Saw this advert in a magazine the other day. Apparently I have a hang-up about my stomach; but I’m not to worry! This company has been working hard on developing innovative technology to make me look like Catherine Zeta-Jones in my bathing costume – PHEW!
So, how does this innovative tummy slimming technology work I hear you ask…
Well, here are my suggestions:
1) You drag your swimming costume up your body – tucking your flab in as you go – and an activated voice tells you to take it off again immediately and replace it with a bin bag to completely cover you up
2) The flab is re-distributed. If my stomach flab is sucked in it can only go to one of two places: under my boobs or around my arse. If it joined forces WITH my boobs I’d be over the moon – for the first time in my life I’d actually have a decent pair of boobs! But UNDER my boobs…not so much. If it settled around my arse that wouldn’t be good either. Kim Kardashian might have a humungous arse, but it’s still pert…if mine became humungous it’d just look like a sack of spuds trying to burst out of a string bag
3) The swimming costume is actually made of well disguised industrial metal and is able to successfully contain the population of a small Caribbean island; so dealing with my stomach flab won’t be an issue. Only problem is I’ll not be able to breathe, and will most likely feel sick – plus my ability to drink a shed load of cocktails by the pool will be seriously diminished
4) The swimming costume is magic, and the minute it comes into contact with my stomach several inches instantly disappear
The thing is ladies…I’m just glad to know that innovative technology is being put to such good use!
It’s great to know that our stomach flab is keeping technologists and/or scientists awake at night!
I often go to the supermarket looking like I’ve been sleeping under a railway bridge for a week: hair scraped up, no make-up, tracksuit bottoms, scruffy trainers, pyjama top (I kid you not) and shapeless cardigan (buttoned up to hide the pyjama top!) Keep on reading!
Well, it’s that time of year again – the ‘hunt down a couple of dresses for the party season’ time of year. Or as I like to call it – the ‘cross my fingers and hope I find something that doesn’t make me look like mutton dressed as lamb, has an air of Catherine Zeta Jones about it (as opposed to an air of desperation), and doesn’t cost the earth’ time of year. Keep on reading!
Had been at the gym 10 minutes today when a member of staff came over to tell me that a film crew would be coming in to make a promotional film clip, for You Tube . She then asked if I was ok about being in it. No I chuffing was not!
“Should I leave?” I asked desperately. Keep on reading!
My current hairdresser is hell-bent on blow-drying my hair in a certain way – which is absolutely not the way I want it. So today, to show her how I’d like it done, I actually washed and blow-dried it myself before I went for my appointment – yes, you read that right. Puffed out from my head and wavy; nothing wrong with a bit of Farrah Fawcett of a morning! Plenty of volume. Remember that. It’s important.
She did the roots and trimmed it, then it was time for the blow dry. I’d told her I like volume. I’d told her it doesn’t suit me flat to my head. I’d told her flat hair makes my face look gaunt – I’d told her it makes me look old. She nodded and smiled knowingly.
Confident she knew what she was doing I settled down to read my book. 15 minutes later I looked up. CHUFFIN’ NORA!! An Afghan hound looked back at me. No, NOT a perfectly groomed, swishy, silky Afghan hound – a neglected, scrawny, old mutt with lank hair that any grungy teenager would be proud of!
Flat to my head, my face looked gaunt, I’d aged 10 years and guess what? NO VOLUME!
Decided that, as a fully grown adult, I should be able to create a smokey eye when I go out wearing full make up (full make up as opposed to last night’s mascara, smudged eyebrows and a look of apology). On numerous occasions I’ve attempted to get the smokey, sultry look – and failed every time. I invariably end up looking like I should be spending my evening standing on a street corner, propping up a bar scaring innocent young men or draped around a pole – having first tried to stuff my middle-aged muffin top into ridiculously tiny bits of lace.
So, in the supermarket today, I headed to the make up counters in search of eye shadow. The palette currently residing in my make-up drawer has been there at least 10 years and includes: bright green and blue, a worn out brush, a cracked mirror and the odd cat hair.
I felt that powder eye shadow was probably best; cream tends to congeal in my eyelid creases, point-blank refuses to blend and has been absorbed into my body within an hour of being applied. I fleetingly dabbled with colour tattoo eye make-up a while ago. The problem with this however, is that it won’t come off. Red, watery, puffy eyes is a look I can manage on my own thanks without the aid of a cotton wool pad soaked in industrial strength cleanser and 10 minutes of
scrubbing gentle dabbing.
Found a stand with little pots of testers in every colour you could imagine. My eyes lit up. Was drawn to an off-white, sparkly one. Carefully extending my finger I placed it into the pot, ready to test its suitability – only to discover that not only was it not eye shadow but that it was actually body shimmer. And therefore, extremely loose and powdery.
Spent rest of my time in the supermarket with a finger nail full of shimmer, a cascade of it down my coat, rogue specks glinting up at me from the tops of my shoes and a firm resolution to give myself a good talking to and give up on the smokey eye, love!
Shampoo why do you lie so much?
What makes you promise me,
That using you will make my hair
The hair I want to see?
You show me lovely images
Of maidens, oh so fair.
You make me think that I can have
Their lovely, flowing hair.
You say you’ll smooth and clarify
Protect, repair and fix.
Relax, hydrate, defend from breaks
And other clever tricks.
You offer volume, body, height
And all things in between.
And obviously my hair will have
A sleek and glossy sheen.
You’ll make my hair more youthful, and
Keep signs of age at bay.
You’ll fix split ends and somehow change
The texture of the grey.
Shampoo for greasy, frizzy, dry
Or flyaway and fine.
Coloured, curly, straight or flat
But which is right for mine?
I choose one and rush home with glee,
Fling back the shower door.
I wash and dry my hair, and yet –
IT’S STILL LIKE BLOODY STRAW!!!
Oh maxi dress, oh maxi dress
My favourite style by far.
I wear it all the time you know
In restaurant, shop and bar.
It covers all the things I’ve got
I’d rather not be seen.
I’ll give a few examples
So you’ll know just what I mean.
Pale, white legs that never brown
No matter what I do.
Veins that creep around my shins
A lovely shade of blue.
Hairs so long they’d look ok
On any man I know.
A bum that lost its pertness
And its firmness long ago.
Knees no longer pointing straight
But slipping to the side.
A muffin top and rolls of flab
Are what I’m trying to hide.
I put it on, I stand up tall
And watch it drape around.
All the things kept underneath
Are hidden safe and sound.
So thank you lovely maxi dress
For all the times you’re there.
Even when you’re out of date
It’s you I’ll always wear.
I was getting dry after my shower when husband came in to the bathroom – to get something out of the cupboard. I looked at him and smiled.
Feeling a bit frisky I slipped one shoulder out of the towel and looked at him coyly, then followed it with the other. I allowed the fabric to drop tantalisingly over the top of my breasts, slowly revealing my nipples. He looked at me appreciatively as the towel slithered to the floor, and licked his lips – then his expression changed. Was it lust? Was it admiration? Was it awe?
He opened his mouth to speak the immortal words that every wife longs to hear…
“You’ve got a long hair growing out from the side of your left nipple.”