basic rule here is that you need salt, pepper, and a little bit of fat – butter or olive oil – to give you that rich, delicious juice. However, if you are feeling fancy and have a good supply of fresh herbs to raid, pick a couple of the following and add them to the cups along with you basic seasoning: garlic, thyme, rosemary, sage, paprika, chilli, oregano, anchovies, capers.
Put the tray of ‘shrooms in the oven, and leave them for ten minutes. I find that cooking time varies wildly with these, depending on the size and freshness of your ‘shrooms, the amount of time your oven had been preheating, and the planets rotating through your sun sign (kidding). Basically, though, what you want to see, when you open the oven door, is a wrinkly brown mushroom with a pool of dark, richly scented juice in the cup. The visual, I’ll admit, is not appealing, but it’s honest. Your ‘shrooms will, and ought to, look manky at this stage.
At this point, you can proceed to the eating, but, if you are feeling really really fancy, or you’re just showing off, add some cheese (feta, mozzarella, and parmesan are favorites) and give your ‘shrroms another 2-3 minutes so your cheese begins to bubble.
Serve with a tossed together salad, or some wilted greens, and polenta or bread to soak up the juices. So now you know – you’re only ever 20 minutes, tops, away from complete culinary satisfaction. And if that isn’t a comfort in these troubled times, I don’t know what is.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Pride and Prejudice
Don’t judge a book by its cover – that’s the moral to most of Aesop’s fables, Disney films, fairy tales, and the Jane Austen classic, Pride and Prejudice. Alright Aesop, Walt, Misters Grimm and Miss Austen, your points are taken. I keep an open mind and an open heart as I embark on each day’s journey. But why, then, do I, and many others, shop blinded by the blinkers of our prejudices?
I only realized how prejudiced I was towards the end of last year at Laura Ashley. I’ve always liked Laura Ashley clothes and home wares, partly because my lovely AuntyC’s house embodies the Laura Ashley aesthetic, and partly because I am a sucker for anything floral and feminine. However, I’d remained a window shopper in Laura Ashley. Cost, certainly, kept the plastic in my purse, as well as the tendency for Laura Ashley clothes to be a bit soggy and loose around the waist. Also, as much as I liked the florality (my new word for the week) at Laura Ashley, the frocks always looked too English country matron. On my tall, bosomy frame, the overall impression was of a prettily upholstered sofa (Do sit down, Vicar, and how do you take your tea?)
One afternoon I was enjoying my window shopping when I spied something black on the rack. Something black, with a big chunky zipper, and a non-soggy waist. I immediately tried it on.
SHOCK. HORROR. This was a third date dress – sexy, sleek, not quite tits on toast but tits definitely present and accounted for – from LAURA ASHLEY.
And it was on sale. How could I not buy it?
Return trips produced two finds in a similar genre – one with short sleeves, the other in lipstick red. The joy (and compliments) I get from these dresses makes me wonder, though, why I didn’t consider Laura Ashley as a venue for anything other than florality. Like Elizabeth Bennett, my prejudice almost kept me from something truly wonderful, although, in my case, dresses rather than Darcy were my reward for taking off the blinkers of prejudice.
Another challenge to my prejudices occurred when I was shopping with MamaK at Blue Illusion, AKA, The Mum Shop. If you’ve been past a store, you’ll know what I mean - the demographic they are aiming for are well heeled ladies of a certain age, stocking an admittedly lovely selection of linen tunic style dresses and loose pants, beads, and drapey tops. Great stuff, if, as I said, you’re a woman of a certain age. While MamaK was trying on the tunics and drapey tops, I spied with my little eye some funky printed jersey dresses- one printed all over with red and white love hearts, the other with what looked like an abstract print but actually was blue and purple butterflies. As both were on an awesome special, they came home with me, and MamaK and I left The Mum Shop satisfied with our purchases.
The next day at work, my particularly stylish colleague, Seraphina Silas, stopped me to talk about my dress – the butterfly printed one from The Mum Shop. I told her the story of The Mum Shop, and she astutely pointed out that perhaps it was a deliberate strategy of providing something that the daughters as well as the mums would like at The Mum Shop, and, by extension, at Laura Ashley.
Be that as it may, though, it’s still something to consider when doing the rounds at the Canberra Centre this weekend. Whilst our prejudices are often based, to some extent, on the fact of market manipulation, they may be keeping us from that perfect dress for our date with Mr Darcy.
I only realized how prejudiced I was towards the end of last year at Laura Ashley. I’ve always liked Laura Ashley clothes and home wares, partly because my lovely AuntyC’s house embodies the Laura Ashley aesthetic, and partly because I am a sucker for anything floral and feminine. However, I’d remained a window shopper in Laura Ashley. Cost, certainly, kept the plastic in my purse, as well as the tendency for Laura Ashley clothes to be a bit soggy and loose around the waist. Also, as much as I liked the florality (my new word for the week) at Laura Ashley, the frocks always looked too English country matron. On my tall, bosomy frame, the overall impression was of a prettily upholstered sofa (Do sit down, Vicar, and how do you take your tea?)
One afternoon I was enjoying my window shopping when I spied something black on the rack. Something black, with a big chunky zipper, and a non-soggy waist. I immediately tried it on.
SHOCK. HORROR. This was a third date dress – sexy, sleek, not quite tits on toast but tits definitely present and accounted for – from LAURA ASHLEY.
And it was on sale. How could I not buy it?
Return trips produced two finds in a similar genre – one with short sleeves, the other in lipstick red. The joy (and compliments) I get from these dresses makes me wonder, though, why I didn’t consider Laura Ashley as a venue for anything other than florality. Like Elizabeth Bennett, my prejudice almost kept me from something truly wonderful, although, in my case, dresses rather than Darcy were my reward for taking off the blinkers of prejudice.
Another challenge to my prejudices occurred when I was shopping with MamaK at Blue Illusion, AKA, The Mum Shop. If you’ve been past a store, you’ll know what I mean - the demographic they are aiming for are well heeled ladies of a certain age, stocking an admittedly lovely selection of linen tunic style dresses and loose pants, beads, and drapey tops. Great stuff, if, as I said, you’re a woman of a certain age. While MamaK was trying on the tunics and drapey tops, I spied with my little eye some funky printed jersey dresses- one printed all over with red and white love hearts, the other with what looked like an abstract print but actually was blue and purple butterflies. As both were on an awesome special, they came home with me, and MamaK and I left The Mum Shop satisfied with our purchases.
The next day at work, my particularly stylish colleague, Seraphina Silas, stopped me to talk about my dress – the butterfly printed one from The Mum Shop. I told her the story of The Mum Shop, and she astutely pointed out that perhaps it was a deliberate strategy of providing something that the daughters as well as the mums would like at The Mum Shop, and, by extension, at Laura Ashley.
Be that as it may, though, it’s still something to consider when doing the rounds at the Canberra Centre this weekend. Whilst our prejudices are often based, to some extent, on the fact of market manipulation, they may be keeping us from that perfect dress for our date with Mr Darcy.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Too Hard, Too Soft, Just Right: A Sparkling Interview Outfit
As I might have mentioned a couple of times here lately, there have been some job interviews happening. I’m not going to jinx anything by naming names here, suffice to say that if we were in a Harry Potter novel, I’d be the witch beavering away at finishing her OWLS, hoping to join one of the Ministry of Magic’s departments at the beginning of next year.
