I think I might give myself a little blog holiday for the next week. I've still got a cold, and about a million things to do, the weather is grey, and my motivation is lacking - so I think I might have a break for a minute and see how that goes...
Are you concerned that your "Skell" birthday cake looks a bit wonky?
Come on Captain, it's not so bad. Your parents laboured long and hard to decorate that cake for you (yes, it took two of them to create that masterpiece). Surely you can muster up a bit of piratical enthusiasm?
That's more like it, matey!
xx Skye (and Captain Jack Sparrow) PS. A very great time was had by all at the Polly Woodside today for the little dude's birthday party. I highly recommend a visit if you require a nautical outing in Melvin.
I have a cold, and therefore feel (and look) pretty vile today. Not to mention I have worked, parented, traipsed all over Melvin, and done some housework, all while blowing my nose every twenty seconds, so remaining energy for blogging is scant. Manufacturing that sheer volume of snot does take it out of a girl! I just went into my iPhoto to see if there were any old outfit photos hanging around unposted, and found that my husband had uploaded a bunch of photos from his phone today - so in lieu of any kind of sensible post, I present to you this snapshot of randomness:
1. Little dude riding a dinosaur. I am thinking this is some kind of Rango situation.
2. Three photos in an ongoing series of creepy abandoned bikes down at the canal. We don't know why our local chunk of canal is such a magnet for kid's bikes, but it is. Even the nicest bits of Melvin have a tendency towards a certain urban desolation (particularly in winter).
3. The little dog was humping the big dog outside the 711, but stopped as soon as the camera/phone was pointed at them. This was at about 4.30am, we were on our way home from a party and required emergency chips and twisties. All class.
4. Here we are going out one night, on the bus (I said we were all class). We were pretending to take a photo of ourselves while actually trying to take a photo of the guy behind us, so we could see what he looked like without blatantly looking right at him. He was the most annoying person in the world, with a constant stream of irritating conversation, apparently aimed at chatting up the girl he was with. It was fascinatingly awful, and he sounded like all his dialogue had been written by Diablo Cody. He also laughed at his own jokes. Relentlessly. Anyway, the top of his head looks completely normal.
5. The little dude being some kind of monstrous creature. I'm glad I wasn't around for this one, I like to think of him as a dear little apple cheeked cherub, not something escaped from a Slayer album cover!
Black leather Nine West biker boots - $20 (new) op-shop
This was my take on a sort of Sofia Coppola/Marc Jacobs preppy mod thing, but as is usual with me it degenerated rapidly into untucked shirted, muddy booted, scruffy schoolgirl territory instead. I wanted to look as though I might be crewing on the little dude's new sailing boat, with a jaunty nautical bit of red below the waterline, but instead I think I look like I should be sitting outside the headmaster's office waiting for detention. Or to be keel hauled.
His grandfather gave him the boat yesterday as a birthday gift, and it's pretty special because not only was it Grandpa's as a boy, but it was made by his dad, the little dude's great-grandfather. All that and a red rudder too!
PS. How cool is this? It's an Octonauts Octopod, which was the big birthday gift from Granny in Scotland (the little dude totally cleaned up, as usual). The new Octonauts toys haven't been released in Australia yet, so this must be one of the first ones to arrive here. For anyone interested - the quality is very good in that classic Fisher Price way, the design is accurate, and the little dude has been playing up a storm with it.
PPS. Someone just reminded me that one of my brothers makes an appearance in Ms Coppola's most recent film, Somewhere, but I have no idea because I haven't seen it. I meant to, last time I was wandering around Chateau Marmont, but forgot!
It's been nineties nostalgia week around here, what with all the Pulp talk, and the bad sneakers, and whatnot. Here's another whack of nostalgic nonsense, spotted on the nature strip this morning - a Betty Blue poster, with enough dust to indicate it's been hanging on some share house or bachelor pad wall since about 1989. That was when these posters first started appearing in my little corner of the universe, and I don't think I ever lived in a share house without one lurking somewhere in its dingy halls. I certainly never dated a pretentious youth who didn't have Beatrice Dalle giving me her sullen frenchy best in blu-tacked splendour from above his futon!
Well, there is a slight contrast with my North Bondi afternoon from a couple of weeks ago (see here), but St Kilda has its own grey, slightly eerie charms. There is one clear line that can be drawn between those two disparate places though - we have to live by the water no matter what, and without it we are lost.
I gave the Wittner platform loafer/maryjanes from yesterday a bit of a trial run. Preliminary findings indicate that they will indeed be suitable for dancing and hellraising, however if I change my mind there are always these French nineties Superga-esque platform sneakers which I scavenged today:
They'd certainly give me a fair amount of the extra height I require for any live show where I can't sit on someone's shoulders (in other words, all live shows now that I am no longer a sylph-like teenager, and have 42 year old husband instead of teenage boyfriends with abs of steel and oxen-type abilities to heft hefty weights/girls aloft for extended periods while also moshing).
There's about a foot between my two feet.
In reality these sneakers are probably destined for my friend's stall at Lost & Found, and then onwards onto the feet of someone barely born when they trod the earth first time around. I am still hunting down my real nineties trainer holy grail - the Nike Air Terra Humara (shall have to post about that one of these days), these really can't compete. For one thing, the font is tres daggy:
...although all the text inside is in French, which gives them an incongruous air of classiness.
PS. My original 1997 Air Terra Humaras were in a turquoise/grey/silver/black colourway that fucking ruled. I am so sad (in a totally non-sad, non-compulsive acquisitional kind of way) that I missed out on the re-issues from a year or two ago, I must confess I do check ebay for them in idle moments. Orange!
