Daggy Jumper Part-ay (and Bullshit, and Part-ay, and Bullshit…with apologies to Notorious BIG)

Winter is coming.

To our nation’s capital.

Now, you can, and should, cuddle up with some seasonally appropriate Game of Thrones, a hottie (hot water bottle and/or person – count your blessings if both), and a big old mug of tea/mulled wine/hot chocolate.

But, there is another strategy you can adopt to minimise seasonal chill. That strategy, my friends, is the Daggy Jumper Part-ay.

(In the context of Daggy Jumpers, the normal spelling of party just doesn’t carry enough cringe: a hyphen just has to happen here).

Hipsters have been All About The Daggy Jumper Part-ay for a fair while now. I remember, distinctly, my first encounter with a Hipster Daggy Jumper Part-ay member. This encounter was at an actual party (normal spelling), complete with all requisite winter-in-Canberra’s-Inner-North party activities, circa 2007: goon of fortune, people dancing in circles around piles of coats in a bare living room, representation from three different political parties (and factions within parties), and at least one emotional minidrama involving a love triangle and a certain young lady blowing her nose on someone else’s pashmina.

Yes, that was me. Soz.

During some post-tears circle dancing around coats, a fellow partygoer joined me in my interpretive dance moves to Architecture in Helskini’s ‘Places Like This’ (if you need a visual: imagine me waving of arms in the manner of a floaty willow tree, add in some Gumby legs). Said partygoer, otherwise unremarkable, was wearing a baggy grey handknit with an appliquéd koala bear on the front, chomping on a eucalyptus leaf (the appliquéd koala, not my wavy-arms-dance companion).

At the time, I called bullshit on his Daggy Jumper Part-ay, picked up my coat from the middle of the circle, and went outside to check out goon of fortune.

Now, six years and a whole lot of other parties after the fact, I’ve come around to the Daggy Jumper Part-ay. Big Time, as one of my boyfriends from the 2007 vintage (a good year) would say.

Sourcin’
The trick to having a Daggy Jumper Part-ay, as opposed to just a Daggy Jumper, is to mix a bit of high culture with your low culture (hollah at me Adorno: Bourdieu, you, ain’t heavy, you my bro).

By this, I mean, choose a daggy jumper in luxe fibres: babysoft lambswool, buttery cashmere, so-fluffy-you-float angora, and a bit of lurex for doing the Fancy.

Sounds expensive, right? Wrong. Second hand stores are teeming with Daggy Jumper Part-ay specimens. Admittedly, you need some time on your hands and the guidance of your inner shopper intuition, but anybody with a couple of hours to spare on a Saturday can make good at their local Vinnies, Salvos or op-shop and come out with some Daggy Jumper Part-ay gold.

Just remember to check the fibre content label: you can usually tell by feel if you’re dealing with poly blend or something a bit more special, but it always pays to double check when you’re all about bigging up the luxe.

You can also ask your family and elderly friends if they have any Daggy Jumper Part-ays they can pass on to you, to keep the family’s stylin’ trads alive. Or, if a trip to Vinnies and Granny’s doesn’t turn up anything, pop into Country Road, they happen to be doing some very convincing vintage repros at the mo.

Prepin’
Once you get your Daggy Jumper Part-ay home, it pays to invest in some pre-wear prep. A gentle handwash will remove any lingering scent of dead people/menthol cigarettes/shop assistants/home brand sherry/naphthalene, and any suspicious stains that may have emanated from a previous owner’s body.

Handwashing using my chosen brand of laundry soap (Lux) also imparts a delicious scent that will make people want to cuddle you (huzzah for cuddles).

Again, check the fibre content label, but allow me to lay down the best way, by far, to handwash:

1) dissolve a small amount of Lux flakes in hot water, top up your bucket/sink/basin with cold water, and dunk your jumper thoroughly
2) watch an ep of Game of Thrones
3) empty the soapy water, refill your bucket/sink/basin with plain cold water
4) watch another ep of Game of Thrones
5) empty bucket onto pot plants/garden, pop your jumper into your washing machine, and run it through on a Rinse and Spin cycle
6) place on a flat surface to dry
7) watch eps of Game of Thrones until your Daggy Jumper Part-ay is dry

This last step is optional, but I highly recommend it: Peter Dinklage is a stone cold fox.

