The Nativity Story

Last Christmas (I gave you my heart, but the very next day, you gave it away…)
Excuse me, Wham! and I share a profound spiritual connection. Anyway, last Christmas, I wrote about how much I love the silly season here on this blog. This year (to save me from tears, I’ll give it to someone special…) I would like to share with you again my yuletide yearnings.

Christmas, in my family, is the big kahuna of celebrations. And in a family that celebrate exceptionally well and regularly - we end every week with a Sunday night feast - the big celebration really is...big! Maxtreme is probably a closer definition.

To give you an idea, MamaK’s list of Christmas baking (this is just for us, not Christmas gift baking, or Christmas deserts, or Christmas main meals, or Christmas snacks…), consists of the following items:

Shortbread
Cranberry Macarons
Pistachio Macarons
Amaretto Macarons
Almond Pears
Rum balls
Biscotti
Marmalade and Macadamia Cookies
Nigella’s spiced nuts
(This list has been revised downwards from previous years. Believe.)

It has been ever thus in our household, and here begins our nativity story. From my earliest memories of Christmas, we’ve had this nativity set. I don’t know where MamaK got it from, although I believe she’s had it since before she married PapaK, which makes it pretty old.

Anyway, the ceramic figures of Mary and Joseph, the wise men, the shepherds, the angel (my favorite) and Baby Jesus, whose face had been lovingly glued back on after a minor face-separating-from-body mishap, were the most special part of decorating our house at Christmas time. After all the other decorations had been placed carefully, after all the cards were hung on strings around our house, after I’d draped myself in itchy tinsel and admired the effect, the nativity was taken from its special bag at the bottom of the suitcase of Christmas decorations. Carefully, we would unwrap the pastel tissue protecting each piece, tissue as soft and filmy as silk from careful folding and refolding, year after year.

In the Disney version of family:

We’d then gather around, hushed and reverent, as MamaK retold the journey of Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem, and the birth of the baby in the manger. My two brothers and I would be filled with wonder at the birth of the Christ child, and proceed to sing Silent Night in perfect harmony, as we gazed upon the serene faces of Baby Jesus and Friends.

What actually happened in the real life version of our family:

We’d have an epic, EPIC battle about who got to arrange the nativity. Which would inevitably end in a truly un-Christ-like morass of hair pulling, sulking, screaming and pouting. I don’t know why arranging the nativity, of all things, was the pinnacle of Christmas decorating (see my earlier comments about my tinsel love), but the chief nativitiser was a bitterly sought after position in our pecking order. The losers would inevitably profess that life was so unfair and that they never ever got to do anything they wanted to do, EVER. Poor MamaK’s please for sharing and being nice would fall on six deaf little ears.

Things simmered down a bit as we passed into our teens, although the nativity always occupied pride of place in our Christmas display, and everyone freely expressed their opinions on where it would be best placed. So, it was with much surprise that MamaK and PapaK, over ciders and schnitzels at the Durham (again, celebrating – the cause this time? Because it was Wednesday), announced that their new nativity set had arrived.

What? New Nativity? But what about the old one?? We all cried in perfect harmony.

Well, we don’t need two…the parental sheepishly said.

The thought of Mary and Joseph, wonky Baby Jesus, the shepherds and the wise men and the angel, sitting in the bottom of the Christmas decoration suitcase, ensconced in their silky tissue, unloved and un fought over, was clearly too much for my brothers and I to bear.

Before I could open my mouth with a suggestion, my BigLittleBrother suggested that perhaps, now we were all living in our own places, we could have a shared care arrangement of the nativity set, each of us having custody on a rotating basis. And in refutation of our lifetime-long nativity rivalry, my brothers both suggested that I should have the nativity in this, the first year of its rotation, as I am the eldest.

So, this year, I’m looking forward to having Baby Jesus and the whole motley crew in my apartment, watching over my Christmas. But more importantly, I’m looking forward to wrapping them in their crumpled, soft tissue, and passing them on to my brother and Tessy Halberton next Christmas, to watch over them in their turn. After all, Christmas is all about sharing and being nice. We know this now.

Wardrobe

I mentioned in a previous post that I’ve recently moved into an apartment on my own, and I’m enjoying it very much. I think at least 80% of that enjoyment comes from my the size of my new wardrobe.

It’s at least three meters of built in, mirror fronted, all hanging goodness (I’m a hanger, not a folder – less ironing!). It’s massive. It’s huge. It’s amazing.

I never thought that having a big wardrobe would change my life and the way I approach getting dressed in the morning, but it does. Every morning, I slide open the doors and consult my clothing options (sorted into sections: tops/skirts/short and mid dresses/long dresses). My shoes are stowed in handy hanging shoe racks (thanks, IKEA). Belts and camisoles have a respective drawer. It’s all organized, all ordered, and all beautiful.

