Blonde, Sexy and Cannot cope with life if not severely stressed – it could be a pick up line for the Lonely Hearts adverts in the back of newspapers.
Or
Could not live without his darling stress.
Or
Beloved co-worker, Fellow Road Rager, Public transporter and Anger Management buddy: Died of a stressed heart.
These are a few examples of what people are going to start engraving on tombstones at the rate we are going. People are so stressed out they are losing their hair,their ability to match outfits, they are falling sick, losing shoes, they are depressed, over eating, forgetting to groom eyebrows, under eating, becoming insomniacs and generally losing their grip on the important everyday matters. Like which accessories go best with which outfit or how to dress like Chanel and not be bankrupt. It’s the important things in everyday life that we’re missing out on due to stress.
Take a leaf out of my book. When confronted with stressful situations, I find that the important thing is to not let the frustration build up, do not suppress it or bury it because it will only come back and bite you were it hurts, ten-fold. See, by not suppressing, I now partake in full on bilingual road rage. This means I am less stressed by the time I get home. But the other day, was a very stressful day and I kept it to myself – this thus meant that by the end of the day I had no patience and nearly castrated the taxi driver who finally took me home. Let me start at the top, to give you a better picture of what happened.
I was passing through security from Madrid to Lisbon and the usual, take your watch off, ring off, belt? No. Bag there, jacket is fine, laptop out on top of laptop bag etc. Quick glance from top to bottom and the security woman who had been watching me, told me to take off my boots. I passed through the archway and beeped. Stepped to one side and got rudely frisked, got told to take off my light jacket. I did so and turned to the conveyor belt to look for my things. The security guard that was sat there, was a pot bellied, balding one, masticating Rich Tea biscuits like he was a cow. He looked straight at my chest and accusingly, told me I was supposed to have put my laptop and its bag in different trays, which by the way would have left me carrying 3 trays – umm multitasking women anyone? So between the over dried biscuit rolling around in his mouth and leaking onto the corners of it and my gag reflex, now very much in full restraint, I told him his colleague had allowed me to put it through the machine like that. He swallowed some of the saw dust in his mouth and with a deep, condescending breath that somehow did not choke him, told me “It says so on the big wide TV over there.” His pedantic tone, receding hairlines and the crap rolling around in his wide open trap made me answer a bit more sharply than I usually would: “Well, your colleague, the one over there, the one who watched me strip, said nothing about the laptop.” I stood, half naked, and glared as he got his other colleague to pass my laptop through the machine again, whilst I wondered if it were an actual X-ray machine and not something out of Toys R Us, surely it would have x-rayed through the bag?! Instead I said nothing and controlled the gag reflex once more when the other one came back over with the laptop and breathed god awful sewer-come-old dog breath in my direction.
After having dressed myself I moved on, I needed a drink. I went and ordered a bottle of water, I know, I’m hardcore, and whilst I was there the beer barrel behind the bar exploded and I got showered with from top to bottom. Great. I would now smell like an alcoholic for the entire flight. I boarded the plane and considered walking right back off it. It looked like one of the Flintstones’ model airplanes and I fully expected to be asked to whip out my legs and run to get it off the ground. I did not have to, but I did have to get a bus to my aunt’s office in the city and then a taxi home. The bus was packed and my suitcase weighed a third of me and I don’t bench press any amount of my bodyweight, by the way. Nobody helped me because I look like a strapping young lass. Did I mention the bus was packed with men? Everyone was far too busy fiddling with their testosterone to help me, so I caught my finger in the wheel of my suitcase, swore at various people in English and deep breathed. The taxi driver didn’t know where my aunt’s house was and I nearly cried. Weren’t taxi drivers taxi drivers precisely because they were good at finding their way?! Apparently not. And he had a nervous twitch. He kept leaning forward slightly and sort of doing pelvic shuffles in his seat…I wondered who on earth I had gotten into a taxi with and felt slightly comforted by the idea that rage and hysteria were a more or less universal language and I was sure I’d survive the drive.
I got home, looked in the mirror, wished I hadn’t, rolled my eyes and sunk into the sofa. Good grief, I was never travelling again. Or perhaps, I should learn how to do stress control. Perhaps I should have disconnected from the little kid who sat behind me on the plane, sniffing through his cold and kicking my chair to the rhythm of my STRESS. Perhaps I should have been thankful I did not miss the bus into the city and even more thankful that the taxi driver was not giving me a detailed run down of his pelvic shuffles.
We allow stress to consume us at every turn, we allow it to encroach on our personal lives and perhaps most importantly and more often than not, on our sleep – or lack of thereof. The society we have formed is one of I want it now or better yet, I want it Yesterday!! Take away coffee is no longer seen as good handy thing for those who fancy passing the morning with the wafts of (Starbucks) floating around their office and giving them a gentle nudge for the day. No, take away coffee has turned into “I want 2 coffees to go, Now! Extra hot! Now now now!!!! I am running late! And I don’t even know if I’ll have time to drink it!” Just the thought stresses me out, and with such pressure for swiftness, the majority of things we consume do not go down well, as a result. The society we are used to is one where things happen quickly and if they are not happening, you think on the spot and find an alternative option – anything, so long as it is occurring now, this instant. Take the internet; chances are we all started with dial up and now all have the latest super duper speedy road runner-esque broadband, ADSL, faster than light – call it what you will – internet connection, yes? And when the page takes longer than usual or is desired, to load we start huffing and puffing. We double click, we shake the mouse about a bit, we refresh the page, we roll our eyes, tut, huff some more, refresh, swear under our breath, tut-refresh-triple click-WHAT IN F**KING PETE’S NAME IS GOING ON WITH THIS EXPENSIVE PIECE OF CRAP EQUIPMENT?!!! With all your tutting and breathing and clicking and momentary loss of control over your tourettes, to an outsider you look like you have just had a minor meltdown. All because, you had to wait 20 seconds – as opposed to 4- for the page to eventually load? You see? Stress of the society we have built around ourselves. We all need to take a breath, count to 10 and carry on. If we all did that, firstly, there would be less talking because we would all be counting, second we would be able to gain enough distance to be a bit more rational and third, people would probably get better at maths.
viernes, 30 de octubre de 2009
domingo, 25 de octubre de 2009
Nursery Rhymes and Prozac
“[Insert your name here] stole the cookie from the cookie jar!”
“Who me?”
“Yeah you!”
“Couldn’t be!”
