Saturday, September 29, 2012

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…





Saturday, September 22, 2012

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.






Saturday, September 15, 2012

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.






Wednesday, September 12, 2012

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?




Sunday, September 9, 2012

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?