Dear Christmas

Dear Christmas,

You can be a real bitch.

The endless Christmas parties that start in November. NO-VEM-BER (NO-WAY, more like). The obfuscation, in your seasonal fug, of several loved ones’ birthdays I’d like to celebrate on their own merits, rather than as an afterthought to your excessive fanfare. The increased presence of numpty shoppers (I mean, I know not everyone is as prodigiously gifted a shopper as me, but, for the love of sweet baby Jesus, step aside and let me show you how you burn plastic). The increased presence of Christmas carols. The increased presence of misbehaving relations. The increased presence of plastic decorations. The sugar comas. The humidity. The mosquitoes. The pre-packaged turkey stuffing.

Having digested the above statements (the same cannot be said about pre-packaged turkey stuffing), it may be hard for you to believe what I have to say next. But, in spite of appearances, I love you, Christmas, like the way Mark Darcy loves Bridget Jones: just the way you are. And here’s why:
• Shortbread stars, dusted with sugar and wrapped in cello bags;
• MamaK and PapaK’s three cats maliciously eyeing off the Christmas tree;
• Discovering new favourite stores/sellers/producers in the process of shopping. If you haven’t done so already, get yourselves down to Lonsdale St Traders – it’s a trip;
• Reconnecting with old favourite stores/sellers/producers in the process of shopping. Mrs Peterson’s new range is swell, and Able and Game are now doing tea towels. Be still, my beating heart;
• Cinnamon and nutmeg, in everything;
• Comparing family chaos dispatches with my most understanding friends;
• Mangoes and cherries, the perfect antidotes to commercial, over-processed food;
• Christmas Morning Craft, an evolving part of our family ritual. This year, we’re ironicaly painting garden gnomes;
• Decorating my writing desk with stars as a cheesy reminder to aim high in the last throes of PhDrafting; and, best of all
• Knowing that, at some point on December 25, something hilarious will go down (it always does), and the six of us will laugh so hard our food-stuffed stomachs will ache till New Year’s.

It’s because of this, Christmas, that I forgive you for being a bitch. In fact, you’re rather grand, and I’m glad you stopped by at the end of a hectic-fantastic (Hectastic?) year.

Because, deep down, you and I both know your secret: that really, you’re alright.

Lots of love,

Peggy

Xoxoxo

Ps in the interests of getting the PhDrafting PhDone, this is my last post for 2012. Merry Christmas all, and a happy new year. I’m sure it’s going to be merry and bright!

Summer Challenge # 2

Last summer, as those of you who are regulars here know, I set myself the challenge of (re)reading all of John Steinbeck.

Did I achieve my summer challenge? The blunt answer is no. There are still a few of Steinbeck’s books that I didn’t get around to reading.

I did, however, read just about all of them. And thoroughly enjoyable reading it was. I, for one, consider this a challenge met and mastered.

As our days are warming up, getting longer and fuller of parties, Christmas things, and long walks up big hills at dusk to catch the sunset, I’m thinking it’s time for another summer challenge.

But, what should this summer challenge be?

The obvious answer is finishing the first (exceptionally rough) draft of my PhD. I don’t think that qualifies, though, as summer challenge material. Firstly, with a bit of luck and a whole lot of power ballads, finishing the draft is on track to happen by Christmas, leaving January and February un-challenged.

Furthermore, the whole point of a summer challenge, to my mind, is that it’s got to be a teensy bit ephemeral, a little esoteric, and otherwise unrelated to everyday work/study activities. Thus, the PhD, and associated business, is not suitable summer challenge material.

Also, this year’s summer challenge needs to be compatible with finishing a PhD draft, working full time in a new role, and generally getting on with life. Which means it needs to be a flexible challenge, the sort that I can pick up and set down as need be.

Finally, it goes without saying, this year’s summer challenge needs to be fun, preferably a whole lot thereof.

Any suggestions?

On the Art of Shopping

As we enter December, the month consecrated to the Gods of Consumerism, it behoves me to share my meditations on the art of shopping. Some of my acquaintance would say that I am a prodigiously gifted shopper, with a superior understanding, practical and theoretical, of all aspect of shopping.

I’m inclined to agree with them.

In my extensive experience, there are two distinct modes of shopping. The first is the planned offensive. The second is the stealth strike.

The first type of shopping – the planned offensive– is the tactically safe choice. The most successful planned offensives are the result of careful reconnaissance. Like a gambler studying the form guide, or a trader monitoring stocks, the shopper needs to be aware of who is doing what in the retail arena to best inform their strike and maximise its tactical utility. Online shopping, e-newsletters, and company websites are principal sources of intelligence, and should be regularly consulted.

For instance: back in October, it came to my attention that the Undercurrent market was occurring the last weekend of November, at the National Portrait Gallery. Ten minutes reconnaissance on stallholders websites confirmed what I suspected: that Undercurrent presented a tactical opportunity to do the vast majority of my (considerable) Christmas and December/January birthday shopping in one fell swoop. From October onwards, I began a concerted savings effort to facilitate this retail offensive. Last Saturday, within the space of 90 minutes, I came, saw, conquered, pillaged those markets like Ghangis Kahn raiding a small Eurasian village. All under budget, no less (Wayne Swan: call me).

Yet, while it was immensely satisfying to return home - the acrid smell of burning plastic emanating from my wallet a pleasant reminder of battles fought and won - pouring over my spoils left me somewhat cold. Although it was a technically brilliant piece of shopping, well planned, well budgeted, well executed, last Saturday was missing something critical. It was too tactical, too safe.

For, you see, the true shopper – and we are rare beasts indeed – has an instinct for retail, an instinct honed over years of patient self-discipline, reflection, and practice. It’s an instinct that propels them to undertake rash, bold, sudden action: to stealth strike. Stealth strikes, while illogical at the outset, inevitably result in the most pyrotechnic of victories, provided that the true shopper unswervingly trusts their instincts. Like a fisherman who knows when the trout are running, like the hunter who knows where bears shit in the woods, a true shopper can sniff the air and detect the faintest whiff of smoke that informs them that a sale is on. This is why shopping is an art, not a science: it must be felt. And a visa card must always, always, be kept loaded in preparation for a stealth strike.

To wit: one Friday, typing away at my computer at work, I smelt a sale. Flexing off twenty minutes early, MamaK and I hit the shops (N.B: true shoppers are most often loan wolves, mavericks acting without their platoon, stealth striking in isolation. Occasionally, the art of shopping is passed down through a bloodline, mother to daughter, who shop in teams or packs. This is how dynasties are born). Fortune the bold: shoes were on sale. Our first hit yielded five pairs of leather work shoes for $200. About to head to the car, MamaK suggested that perhaps another lap could yield further results. Never one to deny the instinct of a true shopper, we did another lap. Two more pairs of shoes, on an even more spectacular sale, were secured.

While I acknowledge that my purchase of seven pairs of shoes may be regarded as somewhat rash, I think it is more accurately a masterful display of the art of shopping, and a demonstration of tactical brilliance. For, as Canberra residents know, our supply chains are unreliable: just as you make hay while the sun shines, in this town, you always buy the shoes when they are on sale.

Salted Caramel x 3

Salted caramel is a food trend that’s been with us for the last couple of years. And, readers, this trend, pardon the pun, is worth its salt.

If you haven’t done so already, take yourself down to your nearest hipster café or restaurant, and order the salted caramel option. Believe me, if your hipster venue is truly thus, it will be there.

What I love about salted caramel is that it’s deliciously contradictory. The sweet, creamy caramel, interspersed with (ideally) still-flaky shards of salt. It’s so wrong, yet so bizarrely right, the only fitting soundtrack is the best of Prince (you have to promise me that you’ll eat salted caramel while listening to Prince at least once, just to prove that, although my suggestion sounds a little whack, it’s gosh darn perfect).

I have to admit, salted caramel is not something I make frequently, because when it comes to salted caramel, I have absolutely no self control. If it’s in my fridge, I WILL eat it. Within the day (actually, if I’m honest, within the hour).

However, when people are coming over, or when I’m invited for a leisurely BBQ with some mates, I’m more than happy to contribute something deliciously tasty as well as deliciously on trend.

To make matters even better, salted caramel is surprisingly simple. Here I’ve provided the basic salted caramel recipe, salted caramel chocolate pots, and, grandest of all, salted caramel and chocolate tart (my recipe is loosely based on one that appeared in Delicious magazine a couple of years ago, but I’ve fiddled with it sufficiently to feel comfortable calling it my own).

It’s like a salted caramel pick-your-own adventure book, where every path you pick leads to a sticky, sweet, salty end. Enjoy!

Salted Caramel (makes approximately a cup and a half of sauce, keeps in the fridge for up to a week – but let’s admit, it’s not likely to stick around for that long).

I cup sugar
1/3 cup water
125g salted butter
1/3 cup pouring cream
Sea salt flakes

1. Place sugar and water in a saucepan over medium-high heat. Swirl saucepan to dissolve sugar. Simmer, without stirring, until starting to colour – about 15 minutes. (You will need to watch this carefully, because, guaranteed, the moment you turn your back to put a load of washing on, you’ll have taken the caramel too far, and will have a horrible burnt mess in your pan).
2. Lower the heat once the caramel has started to colour. Add the chopped butter, and stir over the heat for another 5 minutes or until golden. The mixture will look hideously split at this stage. Don’t panic.
3. Take saucepan off the heat. Stir in half of the cream. Watch your split mixture magically coalesce into a cohesive caramel. Stir in the remaining cream. Gloat at your cleverness.
4. Add a PINCH of salt flakes to the caramel. You need to salt slowly, carefully: you can always add more salt, but you can’t take it out once it’s in, and it’d be such a shame to ruin some beautiful caramel. Stir, taste. Add more salt, if you feel it needs it. Repeat until your caramel is salted to the perfect point of contradiction.
5. Store in the fridge, to serve over ice cream, or, my favourite, with fresh blueberries.