Having not had any sort of job interview in 4 years, I’d lost my bearings regarding appropriate interview wear. Whilst I like what I wear and do a good job being professional in my current context, Professor Professional simply won’t cut it for an interview at the Ministry.
If I were a boy, (cough, young man, cough cough), the decision would have been made for me – suit, clean and ironed shirt, tie, haircut. Maybe cufflinks, but probably not.
I am not a boy, or a young man - I am a woman. And so interview attire, like so many other things in life, becomes considerably more complicated.
I did think about going the LadySuit route, but was turned off by the price tag, and the lack of suitably fitting top and bottom parings within even the upper echelons of my budget. Another consideration is that I tend to be a nervous fidgeter. The combination of Jacket, Blouse, Skirt, Tights and Shoes would present one’s fingers with too many irresistible fidgety temptations. I just knew I’d spend the better part of the day running to and from the bathrooms checking that all the components were sitting right.
And even if they were sitting right, am I the LadySuit type? I think there’s something a little too hard about all that matching suiting fabric, firmly tucked in and buttoned up. Those of us who have done our fashion history homework know modern suiting is mainly influenced by military garb, and I am not sure that I am the ship-shape-and-bristol-fashion type.
Another option was the skirt, blouse and cardigan combination. Theoretically, I thought this was a brilliant idea, a kind of softly-softly response the LadySuit. Trying on various permutations of this look during my fashion montage a couple of weeks ago, however, gave me a new insight into the problems faced by many a soviet nation: theory is good in theory, not so much in practice.
Like goldilocks, I was placed in a situation where two extremes were presented to me, neither appealing – the LadySuit too hard, the skirt, blouse and cardigan too soft. What, I wondered, would be Just Right?
I thought about the two and a bit years that I have been writing this blog, reflecting on what clothes and style mean to me. What do I always return to, without fail? What garments do I feel most at ease, and most myself, in?
The answer was simple. The Dress.
Like Australian politicians reverting to knee-jerk reactionism (but I digress, this is not a political blog…) dresses are what I rely on when everything else it too hard or complicated. From my Miss Honeys, to my Ms Buttroses, my favorite summer frocks, to my jersey farmers market throw-ons, dresses are what I wear the most. Why would I abandon my signature look for this exciting new enterprise?
The field was successful and swiftly narrowed to one particular dress – a Mimi Goss cast off, black, sleeveless, modest yet figure defining, with a charming folded-fabric detail at the collar. A cardigan, for warmth and to cover the upper arms (which apparently are ‘unprofessional’ – who knew?) would complete the look. After a moment of hesitation, I decided on a cropped, three quarter sleeve, charcoal grey number with subtle but sparkly beading at the collar.
I wondered – is it appropriate to be just a teensy bit sparkly in a job interview? But then I realized that’s the whole point of a job interview - to sparkle. And I was Just Right.
Author’s note: At the time of writing, my favorite interview dress is half way around the world, with MamaK and PapaK, to serve as a template for several duplicates they are generously having made. Before my interview dress and I are reunited, I have two more interviews – so I guess it’s back to the drawing board for me!
Having not had any sort of job interview in 4 years, I’d lost my bearings regarding appropriate interview wear. Whilst I like what I wear and do a good job being professional in my current context, Professor Professional simply won’t cut it for an interview at the Ministry.
If I were a boy, (cough, young man, cough cough), the decision would have been made for me – suit, clean and ironed shirt, tie, haircut. Maybe cufflinks, but probably not.
I am not a boy, or a young man - I am a woman. And so interview attire, like so many other things in life, becomes considerably more complicated.
I did think about going the LadySuit route, but was turned off by the price tag, and the lack of suitably fitting top and bottom parings within even the upper echelons of my budget. Another consideration is that I tend to be a nervous fidgeter. The combination of Jacket, Blouse, Skirt, Tights and Shoes would present one’s fingers with too many irresistible fidgety temptations. I just knew I’d spend the better part of the day running to and from the bathrooms checking that all the components were sitting right.
And even if they were sitting right, am I the LadySuit type? I think there’s something a little too hard about all that matching suiting fabric, firmly tucked in and buttoned up. Those of us who have done our fashion history homework know modern suiting is mainly influenced by military garb, and I am not sure that I am the ship-shape-and-bristol-fashion type.
Another option was the skirt, blouse and cardigan combination. Theoretically, I thought this was a brilliant idea, a kind of softly-softly response the LadySuit. Trying on various permutations of this look during my fashion montage a couple of weeks ago, however, gave me a new insight into the problems faced by many a soviet nation: theory is good in theory, not so much in practice.
Like goldilocks, I was placed in a situation where two extremes were presented to me, neither appealing – the LadySuit too hard, the skirt, blouse and cardigan too soft. What, I wondered, would be Just Right?
I thought about the two and a bit years that I have been writing this blog, reflecting on what clothes and style mean to me. What do I always return to, without fail? What garments do I feel most at ease, and most myself, in?
The answer was simple. The Dress.
Like Australian politicians reverting to knee-jerk reactionism (but I digress, this is not a political blog…) dresses are what I rely on when everything else it too hard or complicated. From my Miss Honeys, to my Ms Buttroses, my favorite summer frocks, to my jersey farmers market throw-ons, dresses are what I wear the most. Why would I abandon my signature look for this exciting new enterprise?
The field was successful and swiftly narrowed to one particular dress – a Mimi Goss cast off, black, sleeveless, modest yet figure defining, with a charming folded-fabric detail at the collar. A cardigan, for warmth and to cover the upper arms (which apparently are ‘unprofessional’ – who knew?) would complete the look. After a moment of hesitation, I decided on a cropped, three quarter sleeve, charcoal grey number with subtle but sparkly beading at the collar.
I wondered – is it appropriate to be just a teensy bit sparkly in a job interview? But then I realized that’s the whole point of a job interview - to sparkle. And I was Just Right.
Author’s note: At the time of writing, my favorite interview dress is half way around the world, with MamaK and PapaK, to serve as a template for several duplicates they are generously having made. Before my interview dress and I are reunited, I have two more interviews – so I guess it’s back to the drawing board for me!
Monday, June 6, 2011
A School For Gifted Youngsters
Have you seen X Men: First Class yet?
If not, do yourself a favor and go see it. Kitty Gilfeather and I treated ourselves to a late night showing this Friday and, although the only seats we could book were neck-straining close to the screen, it was two and a bit hours of fantastic.
I’ve adored the X-Men series, eagerly awaiting the release of each installment, and spent a large part of Saturday re-watching them as a necessary self indulgence (it was cold and blustery in the Capital, and I’d already went for an early morning walk and yoga session –indulgence justified). I was also a fan of the animated TV series as a child, and passed many an hour concentrating super hard in order to achieve Jean Grey levels of telepathy.
More than Jean or any of the other mutants, though, it was Professor X who fascinated me. Along with Misses Honey and Clavel, Professors Lupin and Dumbledore, and many inspiring real life ladies and gentlemen, Professor X and his School for Gifted Youngsters has shaped my attitudes towards education.
Indeed, sometimes I cast myself as the Professor X of my own imaginary School for Gifted Youngsters. And, in light of a couple of thousand words on teaching I am supposed to be writing (and am procrastinating against by writing this blog), I’ve been wondering what my own School for Gifted Youngsters would be like.
For starters, it would be open to all who wanted to learn, regardless of capability, because even the most capable student in the world won’t achieve anything if they don’t want to. There’s nothing worse or more soul destroying than a class of students who don’t want to be there.
