Crossfire Hurricane

Of all my demons, I dread procrastination the most.

Unlike pride, jealousy, or anger, whose faces I know to slam the door on, I can never make myself see the harm when procrastination comes a-knocking. I let her in and, before we know it, it’s March and those Summertime things I had to do remain undone.

Which brings me to today’s topic: why it took me a whole EIGHTEEN MONTHS of frequent, regular attendance at the gym before I ‘made time’ to buy a sports bra.

The alluring thing about procrastination is it allows you to challenge quantum physics and manipulate the laws of the universe, making and unmaking time at will.

There have been whole pockets, in the last eighteen months, where I’ve spun time into a glossy, golden expanse: afternoons re-reading Atonement (not just page 136: the whole thing); aimless Sunday driving with the windows down and Tame Impala blaring; afternoon teas, brunches, dinners, coffees, where Now was All; stolen days doing sweet FA of any significance.

When pressed on the matter of the urgent purchase of a sports bra, though, my rad procrastinatory quantum mechanics skillz emerged, and those glossy pockets of time that I’d spun out are unmade, just like that. Couldn’t possibly have gone sports bra shopping; there was a party on, a chapter to write, a job to do. Next weekend, for sure, it’ll happen.

Next weekend, and the one after the one after that happen, and keep on happening. An honest evaluation of stretch marks suggests that the old Pleasure State (with the wire poking out) does not provide adequate support in spin class.

Even still, it takes a wrinkle in the fabric of time. A scheduled lunchtime gym session thwarted by a pair of forgotten sneakers. A two-for-one lingerie deal at David Jones on my way back to the office. It was time.

I like to pretend that my iPod-priave-changeroom-danceparty-for-one (musical accompaniment: the Rolling Stone’s Jumping Jack Flash), was purely in the interests of thoroughly testing out the Bustenhalter’s bounce control.

But I’ll tell you a secret: I suspect it might have had something to do with sending procrastination on her way, and the fact that there’s no better time or place to join the Mick Jagger Strut Team than when you’ve had a win.

If said win occurs in a David Jones change room, clad in a pencil skirt and sport bra? Well, I know Mick would say it’s alright, now.

In fact, it’s a gas.

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.

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.

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…

Theorising DFO Part One: Barthes

Roland Barthes was a French cultural theorist who, like most theorists, had a lot of interesting things to say. Sadly, understanding Barthes is like sawing through steak with the lid of a Tupperware container. You know that there is a reward for persevering, but your perceptual equipment isn’t sharp enough. His writing, too, poses some challenges. It’s like an over-pastryed sausage roll. A tasty sausage of knowledge is hiding for you beneath a thick, crusty, flaky layer of wordiness, which you have to eat your way through.

Which is why I feel it’s best to start with the familiar when exploring difficult theoretical ground. So let’s head to DFO.

(Incidentally, two meat related analogies in the one paragraph could perhaps indicate an iron deficiency on the part of the author. Or it could herald the start of summer barbeque season…)

DFO (Direct Factory Outlet, for the uninitiated) is located in Fyshwick. I have written before about my great love of this maligned Eastern suburb of Canberra, and the conspicuous presence of DFO is a significant part of why Fyshwick and I are goin’ steady. DFO is a large warehouse, with outlets of many, many, many different companies and stores. It’s loud, because the building isn’t properly insulated (it literally is a warehouse) and each of the poorly partitioned stores dials up the volume on the sound system to compete for aural dominance. There are also spruikers – terrifying people with microphones enticing you into their store with the promise of bargains, bargains, bargains.

What, might you ask, does DFO have to do with Roland Barthes? Well, quite a lot.

Barthes postulated in his discussion of literature that, broadly, you could divide texts into two different sorts: readerly texts, where the author’s intent was clearly conveyed and there was little ambiguity, and writerly texts, where the author’s intent was unclear and a high degree of ambiguity existed. Barthes argued that writerly texts extended an invitation to the reader to participate in interpreting the meaning of the text, and, as such, created a dialogue. Readerly texts, on the other hand, presented a sealed, closed off narrative, to be read, enjoyed, and absorbed, but ultimately untempered with.

DFO is the shopping world’s equivalent of a writerly text. It’s rough around the edges. You don’t know what’s going on a lot of the time, and any assumptions you bring to the text/DFO will be thrown out the moment you step through the doors. Don’t try and approach a writerly text with a firm idea of what you wish to get out of it. Guaranteed your quest for pencil skirts or nude wedge heels will result in failure. You may, on your exit, emerge without skirts or shoes, but with a Sheridan quilt cover for $20. Multiple layers of meaning, and multiple R&B soundtracks, fight for dominance in the one cultural space. Clothes, shoes, home wares are presented in a haphazard way – piled onto racks, crammed together, piled on benches, disorganised, chaotic. Stock can be anywhere from up to the minute to three seasons (or more!) old, and is often climatically inappropriate. Staff are too busy unloading stock to provide you with a helpful narration through this quagmire. You, the shopper, are presented with a delicious invitation: here are the goods. Make of them what you will.

