Here's where the news came from. I don't want to be negative about Indian fashion because it upsets some people's nationalist sentiments and there are designers in the country who deserve much more freedom than current circumstances can give them and will be stuck designing embroidered saris and salwar kameezes till hell freezes over, but I have to say this much: if you're going to be proud of where you come from and your clothes are a way of expressing that, don't be half-assed about it. Which is half the reason I can't stand most so-called Indo-Western clothing (the majority of the output of most Indian designers), it's just neither here nor there and I'm a girl who believes staunchly in absolutes.
3. Assorted aimless, highly involved conversations with my soon-to-graduate seniors, at least the ones I like: all week.
4. Between pretending to work, alcohol consumption: every night, or close anyway. We got into a bit of trouble because of a pile of booze bottles (empty as well as full- which fool wastes good stuff like that?) getting found in a classroom that had been making do as a green room for stuff. Needless to say, alcohol is banned on campus. The authorities then planned a raid, supposedly in the next few days after that, which meant that we had to dispose of our stash through the easiest way possible- down our throats. Friday was a bit of a high point- we thought the raid was going to happen then, so Joni (my roommate) spent major amounts of quality time hiding our full bottles, while I took the empty ones to the terrace and got them off campus by the simple and expedient method of lobbing them over the fence into the compost heap of the campus next to ours. No one got brained.
The next three weeks or so are winding-down time for the univ, there are exams and vivas and whatnot that I've got to give, not to mention an essay to attempt to write, so this is it for now- I will post twice more in the course of the next ten days, or try to anyway. Maybe once we're in June I might fill out the survey over at Emma's because holiday time just kills my neurons- I didn't do it now cause I thought it was too long, but it's kind of rich of me now that I'm looking at the length of this post...I also need to sleep sometime, I'm on this weird high that being awake for a very long time can give you. It's a bit of a fun feeling now that I finished what I stayed up for. And there are bits of this week when I'll be in no condition to come near a keyboard too, my theme should actually just be Ninety-Nine Bottles Of Beer On A Wall...at least it's just beer. I do like shandy.
*he called it nonsense on stilts. Guess what that turns into when one bored intern gets all fired up with blogging motivation after a three hour conversation re: clothes over coffee one Saturday evening. For all that I grumble about boys being so fashion-clueless, it's odd that this blog owes its genesis to one of the species, who incidentally cleans up quite nicely when he bothers to, and doesn't laugh at me because I like clothes even if I do get put in a headlock on occasion. Sample interaction being along the general lines of:
*one party smacks the other*
*other party turns around and tries to smack in return- which is, of course, useless if the aggressor is the better part of a foot taller*
P2: You started it!
P1: No, you started it.
P2: How did I start it?
P1: *makes like he's about to bite P2's finger*
P1: So what're you going to do about it, huh? *puts P2 in headlock*
P2: Daddy, gerrofme! (of course, this comes out greatly muffled by the fact that my head is under someone's armpit, and speaking while trying to separate your neck from an elbow is never conducive to coherence. Incidentally, there's also attempted kicking going on)
P1: *lets go, eventually, after he gets bored*
P2: *gives him the raspberry*
The best part? We're in our twenties.
Loose, typical Irina hair and about three-quarters (it seems) of the length of her leg being prominently on display.
Actually looking like a guy (as opposed to a pretty androgyne)
Bracelet sleeves, actual bracelet and aforementioned legs. Plus, neatly cut jacket.
Looking like a wannabe stripper (not that she ever could, but it’s a risk less cool people run)
No stripper would ever wear those clumpy shoes. And she’s Irina.
Did I ever mention that I love her?
Did I ever mention that I love her?
*yesterday they were half-stuck with green felt flowers. Why half, you might ask. The answer is, my mum's friend's new puppy chewed the other half off and proceeded to slobber all over my legs in the process. Today's mad flatprint is three blobs of colour on the toe of each black shoe, in the shape of chicks.
