heigh ho

This is Joe, and Pete, my excellent father-in-law, cleaning the walls ready for plastering and painting. Joe's help was more along the lines of moral support and eating a netball Pete found out on the roof, but I think it made a difference.

There's this scene in EuroTrip when the kids are in the tour-bus with Manchester United fans (including Vinnie Jones), getting a university education in binge-drinking and cussing, and Cooper says "Wow. You guys are on like a completely different level of swearing over here". (It's not my fault I know the movie so well; it was on loop at Aggies' the first time I stayed there, and the person in the room next door fell asleep with it playing very loudly... and I might have watched it several times as well.) Well, the previous tenant of the shop was on a completely different level of hygiene and cleanliness. I already described the empty premises as an abandoned p lab. Now the floors have been sorted (and look so great!), but the walls are so dirty it's kind of remarkable; sixteen years of grime, and dust, and what looks like coffee or maybe stout splashed around? - even near the CEILING. The CEILING! And there are HOLES. One where it looks as if the resourceful guy needed to use something with a cord that wouldn't reach into the other room, so he just knocked the cord through the wall. I'm actually really curious to see him (though knowing he exists also makes me want to take hand-sanitiser EVERYWHERE.)

But it's HAPPENING, you guys. Now that the crazy reception area has been knocked out, and the floors don't look like a layer of rolled-out chewing gum with sixteen years of dirt over the top of them, I can really see the shop. I see where the desk will go, and racks of clothes, and the chairs where we can sit and drink tea when you come to visit. There's lots of work to do, but it's getting EXCITING.

More updates to come!

the Marilyn in all of us

I'm choosing pictures for the shop walls and thought I'd show you this one of Marilyn, which I think is beautiful. There's a great shop in Paeroa called The Vintage & Retro Shop, owned and curated by a lovely woman with excellent taste - I bought one of my favourite dresses from her (as my hips get wider and my stomach starts to balloon, I pray to Hera that I will fit it again), and a blouse that makes me feel like Joan Harris when I wear it, and I would have bought a hat or two if my head wasn't so much bigger than hat-wearing women of the sixties. Anyway, one of the lovely things about this shop is the changing room. The dress I bought was... friendly, around the bum/hip area, and required me to shimmy into it. Usually, having to shimmy into something in a changing room embarrasses me. I imagine some kind of strange, localised natural disaster occurring, and the curtain flying off its rail to reveal me, trying desperately to squeeze myself into a piece of clothing, like some kind of grotesque reverse-birth, and people gasping, and the shop assistant running over to rescue the clothes and escort me off the premises. Not at The Vintage & Retro Shop. In the changing room, there are pictures of Marilyn - all around the mirror, in all her curved glory. And they makes you feel great! You see her, poured into her dresses, and you forgive yourself your undie-line; just don't wear any on the day! Any loose bits; I'm so skinny! Tight bits; I'm a siren! Etc.

I'm not sure I would have risked ripping the lining of the dress to get it over my hips if not for those pictures. And I certainly wouldn't have felt like the tightness was a-ok; I would have pretended that I would exercise before I wore it. As it was, I felt like Marilyn, and I never forgot the genius and kindness of the shop owner for putting those pictures in there. I probably don't need to add that there will be a couple of pictures of Marilyn in the changing room at Dogtown Vintage.

in which i try to discuss how i feel about fashion

I felt a bit weird after I wrote about fashion shows last week. I hate when bloggers won't commit to what they stand for in case they offend somebody (although I'm still trying to figure out how running a business, even with integrity, fits in with being myself), and I think it's something style bloggers are especially guilty of, which is why I've sworn off so many of them. However, I don't exactly know where I fit into this whole fashion thing either. Does anyone? I've been having discussions with my excellent, thoughtful, and politically-aware friend who works in fashion in Auckland, about how a person who cares about politics and the environment can engage in the fashion world on her own terms. It's something I've grappled with for a long time, and I don't seem to be able to come to any definite conclusions. Especially not without coming off as all hear ye! or judgemental. Which could easily be because I, um, am...