The cultural zeitgeist at the moment seems to be all about doing things Mindfully – usually eating or walking. My thoughts on this? Big Yawn with Arm Stretch. I love food, love eating while I read the paper, love eating while chatting with friends and family face to face and on the phone, love munching on a really good apple while I go for a walk. I don’t have the time or the inclination to roll a raisin around on my tongue for ten minutes before eating it. Enough already. Just eat. Same with walking. I have no desire to do walking mediations – left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. I’m too busy indulging in rock star daydreams, MA15+ conversations with girlfriends, and deep diving into vitally important issues (global warming, education systems, celebrity baby names). I just like to get out and enjoy myself, no complex mindfulness procedure necessary.

Pondering the pleasure that I get from my wardrobe and dressing in the morning, though, I can’t help but wonder if I’m a mindful dresser, if not a mindful eater or walker. That ten minutes I spend absorbed in choosing, combining, trying and adjusting is ten minutes in my day when I’m entirely focused on one task, and one task only, appreciating every piece of clothing in my well planned wardrobe, feeling like a glamorous diva, in the manner of Beyonce, even when I’m just pulling on track pants.

Mindfulness? Wishful thinking? Whatever it is, I like it, a lot. And it’s all thanks to my big wardrobe.

High Beams

One night earlier this year when I couldn’t sleep, I channel surfed until I came upon Embarrassing Bodies. Have any of you seen it? If you have, you’ll know what I mean when I say that I absolutely can’t unsee some of the things that I saw that night. And I’m told I watched a particularly ‘PG’ episode.

The whole discussion around embarrassing bodies, though, is a fascinating one, as a sociologist and as an owner of a body. A discussion which I’d put to the back of my mind, until my body did something rather embarrassing yesterday.

You see, it’s warming up here in the capital, which means that I am abandoning my favoured cardigans and scarves for a more seasonally appropriate look. I’ve also been dipping back into some summer classics, and reinventing them in some new ways.

Yesterday, I wore my favourite tangerine Country Road cap sleeved blouse, tucked into my amazing look-a-size-smaller Veronica Maine pencil skirt (not that people need to look a size smaller – although sometimes a little flattery gets you everywhere). Because my favourite top is getting into its third year of wear, and starting to lose opacity, I layered it over a nude slip, so as not to unintentionally expose my appalling lack of planning in the lingerie department (summer is almost upon us and I have no nude coloured bras). I checked my look in the mirror, and decided that not a thing needed changing.

Wardrobe win, right? WRONG.

My body decided that yesterday was the day to do something embarrassing. As mentioned on this blog before in the context of bra shopping, I have a large bust. Favourable comparisons to Christina Hendrix have been made (thank you Jordan Hawthorne, Kitty Gilfeather, Amity Merryweather et al). Sometimes, they get in the way of functional daily life, but mostly, my boobs and I get along. I say mostly, because sometimes by boobs get together and decide to completely sabotage my life. I’d imagine the conversation going something like this:

Left Boob: Hey babe, I’m bored. Let’s stir this thing up.

Right Boob: SNAP! It’s like we share a brain. What did you have in mind?

Left Boob: Hows about we deploy a chronic attack of the high beams, ALL DAY LONG, for no good reason? That’ll show her Upstairs.

Right Boob: Right on! We could make this even more difficult for The Boss if we each pointed our beams in completely opposite directions – what a laugh!

Left Boob: We are so clever and entertaining for inanimate body parts. You take the high road and I’ll take the low road...

Right Boob: And I’ll embarrass Peggy before ye! Ignite super erect high beam nipples…NOW.

I think they would take over the world if they weren’t securely attached.

Anyway, back to yesterday. There I was, minding my own business, grabbing lunch with a colleague, sitting out in the sun before December drives me indoors in the name of UV avoidance. Walking through the corridor, I cheerfully greeted a number of vastly senior figures in my school, chatting away animatedly about the weather. Until I walked past the mirror in my office: The Horror, or, my particular version of the Horror - Beam Me Up (and Down) Scotty. Quickly, I established that, no, it wasn’t cold, and, no, Dwigh K Schrute was not awaiting me in my office with the sole purpose of making all my Christmases come at once.

It was a clear case of mammary mutiny.

Normally, when this occurs, I foil the cunning plans of my misbehaving breasts with artful draping of cardigans, scarves, and coats. Yesterday, though, I had no such option, and the bright orange colour of my ‘I’m ready for summer’ blouse only served to magnify the extreme beams.

The only solution available was to grin and bear it, and spend ten minutes in the university toilets with my blouse ruched up around my neck, manipulating my naughty norks and adjusting my bra so my headlights were at least even. This procedure meant I was ten minutes late for my much anticipated catch up with Amity Merryweather, who, fortunately, could see the funny side of my embarrassing body. We agreed that the reason why these sorts of things don’t happen to Christina Hendrix is because she pays someone to be her professional high beam monitor, sort of like one of those people at airports waving coloured paddles around to let the planes known when it’s safe to take off.

I’m considering advertising a similar position. Serious applicants only.

My Place

I was intending on writing a follow up piece to last week’s theoretical deconstruction of DFO, but that’s going to have to wait until another day, as something terribly exciting has happened this weekend.