Salted Caramel Chocolate Pots (Makes 6, depending on ramekin size)

1 quantity salted caramel (above)
175 g dark chocolate
1 1/3 cups pouring cream
2 eggs, beaten
Cocoa powder, to serve

1. Preheat oven to 160 degrees.
2. Distribute your salted caramel evenly between your (oven safe) ramekins, filling each ramekin to no more than 1/3 full. Place in fridge to chill.
3. Meanwhile, break chocolate into a bowl. Heat cream in either a saucepan until almost boiling, or in a microwave safe jug (watch very carefully if you are microwaving the cream to avoid overheating).
4. Pour hot cream over chocolate, and whisk until chocolate is dissolved and smooth. Whisk in eggs.
5. If you want a nice, neat divide between your caramel layer and your chocolate layer, chill the caramel for a bit longer, maybe even overnight. If, like me, you prefer an intermingled confection, pour chocolate mixture into the ramekins over the only-just-chilled caramel.
6. Bake at 160 degrees for 30-40 minutes, until the chocolate layer is just firm to touch. There will be bubbly, oozy soft bits, but these will firm up as the pots cool.
7. Dust lightly with cocoa.
8. Serve, with fresh berries and cream.

Salted Caramel and Chocolate Tart

2 sheets store bought shortcrust pastry (yes, I’m a failure as a woman for not making my own pastry)
1 quantity salted caramel (above)
1 quantity chocolate mixture from the Salted Caramel Chocolate Pots recipe (also above).

1. Preheat oven to 180 degrees.
2. Line a non-stick, 22cm diameter spring form cake pan with thawed pastry sheets. (Although you are making a tart, and would assume a tart or quiche pan would be best, I find a spring form pan the easiest, least messy way to make this). Be sure to line you pastry all the way to the top of the pan – store bought pastry will shrink considerably when cooked. Chill in freezer for ten minutes.
3. Meanwhile, assemble your salted caramel, and your chocolate mixture.
4. Remove pastry-lined tin from freezer. Blind bake for ten minutes, or until pastry is golden (Don’t know how to blind bake? It’s easy. Search for a demo video on YouTube).
5. Pour caramel into your blind baked tart case. Refrigerate (see above recipe for suggestions about separation/intermingling of layers). Top with the chocolate mixture.
6. Bake at 160 degrees for 45min-1 hour, or until the chocolate layer is just firm to touch. As with the salted caramel chocolate pots, there will be bubbly, oozy soft bits, but these will firm up as the tart cools.
7. Dust lightly with cocoa.
8. Serve with – you guessed it – berries and cream.

Llama.

Dear Brett and Jemaine, of Flight of the Concords fame,

In your song, Hurt Feelings, you ask the audience a number of questions about situations that may have, potentially, caused Hurt Feelings. Questions such as:

Have you ever been told your ass is too big?
Have you ever been asked if your hair is a wig?
Have you ever been told you’re mediocre in bed?
Have you ever been told you’ve got a weird shaped head?
Has your family ever forgotten you and drive away?
Were you ever called ‘homo’ ‘cos in school you took Drama?
Have you ever been told you look like a Llama?

I think you included this last lyric because, a) it rhymes with Drama, and, b) much of its humour derives from the fact that you wouldn’t anticipate many people would be told that they look like a Llama.

Well.

I’m writing to inform you that, actually, yes, I have been told I look like a Llama. And, yes, it did hurt my feelings.

Let me begin.

MamaK offered, generously, to cook me dinner last night. It’s nice to have someone cook you dinner at the end of the week, isn’t it? As we were eating our dinners, shooting the breeze and watching the telly, we started to play The Animal Game with reference to the people being interviewed on ABC’s ACT 7.30.

(Aside: The Animal Game is a great game. The basic gist is to look at someone, and work out what animal they most closely resemble, based on physical traits, psychological traits, or, if you’re really good at it, both. It’s spiffingly fun. You might like to consider playing it in the car next time you are on tour. For the record, MamaK is 52, I’m 25, and we were regressing after long and trying weeks)

After establishing that Interviewee A was most definitely a Rhino, and debating whether Interviewee B was a Basset Hound (my opinion), or a Doe (MamaK’s opinion), we began to list off various people in our family and what they would be. Owls, Donkeys, Wombats, Eagles, Emus, Bears and Monkeys were all mentioned.

Brett and Jemaine, I was carried away by the merriment of the situation, and did a really silly thing.

‘Go on’, I asked MamaK, ‘what animal am I?’

‘A Llama’ she replied, with no hesitation WHATSOEVER.

After I’d got over the initial shock of such an obscure and odd suggestion, I sought further clarification on the issue of my resemblance to a Llama. Because, as you suggest in your song, being told that you look like a Llama can, and indeed does, precipitate Hurt Feelings.

MamaK revealed that my resemblance to a Llama is based on the following mutual traits, physical and psychological:

• Intelligence;
• Long legs;
• Long neck;
• Protection of weaker animals;
• Smooth skin (under all that fur…point taken, I’ll book a wax this week); and
• Standing out from the crowd.

And when it’s put in those terms, it’s hard to have hurt feelings because you were told you looked like a Llama. In fact, it turns out MamaK was paying me a compliment.

So, Brett and Jemaine, maybe you should rethink the lyrics of Hurt Feelings, to reflect the fact that, after the initial shock, being told you look like a Llama is actually not that bad. They’re an obscure and hilarious animal, to be sure, but they’re also kind of rad.

Lots of love, platonic (Brett) and non platonic (Jermaine),

Peggy xoxoxox

Ps: I know that you want to know who you are in the animal game, so here it is: Brett, you’re clearly Guinea Pig. Jemaine, a Mountain Goat.

May the Force be with you

It’s been my great honour to watch a dear friend, and former student, finish her honours thesis this week. Those of you who have been there, done that, will know that an achievement this monumental deserves a Star Wars analogy: this week, a Padawan has become a Jedi.

(If the above references went over your head, your homework for this weekend is to watch Star Wars in its entirety. Use the Force to get you through the tedious prequels, and enjoy Harrison Ford circa the 70s).

Obi-Wan-Kenobi style, I’ve taken it upon myself to give my friend unsolicited advice through her honours year – for which I hope to be forgiven eventually. The most important piece of advice I have given her, though, is this: she needs to buy a significant piece of jewellery, for herself, to celebrate her achievements.

Bizzare, I know, that this advice takes precedence over all the other pieces of end-of-thesis advice I could give to a newly minted Jedi. Surely, I should advise her to sleep. To catch up with mates she hasn’t seen in an age. To symbolically burn a copy of her manuscript. To run. To go to the beach. To laugh until she can’t breathe anymore (although I have complete faith that she’s done this last one).

The reason behind my advice, though, is that something as big as finishing an honours thesis (or a Masters, or a PhD) is that it’s a long, hard journey, ultimately completed alone. While there are people beside you, people advising you, people without whom you couldn’t do it, it ultimately comes down to you, and your words (in Star Wars terms? You and the Force).

Which is why, in my view, you need to mark an achievement like finishing a thesis, and mark it well. Most importantly, you need to mark it for yourself.

It’s not enough to accept the congratulations of colleagues, friends and family. It’s not enough to know that you’ve done an amazing thing. You need to distil that amazing thing you’ve done into a symbol, something that will always and forevermore remind you that, yes, you did it.

And why jewellery, specifically? Well, let’s take a moment to think about what ‘big’ (expensive, thought-through, valuable) jewellery means in the course of a woman’s life. Typically, the ‘big’ pieces she has are given to her by others: by her parents on her 21st; by her partner to signify their engagement, and, again, on an important anniversary or birth of a child; by her children on a milestone birthday; or inherited from a family member.

What you notice, here, is that all of the ‘big’ pieces come from without – they are gifts. Whenever she wears them, she thinks of the people who gave them to her, which is what makes those ‘big’ pieces special and meaningful.

And, while it’s great to have pieces that make you think of your nearest and dearest, there’s a time and a place for jewellery that makes you think of you, and all you’ve achieved.

The first Sex and the City film explored this concept (mixing pop culture references: bear with). Samantha attends a charity auction to buy, for herself, a very expensive, very large, and, let's be honest, very ugly, ring. An anonymous bidder goes up against Samantha in the auction, driving the price higher than Samantha can afford. Miserably, she admits defeat. Later, Smith Jarrod, Samantha’s partner, presents her with the ring: Smith was the anonymous bidder, and bought the ring as a gift for Samantha.

Whenever Samantha looks at the ring, though, she sees only Smith, whereas she wanted to see herself – her achievements – whenever she looked down at it.

Now, I can appreciate why people may think that it’s selfish, or frivolous, to celebrate an achievement by spending money on something like jewellery rather than, for instance, an experience like travel, or something that benefits others. Perhaps it’s not for everyone, this whole bling thing.

All I know, though, is that whenever I put on my garnet ring, the ring I bought myself in the weeks after handing in my honours thesis, I am reminded that, yes, I did it. It’s made all the sweeter by the fact that it’s something I wear: there are patches where the soft gold has yielded to the movements of my hand; that it’s something I will, one day, be able to give to another young woman, in an ironic twist on the whole buying-jewellery-for-oneself exercise.

So, it’s with this in mind that I suggest a jewellery purchase to my dear friend, and to others who have, like her, become Jedis this week. Because not only did you have the potential (midochlorian readings off the charts), you used it and achieved something amazing, something that you should mark personally, enduringly, symbolically.

And that’s it, I’m through with my advice, and I’m hanging up my light sabre. Except for one final thing I can’t help but throw in:

May the force be with you.

Always.

On Election Day Sausage Sizzles

After several weeks of hard campaigning from all major parties, it’s finally here: today is election day in the ACT.

Now, this isn’t a post where I run my political colours up the flagpole, hoping for a salute. Nor is this a serious discussion about politics in Australia at the moment. I’m a sociologist, not a political scientist, although the two disciplines are kissing cousins.

What I am going to write about is how ardently I love election days. Tune out now if democracy soap-boxing isn’t your thing: I’ll forgive you. Today, of all days, I’m feeling magnanimous.

I love election days not because I want to see the least-worst team get up, or because I have a non-sexual crush the dude who does the ABC’s election analysis (What can I say? I’m both impressed and fascinated by someone who can work a graph)

What I really love about election day is the sausage sizzles.

Election day sausage sizzles are not like Bunnings sausage sizzles that happen every Saturday, or the church-fete ones that usually have an accompanying cake stall (fairy cakes on polyester trays! Oh my!). Election day sausage sizzles are special, because, unlike a normal sausage sizzle, you won’t see the following:
• Pushing;
• Shoving;
• Grizzling from the sweaty person behind the hotplate;
• Moaning about the queue; or
• Angst about spot-holders.

