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.

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?

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?

Cherry Lips

Songs get stuck in heads for particular reasons. These reasons may not be immediately apparent: I am still pondering why Love Shack by the B52’s is my head’s default stuck setting (suggested reasons are, of course, welcomed). But, there is always a reason.

This week’s sticky song – Loon Lake’s Cherry Lips – was stuck in my head for a particularly good reason.

It was a sign that I needed to wear red lips, after a two year hiatus.

And, on Tuesday night, as I joined a couple of lovely friends for Laksa at our local noodle house, I put my cherry on my lips. It felt exactly right.

The thing about a red lip is that it can’t be forced. If you try to force it, you’ll be wiping it off with a tissue in the car before you’ve driven two blocks. And we all know, ladies and gentlemen, that red lipstick brands like nothing else. Everyone will know you tried, and failed, at a red lip, by the tell tale pink stains around your mouth. For shame.

When the mood is right, though, nothing short of big, red, full and smiling-with-a-big-toothsome-grin will do. We could discuss at length, here, the socio-political-aesthetic assumptions about red lips, and, indeed, about the colour red – both potent symbols.

But we’re not going to discuss it, because, for me, a red lip has always been nothing more or less than a mood that comes over me, an impulse, indeed, an inspiration. It defies categorisation. A red lip just is.

You can consult, if you like, with Marie Claire, Cleo and Cosmo for application tips. At the end of the day, though, it’s make up, not rocket science or world peace. You just need to open the tube, and apply.

So, put your cherry on your lips, as Loon Lake would say, and get yourself to that dinner, or those drinks, that day at the office, or that just-because thing. And, to paraphrase another song that gets stuck in my head – this time Garbage’s Cherry Lips:

Go, baby, go go.

Spring Wardrobe Cleaning

It’s nearly the end of August. It snowed yesterday in Canberra (I hope you got to see it, it was beautiful). There’s a cold-as-charity breeze sneaking through the draught in the bathroom window. I’m still taking hotties to bed with me to keep me warm.

But, spring is coming.

I can feel it when the sun rises early enough to wake me in time to catch the 7.45am bus. I can feel it as I walk to the shops for the Saturday paper, smelling wattle mingling with smoke from the wood fires Canberrans are so fond of. I can feel it while I take a ten minute cuppa-and-novel-reading break from PhDing on the balcony to soak up some rays.

Most particularly, though, I feel it when I look at the disaster that is my wardrobe, because I can feel a cataclysmic Spring Wardrobe Cleaning a’coming.

I’m one of those irritating people who can’t make up their mind whether or not they’re a neat freak or a slatternly grotbag in matters of wardrobe maintenance. And, because I remain undecided, I vacillate between the two states, depending on particular external factors.

For instance, a rental inspection, a particularly special new clothing purchase, epic procrastination, and the first hint of warmer weather will turn me into a neat freak who sorts her (American Apparel) tights and stockings by colour and degree of ‘goodness’ (If you’re interested in the classificatory scheme? No holes = best; holes at crotch only = second best; holes in toe and crotch = third best; holes everywhere = laundry day only).

On the other hand, long days in the office without sunshine, winning gold at social decathlons (BREAKFAST! BRUNCH! HIKING! LUNCH! COFFEE! MOVIES! SHOPPING! DINNER! DRINKS! THEATRE!), and writing sessions where I’ve got my flow on, turn me into the sort of slatternly grotbag who interprets closing the wardrobe door, by even the narrowest of narrow margins, as a sign that folding, hanging and chucking out can wait for Another Day.

At present, the pendulum is well and truly making its home in slatternly grotbag territory. To give you an idea…in a two minute reconnaissance mission, the following items, hitherto missing and presumed lost, were recovered from my bedroom floor:
• one half of a very expensive pair of earrings;
• my favourite vintage Nike hoodie;
• Cath Kitson woolly wellington socks;
• a pink and cream Elle McPherson bra (I thought I’d left it at the gym); and
• countless bobby pins and hair elastics.

While this sounds dire - and, indeed, outfitting myself from my wardrobe mess for tonight’s decathlon events will be problematic - it’s actually a part of a well balanced seasonal cycle of building up, then slashing and burning, my wardrobe.

