Screen Shopping - A Friday Night Poem

I poured myself a wine and

perused black leather

boots on the internet,

knee-high thigh-high

mid-calf

ankle

hungry work

I ate

cracker

after

cracker of

thick creamy blue

on Seasameals

I surfed boots until that wedge of cheese was

gone

and I needed another wine to

settle into Shorty Street on the widescreen

my shopping cart holding

one item

539 dollars US Italian knee highs

with exquisite stitching detail,

softest leather inner and outer,

flat heels but oh-so-stylish

will take you from

day time to night

time on the sofa
but I didn't click check-out

I clicked the laptop lid down on

those European toes that

will never-go-out-of- fashion

and turned up The Street

in my sheepskin slippers

Kinky Boots

To wear or not to wear. This seasons so called ‘fetish’ boots. Is it just down to pins? Calf girth? Or is there an age bracket?

I’ve had this dilemma before with midriffs. In the end I did buy myself a full, mint green mid length skirt. Its nipped waist went well with the boxy cropped black short sleeved top I wore with it, surprisingly turning heads in my small town, as I walked to buy a girlfriend turning 50 lunch. My two exposed ribs felt shy. Suddenly. I went to tug my top down. But I held my composure. Thought Wonderwoman in her spangley togs and crazy hairdo. Carried it off as best I could. Harnessing whatever defiant kick arse girl power I still possess. Part of me oddly flattered. I suppose.

I’m just not ready to cut my hair into a neat lady crew cut and wear slacks and orthotic friendly shoes. Yet it can be hard wearing so called sexy feminine styles with a defiant air. When age starts creeping in.

From behind I could pass as young. Artic blonde. Petite. But turn around I’m definitely middle aged. Even though I hear they’re altering the age bracket for MA to start at 60 now that we’re all living longer. I’m getting on. Thank you.

I can cope with being called a MILF but I try to avoid self-slut-shaming. Mutton dressed as lamb.No. I’m more a scaredy wolf in sheep’s clothing me. It seems the line is very fine and often a little wonky. That of femme fatale. At the end of the day, whatever style and grace you possess is really all in your head. 

Currently, we have marketers telling us that this seasons thigh hugging over the knee boots are “for the confident woman who can skilfully blend style and grace, and whose charismatic allure is captivating but never conventional” (Angelo Ruggeri).  While on the other had warning us, “The power of the fetish boots wield is frankly, intimidating. They have the ability to stop conversation and make grown men gape.” (Divya Bala).

Anyways…

There I was in the Windsor Smith store in Perth with the H trying to find some brogues wide enough for his Maori feet which could double as paddles, whence upon I spied off yonder in the back corner of the store some soft soft leather black pointy toed stiletto babies and a woman of similar age coveting them also.

‘How do you wear them and not look like a prostitute?’ I asked my fellow female shopper.

‘You’ve got to leave a patch of bare leg.’

Bugger I thought my thighs are not plump but the dermis covering them is more akin to beige crepe from my viewpoint. Above.

‘No leggings either otherwise you look squat,’ she continued.

I’d get frostbite where I live with bare legs bits mid-winter. Contrasting wool tights perhaps.

She was chewing gum. Hard out. I wondered if she’d had a couple of Duromine for breakfast.

‘You wear them with a tiny skirt,’ she alluded. ‘Or a jumper dress,’ she added, asking the shop assistant for her size.

I felt encouraged. The power of two. I held up a pair. The H looked on approvingly. What man wouldn’t? They fitted like a glove. At only $249.50. What was I to do? But own them.

Back at the hotel I immediately googled – what to wear with thigh high boots and not look like a hooker. Gazillions of pages popped up. I wasn’t alone. Everyone over 40 obviously wants to know. Those underage babes can go do what they want. Show flesh. Wear micro minis. Knitted wool rompers even. Go.

The oversized jumper dress ranked highly. And contrasting skinny jeans (I don’t think so). Then blow me down I discovered I could walk my new black shoesies right into the boardroom if I wanted. Hidden discreetly under a demure length dress. Or with an over the knee pencil skirt with side split.

“I prefer the thigh-high to be worn with no visible skin… with a hemline that covers the top of the boot,” said the creative director of Jimmy Choo. Aren’t they the Narnia of the sexy shoe kingdom?  I was starting to get mixed messages. Wear the boot. But tame it. Why? Is the whole idea to not be afraid-of-the-boot. To feel confident you haven’t just thrown your doe-ray-me out the window on a silly seasonal whim. Get a bit of mileage. Have fun. Feel uber confident. I mean you’re not exactly purchasing them to pretend you’re Joan of Arc and run like a mighty gladiator about the place. The heels are 9cm for heaven’s sake. Plus your knees are encased. Firmly in pummelled cow.