Instead, what you will see, at an election day sausage sizzle, is:
• Patient waiting in line;
• Stepping aside for old folks and people with small babies;
• Cheerful BBQ cooks;
• Pleases and Thankyous;
• No talk whatsoever of politics, but, rather, pleasant conversation about the weather; and
• Tasty, tasty sausages, with onion, if you like it, and self-administered lashings of all the sauce you could want.

So what makes election day sausage sizzles different from the normal slap-some-processed-meat-on-a-hotplate?

I think it’s this: we all know that, by voting, we’ve done a tiny something that, along with the tiny somethings of everybody else, will amount to a huge something - to our government.

Although our government isn’t perfect, every time I flick to the World section of the paper, and read about Syria, or Zimbabwe, I am so grateful that our huge something, our democracy, is made up of all of our tiny somethings.

Of course, no-one talks about this in the queue for sausages at the local primary school. But we all know what we’ve just done, and we all know why we’ve done it. And it’s knowing that which, I believe, makes us behave at our best, and our most civil.

Or, perhaps it’s too much of an effort to be rude on a day when the sun is glorious and our noses are full of the sweet, sweet smell of frying onions on a hot BBQ.

Happy democracy everyone.

Slip Ups

Way back in ’09, I wrote about my blasé attitude to panties. Three and a half years later, I stand by my minimalist approach to foundation garments: but with one significant caveat.

Slips – half and full – are the solid foundation on which the greatest of outfits are built.

I’ll admit, slips have a public relations problem. They’re what our nanas wear. They’re made from flesh coloured polyester. They’re perilously close to those awful spencers our parents forced us to wear under school blouses. In short, they’re not what you reach for when you want to feel pulled together, chic, and ready to kick ass and take names like a mo-fo.

But, I’m a style blogger, and therefore sartorially fearless. The above concerns? I laugh in their faces. I wear slips, in all their nana-ish, flesh coloured polyester, under-the-blouse glory. And, at least some days, kicking ass and taking names like a mo-fo is item one on the agenda.

(Other days, I consider it an achievement to not spill toothpaste on my shoes in the morning. But let’s not dwell)

The great thing about slips is that they perform radical wardrobe extensions. For instance, that woollen sweater you bought five years ago, wearing a little thin but oh so soft? A neutral slip, popped underneath, will allow you to wear that old favourite sweater to the office without giving your colleagues more information than they need about your bra. Or, a vintage dress, viscose rayon, with an unfortunate tendency to crotch creep like an overeager lover? A half slip will keep your dress where it’s supposed to be.

These uses are all fine and dandy, but my all time favourite application of a slip (half or full) is to facilitate floaty floral sundress and skirts on windy spring days. To live in the nation’s capital, in springtime, is to risk disgrace every time you step out in a light, full skirt – our breezes are, indeed, fresh. A slip, under your floaty florals, will mean that you can stroll about our blustery city free from fear of flashing unsuspecting passers-by. Should your skirt be blown completely up (this actually, no-joke, happened to me last month outside the Melbourne Building), all that will be revealed is your tasteful, modest slip.

Which comes in doubly-handy if you’ve had one of Those Mornings, and forgotten to put on your panties.

On Make Up and the OH-REALLY Face

This morning, I woke up to two things:

1) A thumping head cold; and
2) A text message from Clementine Kemp suggesting breakfast.

Lying in bed, texting Clem and making Chewbacca noises through my snotty sinuses, it occurred to me that I was in one of those dangerous, but potentially liberating, not-giving-a-shit moods that often accompany illness and burn out.

The upshot of this mood? I decided to face the world without my face.

You see, make up is a bit of a vexed issue. On one hand, I love playing with it, and the ritual of getting ready. While it is fun getting ready with a pack of girlfriends, as a true introvert, it’s my solo getting ready that I treasure. There is something potent, and, I think, powerful, about that little chunk of time contemplating the mirror. Whether it’s putting on a lick of lippie while listening to Let’s Dance by David Bowie (my old pre-lecture routine), checking for foundation tide marks before a job interview, or tidying up eye make up that’s gone awry between meetings, letting myself be absorbed in the simple acts of powdering, brushing, smoothing and tweaking fortifies me for the challenge ahead. On a more practical level, I love that all it takes is two minutes and three Clinique products (foundation; blush; mascara) to make me look like I’m well rested and fresh, when the reality is that I haven’t slept for longer than 3 hours at a stretch all week.

On the other hand, I resent make up. I resent that I don’t feel or look professional without something on my face. I resent that people, often meaning well, claim to prefer the ‘no make-up’ look, but then pass comment on women with dark under eye circles, or an unsightly spot, because we’ve been socialised to believe that women roll out of bed with an even skin tone, glowing cheeks, glossy lips, and full, dark eyelashes (FYI – they don’t). I resent that women are taught by the beauty industry to look for, and spend their money ‘correcting’, ‘faults’ in their appearance, least someone take offense at their pores.

So, yes, if I was to describe my relationship with make up in Facebook terms, It’s Complicated.

Which is why, this morning, I threw my make up into the too hard basket and went out for breakfast bare faced. I should contextualise this by saying that the circumstances of this morning meant ditching my make up wasn’t a monumental act of bravery. Clementine, like most of my old friends, has seen me without my make up on. We were going to a quiet suburban café, early on a long weekend Saturday, and were unlikely to be seen my many people. And, I didn’t have any major break outs or under eye circles this morning, so I felt like I looked better than normal when I woke up, despite the snot and Chewbacca sound effects. Had I been particularly spotty or dark under the eyes, meeting a less understanding friend, or having breakfast somewhere less low key, I probably would have put some make up on before leaving the house, in spite of not feeling particularly inspired to do so.

While at breakfast, it occurred to me that sometimes, wearing make up or not doesn’t really matter, because nobody, in the normal run of social life, is looking that closely at your face. A little theory that sociologists call civil inattention applies here: people are absorbed in their own business, and even if you did have a particularly amazing pair of bags under your eyes, they probably wouldn’t a) notice or b) say anything about it.

Unless, of course, you encounter a rude person, who decides that your appearance is their business to comment on. In those instances, given their ignorance of the rules of social interaction, you have every right to subtly reprimand them by employing what I like to call OH-REALLY face. (My OH-REALLY face involves raised eyebrows, slightly pursed lips, and flared nostrils. Yours is probably a little different. Isn't variety wonderful?) It’s not a bona-fide sociological theory just yet, but, nine times out of ten, I’ve found it pretty effective in reminding a rude person how to behave in social situations, regardless of whether said OH-REALLY face is made up or not.

You can add Chewbacca noises to your OH-REALLY face if you like. That, however, may push you into Garfinkelian Breaching Experiment territory (SOCY1004 shout out). I guess it all just depends on how many shits you feel like giving before you’ve had your eggs and coffee, really.

Go the Swannies…

Those of you who know me well know that I’m not what you’d call a Sport person.

This probably has something to do with having ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA WHY THOSE PEOPLE ARE RUNNING THAT WAY, THEN THIS WAY, AND THEN THE OTHER WAY AGAIN, AND WHERE’S THE BALL, AND WHAT’S ALL THE FUSS ABOUT ANYWAY AND I’M SO CONFUSED RIGHT NOW AND LET’S GO HOME AND EAT MACARONI CHEESE AND DRINK TEA.

Despite the efforts of many, I remain, staunchly, unenlightened when it comes to sport.

But, while I can’t read a game of sport, I can read an outfit like no-one else. If I were a gambling woman, I’d bet you ten dollars that I could tell you at least one thing about each and every stranger walking down the street, based purely on their clothes, and I’d be right at least 80% of the time (A tip for young players: shoes are the easiest place to start - avoid anyone wearing stripper platforms).

The problem with having savant-like abilities in reading clothing and its meanings is that, sometimes, I forget that not everyone inhabits the meaning system that I do. Some people inhabit completely different universes of sartorial meaning.

This was bought home to me yesterday, in the elevator at work.

I was wearing one of my favourite scarves. It’s from Friends of Couture in Melbourne (Degraves St on sale is a beautiful thing indeed). Comprised of large red stripes on a pale pink background, with a lurex fibre woven through a section at each end, it’s my customary it’s-a-bloody-awful-grey-day scarf, because I read the playful combination of pink, red, and sparkle as a whimsical and uplifting juxtaposition against the plain and sober geometric pattern.

Anyroadup, my scarf and I hopped in the elevator on Friday afternoon. The head of the organisation I work for was also in the lift.

Now, lifts are socially awkward at the best of times, but when it’s you, two other people, and (supposedly) the most important person in the building, it becomes excruciating. My tactic, as with all socially awkward situations, is to get down with my ethnographic self and start analysing people’s behaviour, while hiding in the corner hoping to avoid interaction.

One of the other women in the lift said ‘hi’ to the distinguished person. He said ‘hi’ back. She and her companion exited the lift at level five. I, and the big cheese, were exiting at level ten. Five whole levels of awkward silence. My rad ethnographic ninja skills? Failing, massively.

At about level seven, the head honcho turns to me and says:

‘I like your scarf. Getting ready for the weekend?’

My in my meaning system, I read this comment as meaning: Golly, I like your sparkly scarf. Sparkles just scream weekend, don’t they?

I replied:

‘Yes, I think it’s going to be a good one!’

He replied:

‘Well, it’s supposed to be cold and wet, I hope your team wins’

My in my meaning system, I read this comment as meaning: I completely GET that sparkle vs plain is one of The. Most. Significant. Sartorial. Debates. Of. Our. Time.

At this point, my newfound respect for what I understood to be a surprisingly complex individual, with considered aesthetic preferences, was growing. He continued:

‘Although it usually is on grand final weekend’

And then I realised. He was referring to the Swans vs Hawks football match this weekend. And had read my red scarf as team colours.

Semantic mismatch, much?

Luckily, the lift had bought us to where we needed to be, so further awkwardness was mitigated.

While we got out on the same floor, we were on completely different levels, sartorially.

And apparently, I’m a Sydney Swans fan now. Go the Swannies, I suppose…

Cellulite: Not a Problem, Just a Solution Waiting to Happen

Cellulite. An ugly word for an even uglier phenomena. I’ve denied its existence this winter (the magic of America Apparel tights) but, as the days get longer and hemlines get shorter, denying the dimple is nigh on impossible.

I can’t, I won’t, accept what science tells me: that cellulite is always with us. I hope, I believe, that cellulite is not a problem, just a solution waiting to happen.

