Poor Stevie

The question I am most frequently asked – after “Cheque, savings or credit?” “Where’s the photocopier?” “Have we met?” and “Gross. Was that you?” – is “Great dress. Where did you get it?”

Usually I just say: “Thanks Mum, it’s from an op shop”. But because I just can’t walk into my parents’ house every six to nine months without being bombarded with compliments about my clothes, I thought I really should address that question here. Address! Ha! My quick wit goes so well with my finery.

The long answer is: mostly eBay, sometimes markets, occasionally op-shops and, if I’m feeling vulnerable, vintage clothing stores. It’s quite boring compared to the “It’s from a little Parisian pop up shop my personal sherpa found while collecting my fresh Evian water on Mount Everest Base Camp III” answer you so often read in the Sunday magazines.

Here are some of my most recent finds*.

The red dress

When I see a dress I really like I have little daydreams about what I could achieve while wearing it. When I saw this little baby on eBay in all its crimson, fringed, body-hugging glory I immediately imagined walking into a party where everyone knows my name (for once). Out of a haze of cigarette smoke, lust and glace cherries, a talent scout approaches me and asks me to do a walk-on part in a community television role about a line dancing stripper with a heart of gold.

The lacy dress

J-man and I are going to a wedding in a few weeks and I’ve been saving this dress for the occasion. When I saw it hanging on a rack at Surry Hills markets, I imagined walking into the church late, my hair flowing in the breeze. The spotlight abruptly shifts from the beaming bride to me; mysterious, alone  and pouting in the back row. Out of a haze of cigarette smoke, confetti and cuckolded brides, a talent scout approaches me, inspects my armpits and asks me to be the new face of Impulse body spray.

The romper

I love onesies. You have excellent sun protection, can roll around on the ground and sit like a dude.  When I saw this in a vintage clothing store on King Street in Newtown I imagined skipping through a meadow, free and without fear of revealing my shame. Out of a haze of cigarette smoke, daises and fertiliser, a talent scout approaches me and asks me wear the hell I keep my keys in that thing.

* Apologies for the lack of human in the photos, but I have developed a horrible, reoccurring whole body rash. It appeared on Sunday and I was totally convinced it was caused by the transfer of some kind of perverted body lotion J-man had acquired in a last ditch attempt to seduce me. I think it’s actually weird reaction to new sun cream.

Two days ago, I took a deep breath and threw out all my Vogues. The great throw-out of 2010 was in preparation for the great overseas trip of 2010, which is likely to be preceded by the great panic attack of 2010, which itself will be followed by the great beer guzzle of 2010.

I expected the sight of all those glossy pages filled with Marc Jacobs, Dior, expensive lipstick and stories about princesses on Greek Islands to break my heart as they landed in the recycling bin. Way back when, Vogue magazines helped me choose my Year 10 formal dress (based on Gwen Stefani’s red prom dress by John Galliano), get inspiration for my graduation dress (based on Givenchy’s little black dress Audrey Hepburn wore in Sabrina) and helped me choose the colour of my wedding dress. But, as I looked down into the bin I realised as much as I’ve always been interested in clothes and fashion, I’ve never really got it right. I let my black clothes turn grey, I wear out my shoes, I buy cheap rip-offs, I never get the right size, I only get my hair cut once every six months and my red lipstick always ends up on my chin.

Here are some examples of my fashion failings through time:

I wrote about this outfit before.  I don’t think I need to tell what’s wrong with it. The layering? The colour? The mank hair? The constipated expression?

Oh great Steve, buy a thick-strapped white bra. Wash said bra with dark coloured items. Wear newly corpse-grey bra under white singlet. Then go to a gay bar and wonder why no one wants to hang out with you except the dude you’ve trapped with your unwanted pregnancy. Which I’m assuming is the case here, what with that MATERNITY bra and all.

This was taken at Taronga Zoo. Clearly, I caught some of the poop one of the chimps threw at me and rubbed it into my fringe. Either that or I got a fringe cut, never had it trimmed, let it get greasy and took it out on a date with me.

You may think that giant green sparkly hat is the issue here. But no. I remember feeling so happy while posing for this photo. I’d just been to a music festival, completed a scary task I never thought I’d be capable of (no, it did not involve knee pads) and it was nearly Christmas. If only I realised I was wearing a hideous dress-shirt one size too small. Nice tuckshop lady boobs, Steve.

The most recent example. No, I didn’t stop at double denim. I obviously ate several pies, slipped into a tight white singlet and completely massacred a wonderful cropped jacket by Built By Wendy right on the doorstep of Government House. My arms were lost in the historic battle.

Yep, I’m getting myself a lifetime subscription to Caravaning Australia and Guns, Beer and Hummers instead. Obviously, that’s where I really belong.

If I’m left to my own devices for too long, I end up making bum jokes and losing friends.

This week I was chatting to a very glamorous girl – there she was in her stilettos, her red, flattering Carla Zampatti skirt, teamed with a sweet striped top and vintage gold beads. I stood next to her in my beat-up shoes with my clubbed toes hanging out the end, a pair of ill-fitting black pants that have faded to Dire Straits stonewash grey and a stripy cropped jacket that makes me look like I’m a volunteer at an old folks’ home. To top it off, I had the worst hayfever I’ve had this season – eyes watering, nose pouring, loud scream-inducing sneezes at every turn.

It was probably the salt water and mucus combination pouring from my nostrils that took our conversation from awesome eBay finds (her skirt) to illnesses (my allergies/social retardation). She asked me something about getting shots.