Having said that, though, my school would be staffed by men and women with superpowers – not like Storm and Jean and Cyclops, but men and women with superpowers to make people want to learn. Powers of compassion, of understanding, and of love. And also by men and women who would work together as a team – to defeat Magnito, sure, but to also pick up the slack when things and people go pear shaped.
A very hairy and very shirtless Hugh Jackman would prowl the school grounds (I’m serious about this one).
And speaking of grounds, my School for Gifted Youngsters would, like Professor X’s, be housed in a building that inspires, surrounded by clean air and trees, to remind my Gifted Youngsters that there are things bigger and more permanent than themselves and their problems.
But also, my school would teach that their problems, hopes and fears, just like the mutations of Professor X’s students, could be used to make things better, for themselves and for everybody else. And that they alone were responsible for making this choice.
I’d also insist on ties for the boys, and neat blouses and skirts for the girls. But perhaps that’s an overindulgence of some megalomaniac tendencies???
If not, do yourself a favor and go see it. Kitty Gilfeather and I treated ourselves to a late night showing this Friday and, although the only seats we could book were neck-straining close to the screen, it was two and a bit hours of fantastic.
I’ve adored the X-Men series, eagerly awaiting the release of each installment, and spent a large part of Saturday re-watching them as a necessary self indulgence (it was cold and blustery in the Capital, and I’d already went for an early morning walk and yoga session –indulgence justified). I was also a fan of the animated TV series as a child, and passed many an hour concentrating super hard in order to achieve Jean Grey levels of telepathy.
More than Jean or any of the other mutants, though, it was Professor X who fascinated me. Along with Misses Honey and Clavel, Professors Lupin and Dumbledore, and many inspiring real life ladies and gentlemen, Professor X and his School for Gifted Youngsters has shaped my attitudes towards education.
Indeed, sometimes I cast myself as the Professor X of my own imaginary School for Gifted Youngsters. And, in light of a couple of thousand words on teaching I am supposed to be writing (and am procrastinating against by writing this blog), I’ve been wondering what my own School for Gifted Youngsters would be like.
For starters, it would be open to all who wanted to learn, regardless of capability, because even the most capable student in the world won’t achieve anything if they don’t want to. There’s nothing worse or more soul destroying than a class of students who don’t want to be there.
Having said that, though, my school would be staffed by men and women with superpowers – not like Storm and Jean and Cyclops, but men and women with superpowers to make people want to learn. Powers of compassion, of understanding, and of love. And also by men and women who would work together as a team – to defeat Magnito, sure, but to also pick up the slack when things and people go pear shaped.
A very hairy and very shirtless Hugh Jackman would prowl the school grounds (I’m serious about this one).
And speaking of grounds, my School for Gifted Youngsters would, like Professor X’s, be housed in a building that inspires, surrounded by clean air and trees, to remind my Gifted Youngsters that there are things bigger and more permanent than themselves and their problems.
But also, my school would teach that their problems, hopes and fears, just like the mutations of Professor X’s students, could be used to make things better, for themselves and for everybody else. And that they alone were responsible for making this choice.
I’d also insist on ties for the boys, and neat blouses and skirts for the girls. But perhaps that’s an overindulgence of some megalomaniac tendencies???
Monday, May 30, 2011
The Power of Madonna
Down? Troubled? Approaching a milestone or an exciting new phase in your life?
I’ve got two words to say to you:
Fashion.
Montage.
Oh yes.
Inspired by film sequences where characters progress through a range of spectacular outfits to an empowering soundtrack, I decided it was time to go through my wardrobes – as in, take all clothes out, dump clothes bed, try clothes on, strut, place clothes back in wardrobes in neat and orderly fashion, select and recombine combinations of clothing for job interviews in upcoming weeks. All whilst listening to two rotations of Madonna’s The Immaculate Collection.
Some eerie synchronicity between my try-ons and The Immaculate Collection:
My favorite duck-egg-blue summer party frock…and Cherish, my favorite of Madonna’s summer-y love songs. Just had to twirl.
A suit jacket, bra, and scary stomach holding in bike shorts…and Express Yourself. I kid you not, I didn’t intentionally recreate The Madg’s costume for that clip. I was just checking the jacket still fitted – promise!
Orange smock top and loose skirt…and Papa Don’t Preach – frightening.
But, most portentously, the perfect job interview dress and cardigan… and Vogue!
I needed no further prompting that this was the outfit I was meant to wear, as I vogued to the music in my bedroom. And I reminded myself that I deserve the power of Madonna - we all deserve the power of Madonna – and the power of a great interview outfit.
I’ve got two words to say to you:
Fashion.
Montage.
Oh yes.
Inspired by film sequences where characters progress through a range of spectacular outfits to an empowering soundtrack, I decided it was time to go through my wardrobes – as in, take all clothes out, dump clothes bed, try clothes on, strut, place clothes back in wardrobes in neat and orderly fashion, select and recombine combinations of clothing for job interviews in upcoming weeks. All whilst listening to two rotations of Madonna’s The Immaculate Collection.
Some eerie synchronicity between my try-ons and The Immaculate Collection:
My favorite duck-egg-blue summer party frock…and Cherish, my favorite of Madonna’s summer-y love songs. Just had to twirl.
A suit jacket, bra, and scary stomach holding in bike shorts…and Express Yourself. I kid you not, I didn’t intentionally recreate The Madg’s costume for that clip. I was just checking the jacket still fitted – promise!
Orange smock top and loose skirt…and Papa Don’t Preach – frightening.
But, most portentously, the perfect job interview dress and cardigan… and Vogue!
I needed no further prompting that this was the outfit I was meant to wear, as I vogued to the music in my bedroom. And I reminded myself that I deserve the power of Madonna - we all deserve the power of Madonna – and the power of a great interview outfit.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
It's Happening.
A couple of months ago I blogged about the random urges to chop my hair that I sometimes experience.
Readers, it is happening again. And this time I have booked an appointment.
Recent life events (prospective job interviews, some sad endings of important things) have inspired me to do something, ANYTHING, about my hair situation.
The only thing is, just as I hung up the phone after booking my appointment for tomorrow, I realised I have no idea what I want done.
Hmmmm...
Readers, it is happening again. And this time I have booked an appointment.
Recent life events (prospective job interviews, some sad endings of important things) have inspired me to do something, ANYTHING, about my hair situation.
The only thing is, just as I hung up the phone after booking my appointment for tomorrow, I realised I have no idea what I want done.
Hmmmm...
Monday, May 9, 2011
A Long, Tall Drink of Water
Because this is an anonymous blog, and I don’t post pictures of myself, there are several things about my appearance you may not know. One of which is that I’m rather tall. About 5’9, in old money. After reading in the SMH’s Good Weekend magazine that the ideal height men nominated for a woman was 163cm, I got to thinking about my height.
I’ve often whished myself shorter. When I was in school, being shorter would have meant sitting with the girls rather than standing with the boys in school photographs. When I began college and uni, being shorter would have meant that I could have gone unnoticed a little more in class, rather than sticking out like a very tall sore thumb. Being shorter would mean that off the rack dresses and skirts would be the right length at the hemline and arms. Being shorter would mean that I would be substantially less clumsy – less distance for wires to get crossed between my brain and my feet. It would also mean that I would be ‘cute’, rather than ‘handsome’, that people would not look up to me (literally), and that I could get away with some more ‘out there’ clothes and make up without worrying that I looked like a female impersonator.