You’re all enjoying a slow, widespread smile right now aren’t you? Remembering singing the song either as a child or singing it to your children/younger siblings/cousins etc, right? If your answer is No, then I do pity your childhood and suggest you do some catching up and go sit in your local nursery for a bit - with your hands clearly visible, right next to your credentials. Such a seemingly innocent childhood song that does nothing but make the time pass in a more enjoyable fashion, and depending on its use, allows the group to learn each others names…lovely.
Little did we know that singing this song at high volumes actually distorts our nervous system and has great effects on how we are able to lead our lives. This has been studied by the EUC D.N.D labs and results have been published recently. But like many important things that have been published and sent out into the whole wide world, (has anybody read about the killer swine flu vaccine being forced on people from all cuts of the earth?) little notice has been taken and the song is still sung. And the inherent sense of guilt is that which will accompany us throughout our lives. People say ‘chocolate cake’ and instantly you dab at the corner of your mouth to see if you missed a crumb of double chocolate fudge forbidden what-not, right? The fact there’s man in the middle of Oxford Circus bellowing The End Is Nigh For All Sinners!! Also does nothing for our sense of guilt. But, as the Church would say, we are all born sinners and life is our shot at redemption…make of that what you will.
I am not really religiously bent in any direction, nor do I think I was born blaspheming my way out of my mother’s womb though considering my foul mouth…it’s debatable. But I do have a feeling that I carry more of a guilty conscience than most. Though I have never done anything bad in my life. Actually, I lie. When I was 12 a friend and I stole a sweet each from the local pick ‘n’ mix sweet shop. I felt so terribly guilty that the minute we got outside I popped it into my mouth, chewed faster than I have in my life, swallowed it and stood with my mouth slightly ajar to prove there was nothing in it should the security man happen upon us. Half way through the town centre. Because he clearly had nothing better to do, like guard a shop. So I have a slightly hysterical guilty conscience?! Who hasn’t? Clearly you, I know. But when surrounded with life constricting things such as, the first year of one’s driving license in Spain, guilty conscience turns into a habit. You see, you are allowed to drive at no more than 90 kmph – which is about 55 mph. You’re all gob smacked, right? So apart from the life endangering fact that I drive in Spain, for now, I also find myself having been born from a family who drive at break neck speed everywhere. Even to the corner shop. Driving slowly does not factor into our family vocab. pool, and so going at 90 kmph is preposterous to even consider. Thus, I find myself spending the entire first half of my driving life looking continuously in the rear view mirror. My eyes constantly scanning for anything with flashing blue, or white with writing – which consequently meant I slowed down to the ridiculous law abiding snail crawl the other day until I blinked my contact lens back into place and realized it was a removals van, and not a riot police van making a bee line for me. It also does not help that for now I am the Family Car Tramp and am borrowing whichever of the Dulin fleet happens to be available for my travels; more often than not this means my granny kindly makes hers available to me. It also means that I am running from the police and praying for inconspicuousness IN A RED CAR. It is like an interactive game of Where’s Wally. By the time I get to my destination my nerves are shot through, and let’s not even broach the subject of parking, because since I got told that limping doesn’t count as a disability, can’t park in the disabled spot and have to make do with the narrower spaces like everyone else uses…I park with my eyes half shut and hope it works.
But really, I think it is something about authority figures. No, I have not gotten side-tracked and am talking about uniforms and their possible degrees of sexiness, I am talking about the guilty conscience that robs me of sleep. And keeps me from flying to the States. The umpteen hundred hours on the plane are bad enough, every time I go I swear it’ll be my last, but I love my family too much and so find myself just swearing. But it is the arrival into immigrations (and their uniforms, see? Still on track) that makes me so nervous my curls fall out and my hair straightens. You inch forward, slowly, as if gradually getting closer to meeting your doom, slowly, sweat snaking its way down your back. By the time you’re one person away from the Immigrations Official you’re trying to remember why you’re visiting this country, whether you have stolen goods in your bag - what if someone dropped some drugs into your hold-all when you weren’t looking? Who are you visiting here? Why? Are you sure they’re your family? Business or pleasure? Oh my god! I enjoy my job , does that mean I answer both?! Can I? Am I allowed?! Then they scan your eyeball and take a piece of your index finger’s soul as it is infrareded – and then they switch the lamp on, “all the better to see you with, my dear” but really you know it’s an interrogation! The sweat now blurs your vision and by the time they ask when you’re leaving, you answer Right now!! Where’s the exit? Can I just back it up onto the same plane I got off??!! I love my American family, but my guilty conscience and I have issues with Immigration. And driving in Spain. And sweet shops. Actually, shops in general. Every time I walk out of a shop I hunch my shoulders and sink my neck into my collarbone hoping I’ll become less visible in case I mistakenly stole something and put it into my bag without me realizing – because I would be mortified if the alarms went off. Embarrassed shade of red does nothing for my hair colour. There you have it ladies and gentlemen, the effects of singing in nursery. And Sunday choir on TV.
As afore mentioned, the EUC D.N.D Labs, and that would be, European Union Citizen Dulin, Nur, Dulin Labs, have recently published research showing that the singing of accusatory songs at a young age serve only to imbed a deep seated sense of culpability at all levels, affecting motor functions (i.e. driving) to saliva glands (I nearly choked on the stolen sweet). Our lives have become so hectic and we lead them in such an automated manner, that we no longer give ourselves 5 minutes to stop and think: where do our prime problems stem from and how could we prevent them? 5 minutes over, what have we learnt? Do not sing to Tomorrow’s Generation? Or sing slowly and think about it, instead of just spewing out the usual suspects.
“Who me?”
“Yeah you!”
“Couldn’t be!”
You’re all enjoying a slow, widespread smile right now aren’t you? Remembering singing the song either as a child or singing it to your children/younger siblings/cousins etc, right? If your answer is No, then I do pity your childhood and suggest you do some catching up and go sit in your local nursery for a bit - with your hands clearly visible, right next to your credentials. Such a seemingly innocent childhood song that does nothing but make the time pass in a more enjoyable fashion, and depending on its use, allows the group to learn each others names…lovely.
Little did we know that singing this song at high volumes actually distorts our nervous system and has great effects on how we are able to lead our lives. This has been studied by the EUC D.N.D labs and results have been published recently. But like many important things that have been published and sent out into the whole wide world, (has anybody read about the killer swine flu vaccine being forced on people from all cuts of the earth?) little notice has been taken and the song is still sung. And the inherent sense of guilt is that which will accompany us throughout our lives. People say ‘chocolate cake’ and instantly you dab at the corner of your mouth to see if you missed a crumb of double chocolate fudge forbidden what-not, right? The fact there’s man in the middle of Oxford Circus bellowing The End Is Nigh For All Sinners!! Also does nothing for our sense of guilt. But, as the Church would say, we are all born sinners and life is our shot at redemption…make of that what you will.
