Philosophy

So I was talking to my friend Lady L. the other day and realized that one of my drunken reminiscences had actually helped her come to terms with some truths within herself. It had helped in her soul-searching, to reach the depths of human existence. So I thought maybe it could help other lost souls that read this blog.

Next time you are buying the 45867 pair of earrings or the 4857483 bangle, instead of feeling guilty, repeat the mantra:

"I collect jewellery"

Like people collect stamps or match boxes or one night stands. We collect jewellery. So not only we never ever have to feel guilty about the ridiculous amount of metal and beads accumulated over the years, we can also use the mantra to silence our other halves in the few occasions they dare criticize our shopping habits.



PS: The mantra doesn't apply only to jewellery. Here are a few ideas of alternative uses:

"I collect shoes"
"I collect bags"
"I collect clothes"

And for the real shopaholics among us (...may Mastercard have mercy on their souls...):

"I collect anything made of fabric, metal, plastic or skin"

Little balls in funny places...

Few things trigger my fancy to the extent that I seriously start doing imaginary bank-robbery plans. Ok, maybe a bit more than just a few things. But I still get all flustered and excited as if I was a 13 year old shoe-virgin when I see such beauties as these Dior shoes, brought to my attention by fellow blog Glam & Tonic.

The colours are delicious. They have studs and little balls in funny places. They have platforms and are amazingly high. What’s not to love?

My inner Drag Queen (who has been asleep lately, knocked-out by my current preference for little dresses in muted colours) has awakened with a jump singing “It’s Raining Men” to the top of her feather-covered lungs.

my so called life...

So being a girl ain't easy. Let's go through some basic maths:

7 days a month - PMS
7 days a month - Cramps and general period shenanigans

That leaves only 2 weeks a month of relative sanity and pain-free existence.

From those:

4 days you feel fat or ugly or have a huge spot in the middle of your forehead or hair that resembles a broom
3 days you have nothing to wear
2 days you are in generic bad mood because of the weather or your payslip or some other external force
3 days you are hungover

That leaves just 2 days of pretty, cheerful, pain-free, glamorous, well-dressed, sober you.

And you can bet you will be working on those days.

PS: A virtual drink for whoever finds out which one of the lovely above days I am having!

Love is...

So the other day I got home and Gringowlindow, the man, was all happy on the couch.

“Look”, he said. “I opened the sides of my sweatpants so they won’t be tapered anymore”.

Needless to say I almost cried with joy. To find out after almost six years of my blabbing that he actually has been listening!

Of course he ruined the pants as they will probably dissolve in the washing machine. But I don’t mind. “Baby I cut up my pants so they won’t be tapered anymore” must be the best thing a gal like me can hear after “I love you” and “Do you want to come on a £1000 shopping spree?”

Topman

And the winner was…



Yes, I have returned to the fabulous world of the brunettes.

Unfortunately I still don't look like her. But the hair turned out pretty ok. I spared my new hairdresser of the mad requests, but did change my mind when he was just about to squeeze the highlighting bleach into the pot. After deciding on a different hair colour every five minutes. So I guess I am not the best client in the world. But my hairdresser - who is a friend of my friend J -has just been crowned the best one in the entire Milky Way and neighbouring galaxies because:

* He picked me up from the tube station by car. On a specially rainy and windy day, that is the equivalent of giving you a foot massage while telling you how much you resemble Liv Tyler.

* He lives in an impossibly stylish house with the coolest coffee machine. And he made me so many coffees that I spent the next few hours speaking like a football narrator. On speed. On a final. Of the World Cup. (Ok, enough)

* He has a cute dog who gave me high-five. I know that’s probably standard dog behaviour, but I am someone who never had a dog and for me that dog is Einstein.

The Wardrobes of Others

Is it really shallow that, in between crying and biting my nails while watching "The Lives of Others", I managed have long mental considerations about Maria-Christa's wardrobe?
Well, at least I managed not to bug Gringowlindow mid-film with my thoughts (I am trying to keep these to myself and myblog after he politely told me recently that he cannot get as excited as me about my quest for the perfect flat boots).
Back to Maria-Christa. So after starting the film thinking her clothes were pretty bland in a pre-fall-of-the-Berlin-wall kind of way, towards the end I was enamoured of the combination of dusty pale blue and brown, the tweedy librarian skirts and her cute Russian fury hat.

I was considering trying to recreate the vibe, but got a bit scared of looking more Martha Steward than Maria-Christa. Never, I repeat, never a good look!
While on the subject, I am also digging the foxy-writer’s style. Maybe I can convince Gringowlindow to use his fancy mother tongue to write down a few lines while wearing brown blazer jackets and crumpled shirts…

Back for good

I know have disappeared for a while. Ok, I also know that 2 months would qualify as a whole lot more than a while. But after completing my MA with its write 10574823910103784 characters, I admit I was a bit lost for words. Something that is not very usual, given that in true Seinfield fashion I can have an incredibly long conversation about nothing. With a lamppost. And a sore throat.
But it happened.
That, however, was 2007 and I hear now is 2008. So out with the silent old, in with the blabbing new. If there is anyone still out there, I am back and intend to remain this way. Lampposts, here I come!

Starting off with a fresh hair-related beauty dilemma. Finally after a long time and disastrous experimentations of the home-kind, I am going to get my hair coloured by someone who knows what they are doing. At the moment, it is bicolour and not in a chic Chanel-shoe-kind-of-way. The question is: should I remain on the blond-highlights territory? Or try to see if going back to being a proper brunette won’t make me disappear to that faraway land which is also home to socks lost in the wash and shames lost in the beer?

So...

or

(I know that there is no hair colouring in the world that will make me look anything like these darlings, but that won’t stop me from scaring my brand new hairdresser into thinking that this is exactly what I expect. God, life is fun!)