On the other hand…
Being tall means I can reach the high shelves in my wardrobe without a stepladder. Being tall means that I can wear patterned tights because of the extra yardage in the leg department. Being tall makes it hard for me to be overlooked in a meeting, seminar, or tutorial, and it’s nice to have to force myself to think of not-too-stupid things to contribute. Being tall, so I’ve been told, gives a person a natural air of authority, and, as such I’m capable of bringing my classes into line by standing up when I talk to them (freakily, this does work). Being tall means that I can wear big hats without looking like an elf. Being tall means that I walk fast – and given room allocations at uni this semester, I cannot be grateful enough for my super fast walking capabilities, even if it is a clumsy trot rather than an elegant stride.
So, on balance, whilst 163cm might be the ideal height for the average woman, 175cm might just be the ideal height for me.
I’ve often whished myself shorter. When I was in school, being shorter would have meant sitting with the girls rather than standing with the boys in school photographs. When I began college and uni, being shorter would have meant that I could have gone unnoticed a little more in class, rather than sticking out like a very tall sore thumb. Being shorter would mean that off the rack dresses and skirts would be the right length at the hemline and arms. Being shorter would mean that I would be substantially less clumsy – less distance for wires to get crossed between my brain and my feet. It would also mean that I would be ‘cute’, rather than ‘handsome’, that people would not look up to me (literally), and that I could get away with some more ‘out there’ clothes and make up without worrying that I looked like a female impersonator.
On the other hand…
Being tall means I can reach the high shelves in my wardrobe without a stepladder. Being tall means that I can wear patterned tights because of the extra yardage in the leg department. Being tall makes it hard for me to be overlooked in a meeting, seminar, or tutorial, and it’s nice to have to force myself to think of not-too-stupid things to contribute. Being tall, so I’ve been told, gives a person a natural air of authority, and, as such I’m capable of bringing my classes into line by standing up when I talk to them (freakily, this does work). Being tall means that I can wear big hats without looking like an elf. Being tall means that I walk fast – and given room allocations at uni this semester, I cannot be grateful enough for my super fast walking capabilities, even if it is a clumsy trot rather than an elegant stride.
So, on balance, whilst 163cm might be the ideal height for the average woman, 175cm might just be the ideal height for me.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Ita.
Dear Ita,
It’s now official. You are my new favorite person.
You, and Asher Keddy’s depiction of you in Paper Giants, are just so cool. The way you handled Kerry and Sir Frank? Genius. A demanding career and single motherhood? Again, genius. Being confident enough in your project to go ahead undaunted by poor focus group reviews? Again, and again, Genius. Bringing a vibrator to a staff meeting? Fabulous, but somehow I don’t think it’s something I will be attempting any time soon in my department. Although maybe just for lafs…
But I digress.
Ita, it’s from this place of immense props and respect that I have an important question to ask you, because if you can’t answer it, no one can.
My question is: is it alright to wear V necklines in the workplace, and, if so, how should one do it?
You see, I know from reading about it that you were very involved in Paper Giants, and gave your advice and direction as to what Ms Keddy should wear. (Of course, I am not surprised that a women of your immense talents and capabilities would take such a pro-active role in her own biopic. I expect to have full editorial control over my own when it is eventually released.) And, Ms Keddy, while depicting you taking on the magazine world, wore some pretty fabulous things, many of which were sternum-grazingly veed.
I have yet to brave wearing some of my more veed tops and dressed this year when I am having a particular ‘worky’ work day. I worry about what my colleagues and my students may think of me. Indeed, I have even written blog posts about how my ideal teaching dresses (Miss Honeys) are high necked to preserve my modesty.
But I am now wondering about the role that some Ms Buttroses, i.e, dresses and outfits that are substantially more liberated (and possibly accompanied by a charming speech impediment), may play in my high rotation working wardrobe. In particular, I would appreciate your thoughts about environments where one is exposed to some of the less refined blokes of the world (again, I feel your experience with Packers junior and senior would be of assistance here). Some of my students have a long way to go.
I would greatly appreciate your thoughts and consideration on this matter, and wish to again express my profound thanks and admiration. Even though Dame Edna did upstage you in the recent Royal Wedding coverage, you are still the standard of modern womanhood to which I aspire.
Lotsa love,
Peggy xx
It’s now official. You are my new favorite person.
You, and Asher Keddy’s depiction of you in Paper Giants, are just so cool. The way you handled Kerry and Sir Frank? Genius. A demanding career and single motherhood? Again, genius. Being confident enough in your project to go ahead undaunted by poor focus group reviews? Again, and again, Genius. Bringing a vibrator to a staff meeting? Fabulous, but somehow I don’t think it’s something I will be attempting any time soon in my department. Although maybe just for lafs…
But I digress.
Ita, it’s from this place of immense props and respect that I have an important question to ask you, because if you can’t answer it, no one can.
My question is: is it alright to wear V necklines in the workplace, and, if so, how should one do it?
You see, I know from reading about it that you were very involved in Paper Giants, and gave your advice and direction as to what Ms Keddy should wear. (Of course, I am not surprised that a women of your immense talents and capabilities would take such a pro-active role in her own biopic. I expect to have full editorial control over my own when it is eventually released.) And, Ms Keddy, while depicting you taking on the magazine world, wore some pretty fabulous things, many of which were sternum-grazingly veed.
I have yet to brave wearing some of my more veed tops and dressed this year when I am having a particular ‘worky’ work day. I worry about what my colleagues and my students may think of me. Indeed, I have even written blog posts about how my ideal teaching dresses (Miss Honeys) are high necked to preserve my modesty.
But I am now wondering about the role that some Ms Buttroses, i.e, dresses and outfits that are substantially more liberated (and possibly accompanied by a charming speech impediment), may play in my high rotation working wardrobe. In particular, I would appreciate your thoughts about environments where one is exposed to some of the less refined blokes of the world (again, I feel your experience with Packers junior and senior would be of assistance here). Some of my students have a long way to go.
I would greatly appreciate your thoughts and consideration on this matter, and wish to again express my profound thanks and admiration. Even though Dame Edna did upstage you in the recent Royal Wedding coverage, you are still the standard of modern womanhood to which I aspire.
Lotsa love,
Peggy xx
Monday, April 11, 2011
Note to Self
Dear Peggy,
When you are not feeling up to tip-top standard, and have a lot of things to do, DON'T try for wardrobe brilliance.
Because, if you spend the better part of an hour trying on, taking off, trying on again with a differnet cardigain, takign off again in a huff, you will not only miss three buses, you will be forced to come home to a room covered in fashion excriment. Complete with rejects, naked coathangers, discarded shoes, and a herniated wardrobe. (There were supposed to be pictures this week, but, unfortunately, my camera is not working - maybe it was offended?)
Instead, put on the most comfotable, most easy, and most black outfit of all (Johnny Cash, who faced his share of days that weren't at tip top standard, was onto something).
You might not get complimented. You might not get looked at. But at least you will get to work on time.
Which will mean you can come home early for a cup of tea and some of Jackie O's biography before heading out to job number two.
Cheers and lotsalove,
Peggy x
When you are not feeling up to tip-top standard, and have a lot of things to do, DON'T try for wardrobe brilliance.
Because, if you spend the better part of an hour trying on, taking off, trying on again with a differnet cardigain, takign off again in a huff, you will not only miss three buses, you will be forced to come home to a room covered in fashion excriment. Complete with rejects, naked coathangers, discarded shoes, and a herniated wardrobe. (There were supposed to be pictures this week, but, unfortunately, my camera is not working - maybe it was offended?)