Why suddenly pretend they aren’t really there at all. “A great boot covers but evokes intrigue. It’s a powerful and modern statement for women.” (Tamara Mellon). An odd sort of feminist mandate. That’s like burn your bra because you’ll feel a whole lot more comfortable doing the vacuuming without one. Not.

Nevertheless, my booties are in their box.

Meanwhile, I’m currently getting my vintage brown suede pinafore dry cleaned. I’ve eyed up my teenage daughter’s baggy black and grey jumpers.  I’ve even pulled out another vintage wool dress in a dull dark sage which covers my knees and exposes only my lower arms. I’m ready to thigh high. I know how The H will react.

But at least my new boots and I will walk out of the house.

On Being Famous

Not long after I moved to Queenstown I reinvented my corporate self into a sunflower grower. I didn’t want to work for an adventure tourism business; the pay just didn’t rate after my marketing manager salary + bonus and company car. I diversified. I tried something I would never have done while living in the big smoke. I became a flower grower. At the time sunflowers had morphed into a cuddly kitten equivalent. They were everywhere: on cards, knickers, T-shirts, posters. What the world needed was freshly picked sunflowers to adorn their kitchens; to give to their loved ones on Valentine’s Day. And I was going to be the quality purveyor.

I found some other ‘growers’. They were cagey to say the least. But a researcher near Massey gave me a few tips. I sourced my seed and ploughed the land. Put in a rabbit proof fence in a small arid patch in the Gibbston valley and off I sowed. 

Talk about beginners luck. 12 weeks later (after tapping into a dam over the boundary for irrigation purposes) I was selling my blooms to Turners and Growers for $5.00 a head. I made mistakes and I learnt quickly. I inadvertently became a florist because the trendy cafes who bought my blooms struggled to arrange their heavy heads. As the craze caught on, I kept abreast of new hybrids thanks to my US based sister.

I also became news. My lovely friend Meaghan was a reporter at the Southland Times. I made the front cover one season. ‘World famous in Southland,’ I joked. But I enjoyed it all the while. I worked hard. My back often ached and my fingernails were always black. I thanked my lucky seedlings I hadn’t been born the daughter of a market gardener. Don’t use your back like a crane I reminded myself each time I hoisted heavy rubbish bin sized buckets of heady yellow blooms into my Landrover. My biceps bulged.

Queenstown had a population of 8,000, twenty years ago when I arrived as a virtual newlywed. I ran my deliveries round town in my jean shorts, black singlet and work boots. Dust and sweat no doubt on my tanned shoulders.

Soon after my husband and I dabbled in real estate in the seaside town of Riverton. Dubbed the Riviera of the South by hardy Invercargillites, who didn’t know better. We bought a crib with a mate and put in on our credit card. Then lashed out for an old hotel for not much more than a Jap import. I’m mentioning this, not because I can offer you any advice as a property developer, but because we hit the news again. 

Crikey I even turned up in close-up black and white when I won the best dressed woman at the Riverton Easter Races. After a blue gin with the club secretary post win, I excused myself to return to my friends (who we could now accommodate in our pub turned guesthouse), via the ladies. I soon found myself cowering in a cubicle barely breathing. Two fellow contestants were talking about me. 

‘Did you see that woman who won? 

‘Yeah.’

‘Gorrr, thet’s not fasch-shun.’

Admittedly I had hung my number over a cigarette burn on my Streetlife swing coat, as I jigged like a bored pre-race filly with the other contestants. And hoped like hell the judges wouldn’t notice the twist ties I hurriedly put around my plaits in our sunny estuary facing kitchen earlier.  Despite having indicated that I like having my name in print I did not want to be standing around being judged by a man in a beige mac. I wanted to be back with my friends in the grandstand making $2 bets on horses called, Lady Jayne and Prince Scott A lot. With winning came protocol, cash and seed pearl jewellery. I suspect I was the first best dressed lady to canter around the birdcage on an imaginary horse while waving at my support crew.

However winning comes with a certain emptiness, when you haven’t worked for it. I had bought a nice hat for the races. But those ladies who’d laboured over their matching caramel toned suits and bonnets with chiffon bows deserved to win, not me.

I started thinking about this winning stage in my life, reading the Sunday paper yesterday. I wondered if I’ve got time left to do SOMETHING. Something that gets noticed? 

Ten months and 40 blog posts in, is possibly a bit premature to expect a mention as a blogger-of-note. Although I’m heartened every time I see a bio beneath a mag story that mentions the writer is a blogger.