Anyway, after writing about the vapid nature of fashion shows, I happened to watch the episode of Sex And The City when Carrie walks for Dolce & Gabbana (to Cheryl Lynn, and falls off her gigantic heels; it's one of the most memorable episodes of the entire series), and I laughed, and I oohed, and I cheered inside, and I had fun that meant something. (I should remind everyone at this point that I live almost the length of the country away from my friends, and that three of my best girlfriends live overseas. Hanging out with Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha - my favourite - is healthier than pretending to myself that I really know Naomi's family on Love Taza. At least the SATC girls aren't real to anybody). It made me feel like kind of a heel, or worse, like this awful self-righteous pseudo-intellectual girl in one of my philosophy papers who always had her long mouse-coloured hair in one of those pony-tails that is supposed to show a lack of concern for anything as superficial as looks, whom I once heard talking to another girl about those awful chain-stores with their cheap clothes, especially that one, "what is it? Super?". Even though I was going through a phase of wearing an androgynous  ensemble of singlet, cigarette jeans, chucks, and hoody (you'd best believe I wore a decent push-up bra with that), I wanted to run out and hug all of the business students in their heels, minis, and oversized sunglasses, like long-lost kin. I don't want to be like her; I don't want to be all hateful and lofty about fashion and the people who love it. I love clothes. I love seeing people dressed well.

On the other hand, there's a lot about fashion that I can't be down with. There probably isn't time to go through all of things I don't like, but since I often talk disdainfully about mindless trend-following, one of them is the way trends work. I'd like to think that the inspiration for a season is a beautiful process, where a muse delivers a series of looks so meaningful and beautiful to the designer that they simply must share them with the world. However, all I see is an artificial capitalist system of generating want where there is no need. If fashion was like other forms of expensive art, which a person could keep up with without buying something every three months, it wouldn't seem so bad. But the way it's set up is that every season there is a set of new looks, and if you want to be part of the scene, you buy as many as you can. Maybe that's how you want to spend your money, in which case I won't judge you (that's a lie; it costs $15 a month to support Kidscan, and if you're spending $400 every two months on a new pair of shoes but claiming poverty when you see the ads, I AM judging you). I said on Friday that I liked this off-the -shoulder trend, and if I didn't already have such a top, maybe I would take advantage of their temporary availability to buy one. But every single season? I would feel like I was being played. And when I read style columns giving advice on where to spend or splurge (eg chain stores are the perfect place to try out those looks you're not sure of, or aren't here to stay), I feel so weird. These chain-stores are copying looks from international runways. Some people say that makes them accessible, and I can understand that. But they make me feel a bit like a joke is being made of us if we choose to take part in them. The pieces from which they're copied cost thousands of dollars each. They're not being made for "us"; they're being made for people who own most of the world's wealth, while "we" do most of the work. I'm assuming if you read this blog that you agree that's not cool; that the division of wealth in the world is unethical. So why would "we" want to dress like the people who benefit from our relative oppression? In cheap versions of what is being made for them? I feel as if doing so threatens to cheapen us. I'm not agreeing with what Miranda Priestly says to Andie about the colour of jumper she's wearing in The Devil Wears Prada (I thought that was the dumbest "ahh" moment ever; and as a turning point, made me think Andie was a certified idiot); if anything, Andie is subverting what Miranda or whoever meant when they picked that colour. People in Haiti wearing tshirts with crude American slogans are not cheapened by what they wear (and they certainly deserve better). I also recognise that some trends become part of a wider era, and that even someone who resists them probably follows some simply by osmosis; whether or not I have current trends in mind, there's a reason why I don't look at low-rise jeans at thrift shops. Although I like to think of that as finally knowing better. (Britney jeans 2002; the best of times, the worst of times.)