Me:  Yeah, I don’t get them because I’d probably have to have them in my butt cheeks.

Her: What?

Me: ….. Ah ha ha? I don’t get them because I’d probably have to have them in my butt chee-.

Her: -So what’s up this weekend?

I’m sure my face turned the same colour as my candy striper jacket, but I battled on anyway and managed to tell her about my awesome plans for the weekend  - making a fort, growing a beard, wearing a rope belt, catching insects for food and staying there for the rest of my life so I never, ever have to socially interact again.

I’m actually pretty used to this kind of thing happening. I’m no good at small talk and it takes a really, really long time for me to feel comfortable enough to show you I have a sense of humour. So I think 80 per cent of people who meet me think I’m a dirty mute, in the style of Steve Buscemi as The Marietta Mangler.

It’s seriously the small talk thing that gets me the most – I’m fascinated by how it works.

Observe:

SMALL TALK WITH REGULAR, SELF-ASSURED PEOPLE:

1: Oh god, I hate soft apples.

2: Me too. I once got such a soft apple that I swear it could have taken out the softest apple of all soft apples in the soft apples competition at the 1997 Granny Smith fair.

1: Oh my god, is that girl wearing track pants to work?

2: Woah. She so is. I like to wear trackpants only on the weekends.

1: Me too. Or when I’m hungover and going to Maccas for some food.

2: How good is Maccas for a hangover?

1: Oh, so good.

2: Actually, let’s go eat now.

1: Totally!

See what happened there? From their mutual dislike for soft apples and trackpants at work, 1 and 2 made an everlasting connection and have gone to lunch, where they will probably meet cute guys, who will buy them matching pug puppies.

SMALL TALK BETWEEN A NORMAL, SELF-ASSURED PERSON AND A CLUBBED TOED, DIRTY MUTED ME.

1:  Oh god, I hate soft apples.

Me: Same.

1: Oh my god, is that girl wearing track pants to work?

Me: Umm, yeah it looks like it?

1: Holy shit, is that mucus AND salt water coming out of your nose at the same time.

Me: Ah, yeah.

1: You should really get some shots or something.

Me: Yeah, I don’t get them because I’d probably have to have them in my butt cheeks.

1: What?

Me: … Ah ha ha? I don’t get them because I’d probably have to have them in my butt cheeks.

1: So what’s up this weekend?

I’m bidding for this on eBay.

I love searching for ‘vintage dress’ on eBay. About 17,348 items come up and only about one-tenth of those are truly vintage and about one-tenth of those one-tenths are actually cool. But it’s the trawling that’s just so satisfying, just like in a real life op-shop in the real life world.

I would love to wear this little baby to my engagement party, which is in exactly a week. I could be cutting it seriously fine, but I want to look good. And this strikes me as one of those dresses that could be awesomed up even more with a dash of red lipstick, some heels and some mildly teased hair. At this point it kind of looks like I’ll be wearing jeans that need constant pulling up in order to prevent peep shows and a shirt that says ‘walkman’. Gah!

I’m not one of those alien girls who dreamed of getting married when I was little. I didn’t ever pretend to be a bride and I didn’t make my dolls marry. In fact  and I were talking the other day about how we used to have to make our Barbie dolls bone a stuffed Bananas in Pyjamas doll. I used to think he was really masculine and sexy. Anyhoot, as it turns out I’ve really enjoyed the few hours I’ve spent so far planning our engagement party and wedding.

Joel-Michael and I are in the middle of putting together a casual engagement party for our friends and young relatives. I figure I do not want Joel’s family to see me take off my dress and pull it back and forth between my legs while dancing on a table to Daryl Braithwaite’s Horses. I also don’t want to have to get my mum to buy me a kebab before I spew into her cupped hands. So they’re not invited and can just look at my mug shot later.

We have a few little fun ideas but my biggest ask is being able to plug in an iPod so we can dance to the music we like. I’ve just spent a couple of hours looking at function rooms in Sydney pubs and I found it really satisfying to do some investigating. Using advice from the wedding planning guide written by  I ruled out any place that didn’t have their prices online. I also ruled out places that had really bad grammar on their page. So our garage is pretty much the only perfect venue left.

In other exciting wedding news I tried on my first dress today. This is probably the most exciting part of the whole thing for me (aside from all the obligatory love stuff) because I don’t have any set ideas and I love shopping and drooling over magazines for looks to emulate. Also, I’ve never really spent a whole lot of money on one outfit and this is the one occasion I think a splurge is justified.

So yeah, I went into the city for the David Jones sale and found a super cute Marc by Marc Jacobs pale pink/flesh-ish coloured cocktail dress with the most beautiful pleated tulle detailing around the bust and hip. It was half price too. But when I tried it on I noticed a tiny hole in the seam, which I’m sure is fixable but it just kinda spoilt the moment for me. THE PERFECT BRIDE MOMENT. Also, it was a size smaller than I usually wear and I had a montage of all the food I like to eat (burgers, mixed sweets, pizza, beer, wine, burgers, beer) flash crazily across my retinas. I just don’t want to spend the next six months or so not eating what I want to eat and hitting my head against a brick wall every time I have a schooner.  I also saw some horrid rip-offs on other racks that reminded me vaguely of those girls who leave Randwick racecourse with their knickers stuck to their high heels.  Oh, the nightmares. But still, it really was gorgeous and I can’t stop thinking about it.

Now to figure out how to pay for all this on top of a planned overseas jaunt. Hmmm. Maybe I’ll start playing the pokies