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!)

Happy bunny

Once upon a time there was a Brazilian shoe brand called Melissa. They made the best ever jelly shoes, with the most amazingly comfortable heel. So comfortable that I made a whole on it. (Took it to my superhero shoe guy, who found out the heel was hollow and put a wood stick inside it in a very MacGyver sort of way. But now I digress.)

Back to Melissa. They like to do partnerships with cool designers such as Alexandre Herchcovitch and Marcelo Sommer. All very cool, all very nice. But nothing can ever be as nice as their next partnership. A little bird told me Vivienne Westwood will be designing a little collection. Now, for a Vivienne adorer and Melissa lover like myself, this is big, it is huge. Even bigger than a Chanel sample sale. And this time it's not even a dream.

+ = ONE HAPPY ME.

Better than Disney

Does anybody out there have shopping dreams or is it just me?

When I was a kid, I use to dream I was in Disneyworld, only to wake up disappointed that the only ride I was going on was the bus to school.

Now that Disney kind of lost its appeal, it seems it's becoming Chanel.

Only that in my dream, they were having a sample sale (kind of like Disney really). But I was not invited. Bad?

So somehow I manage to get it at the end of the day. I go straight to the sunglasses, which are reduced to £10 (!!). As I am browsing, a sad mean little man comes and starts collecting them all, saying the sale is almost over and he needs to clean up the displays. Even worse?

I manage to convince him to give me one minute, and just get around 10 pairs of sunglasses to choose from later. When I start trying them on, I discover all of them are men's models, as I was looking in the wrong section. Now that is the worst thing that could happen.

And no, I am not superficial. I am sure this dream has deep psychological hidden meanings and it is not simply about my lust for all things Chanel. It is my story and I am sticking to it!

funny pics / unfunny post

Ok, I know it's silly. And I know we don't really care about celebrities and what they look like. But I couldn't help but laugh my unphotoshoped ass off at these pictures from fellow blogger Planet Hiltron.


(Amy Winehouse, Nicole Kidman and Beckhams)

Basically, they did photomontages about how some famous people would look like if their life had taken a different turn and they didn't count on an army of stylists, hairdressers and make-up artists.

Kind of like an inverse make-over. Which would be a make-under (sorry...it was much funnier in my head).

Anyways, me knows it's silly but me liked. Me thinks me might be a bit silly. Me is gonna stop right now before me ruins me writing reputation.

It's Thursday and me is tired. (Oh my God, me can't stop. HELP!)

Glamorous me

As one more London Fashion Week draws to a close, I catch myself thinking about the weird world of the beautiful clothes. Don't get me wrong, I love the whole buzz of it as much as the next consumerist lady. But it is a week based on image, and everybody (me on top of ridiculous heels included) tries to put their best one forward. Like when everyone is dying to see what is inside the goody bag, but has to pretend they don't really care. Even if 10 minutes later they are elbowing a fellow show-goer in the eye to get an extra bag forgotten on the front row.

Soooo, instead of talking about the catwalks, the models and how fabulous we all were, I decided to get real and reveal: MY BIGGEST FASHION WEEK FAUX-PAUS.



1) End of show, having a beer at the after party when one of the designers approaches. He gives me his card. I decide to show off just a little and thank him in my only Japanese. "Arigatô Gozaimassssss", I say. "You are welcome, but I am Chinese", he replies.

2) End of another show, general buzz, people leaving the venue in a symphony of chunky heels, many abandoning their yummy cosmetic-brand-sponsored goody bags. Never the one to miss an opportunity, I get a little carried away and end up with three bags in my hands. Not, I repeat, NOT a good look.

3) Waiting for the doors to open at a third event, I spot my favourite fashion blogger coming down the stairs. Having had more than my fair share of free beer, I yell her name, tell her I "loooooooooove" her blog, and proceed to introduce her to my two friends who probably decided to end the friendship then and there. Not only I manage to embarrass the poor blogger, but I make my friends want to hide in their stilettos. Nice one darling.

Wood life

Camping is supposed to be a chilled time away from the tribulations of city life, right?