 

I’m not talking about getting my photo in the paper again (Meaghan has long since moved on). And I’ve too much crag and sag for that. 

But I would like to write something good before dementia sets in. Not only for  myself; I’d liked to achieve something in writery form that gives my children the incentive to aim high. Especially if they choose a creative life. I want them to pick away at their dreams, hold them close and realize that making-it-without-faking-it is far more satisfying.

Anyway I best shut up and get on with it. And btw to all columnists, comment writing bloggers and thought provoking journalists - I think you’re marvellous, so never stop. You never know, one day a Will I Am of the blogosphere may appear and sponsor us all so we never die out. 

Or feel the need to be famous.

(photo by Meaghan Miller, 1995)

A Bum Like Blancmange

I sometimes wonder on cloudy days if all my underground writing career has given me; aside from kind, funny, generous and clever writer friends, is a bum like blancmange. 

I thought for a second about writing a witty ode to my bum. A few verses of doggerel. Thankfully you’ve been spared. Because instead, while out on my brisk morning walk down to the Shotover river on Monday, I decided to RUN. 

Down the uneven, recently put in track I went. Digging the heels of my North Face hiking boots into the scree-like incline. Bouncing over the newly made tyre steps, on through the pines and ferns, past the berry covered wilding cotoneaster that the waxeyes adore and on to the river flat. 

I straightened my headband and lengthened my pace, soon picking up speed and smiling at myself between puffs. A veritable Pegasus I was, skimming over the stony ground. Chariots of Fire theme music playing in my head as small pebbles found their way under my socks. I ran until the track met willows trees, then turned elated and walked back. 

I’m not sure what made me happier? The knowledge I could still run after all these years without my knees buckling and may have discovered a new form of exercise, while enjoying the great outdoors, that may make my bum jiggle less. Or the smug knowledge those hours at Pilates appeared to have worked. Yippee-nopee you might say. 

Those that know me will be shouting, ‘your bum is not enormous’. And no, it is not huge but it is currently acting like a subsiding cliff. All my go-to underpant shapes don’t fit anymore. In fact they’re worse than a mid-grade wedgee. For the first time in my life I’ve contemplated NYJ – not your daughter’s jeans. My mum wears those!

My charming son standing behind me, a bum-cheek in each hand, flubbering and exclaiming (while laughing), ‘Mum you bum is so wobbly’, must have added impetus to the jogging malarkey. Thankfully when I replied, ‘thanks darling,’ and sang, ‘a juicy butt to squeeze a butt to nibble.’  He scarpered.

Recently at a friend’s 50^th, another friend and I were lamenting our perceived butt expansion. She claimed her derriere demise was due to her Master’s Degree. ‘I didn’t really have a bum to lose like you. What should we do you with them?’ she said. 

‘I just yell at mine,’ I replied, looking over my shoulder. ‘Hurry up and get on the bus.’ Then we collapsed into fits of giggles. Silly things bums.

I have two sides to my writing desk nowadays. On the left I have my children’s fiction WIP manuscripts and notebook. On the right I have my blog and nonfiction notebook and currently a copy of the Aus Women’s Weekly. I was about to query the Editor re a story, when the by-line for psychologist Nigel Latta’s column caught my eye: “Give your bum a break”. His piece pondered, “With all the amazing things our bodies achieve each day”. For instance, nerve impulses travelling at 400km per hour.  “…why are we so concerned with the size of our bum”.

Does Nigel Latta have a bum I wondered? 

Then I read on. Did you know, “a sneeze generates winds of up to 166km per hour”? Without offering any similarly startling bum-facts, Latta reminded us that the human bottom is an important part of a whole. I agree, we would all look pretty flat without them and then they’d be the problem of what to sit on, flubber or tone.

On Tuesday, I went for my second walk/run. I ran further.  A lot further. I breathed the fresh morning air peeling off the channel of grey blue water bubbling along beside me. (On Saturday I’d seen a lost and lonely black swan floating down the Shotover river, but that’s another story). My thighs felt tight on my return. Who knows if my bum enjoyed it? I may be barking up the wrong tree. My skin tone and muscle elasticity could already be shot. And if I think of all the weight I’ve put on and off over the years, like a combined total of 39kgs for three pregnancies alone and returning to NZ as a ten stone Tesse after a 3 year OE in London town, highly possible. 

On Wednesday I went on my third run. I ran for twenty minutes at least. I felt great. Unfortunately there’s a chance I may give up running next week. Winter always attacks with surprise and vengeance way down south. 

