Primary School Confidential (6 page)

By the time I hit Year 6, my interest in couture was stronger than ever. So Mum eventually relented to my pleas and took me on a shopping trip to Grace Bros at Penrith Plaza. Until then, all my clothes shopping had been done in the children's wear department, but not anymore. Mum took me to the Miss Shop and I was in heaven.

The racks were crammed with fluorescent clothing and I wanted to play a big part in this trend. I wanted to
own
this trend. I could not get enough of the fluorescent stuff so we pulled an outfit together that would let the general public know that I fully endorsed this fashion moment.

Fluoro pink jeans, fluoro green top, two studded belts (orange and yellow) that were tied together and went around my hips twice. And the pièce de résistance? Two pairs of fluoro socks, worn in such a way that, when folded down, both colours were displayed!

Magic happened in the change room that day, my friends. Magic.

We took our items to the counter to pay for them. Mum pulled out her credit card. Then, just as she was about to hand it over, she paused.

‘What is it, Mum?' I asked anxiously.

‘I think you need this . . .' she replied. And then she handed me—get this—MY VERY FIRST LIPSTICK OF MY OWN!

It was gorgeous. A very shiny tube in the shape of a bullet. Inside was the thickest, brightest pink shade that was ever made. I swear it was almost radioactive. I almost fainted with glee. I hugged Mum tight and told her that I was the happiest girl in the whole world. But deep down I knew there was one thing that would make me even happier.

If I could make my sister envious, my life would be complete.

When I got home, I got dressed in my new clothes. I teased my fringe until it stood straight up on end. I ever so carefully applied my hot-pink lippie. I was ready.

I knocked on my sister's door and entered her room. She was lying on her bed reading a
Dolly
magazine. She glanced up from the pages and gave me the once-over before declaring that I looked like a retard
*
and going back to her reading.

I was not crushed, however, as she was going through a goth phase, which meant she spent her time listening to The Cure, dying her hair black (much to the chagrin of the oldies), and wearing black on black on black. She was also basically non-verbal to everyone in the house. Mum kept saying something about hormones and we all gradually learnt not to poke the beast.

There was one other day, one other glorious day that I will never forget, which cemented my passage into being a fashion victim forever. Mum and I were shopping at Penrith Plaza when I came across something so fantastic, I was rendered speechless.

A pair of white lace ankle boots.

It was like there was a light beaming down on them from the ceiling of Grace Bros, and they were calling to me. I picked them up and inspected them from every angle. They were perfect. Like something Madonna would try to steal from me if I were ever to go to one of her live shows and she somehow caught a glimpse of my feet.

It was apparently a perfect storm of my mum's generous mood and my lack of speech that saw me skipping through the front door of our house later that afternoon wearing the most marvellous boots the world had ever seen. Even my sisters were completely jealous.

I finally owned something enviable.

I told everyone at school about my boots, and the next week, Lynette Bitch Face and her mother went off to Penrith Plaza and bought the very same ones. But we were not allowed to be mean to Lynette because her brother was in jail, so I had to just cop that one on the chin.

Pretty soon nearly every girl in my class had the Madonna Lace Boots and we all wore them to the school social, giving pitying looks to those girls who were wearing Apple Pies.

My mum sometimes fancied herself as a fashion designer, so when the puffball skirt craze hit and I showed her a photo of Madonna
wearing one in
Smash Hits
, and asked if we could get one from Sportsgirl, she waved the magazine away and told me that she could whip one up for me.

I wanted a black one, but she objected, telling me I was too young to wear black. Instead she made me a puffball skirt out of a pale blue grosgrain material. The skirt was not puffy. It was limp. Saggy might be a good word to describe it. A saggy, limp skirt. I wasn't a fan. But this didn't mean I was against homemade clothes per se. It was around this time that a film came out featuring homemade clothes that seemed to me the epitome of high fashion:
Pretty in Pink
. This film would also mark the zenith of my obsession with the combined oeuvre of filmmaker John Hughes and actor Molly Ringwald.