I am not really religiously bent in any direction, nor do I think I was born blaspheming my way out of my mother’s womb though considering my foul mouth…it’s debatable. But I do have a feeling that I carry more of a guilty conscience than most. Though I have never done anything bad in my life. Actually, I lie. When I was 12 a friend and I stole a sweet each from the local pick ‘n’ mix sweet shop. I felt so terribly guilty that the minute we got outside I popped it into my mouth, chewed faster than I have in my life, swallowed it and stood with my mouth slightly ajar to prove there was nothing in it should the security man happen upon us. Half way through the town centre. Because he clearly had nothing better to do, like guard a shop. So I have a slightly hysterical guilty conscience?! Who hasn’t? Clearly you, I know. But when surrounded with life constricting things such as, the first year of one’s driving license in Spain, guilty conscience turns into a habit. You see, you are allowed to drive at no more than 90 kmph – which is about 55 mph. You’re all gob smacked, right? So apart from the life endangering fact that I drive in Spain, for now, I also find myself having been born from a family who drive at break neck speed everywhere. Even to the corner shop. Driving slowly does not factor into our family vocab. pool, and so going at 90 kmph is preposterous to even consider. Thus, I find myself spending the entire first half of my driving life looking continuously in the rear view mirror. My eyes constantly scanning for anything with flashing blue, or white with writing – which consequently meant I slowed down to the ridiculous law abiding snail crawl the other day until I blinked my contact lens back into place and realized it was a removals van, and not a riot police van making a bee line for me. It also does not help that for now I am the Family Car Tramp and am borrowing whichever of the Dulin fleet happens to be available for my travels; more often than not this means my granny kindly makes hers available to me. It also means that I am running from the police and praying for inconspicuousness IN A RED CAR. It is like an interactive game of Where’s Wally. By the time I get to my destination my nerves are shot through, and let’s not even broach the subject of parking, because since I got told that limping doesn’t count as a disability, can’t park in the disabled spot and have to make do with the narrower spaces like everyone else uses…I park with my eyes half shut and hope it works.
But really, I think it is something about authority figures. No, I have not gotten side-tracked and am talking about uniforms and their possible degrees of sexiness, I am talking about the guilty conscience that robs me of sleep. And keeps me from flying to the States. The umpteen hundred hours on the plane are bad enough, every time I go I swear it’ll be my last, but I love my family too much and so find myself just swearing. But it is the arrival into immigrations (and their uniforms, see? Still on track) that makes me so nervous my curls fall out and my hair straightens. You inch forward, slowly, as if gradually getting closer to meeting your doom, slowly, sweat snaking its way down your back. By the time you’re one person away from the Immigrations Official you’re trying to remember why you’re visiting this country, whether you have stolen goods in your bag - what if someone dropped some drugs into your hold-all when you weren’t looking? Who are you visiting here? Why? Are you sure they’re your family? Business or pleasure? Oh my god! I enjoy my job , does that mean I answer both?! Can I? Am I allowed?! Then they scan your eyeball and take a piece of your index finger’s soul as it is infrareded – and then they switch the lamp on, “all the better to see you with, my dear” but really you know it’s an interrogation! The sweat now blurs your vision and by the time they ask when you’re leaving, you answer Right now!! Where’s the exit? Can I just back it up onto the same plane I got off??!! I love my American family, but my guilty conscience and I have issues with Immigration. And driving in Spain. And sweet shops. Actually, shops in general. Every time I walk out of a shop I hunch my shoulders and sink my neck into my collarbone hoping I’ll become less visible in case I mistakenly stole something and put it into my bag without me realizing – because I would be mortified if the alarms went off. Embarrassed shade of red does nothing for my hair colour. There you have it ladies and gentlemen, the effects of singing in nursery. And Sunday choir on TV.
As afore mentioned, the EUC D.N.D Labs, and that would be, European Union Citizen Dulin, Nur, Dulin Labs, have recently published research showing that the singing of accusatory songs at a young age serve only to imbed a deep seated sense of culpability at all levels, affecting motor functions (i.e. driving) to saliva glands (I nearly choked on the stolen sweet). Our lives have become so hectic and we lead them in such an automated manner, that we no longer give ourselves 5 minutes to stop and think: where do our prime problems stem from and how could we prevent them? 5 minutes over, what have we learnt? Do not sing to Tomorrow’s Generation? Or sing slowly and think about it, instead of just spewing out the usual suspects.
viernes, 23 de octubre de 2009
Guns, Politics and Perfume
My mother recently got described as a hippy by a friend of mine. I laughed in her face – a little bit and then thought about it. She wasn’t a hippy. Granted sometimes the colour co-ordinations were slightly off centre, but then you could ask, off whose centre? And she does have small lapses when mixing crocs and stripy socks – but not enough to be described as a hippy. My mother and I, due to her, do embody all things green. We recycle, we buy organic, biological and if we could we’d be plucking things from the earth – and by ‘we’ I mean ‘she’. I draw the line in certain places and depending on who’s looking…
We’d be slightly sick in the head if we weren’t ‘all for’ world peace, of course we are, we just don’t spend the day toting the ‘love, peace and multi-colour’ sign, nor do we mirror the Asian tourists waving the two fingered peace sign (and camera). And though my mother does eat, wash and sleep all products eco-friendly/good for you and the world, I must admit I let the side down with cosmetics, perfumes, body washes, toxic waste deodorants (you use them too…) but heavens, I love smelling good and perhaps your last whiff of the world to be your very expensive, favourite perfume (which your mother described as smelling like toilet air freshener) wouldn’t be such a bad thing? What is bad on the other hand, is to discover that the good smelling world I inhabit has affected my already very sleepy brain cells. The perfume has gotten to me. Years of wearing more perfume than clothes has finally addled my brain and left me nearly permanently in a bubble filled of nice smells that draw a smile (and make one look a tad special perhaps.) Therefore I have decided that maybe I should step outside of my warm, fuzzy, pleasant on the nostrils bubble. So I read the news. Not the celebrity news, give me some credit – I save that for bedtime reading. I mean, hard hitting, private world destroying, nightmare creating news.