Instead, put on the most comfotable, most easy, and most black outfit of all (Johnny Cash, who faced his share of days that weren't at tip top standard, was onto something).
You might not get complimented. You might not get looked at. But at least you will get to work on time.
Which will mean you can come home early for a cup of tea and some of Jackie O's biography before heading out to job number two.
Cheers and lotsalove,
Peggy x
Monday, April 4, 2011
Top Ten
It’s been yet another busy week here for Ms Entwhistle – I know, I know, we’re all busy, so there’s nothing new or exciting in my busy-ness. But, some wonderful things have been happening this week, so I thought I’d share some glimpses and snippets of my week with you, in the hopes that you are faring similarly well.
#10 – Sumatran Organic Fair-Trade (also slightly sanctimonious) Coffee. I ran out a couple of weeks ago, and couldn’t get myself to Jindebah Coffee until late this week just passed – but this magnificent coffee is so worth the wait and the journey to the deep south.
#9 – Marking First Year Essays. For a couple of reasons, I’ve ended up teaching a lot more than I intended this semester, hence a large part of my business. This means I get to mark 75 of each assessment task, and there are four assessment tasks in the course that I teach. I’m not doing the math because it’s going to scare me, but if you want to do it, go right ahead. This week I marked the first piece of assessment, and, as always, I’m thrilled by the effort that my little firsties have put into their work. Yes, marking is a headache, literally and metaphorically, but it also makes me smile.
#8 – Macaron Day. On Saturday, MamaK, Tessy Halberton and I had a girls’ afternoon making macarons. Whilst they are our first attempt, and, like the first year essays mentioned above, have a long way to go before they are perfect, they still taste rather magnificent.
#7 – The End Of Fieldwork. Yes, folks, it’s over. Specifically, it ended at 3am at an unnamed fieldwork location, and I was supremely glad. Particularly as The Dreamboat, acting the role of BIG HE MAN PROTECTOR, willingly stayed up all night, and surrendered the wee small hours of his twenty sixth birthday to doing something no one in their right mind would do. Which brings me to wonderful thing six…
#6 – The Dreamboat’s Birthday. Dreamboat turned 26 on Friday, and, although we were both whacked from a hard night’s observing, it was still a lovely day. Happy birthday darling, I’m glad you liked your present, even if I dropped it and it doesn’t quite work properly anymore – incidentally, does anyone know of a barometer repairer?
#5 – Autumn Barbecues. For the Dreamboat’s birthday lunch, we packed an impromptu BBQ and headed out to Cotter Bend reserve. It’s one of my favorite places in the whole world, especially at this time of year. I would have taken my camera to snap some shots to share with you all, but I thought better of it, as I want you all to go yourselves – the golden leaves and musky-earthy smell of the lichen is worth the windy road.
#4 – Lemons (and one lime) In My Kitchen. Don’t they look cheerful? They remind me of sunshine every time I see them.
#3 – Sunday Yum Cha. I promise I will never leave it ten years between drinks with Yum Cha, because it’s so much fun. Especially when you go with a group of ten people. Especially when you can chat about fabulous bargain fashion with friends you hadn’t caught up with in a while. Especially when there’s a giant Lazy Susan to twirl food on. Especially when you discover that friend whitebait is like fish and chips combined in the one foodstuff. Especially when you try tripe and are pleasantly surprised.
#2 – Fabulous Vintage Dresses. I scored two this week – one from the fifties and one from the seventies. There are so many fantastic vintage clothes sellers popping up around the place, there isn’t an excuse not to get amongst it.
#1 – Frogs. But the most wonderful thing of all this week? Victoria and Albert, our new green tree frogs. Yes, they are named after the royals. Yes, they did keep Dreamboat and I awake with what we think were mating calls (which, strangely enough, sounded like a bird-squawk). Yes, I did wake up in a terrible panic and had to check they were still breathing (I was worried they’d frozen to death).
Oh, but aren’t they just darling?
#10 – Sumatran Organic Fair-Trade (also slightly sanctimonious) Coffee. I ran out a couple of weeks ago, and couldn’t get myself to Jindebah Coffee until late this week just passed – but this magnificent coffee is so worth the wait and the journey to the deep south.
#9 – Marking First Year Essays. For a couple of reasons, I’ve ended up teaching a lot more than I intended this semester, hence a large part of my business. This means I get to mark 75 of each assessment task, and there are four assessment tasks in the course that I teach. I’m not doing the math because it’s going to scare me, but if you want to do it, go right ahead. This week I marked the first piece of assessment, and, as always, I’m thrilled by the effort that my little firsties have put into their work. Yes, marking is a headache, literally and metaphorically, but it also makes me smile.
#8 – Macaron Day. On Saturday, MamaK, Tessy Halberton and I had a girls’ afternoon making macarons. Whilst they are our first attempt, and, like the first year essays mentioned above, have a long way to go before they are perfect, they still taste rather magnificent.
#7 – The End Of Fieldwork. Yes, folks, it’s over. Specifically, it ended at 3am at an unnamed fieldwork location, and I was supremely glad. Particularly as The Dreamboat, acting the role of BIG HE MAN PROTECTOR, willingly stayed up all night, and surrendered the wee small hours of his twenty sixth birthday to doing something no one in their right mind would do. Which brings me to wonderful thing six…
#6 – The Dreamboat’s Birthday. Dreamboat turned 26 on Friday, and, although we were both whacked from a hard night’s observing, it was still a lovely day. Happy birthday darling, I’m glad you liked your present, even if I dropped it and it doesn’t quite work properly anymore – incidentally, does anyone know of a barometer repairer?
#5 – Autumn Barbecues. For the Dreamboat’s birthday lunch, we packed an impromptu BBQ and headed out to Cotter Bend reserve. It’s one of my favorite places in the whole world, especially at this time of year. I would have taken my camera to snap some shots to share with you all, but I thought better of it, as I want you all to go yourselves – the golden leaves and musky-earthy smell of the lichen is worth the windy road.
#4 – Lemons (and one lime) In My Kitchen. Don’t they look cheerful? They remind me of sunshine every time I see them.
#3 – Sunday Yum Cha. I promise I will never leave it ten years between drinks with Yum Cha, because it’s so much fun. Especially when you go with a group of ten people. Especially when you can chat about fabulous bargain fashion with friends you hadn’t caught up with in a while. Especially when there’s a giant Lazy Susan to twirl food on. Especially when you discover that friend whitebait is like fish and chips combined in the one foodstuff. Especially when you try tripe and are pleasantly surprised.
#2 – Fabulous Vintage Dresses. I scored two this week – one from the fifties and one from the seventies. There are so many fantastic vintage clothes sellers popping up around the place, there isn’t an excuse not to get amongst it.
#1 – Frogs. But the most wonderful thing of all this week? Victoria and Albert, our new green tree frogs. Yes, they are named after the royals. Yes, they did keep Dreamboat and I awake with what we think were mating calls (which, strangely enough, sounded like a bird-squawk). Yes, I did wake up in a terrible panic and had to check they were still breathing (I was worried they’d frozen to death).
Oh, but aren’t they just darling?
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Macarons!
I’m attempting something difficult. Something challenging. Something that often results in failure and existential crisis. Something that, should it succeed, will be worth the angst.
PhD?
No (or, rather, yes, but not what I’m writing about today).
MACARONS!
These babies have become the latest in culinary cool. And, like so many cool things (Glee, leggings, chai), I resisted Le Mac for quite a long time. Of course, they were nice to eat, but only if someone else made them, for they appeared to be far too much hassle to make on my own – besides which, ageing egg whites seems positively disgusting.