Meanwhile I’ve just invested in a pair of three-way-stretch-black-denim-high-waisted, DRDenim Jeanmaker jeans. 

Bum’s the word.

To Bare or Not to Bare: The Midriff Meter

Oh the craziness of fashion. Being the creator of a teenage fashion fiction character, Lily Max, I like to keep up with the latest fads. But the 2013 season must-have look fresh out of New York, London, Paris and Milan Fashion weeks has got me baffled. 

The bare midriff

Thankfully this time round, unlike the 90’s, we’re supposed to be baring, below the breasts and above the belly button. Just a couple of pilates toned lower ribs on show will suffice. No whales tales, muffin tops or bulbous belly button dumbbells in sight. Phew.

So I started to wonder, is there an age cut off for this LOOK? Are only the very young allowed? Because if I may say so myself, my three lower ribs are in pretty good shape. Sun has not added age spots, gravity has not added sag and cellulite just won’t go there.

Taking up Pilates after the birth of my third child nine odd years ago has also probably helped. When my post baby tummy refused to budge, after weeks of mummy and baby toning classes I booked in with a physio.  As I lay prone on the examination bed, a loud woman in a monogramed sweatshirt practically had her hand around my kidneys. I had a hole as wide as the proverbial Grand Canyon, (okay I exaggerate it was fist width) running from my herniated belly button to just above my pubic bone. I had what is commonly known as:

Diastasis recti-Abdominal Separation. 

Disaster alright. My corset muscles, those used to hold internal organs in place, were completely stuffo. I had to start working on my Transverse Abdominis muscles quick smart, in order to protect my back and to wake up my pelvic floor muscles. The only way to fix it properly is to have a tummy tuck, shrieked the scary physio. 

My stomach, which was still getting over a caesarian and I departed. I started Pilates instead. It was relatively new back then; 12 million people in the world including Gwyneth Paltrow were not doing it. But no new mum wants to do pelvic floor exercises (Kegels if you’re in the US) home alone. They’re boring. Thankfully, every exercise in Pilates begins with you engaging your PFs, along with every stomach muscle below the belly button that you can muster.

Nine years on, I can boast three fabulous ribs and a one-pack. Hence my pondering whether these babies need to go on show like a new KFC dinner combo.

Part of me hopes that by the time spring arrives this crazy midriff baring will have died a natural death. Like the rebirth of Levis 501 (boyfriend jeans) with stilettoes (these I’d like to point out have only ever looked cool and flattering on chain-smoking women on the cobbled streets of Paris).  

Baring a huge amount of flesh, even in these fresh off the runway designs are probably best for the beach or our fearless youth. It takes courage to go to MacDonalds in a bandeau or bralette teamed with some high-waisted shorts. Yet crop tops (think long line bra) with flowing trousers and an enormous floppy hat could be a day at the races. And the ‘box’ crop with its high neckline, baggy cut worn loose across those ribs I can definitely see on edgier dames. Shut-up, my friend Ange would say at this point.

Winter is drawing in down here in the southern hemisphere.  Not quite permanent puffer coat weather but getting close. So I feel safer that I have months of roast pork, pumpkin soup with gruyere cheese toasties and self-saucing choccy pud and vanilla ice cream to munch through while I ponder my midriff baring dilemma. 

To double check I wasn’t totally off the track and off-trend I googled, ‘too old for bare midriff’.  And discovered it’s your body shape, not your wrinkles that should be the deciding factor. Good legs: yes you can still wear a mini skirt. Forty and own a six pack: you rock that midriff top girl. 

There was my answer, that lovely word forty. Come spring you might catch me in an outfit like this. I’m sure I could find something to work with in the vintage store. Either that or get out my sewing machine and my pile of furnishing fabric.

Just don’t ask me to take off my sunglasses!

(Natalie Joos, fashion consultant & casting agent NY 2013)

Oh and if you need some extra tips this video is very educational.

Laura Barton, How to wear a midriff top  Class dismissed.

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Sisters: Bringing Sexy Back to Frugality

A couple of years ago I read a book called, ‘To Die For, Is Fashion Wearing Out the World?’ by British author and eco journalist, Lucy Siegle. This book made my jaw drop, it made me feel guilty as hell and it really opened my eyes. (Published 2011 for a sneak peak of what Siegle investigated watch this youtube vid).).

I had no idea that the leftover residues and chemicals from dying fabric turned rivers blue and affected the fertility of workers. That, 1500 silkworms die to make one metre of fabric. I had no idea of the human cost of our self-gratifying (if only momentarily) impulse purchases had.

