Ralph Lauren: A Mission

These are dark days. The mercury is plumetting, exams are looming and most people who work in the smoothie industry are suddenly finding themselves with a wallet/purse that is a little light on. For me there are only a few ways to remove oneself from such a winter slump. Given that Eurovision is over the only alternative was a pilgrimage to the Western suburbs, a pilgrimage to the Ralph Lauren Outlet Store.

It was a fine if chilly Saturday when my downward spiral commenced. I thundered along the free way with two pals for moral support. This was no leisurely shopping outing, no, this was a mission.

Upon locating a car park and reversing in and out 3 or 4 times, I marched with military precision towards the store. What happened next is still a little fuzzy in my memory. My palms began to get clammy, my heart rate accelerated and my pupils dilated. Ignoring fellow shoppers (potential competition) I quickly pulled myself together – occasions like this don’t allow for the physical and emotional instability I was experiencing – and I pounced on anything in a primary colour that was medium size.

Ten minutes later I found myself with what can only be described as an offensive amount of striped shirts piled in my arms. I had so much stock that people thought I was an employee. I had to gently tell them that I was only a customer but I was able to direct them to the pile of briefs that they were searching for… amateurs.

After carefully culling my selection down to potential keepers I was confronted with the dictatorial rules of the change room. Maximum 5 garments? Do these people know who I am? Strategically picking a time when there was no fitting room assistant present, I raced into the change room where I further narrowed the selection.

Several minutes later – it may have been longer judging by the expression on faces of the people in line – I emerged, exhausted but victorious. After 8 thousand custom fit shirts, a line that rivals that of a Myki machine at peak hour and three credit card declines I left the store. To those that follow in my foot steps I say be strong, be hydrated and – most importantly – be ruthless. You never know when a portly Italian woman is going to nick the last paisley shirt in your size from right under your nose.

Putting On The Ritz

Every Thursday night a mass of 20 somethings descend into the magical cave that is the Ritz in Toorak village to dance until the wee hours. No wind or rain shall deter them nor shall the pretty much vertical stairs – too many times have I been witness to people holding onto the rail as if it were the only thing between them and death… come to think of it’s probably worse than death. Who wants to be the person that stacked at the Ritz and flashed everyone? Perhaps a select few, naming no names obviously.

It’s kind of like that episode of Gossip Girl where Blair throws the Kiss on the Lips Party  where everyone comes together to take advantage of alcohol and the potential social clout of a photo with a little Ritz logo in the corner. Whoever edits those photos edits with an iron fist and a penchant for the blonde/long limbed amongst us. There are really only a limited number of people who look like Blake Lively, can we please diversify a bit!

But how does one dress for such an event you may well ask? On any given week it’s like the ghosts of high school past in that place so one would never want to look sub par. Thankfully I’ve been able to identify some easy but important guidelines for myself:

If you are a boy it is imperative that your shirt have a logo from one of the following three: Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger or Gant (for those who are a bit out there)

The amount of space between your actual leg and the seam of your pants must never exceed 1mm (I’ve altered most of my pants accordingly)

And finally if the hem of said chinos or jeans is not cuffed you really need to nip into the loo and make that quick change.

For girls the options are limitless in comparison! I’m not saying that a maxi is necessarily going to go down well there – again consider all those stairs – but by ensuring you’re in something that is relatively snug you are setting yourself up for a ripper night on the town.

By adhering to these rules one can be sure to feel right at home when getting down and dirty in the RnB room. For those that dare to dream outside this fashion box though I can only salute you and acknowledge that you have more fashion balls than I do. You’ll probably get a photo too…

Kudos.

Disclaimer: Photo from tumblr.com

Euro Baby!

Eurovision is – perhaps sadly – the highlight of my year. Our love affair began last year when I spent an extremely bleak and wet weekend in Lorne with only the soothing tones of Loreen’s ‘Euphoria’ to keep me warm.  Yes, Eurovision is a shining beacon of hope in the cold, dark winter. The last couple of days have been so cold and bleak that the shimmer of a European singing contest is almost too much excitement for my family and I to bear.