(And, yes, in case you were wondering, I’m a glass half full girl. For instance, I really, truly, believe that one day Julia Gillard and Tony Abbot will admit that they’re passionately, deeply, sexually-magnetically-pheremonically in love. The last three years of parliamentary debate? That wasn’t well informed political discussion. That was foreplay. DURH!).

In addition to my usual I-suppose-I-should behaviours of walking lots, going to the gym, not smoking - massive sadness - and eating all the good things (behaviours which are supposed to help say kthxbai to cellulite), I’m going to have a go at some possible cellulite solutions.

And, because I’m all about the caring and sharing, I’m going to run a series of posts on the efficacy of said solutions in removing thigh wobble, ass jiggle, and general unattractive lower body dimpling.

I could tell you what I’m thinking of trying, but I won’t, because that would spoil the fun. But I will share with you, this week, the first possible cellulite solution in my series of experiments.

Believing that classics are thus for a reason, I started with a product that, whilst not explicitly marketed as a treatement for cellulite, has a high impact factor in key discussions around cellulite solutions. That product is Palmer’s Cocoa Butter.

I bought some last Friday at Coles. In the interests of declaring experimental biases, my first impressions of Palmer’s Cocoa Butter were that the retro-cool packaging evokes a hard working authenticity. There is an air of: this is a product that works, without illustrations of remorselessly blasted fat cells to prove it.

Upon first application, a few principal advantages of Palmer’s Cocoa Butter emerged:
• it smells like chocolate;
• if you apply enough of it, you, too, will smell like chocolate:
• you can get it at Coles;
• it costs less than $10 a bottle; and
• it comes in a pump pack. (I always opt for the pump rather than the squeeze when it comes to beauty products. Every second counts when you run as late as I frequently do).

One week into the experiment, there is a general increase in thigh and bottom smoothness. While the cellulite is still a problem a solution waiting to happen, its incidence has decreased.

Arguably, an uncontrolled variable could be skewing these results. The increase in smoothness could be attributed to the strong, circular motions used to apply Palmer’s (it’s thick, you really have to work it in). Extensive literature published in reputable journals - Cleo, Cosmo, Marie Claire - suggests massage as an effective anti-cellulite intervention.

Confounding factors and alternate solutions will, of course, be explored in further experimental research.

Which means: watch this space, beauty geeks.

THE HORROR: Great Ocean Road Extra Tasty Cheddar

Joseph Conrad, writing the Heart of Darkness, overused the phrase The Horror so much that it’s become a running joke amongst my ANU English Major buddies, Clementine Kemp and Kitty Gilfeather. Whenever we encounter a moderately frustrating first world problem, we deploy the phrase, often in all caps, parodying our distress.

As in:

I just purchased two blocks of some deeply disappointing cheddar because it was on sale at Coles, and now I have to eat it all. THE HORROR.

Let me start at the journey's beginning.

Over the years, I’ve learnt which household items are worth splashing out on, and which aren’t. You can save heaps by buying home brand tinned tomatoes, which will allow you to spend on cheese that isn’t made from plastic.

Decent cheddar, in the world of a PhD student, and, indeed, anyone living within limited means, is one of the ultimate kitchen staples. While a block may take a reasonable chunk out of your grocery budget, decent cheese goes a long way to elevating many of your most humble poor-girl (or boy) suppers. Macaroni and cheese, with a good green salad, is one of my all time favourite meals. Similarly, leftover eggplant curry and cheese jaffles, a PhD share house invention, were my culinary highlight of 2009. These meals only work, though, if your cheddar is crumbly, sharp, and forms a bubbly crust that no amount of scrubbing will remove from the jaffle maker. Anything less doesn't bear the name of Cheese.

After a few experiments, I’d settled on my ultimate cheddar: Mainland Vintage. You don’t have to look at the ingredients list to know that this cheese is made from cheese, with not a hint of plastic about it.

BUT.

Last night,roaming the aisles of Woden Coles, I was seduced by the siren song of a new brand of cheese: Great Ocean Road. I’m ashamed to admit this, but Great Ocean Road is marketed at my exact demographic. From the faux-hand-written script, to the picture of the cheese maker dude holding cheese making equipment (implying craftsmanship and authenticity), to the earthy, simple colours, and the evocation of one of Australia’s great landscapes via the brand name, the whole thing screamed:

HEY YOU, MISS SINGLE 25-30 AGE BRACKET FEMALE LIVING ALONE WITH HIPSTER PRETENTIONS WHO BUYS FULL FAT CHEDDAR ONLY AFTER PRETEND-HOVERING HER HAND OVER THE REDUCED FAT TASTY SO OTHER SHOPPERS CAN SEE YOU’RE HEALTH AWARE IF NOT CONSCIOUS.

I KNOW YOU’RE THE KIND OF GIRL WHO PLANS THEIR WARDROBE A SEASON AND A HALF AHEAD TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF END OF SEASON SALES. I KNOW YOUR HABIT OF EATING LEFTOVERS ON TOAST WITH GRILLED CHEESE AND CALLING IT A ‘MEAL’. I KNOW YOU’RE THE KIND OF GIRL WHO CHANGES HER REGULAR COFFEE ORDER (FULL FAT LATTE) TO A SKIM LATTE NO SUGAR WHEN YOU FEEL THE FIRE AND BRIMSTONE OF FULL-FAT JUDEGEMENT.

I KNOW YOUR SOUL, AND I KNOW YOU WANT ME. YOU BUDGET-CONSIOUS, LAZY-ASS, FULL-FAT-LOVIN’ MINX.

(To contextualise, I have a bad head cold at the moment, and was a little dazed and confused by the bright lights of the Coles dairy fridge)

For shame, I was taken by the successful marketing thrust, and bypassed my Mainland Vintage in favour of Great Ocean Road’s two-blocks-for-ten-dollars deal.

As I unwrapped the first block to grill some cheese over my leftovers on toast today, I felt the queasy give under my fingers of sub standard, plastic dairy product. Cue:

THE HORROR! THE HORROR!

So, now I have two blocks of this…’cheese’… in my refrigerator, and just the thought of it makes me sad. The only solution I can think of is to take the ‘cheese’ to work with me this week, abandon it in the office fridge, and hope that others aren't as fussy about their cheddar.

And then, I will wash the taste of my personal HORROR out of my mouth with a big, hot, creamy latte. Like the full-fat-lovin’ minx that I am.

Hangover

I was going to do a humblebrag and tell you that I wore an outfit that I kinda sorta liked yesterday, but I’ve decided to outright brag: I had an amazing wardrobe day yesterday.

I was going to be coy and not tell you about it, but I’ve decided to spill: a turquoise linen shift, indigo cropped cardi, lime green ponyskin ballet flats, orange and tan leather bag. Topped off with a heavy tan leather belt, a soft pink-and-indigo cotton scarf, and a couple of carats of diamond studs (real, I don’t fake it). It went off.

I was going to write something positive and uplifting and philosophical, but I’ve decided to just be honest: I have the worst wardrobe hangover in the history of wardrobe hangovers.

If you don’t know what a wardrobe hangover is, then LUCKY YOU, because they are awful, and there’s no vegemite-toast-and-a-big-mug-of-coffee cure. A wardrobe hangover occurs when you find yourself, crushingly, returned to the realities of having a limited wardrobe after flying a little too close to the sun of sartorial perfection. It’s an awful feeling, similar to how Lucy felt in C.S. Lewis’s The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, when she opened the wardrobe doors expecting to show Peter, Susan and Edmund the magic land of Narnia, but instead revealed a pile of old coats.

Sister, I feel your pain. Because yesterday, when I opened my wardrobe, all was magical, enchanted, and glistening, and today, it was so much sham and drudgery.

The worst thing about a wardrobe hangover is that whatever you wear, even if it’s objectively decent or even rather lovely, will be coloured by the deep shadows of your amazing wardrobe day.

Today, when I awoke in the grips of my wardrobe hangover, I put on my most soothing outfit (geometric-print pleated skirt, black wool long sleeved top, black cardigan, tan suede ballet flats, black belt, lucky mermaid broach, pink and red scarf) and hoped for the best. Surely, I could stave off the worst of my wardrobe hangover by placating my raw nerves with the simple and the good?

No, I could not.

OF CORUSE the pleats of my skirt were an exercise in arse aggrandisement. OF COURSE my top had a million little pills that no amount of lint-rolling could remove. OF COURSE my cardigan fell at the wrong point and obscured my waist, my belt was either too tight, too loose, too high, too low - never just right - my lucky mermaid pin sat bizarrely on my left boob, and my shoes made weird slapping noises when I walked.

The only solution was to rip the whole sorry mess off as soon as I walked through the door this evening, mope about my apartment in leggings and an old tee shirt of my brother’s, and write about it, in the hope of shaking off the last of my wardrobe hangover.

After all, I have to get dressed again tomorrow, and who knows what surprises my wardrobe might hold for me?

Baggage

The stuff you carry with you is telling: the useless things you hold onto; the props that get you through the day; the defences against potential disaster that hinder rather than help you.

I refer, ladies, to the crap that is in your handbag.

I’ve been workign through my issues and gradually downsizing my handbag crap. I haven’t wanted to write about it here. Baggage can be painful. But, after having gone a WHOLE WEEK with my simplified handbag, I feel like I can say: you really don’t need all that baggage.

Here’s a list of what used to be stashed in my standard daily handbag:

Wallet
Keys (Car and House)
Phone
Sunglasses
iPod
Diary
Umbrella
Hanky
Lipstick A (browny pink)
Lipstic B (glossy pink)
Tinted lip balm (red)
Foundation
Blush
Mascara
Eyeliner
Random Multi Purpose Sparkling Cream
Hairbrush
Hair Elastics x 3
Bobby pins x 1 000 000
Dry Shampoo
Toothbrush
Toothpaste
Deodorant
Water bottle
Small packet of almonds
Novel
Tiger Balm
Panadol
Neurpohen
Buscopan
Sudafed
Notebook
Pens x 6

That’s an awful lot of baggage.

Now, this is the exhaustive list of what I’ve been carrying with me this week:

Wallet
Keys (Car and House)
Phone
Sunglasses
iPod
Diary
Lipstic A (Pinky brown)
Foundation
Blush
Mascara
Eyeliner
Sunglasses
Panadol
Hairbrush
Mints

And that’s it. Finito. It all fits into a cute orange and tan leather bag, about the size of an A5 piece of paper. Admittedly, I have employed a calico tote on days when I have to bring gym gear/my own lunch/cupcakes for my colleagues/office supplies with me. But, I still feel a great sense of pride in my downsized self.