Today the likkle girl posed a vitally important question of far-reaching global impact - "What are you wearing to see Pulp?" Tragically not only had I already given this question a significant investment of brain-time, but was already preparing this very blog post on the topic. Pulp aren't actually on here in Melvin until next Friday night, however next week is the Official Five Year Festival of little dude, so I have been forced to attack the Pulp outfit problem now, when I have time, energy, and mental real estate free of lolly bags and pirate skull cupcakes etc.
Those four sad (yet cheerfully ugly) little folders are the only remains of a once-noble cd collection, now largely downloaded and discarded. MP3 rules ok (even if the quality is a bit dodge).
I set about getting myself psyched up for the show, and the outfit mission, by getting out my old Pulp cds and watching the videos on youtube. So far so good, nostalgia is fun! Before long I stumbled upon video of Pulp playing the Isle of Wight festival this year, still all was good as Jarvis clearly continues to be completely awesome. Then the camera panned back to reveal a crowd awash with bald patched dad-types and someone wearing one of those hats with a big sunflower on it, and I was unable to avoid the fact that I am an Old Bastard, and Somebody's Mum. Where once I mocked baby boomers for spending a fortune to see ancient Mick Jagger and company, I am now forking out the cash to see an iconic act from my own youth, 15 years past the glory days. Ah well, the circle of life and all that - I can handle it all, just so long as the dads are prepared to dance madly with embarrassing exuberance (as I plan to do), rather than just braving the occasional shuffle from side to side while trying not to spill their plastic cups of beer!
The temptation to dress in some kind of nineties retro look is very tempting (I hope it is that temptation which overwhelmed the wearer of the sunflower hat, for instance), but I have decided to sort of riff on the Britpop nineties instead. One of my favourite nineties styles was those fitted button up shirts, with the neat little collar (I had a black sheer sevs one which I loved, and a navy silk mens shirt, and a Pulp Fiction white one, among others), very Jarvis, too. So I'm going to wear my cobalt Dion Lee for Cue shirt dress (top button done up), and then in tribute to that citrus shirt JC wore in the Babies clip and on the cover of The Face, I have obtained a couple of pairs of bright orange opaque tights. Double tights means no coat (very irresponsible and immature, but means no cloak room queue), and opaques are uber nineties to me, I used to wear them in summer with sleeveless mini-dresses! I might have to go ott and wear my matte neon orange lippy as well, will see how I feel. This just leaves me with the shoe problem...
By rights I should really wear a pair of Wannabes (everything I have to say about those can be found here), but I feel like that kind of stumpiness is one of the luxuries of youth. A certain ironic frumpiness is possible for the willowy and unlined, but becomes more problematic for the aged. Still, I want to dance, so sensible shoes would be wise - wedges maybe? Then again, all those bald dads will be about a foot taller than me, so if I want to see anything I'll need some extra height. Hmmm. It's a tricky one. I did dash out and buy the fairly impractical Chiaras from the Wittner sale ($49.95 from $169.95) which I am highly tempted to wear as there's a patent/loafer/maryjane thing going on which is, like me, riffing on the nineties. I can do just about anything in heels (one of the few benefits of a low centre of gravity), but am I pushing my luck with these on the Festival Hall floor?
Doesn't really matter what I decide, I'm just getting all excited, and why not!
PS. In 1997 I named my cat Jarvis (god, I sound like some kind of superfan now). He's still kicking, although he doesn't live with me anymore due to the fact that he was capable of unlocking windows with his paws, and thus had many unauthorised adventures in inner city Sydney. Including bar hopping to the Bentley Bar on a saturday night (please note, two suburbs away, and I was out of town at the time), ending up in the company of a DJ called Mr Freeze, and then going to sunday early openers at the Courthouse Hotel with someone called Barry. I had to call my flatmate (who was coming down hard and not too impressed with her cat collection assignment) to go and get him from the front bar, where he was sitting being fed by the barmaid when she arrived. Jarvis, a legend among cats!
Pleather wedge ankle boots - $70 Santini (the rainy day shoes are drafted into action once more)
Black suede nineties skirt - $1 op-shop
Another boring and lumpily utilitarian sort of outfit, suitable for drizzly weather and household chores, and returning overdue books to the library. I have now (somewhat shonkily) shortened the suede skirt I bought in Sydney the other week - having attempted to wear it knee length, but unable to manage it without feeling even more utilitarian and oppressed by domestic servitude. There was a phase in the early to mid nineties when these sort of seventies inspired A-line leather and suede mini-skirts were absolutely everywhere. As fiendish early adopters my little friends and I had been slutting around in the original seventies ones for quite a while (years) before the trend went wide - at which point I think I relegated mine to office wear. Yes, office wear!
Here's my old chocolate brown leather sevs one, dragged out of the archive just for you:
I think it came from Glebe markets or somewhere like that, for about five bucks, but I then had to get it altered as I was a nineteen year old stick person with only vestigial hips. I can still get into this skirt, but only if I wear it high on my waist, not low on the hips like we used to back in the day. It would be nice to to be as narrowly configured as I was back then, but I do not miss the terrible boyfriends, endless drama, and flailing cluelessness alternated with the equally problematic nobody-can-tell-me-anything-because-I-know-it-all certainty of youth. Thirty nine has its own travails, but I still feel like it beats nineteen, hands down!
PS. Here is a bit of trend-guidance from Grazia which as far as I can make out consists of the revolutionary concept of mixing fabric types within a single outfit (aka "texture blocking"). Which is surely what virtually every outfit has done since the dawn of time? I'll cut these guys a break because I know they have to churn this stuff out on a weekly basis and there are really only so many ways to say the same old things - but come on!
PPS. Here I am texture blocking a pair of sheepskin uggs with black opaque tights, all the better to fold laundry in a freezing Melvinian house. Warm toes continue to be a priority around here.