My sister and I have been preparing for the impending competition for most of the week. Last night we even went as far as to design a potential unisex unitard that we would sport if we were ever selected to perform. It was an ABBA inspired melange of white lycra and rhinestones. One word: flattering.

We also practiced a tribute performance of Euphoria. We performed in the relatively limited space that is our dining room but I can just tell that if we were able to work with some real space we would definitely get through the first semi-finals… Azerbaijan move over. I’ve also discovered a new found need for a wind machine. The possibilities are limitless and everyday you would feel like Beyonce. Who would not want that? WHO???

From the limited exposure I have had to this years’ entrants I can judge that we have a lot of European/American accented singing in store and also a large disco ball in which one can store a compact diva (Belarus, I’m looking at you). Love ballads in Scandinavian languages also look to feature heavily.

Besides that though, we must not forget the timeless looks that are sure to spark attention throughout Europe. I like to think that it was Eurovision that inspired a lot of people to return to white jeans (it may even have been what brought about that trend the first time). No, Eurovision does not necessarily champion the most user friendly ensembles but how fantastic that someone out there is being a bit gross and gaudy.

I mean how great would it be if the next time you opened up Vogue you saw someone wearing a silver fringed frock that appears to have been pieced together from CD shards? Or a weird sexy cabbage patch doll ensemble? It would be amaze.  I can’t imagine myself necessarily championing either look but how inspiring regardless.

If you fail to do anything else this weekend pop on a bit of Lycra and settle down for three nights of Eurotastic-ness.

 

Disclaimer: photographs from http://www.independent.ie

Shining Bright Like A Diamond… Literally

Sometimes I get a little preoccupied with how people dress. I’ve been known to send death stares to people who are trying to champion junners. It’s just never ok. Even if it’s ironic. No. It’s not my most endearing trait but those people should be made aware of the damage that they’re doing to society! Seriously. 

The problem with this kind of withering death stare is that often I fail to see the person behind that hideous facade of wide legged denim and chunky New Balance runner (not those cool retro ones that everyone’s wearing at the moment, the really big white ones). Sometimes you really need a chance to see someone without all their get up. No, I am not referring to seeing someone naked – as much fun as that might be – I am talking about getting to know people when you’re all on the same level.

Yes, the other night I learnt about the value of UV paint in forming friendships with a room full of people in white. Loving a party as much as the next bloke I jumped into this painting exercise with childish enthusiasm. There really is no better way to get to know your class. I felt kind of like one of the judges on The Voice (preferably Ricky) who was getting to know people without worrying about whether they were wearing a gross pair of runners. Who knew that green paint could be such an equaliser!?

Don’t get me wrong, I’ll never say no to a correctly tailored navy blazer, but sometimes you have to just let your hair down and not worry about it. It’s pretty remarkable what can shine through sometimes when you don’t have anything to hide behind. Tonight on the way home from the station I danced vigorously to the So Fresh hits of Spring 2005. It was great. I was happy. 

It’s not always easy to let go of inhibition but I guarantee you’ll feel fantastic – or like a bit of duffer who’s step ball changing through the park by themselves. Deal with it. 

Angry Gurlz

Inspired by the Met gala, this weekend I attended my first ever roller derby. There I was, sitting on the floor of a gym in outer Melbourne…there were bruises, fishnets and a lot of angry girls on wheels. Yes, I did feel scared. There is something about sitting centimetres from a speeding pack of women with names like ‘Assault and Pepper’ that is both alarming and exhilarating though. Throw in a complicated looking spray on make-up thing and it’s a party.

Sure punk isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but this week I’ve been looking at its merits. I’m not someone who really goes for the studded/mohawk/ripped clothing thing. In fact it kind of repels me and I did consciously have to dress down to attend the derby. All that was running through my head as I searched my cupboard for something that wasn’t in a primary colour or striped was ‘be cool, channel the Met’ (this is was not easy for me and I had to consciously ignore the new pair of boat shoes that are lying by my door as I trudged off in a pair of boots that I bought once to wade through snow). No, punk isn’t really me but tonight I got a whole new appreciation for it. 