But I’ve now RSVP’d (fashionably late) to the macaron party, after a weekend workshop with MamaK and Tessy Halberton. Although our demonstrator made no bones about the fact the macarons just sometimes do not work, Tessy, MamaK and I were buoyed by enthusiasm, and no small amount of sugar from the macarons we nibbled throughout the workshop. We’ve booked in a macaron-making date in MamaK’s well equipped kitchen this Sunday – wish us luck!
However, this morning, thinking of the special birthdays for special people I have coming up, I thought I would being initial preparations for my own batch of macarons…
Including ageing the egg whites, which, thankfully, can be done in the refrigerator. As this photo illustrates, I have also weighed the egg whites. I NEVER NORMALLY DO THIS, but the demonstrator, in our weekend workshop, was most emphatic about liquid to dry ratios. Frankly, quite a lot of fuss and bother before the sun’s properly risen - but a perfect macaron will be worth the effort.
After all, you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet – sorry, a macaron.
PhD?
No (or, rather, yes, but not what I’m writing about today).
MACARONS!
These babies have become the latest in culinary cool. And, like so many cool things (Glee, leggings, chai), I resisted Le Mac for quite a long time. Of course, they were nice to eat, but only if someone else made them, for they appeared to be far too much hassle to make on my own – besides which, ageing egg whites seems positively disgusting.
But I’ve now RSVP’d (fashionably late) to the macaron party, after a weekend workshop with MamaK and Tessy Halberton. Although our demonstrator made no bones about the fact the macarons just sometimes do not work, Tessy, MamaK and I were buoyed by enthusiasm, and no small amount of sugar from the macarons we nibbled throughout the workshop. We’ve booked in a macaron-making date in MamaK’s well equipped kitchen this Sunday – wish us luck!
However, this morning, thinking of the special birthdays for special people I have coming up, I thought I would being initial preparations for my own batch of macarons…
Including ageing the egg whites, which, thankfully, can be done in the refrigerator. As this photo illustrates, I have also weighed the egg whites. I NEVER NORMALLY DO THIS, but the demonstrator, in our weekend workshop, was most emphatic about liquid to dry ratios. Frankly, quite a lot of fuss and bother before the sun’s properly risen - but a perfect macaron will be worth the effort.
After all, you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet – sorry, a macaron.
Friday, March 18, 2011
My Parents (And Godparents) Are, In All Likelihood, Cooler Than Yours.
This weekend just gone my Fairy Godmother and Fairy Godfather came to stay with MamaK and PapaK. As with most friendships as old as the one between my parents and godparents, hilarity ensued - perhaps because enough time has passed that small talk and propriety are irrelevant, and you can get on with the business of being very, very silly indeed. So silly, that my BigLittleBrother and I had to be separated, least we set off another giggle loop (it didn’t work, I could hear him from the lounge room, and snorted cabbage salad through my nose. I couldn’t help it, PapaK and the Fairy Godfather were still talking about probes).
My parents got so silly, sometime while the meat was being probed on the BBQ, they decided to crack open their wedding album. Judging by the dust, it hasn’t been looked at since they got married, in 1985.
Take note of the year, readers. MamaK and PapaK got married. In 1985. If you share my passionate interest in Brideality, you will know that 1985 was the pinnacle of the 80s, and, thus, the pinnacle of 80s weddings. Think taffeta. Think carnations. Think ruffles – for the blokes. Think Lady Di (may she rest in peace). In short, think BIG. REALLY REALLY BIG. THINK THE BIGGEST YOU CAN AND THEN TIMES THIS BY THE POWER OF TEN. And you may be getting close to how BIG everything Wedding was in the 80s.
As we leafed though the photos of the big day more than 25 years ago, a startling realisation dawned. My parents were cool. Really cool. In fact, so cool, and so anti-trend, were they, that I think they may just have been hipsters.
Take note, ye the jury, of exhibit a. My mother’s dress. Note how it has a vintage aesthetic, is demure yet charming, and is exactly the opposite of the 80s silhouette we know and love? As a good hipster girl, my mother knew that there’s nothing worse than conventionality, a fact reflected in her dress.
And exhibit b. My father’s moustache. Like all good hipster men, PapaK has a ‘tache, and, in this instance, can legitimately claim that he had one ‘before everyone else, and before they were cool’. Because he had one before present day hipsters were even born.
Exhibit c, ladies and gentlemen, is the bridesmaids’ dresses. Note how charming my Fairy Godmother and her fellow maids look, in simple dresses, which, in true hipster spirit, my mother made for them. Note, also, this particularly gorgeous shot of MamaK and the Fairy Godmother. They look like they’ve been caught doing something naughty and sharing a giggle. For the record, they still looked EXACTLY LIKE THIS at many points on the weekend.
Exhibit d refers to the style in which the photographs were taken – spontaneous, candid, and overexposed. Apparently, this was to do with the photographer botching up at the last minute, then overcharging my parents. So my folks instead relied instead upon the happy snaps of guests to fill their album. Something which the more hipster bridal magazines I hide in my desk at work (for scary moments when only Brideality will do) advocate as a way of creating ‘charming’ photo moments. Except, in my parent’s case, these charming moments were in the stead of an overpriced photographer, so there’s an added authenticity to these shots that makes them deeply, deeply cool.I particularly like the shot of the priest with a ciggy (look closely, it's there), and the groomsman picking out an eye crustie. My Fairy Godfather, a last minute guest (he’d only just met my Godmother), even pioneered some early photobombing, but sadly it didn’t scan well so I haven’t included it below – sorry, Fairy Godfather!
But I think, what gives the day more hipster cred than anything else mentioned above, is that my parents were true to themselves, and their style, in an era when the trend was not in step with them. The fact that, twenty six years down the track, their wedding photos look as fresh and lovely as they did all those years ago, is testament to how very cool, and how very true to themselves – in short, how very hipster – my parents were, and, in many ways, sill are.
So, yeah, I mean, it’s not like it’s a competition or anything, but my mum and dad, were, in all likelyhood, way cooler than yours.
My parents got so silly, sometime while the meat was being probed on the BBQ, they decided to crack open their wedding album. Judging by the dust, it hasn’t been looked at since they got married, in 1985.
Take note of the year, readers. MamaK and PapaK got married. In 1985. If you share my passionate interest in Brideality, you will know that 1985 was the pinnacle of the 80s, and, thus, the pinnacle of 80s weddings. Think taffeta. Think carnations. Think ruffles – for the blokes. Think Lady Di (may she rest in peace). In short, think BIG. REALLY REALLY BIG. THINK THE BIGGEST YOU CAN AND THEN TIMES THIS BY THE POWER OF TEN. And you may be getting close to how BIG everything Wedding was in the 80s.
As we leafed though the photos of the big day more than 25 years ago, a startling realisation dawned. My parents were cool. Really cool. In fact, so cool, and so anti-trend, were they, that I think they may just have been hipsters.
Take note, ye the jury, of exhibit a. My mother’s dress. Note how it has a vintage aesthetic, is demure yet charming, and is exactly the opposite of the 80s silhouette we know and love? As a good hipster girl, my mother knew that there’s nothing worse than conventionality, a fact reflected in her dress.
And exhibit b. My father’s moustache. Like all good hipster men, PapaK has a ‘tache, and, in this instance, can legitimately claim that he had one ‘before everyone else, and before they were cool’. Because he had one before present day hipsters were even born.
