Thursday, February 24, 2011

White white wine...

I am kind of singing the song, you know the one that goes 'Red red wine' by the Beejees, Gypsy Kings, Bob Marley or whomever actually sings it. If anyone heard my singing they wouldn't know who I was talking about anyway.

I question why no-one has ever praised or lambasted white, white wine in a song...

Let me tell you most of my friends and I have an irrevocable relationship with this lovely nectar.

White wine can be like your best friend or your worst enemy. It's like Bridget Jones's nemesis in the movie, that sickly sweet girl she names 'The jellyfish' who can be sooo nice but then let's out a lashing sting without any warning.

But like many women, white wine can be temperamental. Sometimes I can drink a bottle and be like, as sober as a cobra. Other times I can have 2 glasses and feel absolutely paralytic. Most of the time, I feel utterly fabulous and confident- like I really do have the best time ever and do you know what, after 2 glasses, I love to give my opinion and advice, I just know I have the best advice to give at that present moment and it makes it even better when you have a cigarette in hand and gorgeous Hotel Costes music pumping in the background.

And why get 2 glasses psshhhh, what a waste, when you can get a bottle, it's much cheaper I say. My friends and I always start off with, 'ok let's meet for 1 glass of wine'. I don't think it has ever been one glass. Either the night ends in frayed tempers, dancing on tables, or the placatory ...'it's ok he's a nice guy, I've known him for 2 hours, he's cool!'

White wine is also horrid because it gives you possibly the worst hangover in the world. Especially when you are in a dry climate and wake up with what feels like a dead hamster in your mouth and your pallet stuck to your tongue er or tongue stuck to pallet. With your makeup still glued on and your pillow smudged with mascara and your clothes lying in a crumpled heap next to the bed.

I fail to comprehend that something that tastes so nice, that can give you such a warm, fuzzy feeling or other times this sense of disquiet, yet calm and confident streak, can leave one hanging over the loo bowl in a dizzy mess thinking that death would be preferable the next day.

Here are some classic faux pas that some of my friends who shall remain nameless and me have done while under the influence:

- Spanked strangers and friends and even her little brother with a bread board that we said looked more like a sex paddle. Needless to say the only thing it's christened is bums.

- Sent a druken facebook message to said love of life with this looong message which when realised how long it was, shortened it to 'Simon = whatever' OMG cringe

- Had sex with ugly men who were like Brad Pitt the night before (ahem wine goggles)

- Had sex with own housemates

- Stomped foot and insisted on staying night at new crush's house even though you haven't smooched yet

- Admitted to sexual fantasies about Simon Cowell

- Accused best friend of stealing Woolies card and handbag

- Pretended to be Danish and ask for a cigarette in said fake accent

- Fallen alseep in the bath naked with bath mat as blanket

- Puked in a cab

- Drunken dialled parents (yup not even a crush)

- Danced in lounge to Whitney Houston...by yourself

- Shouted at a guy for not committing and wanting children on a 1st date

- Jumped on your best friend's boyfriend's brother in wait for it your best friend's brother's who used to be your boyfriend's bed, yup that's true

My verdict to this travesty? Drink champers instead, it gets you less drunk, less quickly.

Cheers

xoxo

-

To be OCD or not to be OCD

I would like to know if this recital I have in my head is a product of being an only child or it is something everyone does but rarely talks about.

Sometimes when I do things, like for instance put my contact lenses in (clear contacts due to my piercing blue eyes) I say to myself: 'Ok you have, have to, get your contacts in the 1st time because if you don't, you will never have sex again.'

Or I will be driving to the shops and say to myself 'if you don't reach the shops by 22.22, you will...never have sex again'

Or I will be walking briskly on the pavement and I try to hop, skip and jump over the cracks and only walk on the flagstones and I say to myself...' Ok if you stand on the crack, you will never have sex again'

Or I will lock my door and being fully aware that I have locked the door, go back not once, but twice and check it is firmly locked...or never have sex again.

Or I will get a text message and I will think in my head: 'Oh please please let it be him, but if it isn't and rather a text from a friend, I will NEVER hear from him again and guess what I will never have sex again....'



I must admit it's not always the 'I'll never have sex again' quote at the end, but to me I think this is the WORST CASE SCENARIO anyone could ever be in so maybe that's why I tend to use it a lot.

I do find though that the older I get, the more OCD I become. For example, if I go to a restaurant and the serviette, knife and fork is on my right I will move it to the left, because it goes.on.the.left in my opinion. OK?? Also if someone puts my wineglass on the left hand side...no no no! It must be on the right, perfectly aligned with the knife.

Similarly when someone takes plates away when other people are still eating...hmm this makes me uppity. And stacking, tsk tsk. This is not to say that I don't mind doing this, it's just when you go to a restaurant you expect them to know to wait for everyone to finish.

I kind of get OCD in other ways, sometimes, sometimes, to be honest to get attention. One time in London, I went to a BBQ. I had to face a very brief ex date who had f***** off to the Caribbean without a backward glance and now had to face me after his rude behaviour. Anyway I had bigger fish to fry. I was smitten by a hottie that I have known as a friend forever.

Needless to say that I got onto the bus with said hottie and another drunken friend who kept on slurring 'You're beautiful' from the row behind me. I was acting like a little priss (think Bree Van De Kamp from Desperate Housewives) and vigorously wiping my hands with hand hygiene gel and wrinkling my nose. I visibly sighed when we got to the place in Fulham where we were going to, as I heard a horrendous ablution story about a person leaving the dancefloor in disrepair, needless to say after flicking and flouncing my hair and trotting about with my nose in the air, I left the hottie intrigued but sans smooch. I heard later that he had in fact tired to follow me but I had ponied away too quickly. Damn!! Sometimes being over clean and anal (so to speak) appeals to men.