Well, of course it's not exactly what happens when certain people set up on their voyage...

So there we are, Saturday afternoon, enjoying the peace and quiet in the middle of the woods. All very relaxing. The fire is going, I am reading about crazy Chinese torture, Gringowlindow is listening to the football on headphones and scaring the deer with every almost-goal, our friends are taking a nap in the tent. Until...

Big guy and old farmer appear from nowhere.

Old farmer - What is this?
Me (puzzled by the obvious question) - Well, we are camping
Old farmer - Mmmmmmm, camping, huh?
Me (defiant) - Yes, camping, this is public land.
Old farmer - Well, not really. This is my land.
Me (not feeling so hot anymore) - Gulp. But isn't this the Kings Wood?
Old farmer - Not really. Kings Wood ends before that field. These are my woods.

At that time, Big guy was having a look around our campsite, and I was preparing to get up and leave when Gringowlindow goes...

Gringowlindow - Errrrrr, do you mind if we stay until tomorrow?

Surprisingly, Old farmer decided that we could stay. I think he realized we were not exactly Hooligans after having a look around and seeing:

- Scrabble
- A backgammon board
- A few books
- Our many empty bottles of wine set aside for recycling.

And so we stayed. But I suspect our friends (who had never camped before) were not so convinced anymore by our claims that we were pro campers (considering I also forgot to bring the pots and pans).

(...is great, especially with pots and pans...God save Sansbury's!)

Rélou

Ok folks and flowers.

So here I am. Back and in English!

Thank you for all the comments, I will definitely take the advice of writing in whatever language makes more sense. After all, as someone pointed out, certain life-changing expressions such as "cara de palmito" are indeed hard to translate. But, for the sake of those not familiar with the language of Gisele, caipirinha and crazy-waxing-in-private-places, I promise I will try my best.



I am going camping this weekend, so soon I return with tales of glamour X mud and how to convince Gringowlindow to come pee with me in the woods at 3am because I have been afraid of going on my own since watching The Blair Witch project.

Anyways, as Wonderbra once said "HELLO BOYS"!

(Little dictionary of silly expressions:
Gringowlindow - English word for Gringolindo, which is my beloved hubby and eternal gringo.
Gringo - A non-Brazilian.)

Pesquisa de opinião

Folgada eu...não apareço durante séculos e quando venho é para pedir coisas...

Mas é que estava pensando numa idéia e queria saber o que meus leitores, se é que me sobrou algum após tanto desaparecimento, acham...

Vocês me achariam péssima, ridícula e tá-se-achando-a-maior-gostosa-do-planeta se eu começasse a escrever o blog em inglês???

É que tenho vários amiguinhos(as) que não falam português e com quem eu também gostaria de dividir minhas idéias de jerico...mas escrever dois blogues seria uma idéia mais de jerico ainda dada a falta de tempo crônica do resto de ser humano que vos escreve...

Bom, me digam o que acham...mas sejam fofos mesmo que acharem que essa é a pior idéia do mundo porque estou em momento frágil, tá?

Palhaça

Final de semana em Brighton (praia de pedrinhas a duas horas de Londres, com uma vibe meio hippie e lojinhas fofas).

Domingão, festival de música na praia, tempo meio cá meio lá. Lá pelas 5 da tarde, olho para o Gringolindo e para Gringoamigo...os dois, criaturas pálidas do norte do Equador, estavam competindo para ver quem chegava ao tom mais exótico de vermelho. O solzinho bobo, no fim das contas, estava queimando.

Me achando a mulata brasileira da cor do pecado, dou uma bronca nos dois, faço um longo discurso sobre os perigos do sol e digo ao Gringolindo que se ele virar uma uva passa aos 40 fujo com o adolescente do Tesco que acha que cheiro bem.

Um segundo depois, olho para os meus braços e noto horrorizada que também estou com uma tonalidade rosa fosforescente. Os dois também reparam e passam o resto do dia rindo de mim. Com razão.

Palhaçaaaaaaaaa.

Motel de passarinho dá frutos

Rápido update sobre o pombo-gate.