I’ve moved into my very own apartment. All by myself. (Ok, with the help of mamaK and papaK and some fantastic removalists for the heavy stuff, but it’s just me living there).

Long story short, I was intending to move later on in the year. Circumstances conspired to make me more than willing to make the financial commitment of paying double rent for 6 weeks to get into my own place sooner. Luckily, the fact that I speak fluent real estate meant that I had an offer made within 24 hours of viewing an apartment that I truly loved. (If you ever need to know the secrets to this strange dialect of sales speak, inbox me and we can liaise – that’s real estate speak for talk, FYI).

This weekend just passed was moving weekend, and those of you who know me well, or can deduce my interests from this blog, would appreciate that moving all my books, clothes and kitchenware down and then up three flights of stairs was no mean feat. But it’s done, and, with the exception of my bedroom and a few other bits and pieces, my new place is ready for me to spend the first night there later this week.

What’s really thrilling slash eerie slash awesome about this new apartment is that it has more space to call my own than I’ve ever had in my whole life. Both the family homes I grew up in, in Sydney and Canberra, were quite little for the amount of people we had living in them. I can remember being awed when I went to other people’s houses and they had spare rooms, rooms that existed entirely surplus to requirements, with pretty floral bedspreads and a mildew smell from disuse. Or rumpus rooms: a room entirely for kids to do kid stuff in. Wicked, but a totally foreign concept at my place, where every space had double or triple functions.

When I moved out of home in 2009 and into various share houses, the same applied – I had my room, but all other spaces were shared, which resulted in some pretty super hilarious fun times. But again, I found myself wondering what it would be like to sleep in a room that didn’t serve as a workspace, lounge room, dining room and laundry all at once.

This week, I’m going to find out what that’s like, because my new place has two bedrooms : a bedroom for me, and an actual spare room slash study slash extra place to store my clothes. In my spare room there’s a futon for when Merry Helliwell, Kitty Gilfeather, Clementine Kemp or Katriona Winston-Stanley come and stay for a visit. My grandfather’s writing desk sits in a corner, waiting for me to write that novel, the novel that’s nipping steadily at my heels with more than a little encouragement from Mimi Goss and Zsuzannah Verona.

My bedroom, now just a bedroom, is now a space freed up for dreaming about all these possibilities. And, of course, for storing my clothes in the obscenely large built in wardrobe.

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.

The Most Amazing Goldfish Names In The World

Mimi Goss and I spent the best part of a walk around the lake on the weekend working out the ultimate thematic name groupings for pet fish.

Be prepared to have your mind blown.

Theme: Prince Song Titles
TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld
RaspberryBeret
LittleRedCourvette
NothingCompares2U
DiamondsAndPearls

Theme: Ridiculous Politicians
TonyAbbott
AmandaVanstone
BobKatter
BobHawke
PaulKeating
JuliaGillard
BarnabyJoyce
StevenFielding
FredNile

Theme: 70s and 80s Recording Artists
PhillCollins
GunsAndRoses
ThinLizzie
BonJovie
StingAndThePolice
Bananarama
JohnFarnham
DuranDuran


Theme: Various titles of Prince
Prince
TheArtistFormallyKnownAsPrince
TheLoveSymbol


Theme: Feminist Theorists
JudithButler
GermaneGreer
SimonDeBoviour
Bellhooks
NaomiWolf
BettyFreidan


Theme: Ungrouped but Too Awesome To Not Consider
SnakesOnAPlane
!!!
&*%#
NapoleonPerdis

Clearly, it’d been a long week for both Mimi and I.

When I move into my new apartment at the end of next month and acquire said fish, I’ll let you know which theme was selected. Although I strongly suspect that I can’t not have a fish called TheMostBeautifulGirlInTheWorld…

Sprung

Spring has sprung, people. The ten to twelve weeks of perfect weather in the Nation’s Capital are top on my list of reasons why I adore living here. Particularly because spring means it’s time to indulge in one of my favorite things…

Spring fashion. Oh my word.

See, I love me a bit of a mullet – an incongruous combination of business and pleasure. Spring fashion provides plenty fashion mullet moments. Bare legs and cardigans. Maxi dresses with boots. Sunhats on top, lacy tights on bottom. A hybrid, combining the best of your winter wardrobe with the cream of the early summer crop.

Spring is also a catalyst, enabling you change things up in your wardrobe. I know I only wrote about wardrobe clear outs a few months ago, but I’m all about change as soon as the first daffodils push their sunshiny heads forward. Whilst I didn’t get rid of too much this weekend just passed, spring cleaning my clothes was a great opportunity to get reacquainted with a few old friends. Vintage kaftan - I missed you. Let’s not leave it so long next time, alright?

Spring does have its downsides. Those first few cleavage sunburns, hay fever, and having to clear the winter undergrowth from my legs are not things I enjoy. But oh, to stroll bare-legged through campus on a sunny morning is worth all the sneezing, peeling skin, and razor burn.