My week without makeup

Ever since I can remember I’ve had a strong bond with makeup. It may stem from my older sister plastering me in electric blue eye shadow circa ‘83, my mum kissing me on the lips before she went out so it stained mine a soft pink, or my own eyeliner design on my little brother, who really knows. All I know right now is that I wear it every day, a huge percentage of my monthly income is spent on it and although I’m not on the same scale as TOWIE when it comes to shovelling it on, I can’t leave the house without it. Whether I choose to acknowledge it or not, my dependency on NARS, MAC and sometimes even Collection 2000 (don’t judge) has quietly positioned itself as my security blanket.

When I set myself the challenge, while slightly under the influence, to go a week without it I instantly regret saying it A. out loud and B. in front of witnesses.

As it stands, my daily makeup routine consists of a layer of Clarins moisturiser, followed by Clinique concealer (y’know the one. In pen form, the poor woman’s YSL Touché Éclat) then Benefits Eraser concealer, a very light slick of NARS foundation, sweep of Chanel In Pink blusher, three layers of MAC lush mascara and a touch of Jelly Pong Pong lip gloss. See, not that much really. Is it... is it?

Day 1
OK, so this is it. I’m actually going to leave the house like this. My skin is all patchy and different shades of ‘eugh’. With just a slick of moisturiser, a deep breath and a reassuring, “you can do it” from my flatmate I step out. Not daring to look up from the path I quick step it to the station. With the extra 30minutes usually spent on my makeup routine I catch a stupidly early train with plenty of seats, a first! I stick my head in a book and make no eye contact. At my stop, I see a girl valiantly trying to put eyeliner on while the train is stationary, I let out a little sigh of envy. *eyeliner*

While at work, I get lots of ‘are you OK?’ and ‘You look tired’ comments. Great, just want I want to hear.

Day 2
I have to meet our new Deputy Editor with no makeup on, wasn’t my most confident introduction. I was very aware of my bags.
“You look like a boiled egg,” was my boyfriend’s first insightful comment upon seeing my lack of mascara.

Day 3
Sick of my dull complexion I haul myself off for a facial and a face threading – without foundation to cover up, I am conscious of my face fuzz. It was a good idea and leaves me feeling erm, glowier.

Day 4
“You can’t wear that it’s makeup!” shrieks my colleague when I innocently pull out some lip-gloss… “But it’s clear. It doesn’t count.” I plead desperately. Nope apparently it does. And now I have dry lips.



I purchase some decent under eye highlighter/anti-wrinkle cream, a new moisturiser and vow to drink my body weight in water. If I can’t cover my face with nice creamy foundation then I’ll fake it with Clarins flash balm moisturiser.

Day 5
Oh no, my first social situation. I’m off to a friend’s BBQ where pictures will be taken, thus documenting my facial nakedness. Needless to say I will hunt down anyone who tags me on Facebook.


Day 6
DISASTER. The threading has brought me out in spots. Spots that I CAN’T cover as that would involve makeup. I want to scream. This sets me back 3 days and I revert back to staring at the floor not wanting to make eye contact with anyone.

Day 7
Spots aside, as there is nothing I can do about them, I've realised I am now a fan of a bare face and of not having to faff with makeup every day or have the constant worry of falling asleep without washing my face. It’s not the end of the world... or my pillow case.


Summary
After 7 days without makeup it would appear that I’m a little bit vain. As soon as the week was up I was reaching for my makeup bag, the one I’d hidden under my bed, out of sight n’ all that. But it was really just to cover the spots from my threading (mis)adventure. Blemishes aside, my bare necessities are now literally mascara, slick of concealer and cheek tint.

Makeup is a security blanket for most women, I’m not sure how or why, but it is. I’ve had bosses that can’t go into a meeting without a slick of power red lippie. But this little experiment has shown me that I don’t need it as much as I thought, which is great… for my bank balance if nothing else.

Weaslaphobia... fear of hairdressers (apparently)

So... had my hair done the other day. I hate it. There has only ever been one 'like' of my hair on record. That was over ten years ago.