This wasn't supposed to have a clear conclusion, and I have lot more to say about what I love and hate about fashion, but not just now. I just wanted to make it clear that I don't really know where I fit, or if there's really an in-between. I might criticise shows, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't have a good time at one. I have a problem with the artificial origins of trends, but I'm not immune to them, though I try. All I'm sure of is that if you can do something good, you have a responsibility to do it, and that "good" isn't always straight-forward. I'm pretty sure you can care about fashion AND politics. And I really believe what Maya Angelou wrote: "Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better."

friday round-up

1. The recent fashion weeks all over the place, particularly London and New York, have been getting a ton of coverage (as much for the people in the front row as the clothes), and yet I can't get interested in them. It could be because I'm distracted by the politics; the nonsensical defenses of racist castings, and the whole idea of fashion being a significant concern when the world is going to hell in a handbasket - not that I don't believe in art, beauty, or escapism, because I sincerely do. But the scene is making me feel more uneasy than usual; perhaps because it seems less about originality and more about trends (which, admittedly, is nothing new), and peopled by a group who have the power and resources to do so much good, and squander them. The fashion-related story I've enjoyed most in recent times was that of Russell Brand being kicked out of the GQ (pfft) awards for calling out Hugo Boss on his/its Nazi past (of which I was completely unaware). Unfortunately the reports were all in the vein of "how rude/inappropriate/irrelevant/blasphemous", but they've still brought to attention the awful beginnings of a powerful fashion house (not that this will change anyone's behaviour; people still shop at Ikea and join the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints - NO JUDGEMENT), and I think that's a good thing. I'm way off topic now, but if you'd like to read what he said about his speech and the party, you can read it here. What he says about the party kind of reflects how I feel about fashion shows; there's certainly fun to be had, but taken too seriously, they're a bit scary (and I don't mean intimidating; I mean like Stepford-scary).

2. After all that, here are a couple of dresses from Rachel Comey that I quite like. I say "quite" because I don't love them, but if I had a snack, or a hope of fitting them in the foreseeable future, or I hadn't just said that about fashion, then maybe I would. WE WILL NEVER KNOW. All images from Style.com.

And, after bagging trends, I should say I like this '80s off-the-shoulder thing that's been happening. When I was a kid, that meant GLAMOUR, and I think that ideal still lives within me somewhere.

3. I gotta tell you, pregnancy is tiring stuff, man! By the time you've had breakfast, showered, and gotten dressed (I would add brushed teeth but for the fact it's hit 5pm several times before I've realised my teeth haven't seen my toothbrush yet...), you're so ready for a nap it's not funny. Two hours of normal-light activity and I'm starving, exhausted, and getting into that grumpy rut where I have a face like thunder and want to throw things, and it takes several hours, a litre of water, and a large meal to restore peace. And when the Huggies website said my skin would be glowing and lovely this week? They lied. Though I suppose the pimple on my forehead might have been described as "glowing" when it was at its peak.

4. It seems there was a bit of miscommunication about the shop, and the floors aren't finished yet, nor are they likely to be until Monday, so there's been no painting this week. There has, however, been buying, and there has been gardening. Yes friends, I'm a gardener. It's early days; I've had no time to kill anything yet, but I know how to weed now, and the fancy gardening things I was given before I left Auckland now have real, live dirt on them. As far as buying goes, today we finally went to Halls Bros (in what is now my favourite part of Dunedin - the old factories near the port, which are full of history and atmosphere) and it was like a little scrap-wonderland. If you're ever looking for interesting door/drawer-handles, light-shades, or windows (they have a million other things besides), you have to go there. It's not even dark and dingy like most salvage places; you can find awesome stuff without even having to earn it with sneezes and general discomfort.

