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…