At the end of the day, by the way isn’t that such a silly saying? In the middle of the day, actually, our world is horrific. Everyone is always dying and bombs are going off, and we’re all going to be poor and living under bridges next time we blink, and don’t have kids and bring them into this world, and don’t pay your parking fine because you’re probably contributing to some sort of corruption, and if you’re not dying of old age already, you are bound to die tomorrow because the world is going down the very loo you’ve been told to sit on to not retain liquids or clean out your toxic colon- goodness gracious me. Why oh why would you not want to live in a perfumed world?? Even if it does smell of toilet air freshener. Why? Because of the power of politics, that’s why. Yes, I know, for all those close to me this last sentence has either left you reeling or you are sitting there wondering what stupid thing I am about to come out with. This is the girl who once said the crummy thing about communism was that sharing mascara was unhygienic and when asked whether she had an opinion about Obama having just been elected answered, I did, hang on, but I can’t remember it now. So yes, deep breath and read on. Politics, our choices and information or lack of- regarding both, can have quite impacting results.
Apparently I can vote already. Apparently I could already have been voting for 3 years. And in two countries. The fact I haven’t voted does not mean I see myself as politically atheist, I’d say it mixes in with geography and the end result would be ignorance. Plain and simple. Thus, upon informing myself a little bit, I quickly wished I hadn’t and realized why I live quite happily knowing N-O-T-H-I-N-G. What I did find out was that Spain is breaking the law a little bit; the country that’s known for its ‘siestas’ and ‘fiestas’ and ‘sangria’ and royal family in the Hello magazine every other week, is breaking a serious law, with seemingly no repercussions. Spain is 6th in the long list where (Hello Britons, you’re dodgy too) the biggest exporters of Arms are listed worldwide. Spain didn’t used to proudly occupy the 6th position, but like a socialite, it has climbed its way up the ladder and perhaps is the only thing it has achieved this year. Rumour has it - remember, I live wrapped in Lacoste smelling cotton wool. But through this cotton wool I have learnt that there is a law (that came about in 2007, about the Selling of Defense Materials and their Double Usage) stating that Arms should not be sold to countries where there exist feasible reasons that they could be used to perturb the peace, used in a manner opposite for which they were sold etc… (http://www.soitu.es/soitu/losdesastresdelaguerra.html). Following this, the somewhat extensive list of Guns and Stuff clientele are indeed countries that have rap-sheets longer than my already discussed very big foot, regarding Human Rights Violations and GBH in the style of Guns, Bombs and Hurt. Not good I hear you all chorus, no, not good. It is all happening under our noses and the frustrating thing is that no matter what perfume you wear, little can be resolved by us, the people. So from the safe vantage point of my good smellin’ bubble, I can only presume that what Spain did was vote for a President that said he would make sure the country would bump itself up in some kind of ranking, be it best tasting dog food or otherwise. And dammit it did. And it got aired on National TV. Ooops.
From this I have learnt that my stance of Ignoramus Maximus re. all things political is perhaps better. It appears that the other option would be a whopping headache. Don’t vote for this one, vote for the other one, but make sure he’s not lying or looks like he could sport the ‘guilty’ look well or actually just make up your own political party and hope your extended family supports you to make up numbers. Politics is another world with a language I do not speak and quite frankly think with the way my mind is wired, better not to try and learn. I have been shocked out of my comfort shell, my eyes opened that little bit more and slowly I gain a better view of our world. Guns, politics, human rights, perfume, chocolate, unveiling on national TV and somewhere in between a good old ‘Friends’ episodes to make it all easier to swallow. Short of getting up and ranting at some politician, who no doubt would have us tasered in seconds, I see the next best thing as becoming informed. Information is gold, it will make the world go ‘round and help us make better informed decisions. Not just about choice of perfume for the day.
We’d be slightly sick in the head if we weren’t ‘all for’ world peace, of course we are, we just don’t spend the day toting the ‘love, peace and multi-colour’ sign, nor do we mirror the Asian tourists waving the two fingered peace sign (and camera). And though my mother does eat, wash and sleep all products eco-friendly/good for you and the world, I must admit I let the side down with cosmetics, perfumes, body washes, toxic waste deodorants (you use them too…) but heavens, I love smelling good and perhaps your last whiff of the world to be your very expensive, favourite perfume (which your mother described as smelling like toilet air freshener) wouldn’t be such a bad thing? What is bad on the other hand, is to discover that the good smelling world I inhabit has affected my already very sleepy brain cells. The perfume has gotten to me. Years of wearing more perfume than clothes has finally addled my brain and left me nearly permanently in a bubble filled of nice smells that draw a smile (and make one look a tad special perhaps.) Therefore I have decided that maybe I should step outside of my warm, fuzzy, pleasant on the nostrils bubble. So I read the news. Not the celebrity news, give me some credit – I save that for bedtime reading. I mean, hard hitting, private world destroying, nightmare creating news.
At the end of the day, by the way isn’t that such a silly saying? In the middle of the day, actually, our world is horrific. Everyone is always dying and bombs are going off, and we’re all going to be poor and living under bridges next time we blink, and don’t have kids and bring them into this world, and don’t pay your parking fine because you’re probably contributing to some sort of corruption, and if you’re not dying of old age already, you are bound to die tomorrow because the world is going down the very loo you’ve been told to sit on to not retain liquids or clean out your toxic colon- goodness gracious me. Why oh why would you not want to live in a perfumed world?? Even if it does smell of toilet air freshener. Why? Because of the power of politics, that’s why. Yes, I know, for all those close to me this last sentence has either left you reeling or you are sitting there wondering what stupid thing I am about to come out with. This is the girl who once said the crummy thing about communism was that sharing mascara was unhygienic and when asked whether she had an opinion about Obama having just been elected answered, I did, hang on, but I can’t remember it now. So yes, deep breath and read on. Politics, our choices and information or lack of- regarding both, can have quite impacting results.