Wednesday midday

My thought process, 'Yay I have a job interview! It's been a while since I had my hair done,  I'll go for a quick trim and refresh of highlights."

First mistake.

Thursday 10am

Sat in the chair I'm trying to put my dream 'do into words for the lovely Louisa as she unenthusiastically picks up strand after strand with a raised eyebrow. "Yeah, I want platinum I think..."

Second mistake.

Thursday 230pm

Text from the boy, 'are you still at the hairdressers? You'll have no hair left soon.' Oh to be a man who breezes through a ten minute £10 razor trim.

I watch as Louisa boiffs and buffs my hair, bashing my head (accidentally) with a barrel brush, wincing each time she blowdrys a strand. I hate feeling all salonified, the price may aswell come with a 'LOOK! I'VE JUST HAD MY HAIR DONE.' sandwich board.

Thursday 310pm

As I raise my eyebrows to try and reach my perfectly smooth (very) short, (very) blonde fringe, I avoid the mirror. I look like Lady GaGa. A slightly dowdier, yellow haired Mum version.

I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.

"So, what do you think?" Louisa beams a smug - didn't I do well - smile.

"I love it." I fake a - no you did not - smile back.

I hate it.

A numb bum for 5 hours, fictional holiday plans for small talk fodder and a whopping £165 (don't tell Mark) later, plus £5 tip and I'm leaving with hair I don't like... did I tell you I hate it.

Monday 1030am

Sat eagerly in front of a potential boss, my short - looks like my Mum cut it - fringe and bad highlights are all twisted back in an attempt to hide them and all I could think was, "great, I look like I'm channelling Steps circa 1994."

I hate going to the hairdressers.

Heeling Powers

I’m a people watcher. It’s what I do. So I’m witness to women of all ages, shapes and sizes damaging the very core of femininity, the high heel.

You know these women, you've seen them teetering around in heels that they simply can't walk in. They lean too far forward, they bend their knees too deep or they don’t bend their knees at all! It’s cringe worthy and so sad to see when it’s happening to a gorgeous pair of strappy Louboutins.


As a petite 5ft 3incher I’m no stranger to the painful ‘heels = elongated calves x height + look hot in new LBD’ formula. I have had to give up many a sexy looking heel and face the harsh reality, I can’t walk in them thus I’ll never wear them.

In a bid to fix this – I’m a firm believer that everything is fixable - I source the help of Chyna Whyne. A self-confessed high-heel lover and Alexander Technique practitioner, no I didn’t have a clue either.

The Alexander Technique teaches you poise, balance and elegance all through the realigning of your body. Chyna has been teaching this since 2002, "I love teaching women," admits the heel loving, 5ft 3in singer-songwriter.

I turn up on time with my favourite pair of sky scraping heels tucked neatly in my bag. Couldn’t wear them yet, obviously.

Chyna is gorgeously petite and so softly spoken I have trouble hearing her as she chants ‘beautiful, gorgeous, perfect’ again and again as I sashay up and down her office. I’m not going to lie, I felt a bit stupid walking up and down trying to swing my hips and use the ‘ball of my foot’ – isn’t that the part that’s so sore by the end of the night you’re begging for piggy backs?

It took all my focus to stand tall, with my neck and back straight - how does this stop my ankle from going under me when faced with one of those super shiny marble floors. Note; Am I the only one who wants to crawl to the lift when faced with that?

"The head, neck and back relationship is our primary control," says Chyna. "When that's all working together, everything underneath flows perfectly."

Apparently, the main reason women feel unstable in heels is that they want to walk with their feet parallel to each other, like they do in flats, but in heels you need more balance. It’s all about placing one foot in front of the other with a slight turn out, this will balance you between strides – but don’t turn out so much you look like a penguin, there’s a fine line.

You should never walk from heel to toe, advises Chyna, but always lead with the ball of the foot, anchoring your weight in the heel.

"You have to glide in heels," says Chyna. Glide? I’m lucky I can get down stairs in one piece when wearing my favourite patent peep toes (Topshop Boutique, £79. Thank you very much).