Of course, the DFO experience, like a writerly text, can be exhausting. Sometimes there is no way of making sense of the disorder. Sometimes you want to be taken by the hand and be guided by a reliable narrator through Alana Hill’s Spring collection. Sometimes you want your ideas, your dresses, shoes, and jeans, presented clearly and in isolation, sorted by size and price.

Yet sometimes, the order and prescription of shopping at, say, the Canberra Centre’s Veronika Maine store leaves me cold. Beautiful dresses on mannequins beg to be ruffled. Neat racks, salesgirls who can tell you in an instant what stock is available out the back should you require a size down, the hermetic seal of up-to-the-minute trends, make me long for having to work a little harder, dig a little deeper through the piles of 6’s and 8’s for that elusive size 14. For the challenge of creating meanings and great outfits of my own, as I go about my shopping at DFO.

And of course, for the bargains, bargains, bargains.

Oh Come, All Ye Faithful.

N.B. This was originally supposed to be an excited post about a wonderful new dress that I recently acquired. It was going to be full of beautiful photos, capturing sumptuous fabric, vintage styling, and va-va-voom shaping, and would make you all green with envy. I’d been thinking about it all week.

Monday comes around. I position said dress on hanger, in front of some artfully arranged flowers, because that’s how I roll. And proceeded to shoot.



Oh dear.



Pride comes before a fall.



Multiple falls, as you can see.





No matter what I did, the dress looked awful. The only way that I was going to take a half decent photograph of it was to put the damned thing on, and photograph myself. But, of course, this blog is based on me being anonymous (like a fashion superhero, remember??) and so a photograph of the dress would, on account of the charming neckline detailing, result in a photograph of my face. Which ruled it out as an option.

Although this seems like a bit of a blah thing to happen on a Monday, it’s actually proved something I’ve long suspected. Photographs are not representative of the real world – or rather, they represent it, but often poorly. I swear to you, this dress looks amazing in real life. Maybe the inability to capture its amazingness lies in my photographic naivety. Be that as it may. But it proves the point that I have been stressing to many of you – and you know who you are – that my reluctance to be photographed is not entirely down to self consciousness, but to the fact that I actually don’t translate well into film, as an objective fact rather than a distorted self-perception.

Now that I have a top-five ranked dress that’s in the same boat as me, I feel a lot better about this. Because I’ve proven, once and for all, that beautiful things can look pez in photographs.

The only thing for me to do, dear readers, is to tell you the story of how I met this dress, excluding the photographs I originally imagined, and let you use your imaginations…

I’d just finished a particularly gruelling fieldwork session when I got one of those wonderful instinctual nudgings.

For some people, their instinctual nudgings take the form of warnings about impending disasters, or loved ones in peril. For me, 99 times out of 100, these instinctual nudgings are shopping related. They go something like this:

‘Behold, blessed child, and praise the name of style, for, in the hallowed halls of David Jones, await pair of shoes. Make haste and rejoicing, for they will be in your size and on sale. But hark, on the morrow they shall be vanished, and all that remains will be dust and size sevens.’

Or, alternately:

‘BE NOT AFRAID, oh sanctified stylist, for that thing-you-need-but-do-not-know-as-yet-that-you-need, is nigh! Look to your left – no, the other left – and ye who have eyes shall see that fabulous vintage bread bin on ye exalted shelf.’

Some people think that hearing voices means you’re insane, but I like to believe it just makes you a bit special. Kind of like the wise men in the Christmas story.

Anyway, I have long learnt to listen to these voices, as they are always – without fail – correct on all matters of purchasing. So, when I heard said voice:

‘Glad tidings to you, wanderer in the wilderness of an Unnamed Fieldwork Location. Under the distant star of Fyshwick, in the little town of Down Memory Lane, awaits a dress. Oh come, all ye faithful, and be joyful in the triumph of the perfect vintage dress.’

I knew that, in spite of my gnawing hunger, tired feet, and field notes that would grow expodentially the more hours I left between end of fieldwork and typing them up, I had no choice but to do as the voice said. So, off I trundled to Fyshwick.

Again, I wish to stress that this blog is in no way sponsored, and, just like last week’s post about the farmer’s markets, this is purely a savvy tip from one shopper to another, but you really must go to Down Memory Lane. Located at the very end of Geelong St in Fyshwick (just keep driving, when I say it’s at the very end I mean the absolute absolute very end), Down Memory Lane is a treasure trove of antiques, collectables, clothes, books and furniture. I make a point of going at least once a month, a whole lot more in the lead up to Christmas, and always come away with something wonderful at a bargain price. It’s also one of the cleanest and most organised establishments I know of, which makes shopping there doubly nice – no need to disinfect the new-to-you goods when you get them home.