It wasn’t easy, letting go of all that stuff. I’ve had to make a couple of changes: leaving some things (deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste, dry shampoo) at work, leaving other things (umbrella, novel, random multi purpose sparkling cream) at home.

And, yes, I did get caught in the rain without an umbrella, and got rather damp, but what of it? And I did have to negotiate a bus ride without my usual please-leave-me-alone novel, but I plugged in my iPod, scowled, and no one bothered me anyway.

So, while I know and understand this is hard, please, have a go at dealing with some of your baggage this week. Or, at least, start small, and get rid of one item of handbag crap.

Might I suggest starting with the random multi purpose sparkling cream? It really is useless, and who wants to look like an extra from Twilight anyway?

Cherry Lips

Songs get stuck in heads for particular reasons. These reasons may not be immediately apparent: I am still pondering why Love Shack by the B52’s is my head’s default stuck setting (suggested reasons are, of course, welcomed). But, there is always a reason.

This week’s sticky song – Loon Lake’s Cherry Lips – was stuck in my head for a particularly good reason.

It was a sign that I needed to wear red lips, after a two year hiatus.

And, on Tuesday night, as I joined a couple of lovely friends for Laksa at our local noodle house, I put my cherry on my lips. It felt exactly right.

The thing about a red lip is that it can’t be forced. If you try to force it, you’ll be wiping it off with a tissue in the car before you’ve driven two blocks. And we all know, ladies and gentlemen, that red lipstick brands like nothing else. Everyone will know you tried, and failed, at a red lip, by the tell tale pink stains around your mouth. For shame.

When the mood is right, though, nothing short of big, red, full and smiling-with-a-big-toothsome-grin will do. We could discuss at length, here, the socio-political-aesthetic assumptions about red lips, and, indeed, about the colour red – both potent symbols.

But we’re not going to discuss it, because, for me, a red lip has always been nothing more or less than a mood that comes over me, an impulse, indeed, an inspiration. It defies categorisation. A red lip just is.

You can consult, if you like, with Marie Claire, Cleo and Cosmo for application tips. At the end of the day, though, it’s make up, not rocket science or world peace. You just need to open the tube, and apply.

So, put your cherry on your lips, as Loon Lake would say, and get yourself to that dinner, or those drinks, that day at the office, or that just-because thing. And, to paraphrase another song that gets stuck in my head – this time Garbage’s Cherry Lips:

Go, baby, go go.

Spring Wardrobe Cleaning

It’s nearly the end of August. It snowed yesterday in Canberra (I hope you got to see it, it was beautiful). There’s a cold-as-charity breeze sneaking through the draught in the bathroom window. I’m still taking hotties to bed with me to keep me warm.

But, spring is coming.

I can feel it when the sun rises early enough to wake me in time to catch the 7.45am bus. I can feel it as I walk to the shops for the Saturday paper, smelling wattle mingling with smoke from the wood fires Canberrans are so fond of. I can feel it while I take a ten minute cuppa-and-novel-reading break from PhDing on the balcony to soak up some rays.

Most particularly, though, I feel it when I look at the disaster that is my wardrobe, because I can feel a cataclysmic Spring Wardrobe Cleaning a’coming.

I’m one of those irritating people who can’t make up their mind whether or not they’re a neat freak or a slatternly grotbag in matters of wardrobe maintenance. And, because I remain undecided, I vacillate between the two states, depending on particular external factors.

For instance, a rental inspection, a particularly special new clothing purchase, epic procrastination, and the first hint of warmer weather will turn me into a neat freak who sorts her (American Apparel) tights and stockings by colour and degree of ‘goodness’ (If you’re interested in the classificatory scheme? No holes = best; holes at crotch only = second best; holes in toe and crotch = third best; holes everywhere = laundry day only).

On the other hand, long days in the office without sunshine, winning gold at social decathlons (BREAKFAST! BRUNCH! HIKING! LUNCH! COFFEE! MOVIES! SHOPPING! DINNER! DRINKS! THEATRE!), and writing sessions where I’ve got my flow on, turn me into the sort of slatternly grotbag who interprets closing the wardrobe door, by even the narrowest of narrow margins, as a sign that folding, hanging and chucking out can wait for Another Day.

At present, the pendulum is well and truly making its home in slatternly grotbag territory. To give you an idea…in a two minute reconnaissance mission, the following items, hitherto missing and presumed lost, were recovered from my bedroom floor:
• one half of a very expensive pair of earrings;
• my favourite vintage Nike hoodie;
• Cath Kitson woolly wellington socks;
• a pink and cream Elle McPherson bra (I thought I’d left it at the gym); and
• countless bobby pins and hair elastics.

While this sounds dire - and, indeed, outfitting myself from my wardrobe mess for tonight’s decathlon events will be problematic - it’s actually a part of a well balanced seasonal cycle of building up, then slashing and burning, my wardrobe.

I know that in the next couple of weeks, as the sap of spring rises in my blood, I will derive a peculiar, seasonally specific, pleasure from spending the better part of a weekend cleaning, sorting, arranging, and redistributing no longer needed clothes, bags and accessories.

Just right now, though? I can feel the sun dipping below the mountains, and that cold-as-charity breeze tickling my bare feet. It’s time to put on my woolly socks, curl up with a book, and wait for Another Day. Given the pleasing signs that spring is almost here, I am sure Another Day won’t be too long in coming.

Flat

There are moments when I realise I’m getting older, and I feel OK about it. Pertinent examples:
• Spice Girls nostalgia;
• Looking forward to staying in on Friday nights, not because I’m looking forward to getting my nerd on with Ulrich Beck (look him up), but because I’m going to have a bath, re-read a particularly beloved book (Zadie Smith’s On Beauty, read it), pop a Restavit and head to bed by 11pm;
• Rocking clothes I have owned for almost a decade;
• Chats with friends who are long-standing enough to remember ALL TWENTY of my uni hairdos, but kind enough to forget a few; and;
• Driving a brand new grown up car.

There are, however, moments when I realise I’m getting older, and I most certainly do not feel OK about it. Pertinent examples:
• The Wrinkle of Incredulity, mentioned eighteen months ago on this blog, has not gone away. Rather, it has increased, because numpties are always with us and there will always be a daily something or someone that makes me pull my incredulous face;
• ‘She’s So High’ by Tal Bachman, the song my first ever boyfriend declared to be my song (his taste in love songs was almost as good as his taste in women), is played late at night on Mix 106.3, Canberra’s Golden Oldies station;
• I can wear dresses I wore when I was eighteen, but, in doing so, my breasts are forced to occupy a totally different postcode than they usually do;
• I have superannuation in seven different accounts, which need consolidation; and;
• I can no longer wear high heels every day.

It’s this last realisatory moment that’s been making me feel a little flat, literally and metaphorically.

It all started the other week, when I was shaving my legs in the bath (I’m. Just. So. Classy. It. Hurts). As I extended my right leg to remove the last outcrops of winter undergrowth from the back of my calves, I heard an odd ripping noise. I bent my knee, extended; there was that noise again, the noise like ripping wet cardboard. As I wasn’t in any pain, I decided it was just one of those Body Things that will resolve on its own.

Two days later, however, I noticed the noise as I descended the stairs in my building, and, again, while there was no pain, I know enough of my family’s medical history to know that You Don’t Mess Around With Knees. In my family, knees are as serious as abandoned packages in airports - serious enough to make me take the advice my friendly neighbourhood chiropractor has been gently giving for years; abandon the high heels in favour of flats.

It’s hard, forcing myself to reach for the lower options as I get dressed in the morning. Surprisingly, it isn’t the height I miss – I’m five nine in my stocking feet and already feel myself too tall – but the enhancement to the shape of my legs that a heel, even a little one, gives.

A gym instructor once told me that heels, when worn consistently, activate different muscles in your leg than normal shoes. While activating these muscles stuffs up a whole lot of other musculoskeletal processes, repeated wear will give you that classic curve from ankle to calf. In other words, heels give you killer legs, when you are wearing them and when you take them off.

While I wouldn’t go so far as to say my legs are killer without heels on, I do know that I feel my legs look better, more curved, more graceful, in heels. The drunken old men who hang around the Melbourne and Sydney buildings, at very least, make their appreciation plain (or that could just be the metho talking, I can’t be sure).

Being a little stumpier in the leg department, though, is something I can – grudgingly - accept in return for what I hope will be a longer period of my life where I can stroll through my favourite cities, run for rudely early buses, and climb the stairs to my apartment. One day, when I own a penthouse with a rooftop garden and sunken pool area, being able to climb stairs will be a most handy thing.

Or, hope against hope, some clever lady will invent an innersole for ballet flats that activates the same muscles as a pair of five inch stilettos, building that graceful curve of muscle without buggering knees and backs.

A girl can, and does, dream.

Plug Yourself In, Switch on the Power (Ballads): Thesis Secrets

I’m not above admitting low brow musical tastes. Those of you who tune in regularly will know I’ve confessed on this blog that: I Heart One Direction; my pet fish are named after Prince songs; the fact that Big W’s in house radio station played I Want To Know What Love Is made my day; and Wham! and I share a profound spiritual connection, especially at Christmas.

But, I don’t feel I’ve fully explained to you the extent to which I am the Reigning Princess of Truly Awful Musical Taste (if that doesn’t deserve a pink rhinestone flashing tiara, I don’t know what does).

You see, I was that drunk chickybabe whose Big Night(s) Out started AND ended, rather than just ended, at ICBM dancing to Whitney Houston, my sticky dance floor times punctuated only by the briefest of interludes at the Phoenix (so so mouldy) where I promised/threatened to dance on the table if My Sharona was played.

Whether or not this event actually occurred shall remain a mystery.

I am that colleague of yours who sings Don’t Stop Believing while I help you file a backlog of paperwork, even thought I can’t carry a tune in a bucket and falter on the high falsetto while imploring you to ‘hold onto that feeling’.

I am that person at the traffic lights in the vehicle next to yours, head back, eyes closed, thrashing my head side to side, in a particularly emphatic sing along to Love is A Battlefield, while you wonder if I’m having an epileptic seizure.

I am the woman who covers the screen of her iPod on the bus so you can’t see that I’m listening to You Shook Me All Night Long at 8am on a freezing Canberra morning.

I am Richard Kingsmill’s worst nightmare.