Apparently I can vote already. Apparently I could already have been voting for 3 years. And in two countries. The fact I haven’t voted does not mean I see myself as politically atheist, I’d say it mixes in with geography and the end result would be ignorance. Plain and simple. Thus, upon informing myself a little bit, I quickly wished I hadn’t and realized why I live quite happily knowing N-O-T-H-I-N-G. What I did find out was that Spain is breaking the law a little bit; the country that’s known for its ‘siestas’ and ‘fiestas’ and ‘sangria’ and royal family in the Hello magazine every other week, is breaking a serious law, with seemingly no repercussions. Spain is 6th in the long list where (Hello Britons, you’re dodgy too) the biggest exporters of Arms are listed worldwide. Spain didn’t used to proudly occupy the 6th position, but like a socialite, it has climbed its way up the ladder and perhaps is the only thing it has achieved this year. Rumour has it - remember, I live wrapped in Lacoste smelling cotton wool. But through this cotton wool I have learnt that there is a law (that came about in 2007, about the Selling of Defense Materials and their Double Usage) stating that Arms should not be sold to countries where there exist feasible reasons that they could be used to perturb the peace, used in a manner opposite for which they were sold etc… (http://www.soitu.es/soitu/losdesastresdelaguerra.html). Following this, the somewhat extensive list of Guns and Stuff clientele are indeed countries that have rap-sheets longer than my already discussed very big foot, regarding Human Rights Violations and GBH in the style of Guns, Bombs and Hurt. Not good I hear you all chorus, no, not good. It is all happening under our noses and the frustrating thing is that no matter what perfume you wear, little can be resolved by us, the people. So from the safe vantage point of my good smellin’ bubble, I can only presume that what Spain did was vote for a President that said he would make sure the country would bump itself up in some kind of ranking, be it best tasting dog food or otherwise. And dammit it did. And it got aired on National TV. Ooops.
From this I have learnt that my stance of Ignoramus Maximus re. all things political is perhaps better. It appears that the other option would be a whopping headache. Don’t vote for this one, vote for the other one, but make sure he’s not lying or looks like he could sport the ‘guilty’ look well or actually just make up your own political party and hope your extended family supports you to make up numbers. Politics is another world with a language I do not speak and quite frankly think with the way my mind is wired, better not to try and learn. I have been shocked out of my comfort shell, my eyes opened that little bit more and slowly I gain a better view of our world. Guns, politics, human rights, perfume, chocolate, unveiling on national TV and somewhere in between a good old ‘Friends’ episodes to make it all easier to swallow. Short of getting up and ranting at some politician, who no doubt would have us tasered in seconds, I see the next best thing as becoming informed. Information is gold, it will make the world go ‘round and help us make better informed decisions. Not just about choice of perfume for the day.
lunes, 19 de octubre de 2009
Wax it, Pluck it, Sugar it, Stroke it, Love it or Hate it – it’s Here to Stay
Beauty is pain.
Ever heard this saying? No? Then you are clearly a male reader. Women are born and named: Talula-Anne Jonson-Beauty-is-pain. It is quite simply the way being a woman in today’s society goes. Do not avert your eyes, this is not a feminist rant, this is the way life works, since, like, way back when. No one does hairy. This I mean in every sense of the word.
Often people think I exaggerate things, now, from where they would have gotten such an idea is quite beyond me. Well, The Beauty and The Pain are utterly true, if it’s not high heels that I’m trying to pull off it’ll be deep rooted hair. I am tall enough, I know, but apparently Lilly Allen is the only one who can do dress and trainers…even Gift of the Gab won’t save you if the club has a strict No-Trainer Policy. One of my friends was trying to convince me about the wonders of heels once, as we tried to cram my splayed toes into a pair of very nice, very high shoes, “Heels are great for your calves!” Still today I try to imagine myself on the treadmill in stilettos… But frankly there is nothing to be said about attractive facial hair, as a Portuguese beautician once shamelessly pointed out to me that I really ought to do something about my (I thought, more or less non-existent) moustache… I had gone to have my eyebrows waxed since I thought it would last longer, you see, I find myself whipping my eyebrows back into shape every other day - or rather I don’t, and then look like I’m trying to ‘bring hairy back’. After having pulled what felt like nearly all my facial skin off, the beautician declared she was done. I sat up, peered through tear blurred eyes at myself in the mirror and realized I looked like I had been slapped about by a kipper with a deep-seated hate for eyebrows and moustaches. Not to mention looking like Marilyn Manson’s long lost step-sister with mascara running in every direction around my entire face.
“And straight ahead you have the remainder of the Beauty To-Do List…”
Women do not want to be seen as two-legged Yetis with an all year round coarse fur coat, a hairy caterpillar framing their top lip, mono-brow and a fine haired medusa moving with the rhythm of the wind when the armpit is exposed. Rumour has it French women think differently, but it will remain a rumour, on this blog anyway. Now is when I ignore my French part of the family and embrace the meticulously clean Spanish side, don’t get me wrong, hairy is no synonym for dirty, it just means more conditioner.
Really the world of beautiful pain is quite an extensive one: there is the hair on one’s head to be dealt with. Long, short, straight, curly, non-voluntarily afro, too thin, too thick, too wiry, too greasy – but we’re not going there as my gag reflex is very much active. The problems begin with curly hair – because neither long or short are your problems solved, if it is long it just means more decades are spent straightening it, and if it is short it just means you will no doubt, 105% guaranteed wake up with mushroom-shaped hair sitting atop your now, not so cute ears. Pictured it? You just summed up half of my childhood photos. And if straighteners are your poison of choice then burns will be your new buddy too. I have been scarred in the name of beauty on the backs of my ears, tops of them and my forehead – with a little dedication I could have a home-made Harry Potter GHD style burn across the front of my head. How else do you think actor’s doubles are made?! Not to mention trying to style your very own ‘just woken up-sexy-tousled-hair-look’ - I have always woken up looking like I got the fright of my life somewhere between bed time and dawn, so the look must be worked on. I did try it once. Just the once, mind. I blow dried, slightly straightened, but not really, my mass of curls and grabbed the fan from the summer of 1834. I sat in front of it for about 15 minutes before I decided I could no longer handle the squeaking of the ancient machine and through streaming eyes, nose and tonsil ejecting sneezes, the realization that I was allergic to dust and this was doing nothing for the allergies…well, I gave up. The ‘just woken up’ look is far too hard to be worthwhile. (Note, I wrote that with my toes crossed, I can’t possibly mean it, I am a girl after all.)
Back to eyebrows. Well now, thick eyebrows may be cute when you’re still in your mother’s womb, but instead of giving the new born a good smack (or is that just the barbarians in Spain?), the nurses ought to give priority to plucking eyebrows and then gunge, out of orifices… Bushy eyebrows on a girl just quite simply do not work. Models seen sporting a moustache above each eye ought to be paid a bundle and then perhaps shot. (Am not supporting the death penalty, perhaps rubber bullets could be used?) Thus for eyebrows, we find the possibilities encompassing waxing, threading, plucking and sugaring. The latter was clearly invented for women, by women and particularly during a PMS moment when multi-tasking involving snacking was needed. Then there’s the lady ‘tache – nothing ladylike about having a small lap-dog sitting on your top lip, but it happens. For that, the only suggestion is a lawn-mower.