It's hard to realise that so many of the figures we love to talk about and look at, our icons really, are in fact mortal. Including Carine Roitfeld, Anna Piaggi et al. Slightly odd in a world where everyone is or seems beautiful and indestructible.
a) A friend shaking mp3s in my face going "you have to listen to this!", to which request I usually acquiesce fast enough unless it's metal, which (sorry to any metal fans reading this) I absolutely can't stomach.
b) Something popping up on Pandora, which is my Internet radio service of choice, which throws artistes at you one song at a time. The good part about that is you can give things a thumbs down and not have them play again if you don't like them.
This turned up via the latter method. I'd fallen in love with The Magic Position before I even heard the chap's voice, and given how much I loved the daft, kiddish beginning I wouldn't have cared if he'd sounded like a dyspeptic gorilla. And then, after reading Carissa on the subject of Mr Wolf, I hunted for more of his stuff off the net and found three songs, all of which were, putting it mildly, excellent. Musical loves have been based on less. And (important for a girl fashaholic) it doesn't hurt at all that he's cute and has hair just the colour I would like mine to be if hair dye wasn't one of my mortal fears. His look, in a weird way, matches his music (or at least what I've heard of it)- though reviews seem to say his earlier stuff wasn't as happy-sounding. In any event, it can't have been all that depressing if he's got a hula hoop (I want one) in his hand on the cover of his first album, even if it is called Lycanthropy (that always reminds me of Remus Lupin, who is heartbreaking every time he pops up on the page. I sincerely hope he doesn't get killed off in Deathly Hallows- if that happens, I will cry). If this boy puts out a metal album, I might even give it a chance.
Does anyone else ever experience that? Fashion split personality, I mean.
I'm not sure exactly how the nail varnish craze caught on among us tweens, but the only thing I can be absolutely sure of was that my school's strict no-makeup policy had quite a bit to do with it- all that forbidden fruit logic and so on. No matter- we just painted our toenails instead of our fingernails, and as for those I'm fairly sure acetone suppliers had an excellent time of it, what with all the goop we had to clean up and take off before going to school. As most good tweens across the world today seem to do, we favoured the sparkly, but for some reason red and pink- probably because they were seen as 'mummy colours'- were banned from use (I quite liked red sparkly polish, but given that not being a total social outcast in those days was dependent on not wearing naff things, I behaved as a good little sheep should and went right along)- and once my lot got tired of wearing plain blocks of colour, we began experimenting with nail spots and stripes and flowers- some of which required work with very thinbrushes that were subsequently ruined because the varnish dried onthe brushes. The freaky part? People actually volunteered to do it- spend hours painting each other's nails, I mean. They were short nails too, because school insisted on that**- but they still took ages to dry. And then we reached the eighth grade and- heaven knows how- nail colouring was consigned to the trend dustbin. We were supposed to be more grownup, so about five bottles of half-used nail paint in my possession were doomed to uncooldom, and I was an expert on how fast they dried and how long they lasted and just how to mix colours, and the knowledge was pretty much useless***. I still buy the pots now, though- mainly because I like to see them sitting on the shelf and they're the only vaguely girlie things around- I don't own so much as a kohl pencil (standard Indian college girl fare, as far as makeup goes). And lately I've been getting the urge to break out the sparkly silver polish again, only my twenty-two-year-old feet aren't anywhere near as pretty as my thirteen-year-old ones (Queen Michelle, you were right about the sun exposure. If I wanted to look at a living example of sun damage, all I need to do is look down.). And no neon on my nails, I don't care what Nu Rave thinks.
**I've never been able to get over the conviction that long nails are dirty. I end up reaching for the clippers every time I get to see the edges of my nails over the tops of my fingers.
***My mum was quite relieved, though- she hated my nail paint. But the bottles that remained did get put to good use- every time I got given babysitting duties for my then two-year-old niece, I simply put a coat of colour on her nails (it didn't take much time since they were so tiny) and told her to sit still with her hands out till they dried. It made a nice change from chasing her to make sure she didn't break her neck or anything else in the house.
With lovely pointy toes
They came in pairs made up of twos
Stuck under two big bows
The bows were sparkly green and blue
And silver stuck on grey
With what might just have been cheap glue
On bits of faux suede
Yet here's the rub, they were on sale
To leave them I was loath
So I was smart, did what was best
And simply bought them both.
I should probably just end this with a link to T Rex, who writes much better rhymes than the one above.