I am, indeed, the Reigning Princess of Truly Awful Musical Taste.

Being royalty of this nature has its advantages. The most important of which is that I have at my disposal a superior armoury of epic ballads for those moments when you need to plug yourself in and turn on the Power.

These moments occur frequently when you are writing a PhD, or any piece of writing that is long, hard, and, ultimately, 100% worth the effort. Over the years of my PhD candidature, I’ve honed the perfect power ballad playlist for belting out a 500 word chunk of thesis.

Intuitively, you’d think tunes to mellow you out would be the best accompaniment to an intense writing sesh. However, I’ve found that the only way I can work with my thesis, rather than against it, is to embrace the high baroque drama of intellectual endeavour and thematically arrange my playlist to work me through the peaks and troughs that characterise my writing patterns.

Now, the cool part of you is saying no, but there’s a little bit of you, your inner dag, that’s curious to hear what’s on my Power playlist. Don’t try to hide it, I know it’s there.

Or, at very least, you want to read my justification for why it’s these songs, these deeply embarrassing, terminally uncool songs, with cheesy, dreadful, lyrics, some of which I’ve incorporated here, which help me pound out some serious wordage more than anything else.

Well. Here it is. Don’t say I didn’t warn you about the Power surge:

Eye of The Tiger (Survivor) Any Power montage has to start here. It’s the only music you can do pre-typing stretching to. Take your time, take your chances.
If I Could Turn Back Time (Cher) You’ve opened the chapter you’re working on, and, if you could turn back time, you’d take back all those words you wrote yesterday, as they’re kind of awful.
Wanted Dead or Alive (Bon Jovi) The times when you’re alone, and all you do is think.
When Doves Cry (Prince) This is what it sounds like when doves cry.
Total Eclipse of the Heart (Bonnie Tyler) You’re living in a powder keg and giving off sparks. You’re at the 200 word mark. Every now and then you fall apart.
I Would Do Anything For Love – (Meatloaf) You’re hitting 250 and the words don’t come easy. Take a vow, seal a pact. You will do anything for this to work.
November Rain – (Guns and Roses) Nothing lasts forever, even cold November Rain. Gunners are all that will get you through the 250-350 word doldrums.
I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing – (Aerosmith) Your work has turned a corner, but it’s not quite there yet. This means it’s time for a serious strings section. You could stay lost in this moment, this moment of knowing that you are so close to the finish, forever.
Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe – (Barry White) Debate this soul classic’s inclusion in a Power list all you want, but it’s at this point, where you’re whomping through that last 100 words in big, easy, sentences – something’s moving - that you need some serious soul.
Freedom ’90 – (George Michael) I won’t let you down, I will not give you up, you’ve got to have some faith in the sound, it’s the one good thing that I’ve got.

That, and a completed 500 word chunk of your thesis. Power to you.

PS: if you got all the references to all the songs on my Power list, the title of Reigning Princess of Truly Awful Musical Taste falls rightfully to you. But I’m keeping the pink rhinestone flashing tiara.

Packing

Those of you who know me well know, in my heart of hearts, I’m a chronic homebody. My little nest of an apartment pulls me in, and, like a homing pigeon, my sights are set on home, always.

And, yet, I love new places, new people, and the chance to know your travel buddies better. All of these things give scope to the imagination (to borrow a phrase from my favourite redhead, Anne of Green Gables).

Recently, it’s been my privilege to go on some brief sojourns, for business and for pleasure. This has got me to thinking about packing, and, more specifically, how not to do it. Sadly, I excel at the latter.

Question: how many scarves does one young lady need for a trip to Scotland? Answer: 17 (BELIEVE). My housemates at the time were capable of tough love, forcibly removing my suitcase and reducing the number of scarves to single digits. I'm forever in their debit.

A more recent example of my packing ineptitude is this week’s business trip to regional NSW. My colleague and I were going on a four day trip to one of the few places colder than Canberra (hard to imagine, but it exists, and is lovely, in spite of the cold). Logically, I packed three cardigans. So far, so good.

But, here’s where it gets messy: I packed ONLY ONE DECENT GOING OUT CARDIGAN.

YES. I KNOW.

The rest of the cardigan contingent consisted of my boudoir cardigan (inappropriate for non bedroom wear) and an old cardigan of MamaK’s that I wore ONCE with a VERY SPECIFIC outfit and only VAGUELY LIKED in that PARTICULAR CONTEXT.

What was this last cardigan in my suitcase? I have absolutely no idea. But, as there are no packing pixies in my apartment, I must have packed it for a reason. I just can’t recall what that reason was.

Being daft when it comes to packing does have its advantages. I’ve yet to go away on a trip without purchasing something amazing at a bargain price, often facilitated by my deficient packing skillz.

Had I not found myself rapidly running out of warm clothes this week, perhaps I wouldn’t have been so willing to try a slightly unorthodox but now-new-favourite jumper from the sale rack in Myer. A similar thing happened in Melbourne last month with my sparkly Camberwell markets sweater.

Perhaps it’s fair to trust that nature, abhorring a vacuum, will fill any voids in your capsule travel wardrobe with exactly the right thing at exactly the right time. And that, my friends, is just the ticket when it comes to successful packing: let go, trust the universe, and remember your credit card.

Drama

I’m posting a little early this week. Firstly because I have some wonderful visitors coming this weekend and, consequentially, will miss my usual Friday-night-writing-sesh. And, secondly, because tonight is the last episode of Offspring and I need something to keep me occupied while I wait till 8.30pm. I have written before about my addiction to TV shows. So, my need for writerly distraction while I wait to find out…

WHAT WILL HAPPEN WITH NINA AND PATRICK?? AND BILLY AND MICK?? AND MICK AND ROSANNA?? AND ZARA, JIMMY, AND BABY ALFIE?? WILL CLEGG AND CHEREE GET IT ON AGAIN??? WHY AREN’T DARCY AND GERALDINE TOGETHER?? WHAT ABOUT ADAM-OF-THE-AWESOME-BEARD-AND-SUPER-NICENESS?? OH MY GOSH THERE’D BETTER BE A SEASON FOUR!!!

…should come as no surprise.

As tribute to Offspring’s Nina, this post is about a conflict I’m facing deep within my soul, an inner turmoil I’ve tossed around, played out, and visualised, Nina-style, for, ohhh, far longer than I care to admit.

Tonight’s emotional mini drama: I have this fabulous Country Road early 90s dress. It’s silk, with a small cream print on a navy background, and I picked it up for $9 at the Salvo’s last summer, so it’s got a great story.

Yet, I’ve never worn it. Why has this cute, savvy find been mouldering in my closet? Because, I cannot make up my mind about its length.

You see, the dress finishes mid calf. I know mid calf is trending massively, but, if you look carefully, mid calf skirts which work are cut full and in fabric with some body and drape, or close-hug your body all the way down, so much so that walking is an impossibility (who needs to walk anyway?).

My dress is neither of those things. Instead, the skirt hangs there, limp, half arsed, neither here nor there. A bit like Dr Patrick Reid, truth be told.

While the top half of this dress’s moderately low cut is best accessorised by a navy cardi and a peachy bosom, the bottom half’s mumsy wishywashyness is best accessorised by a Mormon braid and two sister wives waiting at home.

Yes, I’ve watched Big Love. Four times. Moving on.

The dilemma is this: do I chop the skirt at my knees, making the dress a more flattering length? Or, do I leave the dress as-is, in the name of preserving its early 90s glory, and toughen up the wishy washy with decidedly non-Mormon red high heeled boots?

I mean, it’s not as if I’m a serious vintage collector. I feel no obligation to preserve my pieces. I wear all of my vintage items, and I like to think I add to their stories by wearing them, circle-of-life style.

But, could I be unduly swayed by notions of stylistic correctness that relate in no way to reality? And, will I regret, later on, my choice to chop, a choice I can never take back?

I suspect that, like tonight’s episode of Offspring, my drama will not be easily resolved. At least, not within the space of a 45 minute episode. But I guess that’s why there’s a next season, to tie up all loose threads, and make room for fresh dramas, in my wardrobe and Nina’s life.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some TV to watch…

A Happy Little Vegemite

Although I was born here, travel on an Australian passport, and structured my English major around as many Australian Fiction units offered by our national university, I fall short when it comes to many significant aspects of Australian-ness.

For starters, I don’t do the team sport thing. I’ve tried to get excited about cricket - I just love the all-white uniforms and the silly hats - but a game where two teams throw a ball at each other for days on end leaves me uninspired. While I gleefully admit an abiding fondness for the Welsh Rugby team (on account of their lush facial hair) rugby’s union and league leave me cold once the national anthems are over. Large hairy men manfully singing is somethign I find rather stirring. Ball skills, not so much.

I know I’m risking deportation for putting this in writing, but I also don’t do the valorisation of sports stars as heroes. I skip the Bradman song when I listen to Paul Kelly’s ‘Songs from the South’, and make loud, prolonged fart noises whenever a faded sports star wins Australian of the Year. I have no desire to listen to has-been swimmers justify their bad behaviour on primetime TV. If you so much as mention our nation’s preparations for that eight letter ‘O’ word within earshot of me…well, let’s just say that it’s a word that might start with an ‘O', but it ends with a very angry Peggy. The only coverage of the ‘O’s’ that I intend to watch is the Bondi Hipsters’, and the synchronised swimming with Tessy Halberton, because those ladies gadding about in a pool is just too funny to miss.

On a broader level, I don’t gamble – even on the Melbourne cup – and I don’t drink much at all. My skin burns more than it bronzes. I don’t rate our flag, or our anthem, even when sung manfully by the aforementioned large hairy men. My favourite part of a BBQ is MamaK’s coleslaw. Emus scare the shiznet out of me, hot weather makes me intolerably grumpy. Home ownership and a quarter acre block feel like an impossible dream, barring a lotto windfall – an even more unlikely turn of events given that I don’t gamble.

Before you tear up my passport, though, I do have a few things to say in my defence, things that, deep down, make me True Blue.

Australia has light like nowhere else in the world, a light I ache for when I’m away from home. It’s in my bones, it’s there I feel its absence. I love the fact that we are a democracy, albeit an imperfect one, and that anyone who wants to can go and see Question Time in the House (I went last week at the suggestion of my wise colleague. Take my advice and go, it’s a hoot and a half). We have beaches like nowhere else in the world, and air and water clean enough – for now, at least - to enjoy them. And how I love our writers, our artists, our musicians and our filmmakers, especially when they capture something of our light.