Once you're all aligned you can focus on the shoe - go for a strong, sturdy heel, and avoid the flimsy stilettos - these can be hard to walk in, "sometimes the problem is the shoe, not the woman," admits Chyna.

Chyna's Top tips:
1. Lead with the ball of the foot - it should touch the floor first.
2. Keep your weight anchored in the heel.
3. Ensure you turn your feet slightly out, to maintain balance.
4. Smile!

True. If you keep smiling at people, they won’t notice when you shrink three inches. God bless the oversized clutch, my ballet pumps fit perfectly.

Learn to walk in heels? Watch a video here

New day, new laptop

*tappity tap tap tap... tap* That's me typing this blog on Lolita, my brand new shiny laptop. (yes, I name my things. That's a whole other blog)

But I must stop you here, I’d like to request one minute’s silence for my former laptop, Toby Toshiba. Killed in action, his little red light blinked its last after he was callously taken from me on Monday 15 August. Suffice to say it was a tragic accident involving hangover induced clumsiness, bleary vision and a pint of water left in a very careless place… *I promised myself I wouldn’t cry* ...58, 59, 60… R.I.P. Toby Toshiba. Thank you.

As with all healthy relationships you have to move on, which is why, just one day after the ‘funeral’ (I sold him for Information Technological advancements, it’s what he would have wanted) I find myself stood in the warehouse abyss that is Currys Electrical stores with a bemused expression on my face, a large Vanilla latte in my hand and an older brother by my side. Buying a laptop is what my Mum would refer to as a blue job, like when you buy a car and you need someone to come kick the tyre n’ stuff, that someone is usually a boy. In life, there are certain purchases to which a male comes with. Please note: the purchase of cushions/sofas/candles and/or high heels do not fall into this category. Yep, the sole reason my brother is here is to protect me, to stop me agreeing to an expensive laptop package I don’t need, even if it does come with a 'free' laptop bag.

As my brother starts explaining exactly what I’m looking for, I nod along before realising I need to pee, like now. A full bladder could negatively impact any laptop purchase decisions I may make... I go in search of a porcelain throne, “toilet’s out of order, innit” is the response from a purple shirted employee. Oh God, this sh*t just got serious, I now need to buy a laptop and find a loo in less than an hour. I resist the urge to cross my legs and hold my 'mini' like a five year old.

An hour? Pah, who am I kidding… Currys to a man is what Ikea is to a woman, they have to look at every aisle, compare every laptop, its battery life/Gigabite and weight before they lose focus and gravitate towards the TV section, lost in a new world of comparison. I eventually, after much cajoling, get my brother to narrow it down and set my heart on a sleek netbook number. It’s within budget, a dual processor (nope, me neither) it’s not too heavy, has 11 hours battery power and it comes in red. RED! It ticks all my boxes. I want it. The moment my ‘want’ is born, like a whiff of blood in the ocean the shar… I mean salesman is in front of me. I smile smugly, I won’t fall for his sales patter, now is my brother’s time to shine. But it’s a two pronged attack, a saleswoman with a tight top and nice smile appears from nowhere and leads my brother to the TV’s while sharpy sharkison is luring me in, wooing me with talk of wi-fi and bamboozling me with ‘free this and free that’ on their latest (Gah!) laptop package…

One hour and £600 later my brother and I are stood waiting for a taxi, blinking into the afternoon sunshine, he’s balancing his new LCD TV on a trolley and I’m clutching my new Samsung laptop complete with bag, well it was 'free'.

At a loss for words...

My boyfriend is a massive fan of making words up, such as ‘deluscious’, y'know how it works, that would be delicious and luscious merged. As a journalist this grates on me and has led to a few arguments, usually on long car journeys. As our battle of words fizzles out he will always end on the defence, “William Shakespeare made words up, if he can do it then so can I.” This is usually met with a frustrated sigh and a mumbled request for silence and a large vanilla latte.