In each film Molly played a girl who was ‘different' but who nevertheless ended up with the cute guy. Molly was Sam Baker in
Sixteen Candles
and, while she was pissed off that everyone forgot her birthday, she did get to pash foxy Jake Ryan in the end.

She was Claire Standish in
The Breakfast Club
, which was about a group of kids who were on detention. Her character was snooty and standoffish. A lot of this film went way over my head at the time, but I always appreciated a makeover scene.

But my absolute favourite film was
Pretty in Pink
, in which Molly played Andie Walsh, a motherless waif from the wrong side of the tracks who made all her own clothes and they were cool and quirky. Andie became the target of the school jock when she dared to reject his advances; she had her eyes on another prize, said jock's best mate, a preppy lad by the name of Blane McDonnagh, played by Andrew McCarthy. Blane was not handsome in a traditional sense, and neither was Andie.
Despite all the obstacles standing in their way, love blossomed between them.

My first experience of loin-stirrage occurred when Blane asked Andie to the prom and they went for the big tongue-slurping kiss. Looking back on that scene now, you can really see how awkward and unsexy it was, but at the time it was like someone had released a dozen drunk butterflies directly into my guts. I wanted to be kissed like that.

I also wanted to unpick a couple of dresses and put them back together. But I was not allowed to use Mum's Singer . . . because I didn't know how to sew.

If
Pretty in Pink
had any legacy to leave, it was the sexual awakening of millions of girls. I was not alone in my quest to be kissed like that but, unlike some of the other girls, it would be years before someone stuck their tongue down my throat.

So I had to make do with practising on my pillow.

DON'T YOU DARE SIT THERE JUDGING ME! I bet you did it too. Or perhaps you might have pashed wall posters as well. Wall posters of Boy George even.

Don't worry. I won't tell anyone.

Which is such bullshit. After one particular slumber party, during which I displayed my superior kissing techniques, complete with correct hand placement, word got around the school that I had pashed my pillow—even though all the girls present had taken the secret oath of the sisterhood never to tell.

Kids can be so cruel. I just wanted to have some intimate time with my pillow, and share my knowledge with the other girls, and all of a sudden I was a laughing-stock. I deeply regretted being so generous with my knowledge. I'm sure that's the reason no boys
wanted to kiss me in primary school. Which was quite frustrating at the time, because I was becoming more aware of boys—and more aware of myself and what others thought of me. I was about to enter the cruel world of primary school politics . . .

_____________

*
A super-offensive term, but one that was used frequently during my youth.

5

SOCIAL DEATH

For many readers, to mention 1984 is to evoke George Orwell's eerily prescient dystopian novel. For music lovers it might evoke the soundtrack album by the Eurythmics. But, for me, 1984 will always be remembered as the year
Countdown
first screened Madonna's hit song ‘Holiday'. That Sunday night changed my life forever. I had never seen someone so cool, so gorgeous and so funky. I shoved Ramona Alvarez into the back of my wardrobe and fell head over heels in love with the world of pop singers.

It's no coincidence that 1984 was also the year that
Smash Hits
magazine was first published in Australia. I was on board from day one. I would save all the pocket money I earned by picking up dogshit in the backyard and every second Friday I would pop off to the newsagency to get my copy.

I became a collector of compilation cassette tapes and would proudly line up my copies of
1984 Shakin'
,
H'its Huge '84
and
Throbbin' 84
, fully believing that the blatant abuse of the apostrophe thought up by some dipshit in the marketing department of Polygram was actually cool. I would listen to the tapes over and over and over again on my new red Walkman while flicking through the latest issue of
Smash Hits
.

In 1984 I was in Year 5 at school and things were changing for me. I started looking in the mirror a little more, wondering why I didn't look like Madonna. Boys were becoming less of a nuisance and more interesting to me, while my parents were becoming less interesting and starting to give me the legitimate shits.