Exhibit c, ladies and gentlemen, is the bridesmaids’ dresses. Note how charming my Fairy Godmother and her fellow maids look, in simple dresses, which, in true hipster spirit, my mother made for them. Note, also, this particularly gorgeous shot of MamaK and the Fairy Godmother. They look like they’ve been caught doing something naughty and sharing a giggle. For the record, they still looked EXACTLY LIKE THIS at many points on the weekend.
Exhibit d refers to the style in which the photographs were taken – spontaneous, candid, and overexposed. Apparently, this was to do with the photographer botching up at the last minute, then overcharging my parents. So my folks instead relied instead upon the happy snaps of guests to fill their album. Something which the more hipster bridal magazines I hide in my desk at work (for scary moments when only Brideality will do) advocate as a way of creating ‘charming’ photo moments. Except, in my parent’s case, these charming moments were in the stead of an overpriced photographer, so there’s an added authenticity to these shots that makes them deeply, deeply cool.I particularly like the shot of the priest with a ciggy (look closely, it's there), and the groomsman picking out an eye crustie. My Fairy Godfather, a last minute guest (he’d only just met my Godmother), even pioneered some early photobombing, but sadly it didn’t scan well so I haven’t included it below – sorry, Fairy Godfather!
But I think, what gives the day more hipster cred than anything else mentioned above, is that my parents were true to themselves, and their style, in an era when the trend was not in step with them. The fact that, twenty six years down the track, their wedding photos look as fresh and lovely as they did all those years ago, is testament to how very cool, and how very true to themselves – in short, how very hipster – my parents were, and, in many ways, sill are.
So, yeah, I mean, it’s not like it’s a competition or anything, but my mum and dad, were, in all likelyhood, way cooler than yours.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
A-Waiting
Hi All,
My apologies again - I have missed my usual Monday/Tuesday posting this week. It's not for want of trying, though!
You see, the post is written, and a-waiting on my laptop, but the very special pictures to go with it are a-waiting didgitalization - and, due to me not having a scanner, this won't occur till Thursday or Friday.
But, I can assure you, it will be worth the wait!
Love,
Peggy xoxox
My apologies again - I have missed my usual Monday/Tuesday posting this week. It's not for want of trying, though!
You see, the post is written, and a-waiting on my laptop, but the very special pictures to go with it are a-waiting didgitalization - and, due to me not having a scanner, this won't occur till Thursday or Friday.
But, I can assure you, it will be worth the wait!
Love,
Peggy xoxox
Monday, March 7, 2011
Twee Monster
Sometimes it’s hard to stay cool, calm and grown up. Sometimes, you just want to embrace your inner three year old, and wear everything that’s pink, sparkly, motif-ed and pastel all at once.
This morning, I found myself gripped by the Twee Monster. Imagine the bastard love child of Julie Andrews (circa The Sound of Music) and Elton John (circa now and forevermore) – and you’re getting close to what my personal Twee Monster looks like.
You see, on what was shaping up to be a boring, let’s wear what’s clean day (I was doing two loads of washing), a rather lovely surprise was left on my doorstep by Australia post. It was an early birthday present from Clementine Kemp – a beautiful vintage sundress, full skirted, in the most darling turquoise polka dot. Before I knew it, I’d been stealth hit by the twee monster. I was wearing four different shades of pastel (turquoise, lemon, pink, lilac), three different motifs (polka dots, cherries, bows), two rings on the one hand (to tie in both the turquoise and lilac elements, natch), and one very distressed look on my face.
These are the consequences of overexposure to Elton John in the womb, and a childhood full of wholesome family entertainment. Clearly, urgent action needed to be taken.
So, how best to counterbalance the ravages of the Twee Monster?
It’s quite simple. I’ve got two words for you:
Black, and leather.
As exhibit A shows, I kept the foundational elements of the Twee outfit:
But added, as per exhibit B:
A big black leather bag, a tan leather belt, and some simple black onyx studs, and, like magic, the Twee Monster disappeared, back into its colour matched cave, with a copy of Elton’s greatest hits and the boxed commemorative Sound of Music DVD by way of consolation.
Except, then, the weather changed, and I had to start from scratch with today’s outfit…ah well, can’t win all your battles!
This morning, I found myself gripped by the Twee Monster. Imagine the bastard love child of Julie Andrews (circa The Sound of Music) and Elton John (circa now and forevermore) – and you’re getting close to what my personal Twee Monster looks like.
You see, on what was shaping up to be a boring, let’s wear what’s clean day (I was doing two loads of washing), a rather lovely surprise was left on my doorstep by Australia post. It was an early birthday present from Clementine Kemp – a beautiful vintage sundress, full skirted, in the most darling turquoise polka dot. Before I knew it, I’d been stealth hit by the twee monster. I was wearing four different shades of pastel (turquoise, lemon, pink, lilac), three different motifs (polka dots, cherries, bows), two rings on the one hand (to tie in both the turquoise and lilac elements, natch), and one very distressed look on my face.
These are the consequences of overexposure to Elton John in the womb, and a childhood full of wholesome family entertainment. Clearly, urgent action needed to be taken.
So, how best to counterbalance the ravages of the Twee Monster?
It’s quite simple. I’ve got two words for you:
Black, and leather.
As exhibit A shows, I kept the foundational elements of the Twee outfit:
But added, as per exhibit B:
A big black leather bag, a tan leather belt, and some simple black onyx studs, and, like magic, the Twee Monster disappeared, back into its colour matched cave, with a copy of Elton’s greatest hits and the boxed commemorative Sound of Music DVD by way of consolation.
Except, then, the weather changed, and I had to start from scratch with today’s outfit…ah well, can’t win all your battles!
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
The Future’s So Bright I’ve Got To Wear Shades…
Many summers ago, during a companionable swim on a perfect South Coast beach, a suntanned, 19 year old Peggy glibly declared to her handsome swimming companion that 24 was her ‘Scary Age’. The age at which she would begin to see herself as an adult. The age at which she would begin to achieve adult things. The age at which she would begin using anti-wrinkle eye cream.
In a few short weeks, readers, I am turning 24.
What does this Scary Age mean now that I’m staring down its barrel? Well, I guess my 19 year old self was right – I can no longer see myself as anything but an adult, because I am doing all those adult things which seemed so far away at 19. I’ve moved out of home. I’m no longer working in retail. I’ve moved on from my first car (R.I.P LaShonda) to a car with power windows and central locking, and 4 doors. I’ve finished one degree and am midway through a PhD. I no longer drink and smoke like I used to. I’m punctual, at least more punctual than I used to be. I have rich and beautiful relationships with many loved ones. I bake my own sourdough bread. In short, readers, I feel very grown up, and ready to tackle The Scary Age head on.
There still remains the issue, though, of wrinkles, and the necessary commencement of early prevention measures. Last semester I noticed that I had a groove on my forehead, in a rather unusual spot – high up, and near my hairline. My first wrinkle. I immediately began to pull faces at the mirror. What facial expression was it that I was using to give myself an early onset wrinkle at 23? I tried smiling. It wasn’t a happy wrinkle. Ok, frowning then – still no corresponding line. Brows furrowed in deep contemplation of life’s mysteries? Nope. It was only when I gave up the silly game of pulling faces at the mirror, and let my incredulity at this whole situation show on my face, that it became plain. As the saying goes, you get the face you deserve at 50 (or 23), and the face I apparently deserve is the face of incredulity.
Cue existential crisis.