As much as I hate the boy making words up, I hate even more that he *annoyingly* has a point (please don’t tell him I admitted that) it is a past time that has stood strong and I just can’t argue with Shakespeare… well not without that coffee first, anyway. Good old Bill has a lot to answer for, recent new words have derived, not from poets/playwrights or novelists but from popular TV shows, such as C4’s Made in Chelsea, ‘totes’ (read; totally) ITV’s The Only Way Is Essex, ‘jel’ (read: jealous) and MTV’s Geordie Shore, ‘tashin’ on’ (read: kissing). I’d love to be able to shake my head in disgust at “the youth of today” using such slang, but in reality and all honesty, I use it. Daily. *don’t judge*

Luckily though, none of the above mentioned words have actually made it into the Oxford English Dictionary. Yet. Give it time. Apparently Dictionary status can be achieved if the word is used enough. The most recent words to worm their way into this historic status are Mankini (read: male swimming cossie as worn by Borat, below)



sexting (read: sexy texting) and jeggings (jean leggings) as well as re-tweeting (read: erm… re-tweeting) An activity used on the latest social media site Twitter, this will in itself bring into play a whole new arena of words, such as tweet, hashtag and trending – all coming to a dictionary near you.

While I understand the Oxford English Dictionary wants to be seen as moving with the times as well as to document the change of our language, must they document some of the most stupid words we’ve come up with to date… though, instead of stupidity, maybe, just maybe it highlights our creativity as a nation, our stupitivity if you will… no?

INSERT BLOG HERE

I do have blogs to put up. Honest. I do. Well I need to write them first but then I definitely have them to upload.

You're all on the edge of your respective seats I'm sure, but hold on a little longer I have a teensy bit more procrastinating to do and then I'm all over it.

So, to summarise... wait a little longer.

Thanks!

the three month curse...

It’s a boring Monday night, I’ve dragged myself to the gym against all my better judgement and have just got home to a chilled bottle of wine, a comfy sofa and a chat with the flatmate.

“So, how’s Maaaarrrrk?” She teases.

Rolling my eyes at her childish tone while suppressing the bubble of butterflies at the mention of his name, I sigh and reply “he’s fine Jo…now shhh and pour me a glass.”

“How long has it been now?” she presses with a wry smile.

“Errrrm…” I wrinkle my nose and pretend to figure it out, even though I know to the exact day. “Three months on Sunday.” And then add, “I think.” So I look nonchalant about the whole thing.

Mark is younger than I am. A lot younger. By about five years… I know, I know. In my defence - and not that this would hold up in court – I started to like him before I knew his age, and he doesn’t look 23 years old. *Cringe. I hate saying his age aloud and I hate it when he shaves because then he really does look younger than me!

“Ah, three months…” interjects Grace, our fellow Monday night wino. “The make or break time.”

What the f…!? The 'make or break time'? This is new to me, I have never heard this rule before.

“Yep,” she continues, “most of my friends find that it’s around the three month mark that it all starts to crumble.” She’s watching her wine swirl around her glass, oblivious to the look of horror now firmly on my face.

Cue a huge range of questions scrambling like crazy around my brain.
Oh. Em. Gee. Mark and I are hitting three months! I need to do something, make a decision, test him, analyse him, dump him, marry him. I need to do something.

I opt for my personal favourite, analyse him.

He never shared that last spring roll on Friday night, and he took a while to text back the other day, and he cancelled on me on Sunday claiming sunstroke (pah!)…. hmm though he did call that night to chat. But then, he never made plans to meet up on Monday night. Yes but he did (sweetly) go and pick up a few things for me from Argos and paid for them (crap got to pay that back.) but then he didn't….

“Steph.” Jo barks. “You and Mark are fine, stop looking for things to go wrong.” It’s as if she can read my mind. Humph.

Now it's out there, like a guillotine hanging over my analytical head, the three month make or break rule . Let’s see what Sunday brings shall we...

Pet names – cool or cringe?

A pet name is a term of endearment, though how I’ve managed to endear myself to Fabia the Chanel PR girl five seconds into our first phone call is beyond me. In one 12-minute conversation alone the words sugar, darling and honey raised their fake little heads shamelessly one after the other.

The PR & Media industry is rife with empty gestures, meaningless compliments and a selection of pet names that make me sick in my mouth. These days there is a pre-requisite, before starting a degree in PR, to introduce a minimum of two new pet names to the arena. True story.