5. A bit of disillusionment; I discovered yesterday that my former hero and half of what I thought the most wonderful couple in history was not who I thought he was, and having put up photos of him before on this blog, I have to own it here. John Lennon, you guys, was not good to women - he was violent and hateful towards them. It breaks my heart to say it and admit those feet are clay, but I'm one of the people with pitchforks out for Chris Brown, and I can't excuse Lennon's behaviour on the basis that I love his music and admire other things he did. It's a sad time in our house. It took a really sympathetic interview with Mojo (best magazine in the world) shortly before his death to make me feel anything but cold indifference with a dose of abhorrence for Ike Turner, and while Lennon had his share of problems, he wasn't a black man born in Mississippi in 1931 who witnessed the near-fatal beating of his father by a white mob when he was just a kid. I just sighed. "Man hands on misery to man..." etc.

6. I hate ending on an even number but I can't leave us all like that - I should probably apologise for the generally pessimistic tone of this entire post. It seems, in my fourteen and a half weeks of experience, that during pregnancy the highs are higher and the lows are LOW, and I've always been the emotional type anyway. So, even though it's a lazy way to end and I already employed it earlier in the week - a song, to make us happy again. Beside gardening, I recently decided that my newly-discovered/acknowledged love of disco can be described as an interest, and henceforth began my collection of disco favourites. This song isn't a new discovery, but it's one of the happiest disco songs I can think of, and I think disliking this song is akin to disliking candy floss, or something. Have a good weekend, and if you're in Dunedin - see you at the Port Chalmers Seafood Festival! I'll be the woman with the undone jeans, complaining about not being able to eat raw oysters, and fluctuating between crying at his songs and trying to get Don McGlashan to talk about the National government. The man is a champion. Gold-digger/Take The Money And Run...

the return

This feels a bit like getting in past curfew when I was younger (and had the energy and will to stay out late). I'd unlatch the gate like a ninja (although I suppose a real ninja would just have vaulted the fence), turn my key in the door painfully slowly, and only open it as wide as I had to, to avoid any noise from the street getting in. I'd slide through the gap, and close the door silently, ending the operation by flicking off the porch light, tip-toe to my bedroom, close the door, and congratulate myself.

And the next morning, Dad would still know the exact time I got in.

1. We're back in Dunedin, and have been for almost two weeks now. Mum is home and doing well. The shop is officially in my and Jimmy's names, and once the floors are finished (now that the demolition is done, they're being sanded and polished), we can move in and start painting and plastering. I have this feeling that I am going to be really good at plastering and painting, even though I've done both in the past, and they both required going over by my brother-in-law. I like to think he's just a perfectionist, although he points out that I had a beer in one hand and a brush in the other when I helped paint my nieces bedroom, which  may explain something. In the meantime, Jimmy is working overtime organising internet, electricity etc, getting samples of swing-tags for me to approve, and designing business cards and signs, and I'm sorting through clothes, and then napping, and then pondering capitalism, and how it seems fair to any sane person that the "assistant" does all of the work while the person they assist gets all the credit for pointing to a swing-tag sample, and choosing a colour scheme. Anyway, Thunderbirds are go, and if my painting has improved, we may be up and running in two weeks [insert gasp here]. Egad!!!

2. A few weeks ago, I mentioned a project we were working on that was taking a lot of energy, but couldn't say more about yet. (It's funny thinking of it as "a project"; I remember one of Jimmy's friends once describing me so.) Guys, the project is a baby. I'm just over fourteen weeks pregnant; due on St Patrick's Day next year. Selling clothes when I can't fit any of mine is going to be interesting; most of my wardrobe consists of high-waisted skirts and trousers which I haven't been able to do up for several weeks now. I'm thinking a witch's cape like Avery Jessup wore during her pregnancy might be in order. There seems to be an assumption among designers of maternity clothes that pregnant women all want to look like we live in the same small town, shop at the same chain store, and are borrowing our clothes from our mothers. What are the poor pregnant teenagers wearing? Guys, there's a gap in the market. Suffice to say, stretchy fabric is my new best friend. Along with naps. And snacks.

3. I don't have a third thing (which is a good indication that I need to feed again - did anyone else watch Juno again last night?), so I'll just play us out with the ever-awesome Patti Smith (and Springsteen).