Dare we move down? Well, the bikini wax is something that goes from extreme to extreme and apparently, is totally geography based. You see, there is the ‘Brazilian’ which is just the strip – unfortunately named the ‘landing strip’, I care not think what lands there, but apparently, for some, it does. Then you go to one I recently learnt about, it is called the ‘English’ and apparently is little off anywhere…makes one think that perhaps the English and the French share more than they would like to. And Hollywood – which is utterly confusing if you are trying to guess these according to intellectual reasoning: Hollywood = luxurious excess and therefore in bikini wax language a lustrous mound of folliculous maximus. Wrong. It is back to the bare essentials for the Hollywood-esques. Keeping it simple. Thus, I hear you say, a ‘Chinese’ would be the full au Naturel? No. That amount of hair is just careless.
Leg hair? Often does not exist until the knee and then you are greeted with the natural version of The International Kilt. Shave it, wax it, pluck it, stroke it, but either way it always tends to be half there, half not, and half on its way back.
The thing is, we complain about all these beauty treatments, and by ‘we’ I mean me, but part of it is the pure fun of complaining and the other, the fact that we wouldn’t have it any other way. And actually, you grow accustomed to it after a while. The wax strips I mean. Not the hair. Never ever grow accustomed to the hair. Leave that to when the mid-life crisis sets in, along with the sweat pants, the belief that we are quite happy on our own and that cats are not selfish and are the only thing we need in life. (Along with the sports car out front.)
Brace yourselves ladies – might I risk it and say gentlemen too? There are more of your metro-sexual trimming and shaping (nose and ear) kind these days…so brace yourselves, there will be those that tell you hair removal of any kind is bad, hair is there to protect from infection and stem sweat. I tell you, what are you doing sweating?? Did you not know that men perspire and women glisten? And, if infection were the problem, why were disinfectants made if not to facilitate body hygiene? You see, it all works in my world. Except for waxing eyebrows by the way, it wasn’t worth walking around with two red arches above each eye for 3 hours…no, Sir.
Ever heard this saying? No? Then you are clearly a male reader. Women are born and named: Talula-Anne Jonson-Beauty-is-pain. It is quite simply the way being a woman in today’s society goes. Do not avert your eyes, this is not a feminist rant, this is the way life works, since, like, way back when. No one does hairy. This I mean in every sense of the word.
Often people think I exaggerate things, now, from where they would have gotten such an idea is quite beyond me. Well, The Beauty and The Pain are utterly true, if it’s not high heels that I’m trying to pull off it’ll be deep rooted hair. I am tall enough, I know, but apparently Lilly Allen is the only one who can do dress and trainers…even Gift of the Gab won’t save you if the club has a strict No-Trainer Policy. One of my friends was trying to convince me about the wonders of heels once, as we tried to cram my splayed toes into a pair of very nice, very high shoes, “Heels are great for your calves!” Still today I try to imagine myself on the treadmill in stilettos… But frankly there is nothing to be said about attractive facial hair, as a Portuguese beautician once shamelessly pointed out to me that I really ought to do something about my (I thought, more or less non-existent) moustache… I had gone to have my eyebrows waxed since I thought it would last longer, you see, I find myself whipping my eyebrows back into shape every other day - or rather I don’t, and then look like I’m trying to ‘bring hairy back’. After having pulled what felt like nearly all my facial skin off, the beautician declared she was done. I sat up, peered through tear blurred eyes at myself in the mirror and realized I looked like I had been slapped about by a kipper with a deep-seated hate for eyebrows and moustaches. Not to mention looking like Marilyn Manson’s long lost step-sister with mascara running in every direction around my entire face.
“And straight ahead you have the remainder of the Beauty To-Do List…”
Women do not want to be seen as two-legged Yetis with an all year round coarse fur coat, a hairy caterpillar framing their top lip, mono-brow and a fine haired medusa moving with the rhythm of the wind when the armpit is exposed. Rumour has it French women think differently, but it will remain a rumour, on this blog anyway. Now is when I ignore my French part of the family and embrace the meticulously clean Spanish side, don’t get me wrong, hairy is no synonym for dirty, it just means more conditioner.
Really the world of beautiful pain is quite an extensive one: there is the hair on one’s head to be dealt with. Long, short, straight, curly, non-voluntarily afro, too thin, too thick, too wiry, too greasy – but we’re not going there as my gag reflex is very much active. The problems begin with curly hair – because neither long or short are your problems solved, if it is long it just means more decades are spent straightening it, and if it is short it just means you will no doubt, 105% guaranteed wake up with mushroom-shaped hair sitting atop your now, not so cute ears. Pictured it? You just summed up half of my childhood photos. And if straighteners are your poison of choice then burns will be your new buddy too. I have been scarred in the name of beauty on the backs of my ears, tops of them and my forehead – with a little dedication I could have a home-made Harry Potter GHD style burn across the front of my head. How else do you think actor’s doubles are made?! Not to mention trying to style your very own ‘just woken up-sexy-tousled-hair-look’ - I have always woken up looking like I got the fright of my life somewhere between bed time and dawn, so the look must be worked on. I did try it once. Just the once, mind. I blow dried, slightly straightened, but not really, my mass of curls and grabbed the fan from the summer of 1834. I sat in front of it for about 15 minutes before I decided I could no longer handle the squeaking of the ancient machine and through streaming eyes, nose and tonsil ejecting sneezes, the realization that I was allergic to dust and this was doing nothing for the allergies…well, I gave up. The ‘just woken up’ look is far too hard to be worthwhile. (Note, I wrote that with my toes crossed, I can’t possibly mean it, I am a girl after all.)
Back to eyebrows. Well now, thick eyebrows may be cute when you’re still in your mother’s womb, but instead of giving the new born a good smack (or is that just the barbarians in Spain?), the nurses ought to give priority to plucking eyebrows and then gunge, out of orifices… Bushy eyebrows on a girl just quite simply do not work. Models seen sporting a moustache above each eye ought to be paid a bundle and then perhaps shot. (Am not supporting the death penalty, perhaps rubber bullets could be used?) Thus for eyebrows, we find the possibilities encompassing waxing, threading, plucking and sugaring. The latter was clearly invented for women, by women and particularly during a PMS moment when multi-tasking involving snacking was needed. Then there’s the lady ‘tache – nothing ladylike about having a small lap-dog sitting on your top lip, but it happens. For that, the only suggestion is a lawn-mower.