I love a good snapshot from a gala in New York but it can be equally as impressive seeing people being real punks because it’s not really about what you’re wearing, it’s about how you wear it. Naturally it helps if you are a tough looking 20 something year old with a derby name like ‘Jack of Hurts’ and are wearing a ripped pair of fishnets over your tattooed thighs but anyone with a bit of confidence could probably pull it off.

I feel like punk is going to get cool this year but I think it pays to consider its roots every now and then so it doesn’t go soft. Even if it does I’m sure a group of roller derby girls could put everything back in order in a jiffy. They could also take you out in a brawl but that’s a whole other story. 

 

‘Why Don’t I Feel Like Samantha Jones?’

I had obtained the coolest fashion internship. I was flying a thousand miles to do it. I felt kind of like a character from Gossip Girl (Blair, obviously not Serena). Yes, my life was going exactly where I wanted it to be. I was going to go and be professionally glamorous for a week. Outfits had been planned with careful accuracy so as to look relaxed and thrown together but also chic. That’s a very tricky line to balance on.

Then I arrived.

And for a week I cut silk. Beautiful printed silk. The blisters on my hands were akin to those of a mountain climber lost in the Himalayas and my back ached from standing up. All of my sweaters were peppered with silk threads and to make matters significantly worse, my face had exploded in an impressive, display of angry pimples that were teetering on the edge of explosion.

Oh the glamour! This week I have been thinking a lot about how sometimes you have to do something really tough to do something you really love. It was never clearer than the other day when my friend Christina peered up at me through teary, swollen eyes, exhausted from having just spent four hours on a mind map exploring the feminist qualities of Sex and the City and asked me why she didn’t feel like Samantha.

We are doing a media and communications course but the reality is it’s a long way to the top. It’s not impossible though and sometimes you have to struggle through a thousand essays of media analysis to get there. Samantha is a beacon of hope and sometimes you just need to slip back into that pair of Celine sandals and keep trooping on.

The journey may be long, but doing it in style makes it that bit sweeter when you get there. Plus who’s going to hire someone who wears mismatched socks and misshapen t-shirts? Ew.

Punk’d People

Let me visualise this for you. You extend your perfectly buffered and polished leg from a town car. The pop of camera flashes washes over you as you step onto a plush red carpet. You’re wearing a mohawk and a studded, statement frock. Yes, you’re there, you’ve made it, you’re at the Met

The Met Gala is the event of the season. Every year the finest of the fine parade up the steps to that fine aged institution for one of the most lavish parties of the year. The people in attendance are so chic that it almost physically hurts me. Seriously, pictures on Instagram literally made me weep.

This year has been no exception. Apart from Kimmy K’s bold choice of a high split floral frock with pregnant belly (looked alarmingly similar to a badly wrapped flower arrangement) everyone looked hyper stylish. Then again how wrong can you go with a punk themed event?

Studs? Excellent. Mohawks? Fabulous. Leather? Superb. Punk is about sticking up your middle finger in the air and waving it around. I’m sick of safe fashion that is perfectly matched and toned down. This was a fabulous explosion of everything wrong and it ended up so right.

My home girl Sasha Fierce was one of the highlights of the night. If Riccardo Tisci came up to me and told me he wanted to put me in a statuesque black frock with a giant flame-like motif running the entire length of the train I would probably die from happiness… and it wouldn’t even look good on me.

I am also a big supporter of the wearing of crowns at formal occassions. The bigger and more offensive the better. Throw in a sparkly frock and I’m there, no questions asked. Katy Perry and Dolce & Gabanna rocked it.