Since this disturbing discovery of my persistent incredulity, I have been trying earnestly to think un-incredulous thoughts. So far, so unsuccessful. There are too many WTF moments in life, particularly when you mark first year essays with the frequency that I do. So, I have compensated for my inability to be credulous by drinking lots of water, eating lots of avocados, and, most importantly, wearing sunglasses. All the time. Hence the title of this post.
You see, I feel like I can face anything that The Scary Age, and all the ages after me, throws my way when I’m ensconced in a pair of oversized shades. Somehow, putting them on makes me feel collected and together, like I am competent and can do all these grown up things I have to – and want to – do.
Like working on a perfect summer’s day rather than swimming at that perfect beach.
Monday, February 14, 2011
To Be Clichéd…
I wore a cute outfit today. Here’s a picture.
The dress is vintage – I modified the skirt from an a-line to a pencil shape after watching Christina Hendrix’s Joan in Mad Men. The neckline detailing, though, is what makes this dress – that little flash of cream at the neck and sleeves really lifts this frock.
The shoes are my summer-go-to sandals I blogged about a couple of weeks ago.
The bag is a favourite Skipping Girl from years ago that Mamma-K and I share.
The jewellery is a mixture of favourite pieces, but I like the way that the round shapes pick up and accentuate the darling fabric-covered button detail from the neckline of the dress.
All in all, a pretty picture, wouldn’t you say?
But, aye, here’s the rub. This isn’t the outfit that I wanted to wear today. It’s valentines day, and I wanted to wear this outfit. Here’s another picture.
The dress was a $20 bargain from DFO, made all the sweeter because I had been eyeing it off at five times as much in the retail store. Notice how from a distance the print looks like polka dots, but, up close, it’s actually love hearts? Blows my mind.
The earrings – adorable – were $3 from Diva. There’s a rather large part of me that enjoys ghetto name jewellery a little too much. Until such time as someone gets me massive earrings with ‘Peggy’ emblazoned in 9 carat, I think these ‘love’s are a workable compromise.
The bag is my daily lug-all, but picks up the red from the dress’s heart print. So, reader, why did I go with the former, rather than the latter, outfit?
It all comes down to expectations and clichés. About conforming to expectations – in my own way as much as possible – and avoiding clichés.
You see, as I was kneading bread yesterday afternoon (I have become a sourdough tragic – but that’s the topic for next week’s blog), it occurred to me that in addition to my usual fieldwork commitments, and, of course, valentine’s day dinner at mine with the Dreamboat, I was due back at Yooni for the semester’s official kick off. I had a departmental seminar to go to, and, like any season’s kick off, everybody was going to be there.
‘Well, Peggy, wear the Love outfit’, I said to myself, ‘It’s not like anyone there will notice, and, if they do, they will surely enjoy the outfit for its campy kitch as much as you do.’
‘But, on the other hand’, I said to myself, ‘What if people pick today to notice outfits? What if they don’t get the campy kitch message that, I believe, this outfit conveys? What if, by its femininity and its cliché young-girl-in-love-on-valentine-day connotations, my special outfit goes from cute and fun to silly and immature? Is that really a semantic risk you want to take?’.
This dilemma kept me occupied until my bread was kneaded. And I came to the conclusion that, sad as it made me to dismiss my Love outfit on this, the most appropriate day of the year for it, I knew that it wouldn’t make me comfortable in the seminar.
Nobody gets dressed in a vacuum. This would be quite difficult on a practical level, from my meagre understanding of physics. When we get dressed, we are participating in a network of cultural symbols and contexts. Furthermore, our bodies, without us being able to do anything about it, also carry symbolic cultural value, via our genders, sizes, ages, and defining features. As much I would like to be able to wear whatever I want to, where I want to, whenever I want to, I’m not able to escape the cultural connotations of my clothing choices, and how they interact with the way that people ‘read’ my body. Perhaps this is more to do with being a cowardly custard on my part – and I accept that I am not a particularly brave person – but I simply can’t bring myself to throw sartorial caution and the opinions of others to the wind. I will always dress for myself, but I also dress for others, and I think, in some way, we all do that.
Although, maybe I could get away with the ghetto fabulous earrings…
The dress is vintage – I modified the skirt from an a-line to a pencil shape after watching Christina Hendrix’s Joan in Mad Men. The neckline detailing, though, is what makes this dress – that little flash of cream at the neck and sleeves really lifts this frock.
The shoes are my summer-go-to sandals I blogged about a couple of weeks ago.
The bag is a favourite Skipping Girl from years ago that Mamma-K and I share.
The jewellery is a mixture of favourite pieces, but I like the way that the round shapes pick up and accentuate the darling fabric-covered button detail from the neckline of the dress.
All in all, a pretty picture, wouldn’t you say?
But, aye, here’s the rub. This isn’t the outfit that I wanted to wear today. It’s valentines day, and I wanted to wear this outfit. Here’s another picture.
The dress was a $20 bargain from DFO, made all the sweeter because I had been eyeing it off at five times as much in the retail store. Notice how from a distance the print looks like polka dots, but, up close, it’s actually love hearts? Blows my mind.
The earrings – adorable – were $3 from Diva. There’s a rather large part of me that enjoys ghetto name jewellery a little too much. Until such time as someone gets me massive earrings with ‘Peggy’ emblazoned in 9 carat, I think these ‘love’s are a workable compromise.
The bag is my daily lug-all, but picks up the red from the dress’s heart print. So, reader, why did I go with the former, rather than the latter, outfit?
It all comes down to expectations and clichés. About conforming to expectations – in my own way as much as possible – and avoiding clichés.
You see, as I was kneading bread yesterday afternoon (I have become a sourdough tragic – but that’s the topic for next week’s blog), it occurred to me that in addition to my usual fieldwork commitments, and, of course, valentine’s day dinner at mine with the Dreamboat, I was due back at Yooni for the semester’s official kick off. I had a departmental seminar to go to, and, like any season’s kick off, everybody was going to be there.
‘Well, Peggy, wear the Love outfit’, I said to myself, ‘It’s not like anyone there will notice, and, if they do, they will surely enjoy the outfit for its campy kitch as much as you do.’
‘But, on the other hand’, I said to myself, ‘What if people pick today to notice outfits? What if they don’t get the campy kitch message that, I believe, this outfit conveys? What if, by its femininity and its cliché young-girl-in-love-on-valentine-day connotations, my special outfit goes from cute and fun to silly and immature? Is that really a semantic risk you want to take?’.
This dilemma kept me occupied until my bread was kneaded. And I came to the conclusion that, sad as it made me to dismiss my Love outfit on this, the most appropriate day of the year for it, I knew that it wouldn’t make me comfortable in the seminar.
Nobody gets dressed in a vacuum. This would be quite difficult on a practical level, from my meagre understanding of physics. When we get dressed, we are participating in a network of cultural symbols and contexts. Furthermore, our bodies, without us being able to do anything about it, also carry symbolic cultural value, via our genders, sizes, ages, and defining features. As much I would like to be able to wear whatever I want to, where I want to, whenever I want to, I’m not able to escape the cultural connotations of my clothing choices, and how they interact with the way that people ‘read’ my body. Perhaps this is more to do with being a cowardly custard on my part – and I accept that I am not a particularly brave person – but I simply can’t bring myself to throw sartorial caution and the opinions of others to the wind. I will always dress for myself, but I also dress for others, and I think, in some way, we all do that.
Although, maybe I could get away with the ghetto fabulous earrings…
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