Going back to my point of my little OCD quirk, to sum up I MUST have:

-not put my contacts in first time
-not reached the shop by 22.22
-and stepped on every crack whilst walking briskly

FML.

The Barbara saga continued and my new hair

Ok this story just gets worse and worse. I told everyone in my office that my trainer told me I looked like Barbara Streisand. Firstly they asked if the trainer was gay...apparently gay men LOVE Old Barbs and then they tried to console me by saying that 'you look like Barbara in her youth'. To which I googled 'A Young Barbara Streisand'. This is what came up. WTF.


Anyway so I decided to have a drastic haircut with Bangs (aka fringe) and try to look like the absolute gorgeous Rose Byrne from that fantastic, nail gripping legal drama 'Damages'. This is Rose Byrne:




So I had it done and some people were very complimentary.

Others weren't as kind.

- My mother asked if the hairdresser had a hangover when she cut my hair
- My gay uncle told me I looked like...Barbie
- I got told I look like a JAP (Jewish American Princess - I get this a lot and take it as a compliment, I want to marry a Jewish guy and don't mind Mighaing, I mean, if they look after their wives as well as they look after their mothers, I am sorted).
- I also took a self portrait of myself and whatsapped it to mates in London, one didn't believe it was me, she thought I took a snap of some quasi chinese Victoria Beckham

Needless to say I love it, I mean who doesn't love a BANG?

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Barbara Streisand and me at the gym

Last night I eventually succumbed to going to a personal trainer. The overeager sales rep who was bursting to get my John Hancock on the dotted line recommended this guy. I enquired whether there were any women trainers as I feel more comfortable with them. Apparently there are no women trainers. Hmm this made me feel slightly suspicious. I looked around the place and it is predominantly dominated by big, buff over-muscled men who are probably on steriods and have tiny dicks. Maybe they harassed all the women till they left.

Anyway all of the trainers have those cheesy pics up on the wall, you know the ones, with their arms crossed and their biceps bulging. I chose the oldest guy with grey hair, less chance of him being a dodgy perve. He eventually phones me about 5 days later, talk about great service, and we arrange a time to meet up. So I meet up with him last night and he frogmarches me to the treadmill. 'What do you want to work on?' he asks abruptly. 'Um I thought that's what you were supposed to tell me?' I enquire. Great start, he is clearly lacking in professionalism and service. I tell him the obvious: 'I want to focus on overall weight loss and toning of arms etc.' He then minces to the floor mat where he says 'I work very quickly, you know' and then proceeds to make me do pelvic thrusts on a pilates ball in front of about 10 men. I almost died. I used to train out at Virgin in London, at least they have a women only section. Pity Planet Fitness sucks.

So while I am panting and pelvic thrusting, he is checking out the breakdancers spinning on their heads next to me. (I kid you not). He then makes me do so many exercises with dumbbells I almost expire. We then move onto the weight machines which he says aren't effective but he makes me do them anyway. I'm struggling to lift the weights, (please bear in mind that I haven't exercised in 3 months) and he exclaims: 'Are you serious? You can't lift this? You are like soo weak..' I retort 'Um that is quite rude' meanwhile I'm raging inside....'Shut the fuck up you mothertrucker, I am your client, just zip it and nip it.' Ok so now he is seriously hacking me off. Oh and he is also speaking in a fake french accent and keeps on saying 'D'accord?' in his high pitched voice and when I try to respond in french, he looks at me blankly. GRRR. Last but not least, he asks me whether anyone has ever told me I look like Barbara Streisand? At this I snapped 'No because that's the biggest insult I have ever heard.' Ok that is apart from when a random dude told me I looked like Fred Durst from Limp Biskit. But I think this was his inadvertent, reverse pyschology way of getting into my pants.

So horrible trainer was like 'But I think Barbara's beautiful.' Seriously I have never been so enraged. So now I'm paranoid that I need a nose job but oh god, I've just had a boob job. If I'm not careful I might end up looking like Heidi Montag that has-been from 'The Hills.'

Needless to say, I refuse to go back to him, the bitch.

I mean, Barbara and I may both be performers - but that's where the similarity ends.


Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Yoga

So last night I went to my first yoga class at my new gym. I was immediately sceptical as the teacher, no offence to her, had the biggest ass I have ever seen. (Similarly my dietitian looks like a fat buddha, WTF, it's like having a dentist with rotten teeth).

Back to yoga instructor, surely she should look like an emaciated stick insect and make all the bulimics in the room do a little mock charge in excitement?

I also always look at the people in the class: Indians (obvious), the normal slightly overweight white ladies like me, the skeletal bored housewife who is probably banging her trainer and then of course there always has to be the one straight man. He enters the room, chest puffed up in pride and you just know he is saying in his head: 'I am MAN enough to be in this class. I know who I am, I am straight but I am metro.I do yoga because I believe in the flexibility it gives me.' You can just imagine him beating his chest like a silverback gorilla. He is of course also wearing tiny shorts where you can see his tiny budgie wrestling to escape the barriers of lycra. My best thing about all men in yoga classes is that they almost have to prove to everyone else that they know how to breathe properly, so now one has to get used to these deep inhales and exhales because you must know, you MUST know he is a big man in the lung department and he wants everyone to know it. Quite frankly, I much prefer pouffs in yoga, at least they shave their legs and know how to breathe quietly.

Froggy and fairy


Oh Fuck, I ate a fairy...light.

Dick....Tracey


I am no Dick Tracey but is Sony Ericsson going into the inflatable sex toy market?
Va Va vroom!!!