There’s a part of me that hopes when I arrive on campus tomorrow everyone will have done away with safe and staid mustard knits and will be wearing very similar ensembles to those of KP and Mrs. Carter. I personally feel like the addition of a chunky boot and a distressed jean would do wonders for my own look but I have to stop writing now so that I can go and find a huge studded crown to wear while I watch the online coverage in my pyjamas with a large tub of cookies and cream.

How punk is that!?

 

Disclaimer: All photographs are from the Huffington Post

It Ain’t Easy Being Cool

Despite having done a year at art school I am still uncomfortable with wearing black. One would have thought that attending an educational institution where minimalist chic was practically uniform would have better prepared me. It hasn’t though and I still favour a bright yellow jumper with a cheerfully coloured scarf over anything that verges on the darker side of grey. You can only imagine my discomfort then when the other night I attended the coolest house warming I have ever been to in my short life and every one was decked out head to toe in black. Having come from an event beforehand I had gone with the classic yellow sock, seer sucker blazer and beige chino combo. I felt very much like Elle Woods when she rocks up to that party in a bunny costume and no one else is dressed up. The resemblance between the two situations is uncanny.

Anyway! I dashed into the loo with a healthy serving of punch and a handful of pita bread to consider my approach to this fashion conundrum. I have always been a firm believer in dressing up rather than dressing down. In one memorable childhood journey to the zoo I wore a spotted bow tie and white shirt with a cap from Bunnings. It was a very avante garde look for a 6 year old but I feel  that I looked as if I had got lost on the way to a christening I pulled it off. At the party though I did feel the need to do some major pairing down. Disappointingly a pocket square is not always the best choice for a night out. I was able to employ the tactic that men across the world have embraced in which they roll the leg of their pant to show off a scintillating flash of hair ankle or colourful sock. I also lost the jacket – the fripples that ensued were not pretty but sometimes sacrifices must be made.

Having made myself look slightly less like a try hard Ralph Lauren model I was struck by the revelation that no one really cared. I could have been wearing a track suit (for obvious reasons I would never let this happen) and people wouldn’t bat an eyelid. No, sometimes the focus of going to one such event should be the conversation and time spent with friends rather than trying to fit in with the crowd. As long as you feel comfortable with them, everything else will fall into place.

And if you’re wearing a pair of slim black jeans with a shapeless knitted jumper then it’s just a bonus.

Let’s Get Busy

I’ve reached that point in the semester where I am doing anything that is not a post-feminist essay to avoid doing said post-feminist essay. This really ranges from making sure that I have looked at every Instagram post from while I was asleep to ensuring that my sweater and socks are matched in perfect colour-way harmony. (You have no idea how difficult it is to match a mustard sock). 

Yes, this week I’ve been procrastinating up a storm and it has allowed me a great deal of time to reflect on my winter wardrobe and those of my friends. I’ve also had ample time to sit on You Tube and stare at funny videos of pets (lol!) alongside the new Great Gatsby trailer. One might be a little confused as to what my wardrobe and Leonardo di Caprio have in common. They need not be. Leo is the start of a shift in fashion. 

I’m not one to be a trend setter (I picked up on the whole fluoro phase late in Year 8 and it’s scarred me so badly that the only clothing I feel safe in now is Ralph Lauren because it rarely changes between seasons) but the Great Gatsby is coming and with it too will come the combined power of the holy trinity: Miuccia Prada, TIffany and Brooks Brothers. 

We’re about to be literally besieged by an inundation of two toned shoes, drop waisted frocks and elegant, jewel encrusted head bands. I personally can’t wait. I like very little more than a bit of silk with some feathers and pearls but for those that are favouring the shabby chic of early winter dressing my advice is to gird your loins. This fashion storm is approaching fast. It’s already featured on two Vogue (the bible) covers and if Anna Wintour says she likes a bit of Carey Mulligan in pale mauve, everyone does. 

I’m going to go and buy some smart pastel blazers this weekend. I suggest you do the same to prevent being left out in the storm (and by that I mean the hysteria that will ensue at Forever New when copies of Miuccia’s frocks pop up). 

Might even be inspired to write about post-feminism. Prada wields a lot of power.