Onesie (with apologies to Hamlet)

This weekend, in amongst autumn cleaning my apartment (spring cleaning: so passé), entertaining friends, getting back to the gym after injury, and catching a film with MamaK, I’ve been battling a great dilemma:

To Onesie, or not to Onesie?

That is the question.

I am not referring, dear readers, to one piece cossie. Nor am I referring to jumpsuits. There’s no dilemma in my mind when it comes to cozzies and jumpsuits: I like cozzies and jumpsuits. I have time for cozzies and jumpsuits. I’ve very successfully owned multiples of both (believe).

What I am questioning, with the existential seriousness of Shakespeare’s Danish Prince, is the one piece loungewear suit, comprising of a hooded top attached to a pair of legs, made of polar fleece, with a zip fastening.

As a typical Type A personality, I’m working my way through my onesie dilemma not via a dramatic monologue, but by a list of points for, and against, the onesie.

(If Hamlet had been a Type A, he could have written a handy list too. It might have made all the difference).

To Onesie
• Warm.
• Warm.
• Warm.
• Warm.
• Warm.
• Cozy.
• Cozy.
• Cozy.
• Cozy.
• Cozy.
• Onesies are warm, and they are cozy. It is possible to layer up against the Canberra chill, but there will always be little bits of you – ankles, the juncture of skivvies and leggings – vulnerable to sneaky chills (just quietly, I have a suspicion Hamlet would have found this aspect of a onesie appealing. That castle must have been some sort of draughty).
• Grown adults wearing - essentially - a babygro is hilarious, something which the lovely Miranda Hart has exploited (google Miranda Hart + Onesie Direction if you need proof). I have sufficient self awareness of my hipster tendencies to ironically enjoy this.
• You can get them in tiger print. And leopard print. And the union jack, and…

Not to Onesie
• Slippery slope: I already go more places than I should in gym leggings and baggy tee shirts. Crop top bras (comfy) have become a mainstay of my working wardrobe, even though I promised myself, at point of purchase, they were For Home Use Only (or FHUO, hollah at my APS BroDudes and SoulSistas down with document classifications). I wear slippers to the local shops to buy milk. If I get a onesie, it’s only a matter of time before I’m wearing it to the office on casual Friday – and then I’ll be Onesie Girl. Basically, my relationship with comfortable clothing is like Pandora’s Box: once opened, there's no going back.
• Onesies are sexless. I suspect that being a onesie girl means that I’d condemn myself to a lifetime of being a onesie girl in relation to other sorts of onesies. If you take my meaning.
• Everyone’s doing the onesie thing. Onesies are huge. Onesies are massive. I have sufficient self awareness of my hipster tendencies to sneer at this.
• I’m already tall, with a long body, and ample frontage. Which makes buying one piece anythings (swimmers, leotards, wonder woman outfits etc) tricky. A onesie would magnify this problem, and would, no doubt, result in wedgies. Back, and front.

I don’t yet know whether it is nobler, stylistically, to suffer the slings and arrows of Canberra’s outrageous weather. Or, to onesie – to warm, and, perchance, to cozy on through winter.

Aye, there’s the rub, alright.

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.

Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe

I’ve had a rather embarrassing song stuck in my head for the last couple of days. It’s Barry White, and ‘Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe’.

Why is it always guilty musical pleasures that get stuck in your head, and not something legitimately cool? This, and other mysteries, I will have to ponder further and get back to you. For now, though, in an attempt to exorcise the disco classic from my brain, here’s some things I Can’t Get Enough of, Babe.

Layered Tights: It’s so close to warm weather here in Canberra, I’m loathe to buy new pantyhose, which means that I’m wearing tights that ought to have been retired to light duties three weeks ago. The nifty solution? Layering lace or mesh tights over a pair of opaques. The lace or mesh overlay obscures the worst of the holes, and the interplay of colourful tights peeking through black lace is a nifty way of dressing up an otherwise plain ‘teaching day’ outfit.

Bananas: Bananas, I’ve missed you. Luckily, you have finally come down to something I can (just) justify - $8.99 per kilo at my local grocers!

The Panics: Now, this is the kind of music I wish would stick in my head a little more than tacktastic disco. Their latest album is rocking my world particularly hard right now.

Crazy Cat Names: It’s a family tradition that cats get slightly whacky names. My brother’s cat’s full title is Jethro Francis Patrick Anthony Margret (he’s a special boy). If things go as well as I hope they will, I may find myself adopting a cat for myself in the next little while. Which means it’s time to work on whacky cat names. Current favorites are Ferdinand, Henrietta, Vincent, Dwight or Bettina. Or possibly all of them at once. Thoughts?


‘The Tudors’, Specifically the Duke of Suffolk and His Amazing Beard: Mimi Goss leant me her DVDs of all four seasons of The Tudors. It’s seriously addictive television. Particularly when Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, grows a beard in Season Four. Google pictures to understand why. I promise it’s worth it.

Listing

I write lists. Shopping lists. Wish lists. To-Do-Today lists. To-Do-This-Month lists. Just-Do-It lists. Lists that masquerade as other things. Lists drawn as ideas maps. Lists in the round. If I do it, want to do it, or have done it, it’s on a list somewhere.

At the moment, there are six lists on my office wall. Looking at them is like looking at a portion of my brain, splattered onto A4, although slightly less gory. There’s an ideas map for a course I’ll be convening this summer. A list of my responsibilities for another summer course I’ll be involved with. Tutorials times, rooms, and essay due dates for the first year course that I’m teaching semester. A list of seminars I’m going to be running for a masters course, to prompt me to find some relevant readings. ANU principal dates. And, last but not least, a list of monthly targets I’ve set for my PhD thesis.

I never meant to have this many lists occupying wall space in my office. After all, isn’t the purpose of a list to collate information into the one place, efficiently, economically, putting all the pieces of the puzzle into their correct places? Theoretically, yes. But in reality, my lists seem to breed, one list begetting another, until suddenly my office is decorated with blu-tacked pieces of scribbled-on and crossed-out pieces of paper.

I looked at this disorder this morning, and, after momentary frustration, laughed. Because this tendency to write lists is one half of a symbiotic relationship with another tendency of mine: I love to cross things off. Is there a better feeling than running a thick, heavy pencil line through that particularly bothersome task that is now, in the words of a certain opposition leader, dead, buried, cremated? Or doodeling loopy biro circles over a list-task you did and enjoyed?

I write so many lists so that I can give myself that little moment of satisfaction, that feeling of a job, if not well, at least competently, done, and the restoration of some sense where there was previously befuddlement. And all triumphs of sense over befuddlement, in my humble opinion, ought to be celebrated.