Dare we move down? Well, the bikini wax is something that goes from extreme to extreme and apparently, is totally geography based. You see, there is the ‘Brazilian’ which is just the strip – unfortunately named the ‘landing strip’, I care not think what lands there, but apparently, for some, it does. Then you go to one I recently learnt about, it is called the ‘English’ and apparently is little off anywhere…makes one think that perhaps the English and the French share more than they would like to. And Hollywood – which is utterly confusing if you are trying to guess these according to intellectual reasoning: Hollywood = luxurious excess and therefore in bikini wax language a lustrous mound of folliculous maximus. Wrong. It is back to the bare essentials for the Hollywood-esques. Keeping it simple. Thus, I hear you say, a ‘Chinese’ would be the full au Naturel? No. That amount of hair is just careless.
Leg hair? Often does not exist until the knee and then you are greeted with the natural version of The International Kilt. Shave it, wax it, pluck it, stroke it, but either way it always tends to be half there, half not, and half on its way back.
The thing is, we complain about all these beauty treatments, and by ‘we’ I mean me, but part of it is the pure fun of complaining and the other, the fact that we wouldn’t have it any other way. And actually, you grow accustomed to it after a while. The wax strips I mean. Not the hair. Never ever grow accustomed to the hair. Leave that to when the mid-life crisis sets in, along with the sweat pants, the belief that we are quite happy on our own and that cats are not selfish and are the only thing we need in life. (Along with the sports car out front.)
Brace yourselves ladies – might I risk it and say gentlemen too? There are more of your metro-sexual trimming and shaping (nose and ear) kind these days…so brace yourselves, there will be those that tell you hair removal of any kind is bad, hair is there to protect from infection and stem sweat. I tell you, what are you doing sweating?? Did you not know that men perspire and women glisten? And, if infection were the problem, why were disinfectants made if not to facilitate body hygiene? You see, it all works in my world. Except for waxing eyebrows by the way, it wasn’t worth walking around with two red arches above each eye for 3 hours…no, Sir.
viernes, 16 de octubre de 2009
Last breath
I am a very private person.
For all that know me, you probably think I’m lying. For all that don’t know me, just keep reading. Back to those who do know me, if you think back to all our conversations, as no doubt there have been many since I possess the ability to talk the hind legs of anything, you will note that I am hot air, and you know little about me, ME. Other than deciding to compare myself to a hairdryer, I’ll give you an insight into Me and tell you that I have recently discovered that I participate in S and M. Do not be mistaken, I did not say M and M’s – though given half a chance I will put away large quantities of them. Nor, for you British folk, did I say M and S as Spain had a spat with them and kicked them out the country. No, I said S and M – as in sadomasochism. So, to clarify, because I know you’re all thinking: good god the cocktail of pills she’s currently on is clearly not working…I mean I willingly inflict pain and sometimes enjoy it and I (sometimes) willingly receive it.
And, before you pick up the phone and dial Animal Protection Services, or worse, my mother, I’ll inform you, that I’m talking about going to the gym. Yes, you dirty minded lot. I am talking about The Gym.
I throw myself out of bed and then the house and then the car and make myself go to the gym an unhealthy amount of times a week. Unhealthy when considering my mental state, as thunder thighs are still awaiting the reaping of toned rewards. To the gym we trundle, and did I mention that I go to my granny’s gym? And that my granny accepts nothing less than the best? So we go to a gym where the tips of your trainers are kissed every morning. This means it is full of Blackberries doing weights and an inordinate amount of fake boobs on step machines or quite simply just fannying about in search of husband no. 6. I on the other hand am neither in search of husband no. 6 or 1 for that matter, (he will arrive around the age of 25), nor am I doing weights with my Blackberry glued to my ear – (it arrives next week). I have gradually weaned myself off a mascara and earring clad gym outfit. First it was the earrings and then the mascara.
I go the gym in a t-shirt I could either sleep or work out in and I go blinking my eyelashless eyes. Also, did I mention that I do not go bright red like the rest of humans at the gym, but go pale verging on yellow, thus making my eye bags look that little bit more blue-come-purple? No? Well I do. I look like a recovering vampire, on a good day. And so I find myself willing my legs to keep running/cycling/crosstrainer machining, lying to myself every 5 minutes…just 5 more to go…just 5 more to go…45 minutes later I step off cursing myself. And on one particular day this week I threw myself out of bed out of the house and then out of the car and went for a cycle and then ‘rewarded’ myself with a pilates class. Please note ‘rewarded’, pilates is not for the faint of heart – there are 80 year olds doing the plank when all I’m thinking is I’d rather be walking it. The class that day, was mainly made up of women, two men did show up but they had clearly been dropped off by their wives thinking it a Husband Crèche. All women there are trying to tone/hide/inhale/beat into submission some bump, lump or extra and so we all voluntarily sink to the floor to do some abs. Pilates abs are the same as normal ones but with more “And inhaaaale, and exhaaaaale”. Side crunch, side crunch and I realized someone was really exhaling with all her might. Like, silence and then “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”, no joke. I looked for the breathing, found it linked to a grey haired, yellow skinned woman and kept watching her. After having stared really indiscreetly at her continuously exhaling in such a manner I decided that what she was doing was not abdominal exhalations, but in fact, practicing her last breath. I could imagine her lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling and preparing to release her last breath into the face of whomever would be with her at her death. I couldn’t handle it and started to laugh. Death is not funny, but she was.
I continued to laugh as the class drew to an end and continued to laugh as I made my way down the stairs on wobbly legs to the changing rooms. I realized as I sat down that laughing hurt, as did walking and as did sitting. Good god, I was in pain all over. But it’s a good kinda pain, you know? It hurts and you think “OW!! Son of a-” but then, actually, maybe as it hurts you feel the fat toning? No? Well it gets me through my day, so gym pain is good. And yes, I will continue to go and be in pain and wake up and have issues throwing myself out of bed due to the pain. But dammit, one day, I feel sure, and I must believe that one day not too far away, my gym membership will run out. Till then, GYM and S&M go hand in hand.
domingo, 11 de octubre de 2009
Ready, Set, Blog!
I thought I’d welcome you all to my blog with a brief introduction as to who I am and what my purpose for writing this blog is.