Stylin’
It’s absolutely pointless, in most cases, to try and achieve a slim, streamlined silhouette. Most Daggy Jumper Part-ays, especially if they’re vintage, are cut with comfort and warmth, rather than flattery, in mind. Consequentially, channel Notorious and embrace the B-I-G. Let your winter belly rolls luxuriate in the warm, non-judgemental embrace of your Daggy Jumper Part-ay.

You may wish to pair your Daggy Jumper Part-ay with a fitted jean and boots, to prove to the world at large that your form has shape. But, I don’t think the fitted jean is an essential for styling the Daggy Jumper Part-ay. Really, you could wear whatever you want on your bottom half (except shorts, because they’re weird, even more so in a Canberra winter).

Basically, no-one is going to notice what’s going on south of your belly button: they’re going to be too excited by your amazing jumper, and wondering why they’re experiencing the urge to cuddle (that’s the power of Lux).

Cautionz
One further word to the wise: if you have a penchant for black fluffy Daggy Jumper Part-ays, like I do, be aware of the lint issue. It tends to gather in places that will shock you when you look in the mirror (underarms, backs, and belly buttons, oh my). It can be quite confronting, more so if you were de-Daggy Jumper Part-ay-ing in front of some lucky guy or girl (I’d imagine).

You can solve this issue by wearing a tee shirt underneath, but if that idea doesn’t appeal, consider yourself forewarned and forearmed about the armpit lint, and make sure you do a quick lint check pre boudoir.

Now, go forth, and Daggy Jumper Part-ay, because winter is coming.

A Bajillion Other Things

Hey Girls,

I’ve just watched Seasons 1 and 2. And, to use a Shoshana-ism, Oh My F-ing G.

Girls, you blew my mind. Why?

Well, Shoshana’s hair. And Jecca’s feather coat, which is exactly like something I wore for a teaching day at uni a few years ago (believe). And how mean Marni is to Charlie.

But most importantly, Lena Dunham.

Allow me to explain.

I’ve been writing this blog for four years now, and have frequently dipped my toe into some thought-sharing about body image. My honours thesis explored body image, among other things. I inhabit a female body, a body which forces me to engage with other people’s perceptions of female bodies, mostly through comments about its size, shape, and overall composition, or its other characteristics, like birthmarks.

Consequentially, I read blogs, and newspaper and magazine articles, about women, bodies and body image, with one eye on personal and the other on academic interest.

And, Girls, I’m bored.

Achingly bored, in fact, because the conversation is the same. Has been for years. The articles mostly follow a formula:

• Personal anecdote (hook reader)

• Branch out into a wider comment (women don’t like their bodies: sad face)

• Criticism (corporations/society/patriarchy make women not like their bodies: angry face)

• Suggestion (more plus size models/less airbrushing/no botox: I’ve-had-an-idea face)

• Pseudo manifesto (let’s love our bodies: triumphant gloat face)

• Repeat ad nauseum (Peggy’s vomit face).

The worst thing about this body image conversation loop is that nothing changes. The same thoughts get published, week after week, month after month, year after year.

If talking about women’s bodies in the way that we’ve been doing for a while now worked - if it advanced anything, if women were acknowledging that their worth wasn’t determined by their physicality – we wouldn’t still be having the same conversation. Instead, we’d be talking about a bajillion other things.

Girls, you break this loop by ignoring the body image conversation. You could have easily gone down the path of making a big deal about Lena Dunham’s naked body, seen in just about every episode. Instead, it’s mentioned twice in season one, in an offhand way, and not at all in season two.

So, rather than having Hannah (Lena Dunham’s character), engage in angsty heart-to-hearts with Marni and Jecca and Shoshana about her body, Hannah has angsty heart-to-hearts about a bajillion other things, and eats cake, naked, in the bath.

It’s as if – shock, horror – Hannah’s body is not the biggest thing going on in her life.

Naomi Wolf wrote that ‘a woman wins by giving herself and other women permission – to eat; to be sexual; to age; to wear overalls, a paste tiara, a Balenciaga gown, a second-hand opera cloak, or combat boots; to cover up or go practically naked; to do whatever we choose in following – or ignoring – our own aesthetic.’

The above was written over 20 years ago now. And Girls, it’s great to see you following, ignoring, and recreating your aesthetic.

But, more importantly Girls, it’s great to see you talking about the bajillion other things that make up the rest of life, which is something I find to be the exact opposite of boring.

Yours sincerely, lots of love, and looking forward to Season three,

Peggy xox

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…