I know that in the next couple of weeks, as the sap of spring rises in my blood, I will derive a peculiar, seasonally specific, pleasure from spending the better part of a weekend cleaning, sorting, arranging, and redistributing no longer needed clothes, bags and accessories.

Just right now, though? I can feel the sun dipping below the mountains, and that cold-as-charity breeze tickling my bare feet. It’s time to put on my woolly socks, curl up with a book, and wait for Another Day. Given the pleasing signs that spring is almost here, I am sure Another Day won’t be too long in coming.

Flat

There are moments when I realise I’m getting older, and I feel OK about it. Pertinent examples:
• Spice Girls nostalgia;
• Looking forward to staying in on Friday nights, not because I’m looking forward to getting my nerd on with Ulrich Beck (look him up), but because I’m going to have a bath, re-read a particularly beloved book (Zadie Smith’s On Beauty, read it), pop a Restavit and head to bed by 11pm;
• Rocking clothes I have owned for almost a decade;
• Chats with friends who are long-standing enough to remember ALL TWENTY of my uni hairdos, but kind enough to forget a few; and;
• Driving a brand new grown up car.

There are, however, moments when I realise I’m getting older, and I most certainly do not feel OK about it. Pertinent examples:
• The Wrinkle of Incredulity, mentioned eighteen months ago on this blog, has not gone away. Rather, it has increased, because numpties are always with us and there will always be a daily something or someone that makes me pull my incredulous face;
• ‘She’s So High’ by Tal Bachman, the song my first ever boyfriend declared to be my song (his taste in love songs was almost as good as his taste in women), is played late at night on Mix 106.3, Canberra’s Golden Oldies station;
• I can wear dresses I wore when I was eighteen, but, in doing so, my breasts are forced to occupy a totally different postcode than they usually do;
• I have superannuation in seven different accounts, which need consolidation; and;
• I can no longer wear high heels every day.

It’s this last realisatory moment that’s been making me feel a little flat, literally and metaphorically.

It all started the other week, when I was shaving my legs in the bath (I’m. Just. So. Classy. It. Hurts). As I extended my right leg to remove the last outcrops of winter undergrowth from the back of my calves, I heard an odd ripping noise. I bent my knee, extended; there was that noise again, the noise like ripping wet cardboard. As I wasn’t in any pain, I decided it was just one of those Body Things that will resolve on its own.

Two days later, however, I noticed the noise as I descended the stairs in my building, and, again, while there was no pain, I know enough of my family’s medical history to know that You Don’t Mess Around With Knees. In my family, knees are as serious as abandoned packages in airports - serious enough to make me take the advice my friendly neighbourhood chiropractor has been gently giving for years; abandon the high heels in favour of flats.

It’s hard, forcing myself to reach for the lower options as I get dressed in the morning. Surprisingly, it isn’t the height I miss – I’m five nine in my stocking feet and already feel myself too tall – but the enhancement to the shape of my legs that a heel, even a little one, gives.

A gym instructor once told me that heels, when worn consistently, activate different muscles in your leg than normal shoes. While activating these muscles stuffs up a whole lot of other musculoskeletal processes, repeated wear will give you that classic curve from ankle to calf. In other words, heels give you killer legs, when you are wearing them and when you take them off.

While I wouldn’t go so far as to say my legs are killer without heels on, I do know that I feel my legs look better, more curved, more graceful, in heels. The drunken old men who hang around the Melbourne and Sydney buildings, at very least, make their appreciation plain (or that could just be the metho talking, I can’t be sure).

Being a little stumpier in the leg department, though, is something I can – grudgingly - accept in return for what I hope will be a longer period of my life where I can stroll through my favourite cities, run for rudely early buses, and climb the stairs to my apartment. One day, when I own a penthouse with a rooftop garden and sunken pool area, being able to climb stairs will be a most handy thing.

Or, hope against hope, some clever lady will invent an innersole for ballet flats that activates the same muscles as a pair of five inch stilettos, building that graceful curve of muscle without buggering knees and backs.

A girl can, and does, dream.

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.