Inter-work pet names originated from PR girls, I’m sure of it. OK, sorry I shouldn’t be so vague, but I definitely think it started in the PR/media industry. I can’t imagine Blanche from Finance in the local council office calling everyone ‘chickaroo’.

Of course, there are two types of pet names, girl on girl and boy on girl.

Almost every girl I know – myself included – is guilty of committing the pet name faux pas. Personally, I’m a fan of ‘my lovely’ and ‘hon’. But, unlike ‘Fabia the Chanel PR girl’ I aim my terms of endearment at people I actually like. Though if I’m honest sometimes ‘hon’ comes into play when I’ve just plum forgotten someone’s name, very bad social etiquette I know.

Although having almost anonymous girls using a pet name on me does annoy, they’re not as bad as when you start seeing someone and a pet name slips out... The name they choose is a big tell tale sign as to what he’s really like, and there are two ways to handle this, nip it in the bud quick or spend the rest of your days answering to ‘Sweetlips’.

Top ten hated pet names;

1.Babes (eugh. Player!)
2.love (this man has a permanent builders bum)
3.hun (gaydar is off the charts, he’s a PR girl in disguise!)
4.mate (this man doesn’t want to date you.)
5.chick (are we still in secondary school?)
6.kiddo (No! Unless he’s Screech in an after school special of Saved By The Bell.)
7.darlin' (I want to put 'awight' in front of it)
8.pet (erm, no... actually if he’s Geordie this may be forgivable)
9.poppet (OK, I use this one. I'm guilty – but only to friends)
10.my dear (Grannified)

I think the first one is the worst, ‘babe’ is banded around will nilly without a care in the world. When a guy likes a woman and they are trying to convince her to like them back calling them babe, darlin’ or love just screams lack of imagination.

My first ever boyfriend had many a pet name for me… 'my little pork pie of pleasure', or 'my little dumpling of delight', he got a swift slap for that one even if it did make me laugh, the word dumpling is not what a woman want's to be associated with. Give him is due, they were original and I liked them... though I have to admit the one he settled for, annoyingly, was ‘baby’.

The moral of the pet name myth is to know your audience, don't call everyone you meet 'honey', and try to add a little depth and feeling to any pet name you choose, OK babes?

Booby Trap

Boobs. Women have them, men lust after them... They come in all shapes and sizes, big, small, flat, full, pert or *ahem* not so pert, loved, loathed, and fake.

To mirror this, the bras come in all shapes and sizes. And while changing in the gym the other day I spotted a gorgeous deep purple lace bra, cut into two neat plunge line triangles. It was so pretty and petite and I had to have it.

After making an awkward, blush inducing, and probably against-all-gym-changing-room-etiquette bra enquiry I find out it’s from La Perla.

I make a conscious effort to check my bank balance, ignore it and find myself in the nearest La Perla store.

Staring passed the sales assistant I try to hide that my eyes are welling with tears. They don’t have my size, and not in an ‘out of stock’ way, but in a ‘we don’t do it IN your size’ kind of way.

I’m one of those girls who have boobs but don’t like or use them accordingly, i.e. I have a gorgeous plunging black dress which I choose to wear backwards, making it a slash neck front thus hiding said boobs.

I avoid V-neck shaped tops, plunging necklines, wonder bras, sweetheart cuts, anything that reveals a cleavage of any kind. This probably sounds like a job for a therapist, instead it’s the focus of many a wine fuelled debate among friends. Particularly my 32F friend Abby, who can’t understand why – “they are such a waste on you,” she slurs. Which they are, an utter waste.

I talk as if I can rival the mass that adorns Jordan, I can’t, I’m a simple 32E… DD in some shops (but that’s another blog!)

And I'm not the only one, the average bra size in the UK is 36C, which is a pretty full bust, so why is it that pretty bras are only in the A to C cups?