But all this pales into insignificance when compared to my most compelling argument for my Aussie status: I can’t imagine a pantry without Vegemite.

There’s nothing better on toast or crackers, particularly when topped with bubbly grilled cheese, slices of jade-smooth avocado, or globs of bumpy, cellulitey, cottage cheese. I even take a leaf out of PapaK’s book and top my scones with Vegemite. We’re hardcore patriots (even though Vegemite is owned by Kraft, which is American – it’s the spirit of the thing that counts).

Although divided on Vegemite’s nutritional merits – on the one hand, those B vitamins, on the other, all that salt - I can’t help but gravitate towards Vegemite when I’m feeling, in the words of Flight of the Concords, more Vincible than Invincible.

Case in point: I had the 24 hr virus from hell a couple of weeks ago. I’ll spare you the blow by blow, but let’s just say I was so sick I fainted three times. If vomiting were a sport, I’d be representing Australia at the ‘O’s’. The first thing I ate when I was well enough to hold food down?

Vegemite toast.

And just like that, I was on my way back to being a happy little Vegemite.

‘East of Eden’ and Lived in Books

Summer just passed, I set myself the challenge of (re)reading all of John Steinbeck. An ambitious and pleasurable exercise, I’m still going with my great Summer of Steinbeck, even though, as I wrote last week, it’s now the depths of winter.

I haven’t been entirely dedicated to this challenge, and, like the contradictory gen-y-er I am, I’ve been reading other authors in and around Steinbeck. Having said that, reading Steinbeck, like all life enhancing things, is worth taking time over.

This is particularly true of my favourite novel of his, ‘East of Eden’, which I finished re-reading last week. ‘East’ encapsulates every reason why you should read Steinbeck at some point in your life. And, if you have read him before, ‘East’ is a persuasive argument for regular revisits.

Recommending ‘East’ is tricky, as I can’t quite put my finger on what it’s about. Read it and you’ll understand what I mean - a plot summary is impossible. What I can say with hand-on-heart confidence, though, is it's the kind of book that makes you feel big and small, all at the same time. If the idea of literature that can do that appeals, then ‘East’ is the novel for you.

I first read ‘East’ when I was sixteen, and, if I’m honest, a lot of it went over my head. I recall liking particular characters (Lee, Samuel Hamilton, Adam Trask) but not understanding them, and, consequentially, feeling a bit disconnected from the novel. Almost ten years later, I now have enough of that horrible phrase – ‘life experience’ - to properly understand those characters I liked as a sixteen year old, and to begin to understand some of Steinbeck’s more unlikable characters, of which ‘East’ has plenty.

It’s tempting, here, to spoil the ending for you, but I won’t, because ‘East’ is the kind of novel that you need read, right the way through, before the last page makes any sense. As someone who likes to read the last pages of novels before the end of the first chapter, a book with a last page like ‘East’'s presents a prospect both tantalising and maddening. When you get to that last page, though, you’ll see why I was so tempted here to share it with you. It is wonderful.

One further word of advice: if you do read ‘East’, buy yourself a copy, rather than borrow one from a friend or from the library. The reason being? This is the sort of book with so much of life in it that it needs – rather, deserves – to be dog-eared, coffee-spilt, bath-dropped, handbag-mangled, and lived-in.

Or, perhaps I’m trying to find some esoteric excuse for the fact that I dropped this book in the bath at least three times while reading it. Whatever your interpretation, my copy of ‘East’ is properly lived in, something for which I am glad.

Hotties, Heat Lamps, Hoodies and Warm Hearts: How to Survive a Canberra Winter

It’s the middle of winter in Canberra, and it’s Darwinism, pure and simple.

Only the fittest will survive.

Here’s the top ten secrets of the Capital's winter-fit. Now, go and make it work. We've still got two months left.

10) A proper coat. Proper, here, meaning thick wool tweed or worsted, lined, finishing - at least - at your thighs, but preferably longer, with roomy pockets. A lesser garment than the above will be insufficient. If you are new in town, this is the first order of business after ANZAC day (which Canberra natives know to be winter’s unofficial beginning).

A handy hint: the best coats I have found have been vintage, my guess is because air conditioning was less functional back in the day. My particular favourite winter coat was a $45 steal at Narabundah Vinnies. It is my very greatest bargain shopping purchase of all time.

9) Heat lamps and/or heating in your bathroom. Why? Let’s imagine you’re in a particularly awesome hot shower. It’s steamy, you’re washing your hair. You’ve even shaved your legs.

Nice.

Imagine, now, turning the taps off. You’re naked, you’re dripping wet. You step into a frigid bathroom. The air temp hovers just above ten degrees.

Not nice AT ALL.

I have lived in old, cold, Canberra houses/apartments where this sitch was a reality for June, July and August (PhD scholarship ghetto years, yo). It’s a suboptimal way to start the day, but you can avoid it by judicial deployment of energy-guzzling appliances.

8) American Apparel tights. Enough said.

7) A million and a half recipes for soup, or a mother/partner/housemate/really really good friend who will make soup for you. Unless you have a Spartan constitution, you will get sick at some point before a Canberra winter is through, particularly if you’re doing the hot shower-cold bathroom hop (see point nine). When you get sick, you need soup – chicken soup, lentil soup, pumpkin soup, pho, broth, laksa – to get you back to full health. That, and a whole lot of boxed sets of DVD’s.

Gavin and Stacey marathon, anyone?

6) Hoodies, preferably from your alma marta. Australian Bureau of Statistics data released this week indicates Canberra’s population is the most highly educated in Australia. It’s a safe town in which to get your nerd pride on.

If you’re a very clever cookie and have studied at more than one institution, pick your hoodies according to international rankings. Canberra is the only place in Australia with a population who knows and cares about such matters - choose your hoodies accordingly.

5) Hotties (Hot water bottles). If you are no longer deriving perverse pleasure from doing the whole Orwelian down-and-out-in-a-freezing-cold-climate thing, the simplest solution to your problems is to get into bed with multiple hotties.

You can pick them up for $3 at Big W. Too easy.

4) Proper Gloves. Proper, here, meaning fine calfskin leather, lined with cashmere, in a colour that says ‘Hi, my name is Fabulous’ (my gloves are violet, AKA Fabulous). As with coats (point ten), a lesser garment than the above will be insufficient. Good gloves will cost you (unless you or someone you know is travelling to Florence – in which case they will still cost you, but slightly less). It is worth the financial pain, though, because chilblains and knuckles-so-dry-from-the-cold-they-crack-and-bleed-as-you-type are best avoided.

You need the best gloves you can get your hands on. Or in. Just get some gloves.

3) Excellent company. If you are going to make the effort to leave your heater and get out of your trackpants, the conversation had better fucking sparkle.

Canberran natives know this. It’s why we all become fascinating people in the winter months.

2) Multiple Cardigans. You need at least one for each day that you are at work, because, if you are working indoors, heating levels will vary throughout the day and you may need an extra layer to keep you snug.

Some people bring blankets to work. My advice on this issue is that because its cold doesn’t mean you need your blankie. You're a grown up, put on a cardi.

1) An iPod, full of cold weather songs, because listening to Bright Eyes transforms your twenty minute walk home from a cold and miserable plod to a beautiful, pathos-filled journey of wonder. We natives know that’s what a Canberra winter is really all about – cold hands, cold noses, cold toes…

And warm hearts.

In the interests of transparency…

Sartorial experimentation is a wonderful thing. At best, you discover new and different ways of dressing, and therefore being, that you very much like.

At worst, you look like an idiot. Which, incidentally, also has a transformative effect on your way of being – humility is hard to come by any other way.

Of late, my sartorial experiments have involved a headlong dive into what I like to term High Casual. High Casual involves jeans, looser tee shirts and jumpers, and cardigans, but with understated jewellery, a subtle colour palette, and classically shaped bags and shoes.

High Casual is a little early 80s Slone Ranger - a look for which I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot – and a whole lot of it’s-the-weekend-and-I-refuse-to-think-about-anything-more-serious-than-my-next-e-purchase-of-american-apparel-tights.

In short, it’s a highly enjoyable way of being.

But, I’m one of those restless types, which means I stride, some would say fecklessly, toward further experimental modifications.

My forays into High Casual are no exception to further experimentation. Keeping everything else Slone-y and respectable, I’ve lately taken to flashing a bit of bra, and not via the usual accidental flashpoints of low necklines and flimsy shouldering.

No, my bra flashing has been of the intentional variety. I have been deliberately pairing a coloured bra under a light, semi-transparent tee or jumper. For example: royal blue lace Marks and Spencers bra/white linen blend Country Road tee shirt.

I readily confess mixed feelings about this increasing transparency (see above statement C/F risking idiocy).

On the one hand, I like the fact that there’s subversion here. An otherwise respectable outfit is roughed up a little, and I do love a bit of ruggedness to keep things interesting. There’s also something aesthetically and ideologically pleasing about the practice of exposing layers, an implicit acknowledgement that clothing, and life, is complicated. Less esoterically, peaches are best enjoyed when they are ripe, and I’m only going to be 25 once. These are The Years where, rightly or wrongly, I can Get Away With It.

On the other hand, I wonder if exposed underwear, in any context, is ever OK. How is intentional exposure through a flimsy tee or jumper any less exhibitionistic, obvious and déclassé, than exposure via a plunging neckline, a practice which I outgrew a long time ago? More worryingly, could my sartorial transparency cause offense to the general population?

I’ve spent the best part of this evening turning these questions over in my mind, seeing how they look in different lights. I’m still no closer to a definitive set of findings from my experimental research. But, transparency, and all the issues it brings to light, can wait for some other time. It’s Friday, the weekend is just beginning, and it’s time for all of us to enter a state of being where we think upon nothing more serious than our next e-purchases of American Apparel tights (or events that give you equivalent enjoyment).

Milk, Cookies, and Temporal Fractures

SPOLIER ALERT: in Men In Black 3 (completely awesome, I cried, go watch it), Agent O diagnoses a temporal fracture in the fabric of the universe via Agent J’s chocolate milk craving.

This is a tweak of what we all know elementally – that when adult life seems like a temporal fracture and we want to turn the clock back and be kids again, milk and cookies are exactly what we crave.