I am about three quarters Spanish and a quarter French and have grown up in England all my life. This has resulted in the fact that I don’t look like I’m from anywhere. Often people have said, “Ohh…you’re Spanish” with an unwritten, nearly silent question mark hovering somewhere between them thinking I’m making it up and them wondering if their stereotype of what a Spaniard ought to look like is outdated. The stereotype, in case you didn’t know, goes a little something like this: gorgeous huge eyes with luscious long eyelashes, olive skin, dark brown wavy hair with golden reflections and a sexy English accent with mistakes that brand one funny and cute. Instead, I am the palest Mediterranean person you will ever meet, and if we don’t, take my word for it. My eyes are honey colour – no complaints there – the long thick eyelashes? Non-existent. Everyday I bless the man that invented mascara, without it I would look like I had two peeled eyeballs. My hair is dark brown in the winter and a lighter more confused shade in the hotter seasons and my accent used to be clipped British, but somewhere between 15 and 21 it adopted an American twang. The grammatical mistakes I make are those fit for the stereotypical blonde and as for the French part of my heritage…we’re still working on it, oui?
To make matters better regarding my not looking like I’m from any particular country, I also don’t look like I belong to my family. All the women in my family are fairly short, blonde, petite, huge chests, blue/green eyes and sport accentuated cheekbones. I, in turn, have come out twice as tall as them all, with the shoulder span of an athlete, hands as big as the average person’s big face, curly frizzy hair verging on untamable afro, cheeks mirroring those of a chipmunk when made to smile and with feet big enough to warrant the saying: “You know what they say about big feet?!” “Huuuuuuuge socks and the inability to ever find any fetching lady like shoes.” It’s Birkenstock sandals and wooly socks for me. So due to my appearance being nothing like my family’s and not having any siblings to compare myself to, I have spent a great deal of my life asking my mother whether I was adopted. The poor woman has one very big child, gives birth naturally and then has to spend close to 20 years assuring the kid it wasn’t bought in some big shopping centre whilst she also deals with having to shed the baby weight. I even asked my granny once if by simply looking at me where would she say I was from – she thought about it for a whole 30 seconds and said “nowhere.” There’s nothing like a little white lie, is there?
Now, I wouldn’t say I have had a particularly easy life, but then, what is easy? But one thing I have constantly been surrounded by is humour. I have grown to realize that humour cures nearly all. Don’t get me wrong, I am not talking about humour curing hunger pangs. There is nothing funny from being served a ‘Knock, knock’ joke instead of a steak. I am referring to all the terribly awful things that occur in life, ranging from the economic crisis we are surrounded by, a balloon popping and we all drop to the floor crying BOMB! The daily worries one may incur due to the life we lead, the world we inhabit and what we have gradually turned the world we inhabit into. I am talking about all the very serious things we live with day by day and end up taking up so much space in our minds that we forget how to laugh and be carefree. One of the most important things in life is to try and be happy doing whatever we do. And by this, I mean trying to make good of any situation. Laughing, giggling, eye rolling, deep breathing, chocolate – it’s all good! It offers a solution, a lantern to appear in our tunnel and makes life a lot more bearable.
Thus, my blog has been born from people commenting on how entertaining the spin I put on life is. I will be blogging about popular news, your life, my life and anything else that seems to be particularly interesting. In order to write about your life, send me e-mails or comments about things you’d like to see woven into a humorous tail.
There will be blogs at the beginning of the week to give you all an ‘umph’ and then at the end to prepare you for a great weekend.
I am about three quarters Spanish and a quarter French and have grown up in England all my life. This has resulted in the fact that I don’t look like I’m from anywhere. Often people have said, “Ohh…you’re Spanish” with an unwritten, nearly silent question mark hovering somewhere between them thinking I’m making it up and them wondering if their stereotype of what a Spaniard ought to look like is outdated. The stereotype, in case you didn’t know, goes a little something like this: gorgeous huge eyes with luscious long eyelashes, olive skin, dark brown wavy hair with golden reflections and a sexy English accent with mistakes that brand one funny and cute. Instead, I am the palest Mediterranean person you will ever meet, and if we don’t, take my word for it. My eyes are honey colour – no complaints there – the long thick eyelashes? Non-existent. Everyday I bless the man that invented mascara, without it I would look like I had two peeled eyeballs. My hair is dark brown in the winter and a lighter more confused shade in the hotter seasons and my accent used to be clipped British, but somewhere between 15 and 21 it adopted an American twang. The grammatical mistakes I make are those fit for the stereotypical blonde and as for the French part of my heritage…we’re still working on it, oui?
To make matters better regarding my not looking like I’m from any particular country, I also don’t look like I belong to my family. All the women in my family are fairly short, blonde, petite, huge chests, blue/green eyes and sport accentuated cheekbones. I, in turn, have come out twice as tall as them all, with the shoulder span of an athlete, hands as big as the average person’s big face, curly frizzy hair verging on untamable afro, cheeks mirroring those of a chipmunk when made to smile and with feet big enough to warrant the saying: “You know what they say about big feet?!” “Huuuuuuuge socks and the inability to ever find any fetching lady like shoes.” It’s Birkenstock sandals and wooly socks for me. So due to my appearance being nothing like my family’s and not having any siblings to compare myself to, I have spent a great deal of my life asking my mother whether I was adopted. The poor woman has one very big child, gives birth naturally and then has to spend close to 20 years assuring the kid it wasn’t bought in some big shopping centre whilst she also deals with having to shed the baby weight. I even asked my granny once if by simply looking at me where would she say I was from – she thought about it for a whole 30 seconds and said “nowhere.” There’s nothing like a little white lie, is there?
Now, I wouldn’t say I have had a particularly easy life, but then, what is easy? But one thing I have constantly been surrounded by is humour. I have grown to realize that humour cures nearly all. Don’t get me wrong, I am not talking about humour curing hunger pangs. There is nothing funny from being served a ‘Knock, knock’ joke instead of a steak. I am referring to all the terribly awful things that occur in life, ranging from the economic crisis we are surrounded by, a balloon popping and we all drop to the floor crying BOMB! The daily worries one may incur due to the life we lead, the world we inhabit and what we have gradually turned the world we inhabit into. I am talking about all the very serious things we live with day by day and end up taking up so much space in our minds that we forget how to laugh and be carefree. One of the most important things in life is to try and be happy doing whatever we do. And by this, I mean trying to make good of any situation. Laughing, giggling, eye rolling, deep breathing, chocolate – it’s all good! It offers a solution, a lantern to appear in our tunnel and makes life a lot more bearable.
Thus, my blog has been born from people commenting on how entertaining the spin I put on life is. I will be blogging about popular news, your life, my life and anything else that seems to be particularly interesting. In order to write about your life, send me e-mails or comments about things you’d like to see woven into a humorous tail.
There will be blogs at the beginning of the week to give you all an ‘umph’ and then at the end to prepare you for a great weekend.
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