Arriving at DML, as I’m abbreviating it, I dutifully listened to the voice in my head and started trawling the racks of vintage clothing. There was a lot there which I liked, but nothing that I LOVED. Nothing, that is, that I was moved enough to get naked for. I always think that you should apply the same rules to shopping for clothes as you do with boys. If you’re moved enough by them that you’re ready and willing to get naked for them, then it – the dress or the boy – will probably reward the time and the effort of disrobing.

I was beginning to think, after a good quarter hour trawl, that my instincts had failed me, and that perhaps my subconscious was merely generating a phantasmic excuse to get me out of some fieldwork that had boarded the train to headache land. I turned in the direction of the hat rack.

But then, ladies and gentlemen, I saw it. I want to avoid the cliché of the dress buried under a mound of others, shoved at the end of the rack, amongst a swathe of dresses that were extra small, but I can’t here, because it’s one hundred percent true. A chink of rich brown fabric poked out from between some pasty florals. I investigated, and my investigations were rewarded with the following:

An Australian made, early 60's, chocolate brown pure wool double-knit jersey boucle fitted sheath with rear vent.

Sing, chiors of angels, sing in exultation. I don’t need to add any more to the description above, because I’m sure you’ve got the picture in your mind. It’s the pinnacle of vintage perfection.

I raced to the change room, threw the dress over my head, and slid the zipper up my back.

Ding dong merrily on high, it fitted! Perfectly! A centimeter shorter than ideal, but the hem, being generous, could be adjusted. I couldn’t get back into my normal clothes and hand over my cash fast enough.

Driving back to write up my fieldnotes, I almost had an accident, so adoringly was my gaze focused on the parcel occupying the passenger seat. I like to think that the fashion gods were smiling down on me then, and protected me from a rather unfortunate incident. Which, for any parties concerned about my driving, was actually the fault of another vehicle to give way – I was just a bit slow activating my defensive driving skills on account of reverent worship.

It all worked out in the end, and the dress is now hanging on the drying rack, gently dropping its hem without the harsh assistance of a hot iron and steam. I will hem it, and wear it, and love it, all the days of my life, or at least until it falls off my back in tatters. Amen.

Farmer’s Market Fashion

My dear friend Mimi Goss and I have a standing date every Saturday morning with the Canberra Region Farmer’s Markets, to stock up on lovely fresh fruit and vegetables for the week.

Have you been? If not, you are missing out on, amongst other things, the cutest and most kitschy cherry bags. See below.



Apart from being fantastic fun, the markets are the best place in town to go to for cheap, excellent produce from the local region. Without going too far into the area of ethical consumption – that’s more Virginia Boots’s area – it’s a nice feeling to know that the dollars you spend at the markets are going straight to the farmer who grew the produce you’re buying, rather than your dollars going to Mr Coles or Mr Woolworths and a few measly cents to Mr Farmer.



But there are a few downsides to the markets. Firstly, you need to get there early, because the hipsters invade after 8.30am, complete with babies and baskets and ironic glasses, and with endless comparisons of the ‘Can-Bra’ markets to the ‘Mel-Bun’ markets (Mel-Bun, of course, being unsurpassable in the hipster stakes). Secondly, you will have to carry all of your fruit and veg to the car, which, by the time I’ve stocked up for the week, is a heavy task. Finally, you will have to work out, at a very early hour on a Saturday, What To Wear To The Markets.

In a combined solution to all three of the above problems, Mimi and I have developed a strategy of getting in early, with cute carry bags, and in outfits that, whilst not entirely hipster, are hip enough to trick the invading hipster hordes into believing that, although we may not be one of them, we’re certainly formidable enough in our style to warrant not being taken out by a side-swipe of an organic wicker basket. In short, dear friends, we’ve perfected Farmers Market Fashion.




As you can see in the above picture of some of my favourite Farmer’s Market Fashions, there’s a strong emphasis on jersey –just as comfortable as pyjamas – which is an important thing to consider at 7.30am on a Saturday. Washability is also paramount, as organic produce oftentimes means wash-it-yourself produce-which-likes-to-dirty-your-clothes. A burst of colour, a cute pattern, or some funky stripes will help keep you visible, particularly when you are re-grouping with your shopping buddy at the HOT bakery, where the tastiest…croissants…hang out.

Complete the look with one or two canvas totes with funky prints, and you’re in clover.




The Canberra Region Farmer’s Markets run every Saturday from about 7.30am onwards, at the Epic Markets, off the Federal Highway. They will be open next Saturday (18 December), but will be closed until 15 January for the holiday period. This post, although gushy, was in no way a paid advertisement or endorsement of the Farmer’s Markets – just a suggestion from one savvy shopper to another! Enjoy!