I had ignorantly bought into the ‘Fast Fashion’ Fad well and truly. I was regularly thrilled when friends commented on a new top. ‘Only $10.00 from Glassons,’ I’d boast. I bought three. My easily influenced daughters were hooked too. Movies like, ‘Twenty Seven Dresses’ and ‘Confessions of a Shopaholic’ had only fueled their desire for instant fashion.

Nary had I given a thought for the young women in south east Asia far from their country homes, living in shabby dorms at their place of employment: garment factories. These women worked hideously long hours, under stringent male supervision, were sometimes forced to take contraceptives, all for a wage that barely covered living costs. Nor had I considered the outworkers, sometimes children, hunched over summer tops sewing on sequins and beads in their slum-like homes, for doodly squat in return.

All those bargains I zapped up only lasted a year or less, then became stuffing in my homemade draft-stoppers or went to the Salvation Army. So had I really saved any money? Not at all. At least I’d recycled. But a heck of a lot of our throw away-did-I-actually-buy-this fashion ends up in the landfill.

According to Siegle, ‘80 billion tonnes of new garments are produced a year. Of that 1.5 million tonnes get thrown in the bin’. In her book she talks of following a woman down the high street. It was raining and the woman’s shopping bags had holes, through which her just purchased bras and knickers were falling onto the pavement. When made aware of her losses the woman just rushed on. They were so cheap she didn’t even bother to pick them up. The huge department store Primark was to blame.

Primark became famous for its fast turnaround of London Fashion week garments, all at rock bottom prices. This lead to an initiative between the UK government and 300 big retailers, called the Sustainable Clothing Roadmap in 2009, to fight against what became known as the ‘Primark Effect.’ Scary. It also included ways to educate consumers on how to wash clothes at lower temps and less often, to reduce the energy spent in a garments lifetime. Not silly.  Jeans last longer if you wash them less. It’s also a better option for our seas to mend them rather than hiffing them out and buying a new pair, if you think back to the dye factory. Why not support your local seamstress if you don’t sew.

On the subject of landfill, if you want to read the findings of another eco expert my lovely sister, Belinda Waymouth; journalist, turned actress, turned photographer, mommy and now UCLA student and Huffington Post Blogger, read her latest post: Sex, Lies and Garbage and weep. Belinda lives in the green village of Santa Monica and says, “Many of us are recycling our butts off. But consider the statistics: Americans are less than 5 percent of global population, yet create half of all e-waste, and 33 percent of solid waste…”

Thankfully, I’m been a recycler, composter, reducer and re-user since recycling bins hit the Auckland pavements over twenty years ago. But like all of us, I can do better. I felt I should deal with my fast fashion guilt first. And I have. I now avoid, like my middle child tidying her room, snapping up cheap bargains.  I’m trying to change my teenage daughters mindset also. In this self-gratification age this is not so easy to do nicely. Bad cop it is.

Sister Belinda talks about bringing sexy back to frugality. Rocking your grannies green pant suit. Op shopping or buying vintage is not new to us. Back in our poor Ponsonby student/journalist cadet days we shared a fine collection of brightly hued 50’s dresses. Combined with our heavily Elnetted surf-blonde hair, pointy toed recycled shoes and large earrings we definitely had a unique style. Dorries were us. Such a pity those dresses wore out, our little sister Poppy would love them.

Anyway as summer turns to autumn it gets cool down south, so I went to Nearly New Clothing in search of a winter coat. OMG I was like a kid in a candy store, rewind thirty years! I looked for labels naturally. Designer labels. If you’re going to buy vintage it’s the only way. Couture prides itself on using long lasting fabrics, cut well and impeccably finished. I rifled through racks, ignoring the smell of previous owners. I tried on a Zambesi coat and an Adrienne Winkelman jacket. The latter, black wool with contrasting black velvet detail was perfectly tailored and fully lined and it fitted like a glove.

I handed over my $75.00 cash, then skipped along the street with my brown paper bag. Proud to have changed from fast fashion drone to tag hag vintage bitch. I’m in my 50^th year and half way through my life (my great granny lived to 100), from now on until I kick the proverbial bucket I will make informed choices on ‘investment pieces’. Classical yet funky clothes made of long lasting, (hopefully ethically sourced and dyed fabric), with the aim of lasting me till I’m lying in my pine box.

That’s my body sorted. Shoes are a little trickier. I won’t be squeezing my feet into grannies kitten heels. I do own a pair of startling pink Terra Plana court shoes, made from old eiderdowns and vegetable leathers. Their motto is: ‘Think on your feet to survive on a changing planet’.

            I think that’s the only way to go.  
            (pic: Belinda)