Don’t pity me and imagine that I had a culinarily deprived childhood, but milk and cookies together were not something I was fed as an after school snack by my domestic goddess of a mother. Cookies and tea, yes. Apple slices and cheese, yes. Rice pudding with jam, absolutely. But not milk and cookies, cool from the fridge and warm from the oven respectively.

I think it’s a testament to the power of our collective notions of childhood foodstuffs that even I, who cannot recall having milk and cookies as a child, feel the nostalgic pull of this particular combination. It’s in this spirit of embracing the platonic ideal-ness of milk and cookies that I offer you a recipe for the most perfect cookies to go with a glass of milk.

Fittingly for a post about childhood nostalgia - of the real and culturally imagined kind - this recipe is based on a recipe my grandmother passed to my mother, who passed to me. I have modified this recipe over the years to ramp up the chocolate chips and vanilla extract, because when I think about that platonic ideal of milk and cookies, the cookies are nubbly with chocolate bits and smell sweetly of vanilla. Comfort on steroids, after all, is the best thing for temporal fractures.

Choc Chip Cookies

Makes 25

125g melted butter
1 egg
¾ cup sugar
1 ½ cups SR flour
115g (half a packet) dark chocolate baking chips
125g (half a packet) white chocolate melting buttons, roughly chopped
2 tablespoons (yep, go with it) natural vanilla extract
Pinch of salt

1. Preheat oven to 180 degrees and line 2-3 baking trays, depending on size, with baking paper.
2. Mix all ingredients together in a large bowl with a wooden spoon. The mixture should be the consistency of the cookie dough culinary amateurs buy at Coles – i.e., it should roll into a ball that holds its shape but is still pliable and moist.
3. Roll into ping-pong size balls and place on baking sheets, leaving enough room to for the cookies to spread.
4. Bake in preheated oven for 10-15 minutes, or until evenly golden.
5. Serve, warm from the oven, with a glass of icy cold milk, and, optimally, a quiet moment getting reacquainted with some childhood classics - Ann of Green Gables, anyone?

Who’s That Girl

I’ve a well documented tendency to get seriously hooked on TV shows. Possible explanations for my disturbing condition include my mother’s Days of Our Lives habit, doing a BA (such limited contact hours! So much time for TV ‘studying at home’), and sharehousing with other likeminded folk in my early twenties.

The only defence I can make for my shameful viewing behaviour is that I’m fairly laid back when it comes to TV shows. Basically, I’m not going to bore you with senseless details of characters you don’t know and love the way I do. Unless you happen to mention Dwight K Schrute – in which case I will have no choice but to profess my undying love for him, my belief that we would have genetically superior offspring, and my overwhelming desire to be a beet farmer’s wife. And then you’ll have to excuse me while I throw myself through a cold shower.

I’m making one additional exception to my usual rule, though. Because New Girl, although it’s cheesy and American, is one of the best gosh-darn things you can watch right now.

New Girl is the story of a girl called Jess (played, beautifully, by Zooey Deschanel) who suddenly finds herself single in the most soul-crushing way imaginable (HINT: it features infidelity, a naked dance, and an oversized floor cushion. I wish I could say that these things happen only on TV). Jess finds a new place to live, complete with three new housemates, and goes about the process of mending her life.

So far, so schmaltzy, right? Except, you’re wrong. Because this isn’t a schmaltzy show. There’s something about the way New Girl is executed that’s inherently truthful which saves it from saccharine.

From Jess’s dorky sayings, to her housemates’ questionable personal habits, I challenge you to watch an episode and not find yourself nodding along in agreement, thinking of a friend, a brother, a past or present housemate, who does EXACTLY THE SAME THING.

But what really gets me about this show is how Jess moves on. Without going into too much detail (also, I don’t want to spoil the show for you, if you are yet to watch), New Girl offers an account of recovering from a hurt closer to how it really feels than anything I’ve watched, read or listened to. New Girl doesn’t resolve Jess’s broken heart by having her fall into the arms of one of her lovely-if-hygenically-challenged housemates, or the cutely compatible guy that she dates soon after finding herself single again (he buys her tickets to Paris for Christmas. These things, most certainly, happen ONLY on TV). No, New Girl doesn’t give a midtwenties break up the soft-lighting-and-vaseline-on-the-lense treatment.

Rather, New Girl shines a forensically-fluorescent-show-all-the-blemishes-and-scars light on the awkward fumbling that happens post break. New Girl tells it like it is - and thank goodness for that, because I was beginning to wonder whether I was the only one out there who has Hey Tiger conversations with herself in the mirror (youtube it, it’s brills).

I have an unfair advantage here, having watched the whole season of New Girl ahead of Australian broadcasting schedules, but I can say that New Girl is good, and truthful, and full-body-hugs-the-awkward right to the end. It’s because of this truthfulness that I’ve put myself out on an awkward limb in suggesting, no, imploring, you to watch New Girl, for your own good.

Also, Zooey Deschanel has inspired me to mix my prints. I hope she inspires you to do so as well.

Labels

As a classically trained sociologist, it’s my duty to rebel against Labeling and Labels as a postmodern, patriarchal, capitalist social construction.

Lately, however, I’ve been pondering the value of other sorts of Labels. No, it wasn’t as a result of a stuff up where two important Labels (Hons, Phd expected completion 2013) were left out of my list of qualifications.

Needless to say - Not a Happy Camper.

Rather, my recent pondering of Labels has come about as a result of wearing my first ever big Label garment, borrowed from Clementine Kemp. I’m going to be a tease and refuse to tell you what Label I’m referring to here. Suffice to say, though, it’s a good'un.

The true appeal of the Label doesn’t lie in any inherent property of the dress itself, although I appreciate the technical genius of the cut (it really is a marvel). The appeal of the Label lies in its very Labelness – that this garment signifies something over and above its garmentness, that it's special, significant.

To a Marxist, this is a classic illustration of commodity fetishism. But sometimes (and I can feel the ghost of Marx haunting me here) a little of a fetishised commodity is exactly what you need.

As Bill Cunningham writes: ‘Fashion is the armour to survive the reality of everyday life’. Whilst no-one but myself and a few eagle eyed fashionistats would know, once it’s on, that Clementine’s dress is a Label, knowing makes all the difference to me. The Label makes me stand taller, pull my shoulders back, and look the world square in the eyes, because there is this deliciously potent secret sewn into the cloth that grazes my shoulder bone. Like Katniss Everdeen’s dress of flames in ‘The Hunger Games’, a Label can make you a Girl On Fire.

The effects of the Label last long after the dress itself has been taken off. Typing this in my thirty dollar maxi dress, my worn out cardigan, and my woolly socks, I still feel that Label magic – taller, stronger. And this is why, I suspect, people will always be willing to part with more money than is decent for the privilege of owning and wearing a Label – this feeling of being lit up.

You’ve Got That One Thing

Hi, my name is Peggy, and I’m a One Directioner.

I know I shouldn’t be. I can’t help it, though. There’s something about those young lads that makes me pump up the volume when they come on the radio.

You see, it’s a struggle, being Cool. One moment loving Kings of Leon is a sure fire ticket to respectful nods and Meaningful Discussions about Lyrical Potency. The next moment, the same admission will be greeted with sneers, disparaging comments about Stadium Rock and Ghonnoreah, and iTunes suggestions that make you cringe (Nickleback. Yikes).

And, when Motion Banana Cycle Republic Indian Chinese Massacre get played on mainstream radio, you face the long process of starting from scratch with another band who have that same carefully studied unstudied air (C/F Bondi Hipsters – check them out on Youtube)

Digging deeper and deeper into the underground scene makes coming up into the light, bright world of POP! music a tantalising alternative to being Alternative. I blame my addiction to One Direction on this incessant quest further underground in the name of Cool. Yes, I know they are mass produced and stage managed (Simon Cowel is behind the whole thing, after all), but nonetheless, these lads have got that One Thing that makes me keep on listening.

And that one thing is that 1D are so wholesome and hopeful, in a time when pop music, indeed the world, is anything but. Yes, I know it happens as you get older (I turned 25 this year and am deploying the in-my-day’s with alarming frequency), but I find the relentless tits-and-arse of pop music traumatic. Songs about girls who don’t know they’re beautiful, or crushing on someone who has that One Thing, are just so darn Nice by comparison. And Nice is all the more valuable for being rare. Like a man who holds a door open for a woman, One Direction are a throwback to gentler way of being, and one I welcome in these sleazy and cynical times.

Just a quick thought: perhaps liking One Direction, or, more broadly, embracing Niceness, is symptomatic of being so underground that you’ve dug yourself clean through the centre of the earth and out the other side. In which case, 1D + Nice = Hipster Win.

Eating my Words: Big W and Coloured Denim

I bought a pair of coloured jeans yesterday.

I have been wearing them non stop (ok, not quite non stop, as I slept in my nightie, but pretty consistently nonetheless) since.

When coloured denim first blipped my radar a couple of years ago, my first response was: FART NOISES. I proceeded to ignore the trend, ostrich style. Head in the sand, baby. If I passed a hipster or seven wearing red, banana yellow, or sky blue jeans, I’d snort and proceed to denigrate them to my companions.

Last month, however, I noticed a rather fetching pair of electric blue skinny jeans in a Big W advertisement. I know, I know. I hear you. Big W?? Big Why-are-you-even???? And COLOURED DENIM? WHAT ABOUT THE FART NOISES??

I have written previously about the benefits of overlooking stylistic prejudices before, and, in a bid to overcome, decided to swing past the women’s wear section of The Dub before heading to home wares (cushion insert), hardware (3M hooks), and books (the Hunger Games Trilogy as a birthday gift).

WELL.

Aside from the decidedly budget change rooms, I found the experience a highly rewarding one. Big W Woden didn’t have the electric blue denims in stock, but that was fine, because I found a fabulous pair in the lushest shade of green (I believe the closest match is Juniper Green in Derwent pencils if you need a visual). I even loved the navy and gold print sleeveless blouse I had tried on, for arguments’ sake, with the jeans.

Better yet, the whole outfit, jeans and blouse (which I’m planning on pencil skirting tomorrow for work) came to LESS THAN $40.

And the store radio station played I Want To Know What Love Is immediately followed by Teenage Dream.

BELIEVE.

In the words of Elizabeth David, there are worse things to eat than your words. And when the reward is cheap-yet-awesome-and-versatile kit, I’ll happily eat a whole plateful, plus seconds.

In fact, I’m heading into the civic store next weekend. I’m mighty tempted by the aubergine pair…