Semana passada descobri que o amor deu frutos. Encontrei um ovo de pombo na minha varanda. Para quem nunca viu ovo de pombo, o que era meu caso, parece ovo de codorna.

Fiquei dividida. Deixo o ovo vingar e arrisco ser anfitriã de uma família de pombos felizes, com direito a ninho, comida e penas lavadas? Ou jogo o ovo fora e arrisco ser vítima de um casal de pombos irados?

Decidi jogar o ovo fora. Meio malvado, eu sei, mas pombo é rato com asa e na minha grama sintética não!

Até agora não fui atacada por nenhum psico-pombo, mas se fizerem cocô na minha cabeça não vou estranhar.

Motel de passarinho

Fatos interessantes sobre pombos:

Fato 1: Eles são pudicos. Apesar de serem uma espécie de sem-tetos do mundo aviário, não gostam de fazer suas pombíces carnais em público.

Fato 2: Apesar do fato 1, eles não têm a menor vergonha de usar a varanda alheia como motel.

Fato 3: Mesmo assim, quando são pegos no flagra no local mencionado no fato 2, fazem cara de paisagem e saem assobiando como se ficar se amassando na varanda alheia fosse a coisa mais normal do mundo.

Descobri esse lado paradoxal do pombo ao flagrar um casal de ditos cujos em pleno ato pombográfico, escondidinho atrás de um vaso na minha varanda. A descoberta foi feita quando resolvi investigar de onde vinha o incessante "coooooooooooooooooo, cooooooooooooooooooooooooo" que ouvia há longos e irritantes minutos.

Apesar de ser uma moça liberada nesses assuntos, acho meio que o fim da picada que a minha varanda, tão pequenina e mimosa, seja transformada em motel de passarinho. Fala sério. Alguém conhece alguma tática para espantar pombo?

Bobagens geniais

Estou lendo um livro divertidíssimo e extremamente fútil chamado Bergdorf Blondes.

É um antídoto ao livro anterior que levei cinco meses para ler, uma obra japonesa pesadíssima que incluia, na mesma estória, suicídio, paranormalidade, coma e perda de memória. Eu sei, credo! Mas a capa era azul-bebê-pega-trouxa, toda meiga, e me deixei levar.

Por isso antes de embarcar em mais alguma aventura tétrica nipônica (meu fraco, confesso), resolvi ler o livro mais mulherzinha que consegui achar (outro de meus fracos, mas isso vocês provavelmente já imaginavam pelo teor desse blog).

Ainda estou na página 25, mas já encontrei frases impagáveis! A minha preferida até agora é:

"Esse dia foi tão ruim...um absoluto desperdício de maquiagem".

Genial!

Resfriado...

Homem é um bicho deveras estranho.

Eis que outro dia eu chego ao supermercado, depois de pegar ônibus lotado e ficar pra lá e pra cá o dia todo num calor senegalês.

Meio mal humorada, reclamo pro caixa que não tinha mais cestinhas para as compras.

O rapaz, naquela idade de pico hormonal que ignora rabugice em rabo de saia, se sai com essa:

Rapazote - Posso comentar uma coisa?
Eu - Claro.
Rapazote - Deixa pra lá.
Eu - OK.
Rapazote - Você cheira muito bem.
Eu - Aha??? Obrigada.
Rapazote - É um elogio.
Eu - Percebi!

Obviamente cheguei em casa toda prosa dizendo pro gringo-lindo que se ele não se comportar fujo com o adolescente sem olfato do Tesco.

Gislinda no mundo das tesouras

Se for verdade, você leu primeiro aqui!

Se não for...leu o que?

Bem, à fofoca que é o que interessa. Sempre.

Parece que Gislinda Bündchen vai criar uma coleção de lingerie para a rede de lojas H&M.

Será que vão ser calcinhas estilo brasileiro (que eu sou a única brasileira que não gosta) ou calçolas estilo europeu (que eu sou a única brasileira que gosta)?

Se a informação proceder mesmo, Gislinda vai seguir os passinhos de gente como Madonna, Stella McCartney e Karl Lagerfeld.


Nada mal.