While bra super giants, Bravissimo boast a fantastic stash of gorgeous bras,




my 32E self feels that they can’t quite beat the petite gorgeousness (and lack of full on steel girder support) of the A cup La Perla range;



Whenever I track down my size bra, they are inevitably of the ‘dinner lady’ variety. The ones that my dear friend Dionne never tires of pulling over the top of her head squealing, "ha-ha look at the size of this one!" – she’s 25 years old... and married... with a baby on the way.

Or I reach for the A cup and it looks so pretty, I then almost decapitate myself sticking my head behind the rail to find the bigger sizes, only to pull the 32E out in horror – it’s just never as pretty.

Although I long for a smaller, petite bust, for days where I can actually do a shirt up properly or to even toy with the idea of a backless dress, my A-cup friends dream of a 'cup runneth over, oh to have a shirt bursting at the buttons' type scenario.

'Any more than a handful is a waste,' I once overheard a guy reassuring his pouting, flat chested girlfriend as I looked down at my straining shirt button... It seems the grass is always greener on the other boob…

Book of the Face

We've all been there, you're walking to work and in the other direction you see that ever so slightly odd guy who smells of cabbage and sits three desks down from you. He's caught you in conversation before and you lost the will to live. A quick simple deduction of numbers means if you acknowledge him now you will have a full 9 minutes of walking and small-talking until you get to your desk... It's 930am, do you really have the will or inclination to do this? No. Which is why you stop dead in your tracks and stick your head in your oversized tote to look for the pass you know full well is sat in your coat pocket.

It has now gone beyond this, thanks to the networking phenomenon that is Facebook. God bless all the little IT geeks who have these toilet induced epiphanies.

It's a few 'quiet after work drinks' and you find yourself cornered by the office gossip queen, she's nice enough as long as you don't utter a single word, anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of 'you never guess what...' She's a journalist it's her job, and in a way you're secretly envious of this talent. Three bottles of wine later and you two are 2010's new BFF's.

The next day - after the hangover Maccie D's breakfast and gallon of water - you sneak onto Facebook and the little 'friends request' icon is flashing at you. Yes, it's gossip queen. She's added you. The picture of you in your bikini drinking from a beer gong with your flatmate pretending to ride you from behind (which seemed so funny at the time) is suddenly flashing through your mind in horror. If you accept her, she will see this. Argh, she will comment on it!

There are three choices, you can 'ignore' said request, which will make it very awkward when your new BFF corners you at the water cooler. You can 'accept her with MI5 secrecy settings', or you can just bite the bullet, forfeit any chance of repsect at work and let the gob on a stick have full access to all the most humiliating poses your lovely friends have papped you in.... ah well, who said I wanted a career anyway. 'accept'.

Incommunicado

I have always thought of myself as a modern girl who was up to date with the technological developments in the ever progressing whirlwind of life. I scoffed at my Mum as she struggled with her first mobile phone, I laughed outright the first time my Nan hitched her handbag up to her ear to see if she was ringing and I had a smug smile on my face when I guided my dad round his first PC.

The Goddess of modern technology... but somewhere along the way I lost it. This dawned on me when faced with a frown from my younger brother, "your phone doesn't even play music - that’s lame." I, Stephi Elle am 27 years old and I don’t own a blackberry.

When questioned by my peers I hear myself spinning the same excuse, "well my phone does the job." Followed by a desperate, "all I need to do is text and call, I don’t need all this new fangled technology.' Oh. God. I’m my Mother.

‘Sent using BlackBerry®’ – more and more of my emails have this little tit bit of information on the bottom. I never realised one sentence could cause envy, jealousy and shame all at the same time.

I am in two minds if I even want one, my old Sony Ericsson has been so reliable, a good staple in my life. It’s been dropped down stairs, in toilets, in pints and been in three pieces on the floor at the end of many a drunken night.
I'm attached to it – it’s seen me through some tough times - it's been the messenger throughout many a broken relationship, many a great relationship and it’s proved a worthy gossip transmitter.

I mean, am I even ready for a Blackberry? There have been many a time when I’ve looked at my ringing phone and, as much as I love the person calling, just not had the energy to answer. I've screened it and called back later, explaining I wasn’t near my phone. They always find this hard to believe, as everyone is always near their phone, it’s a mobile – why wouldn’t they be?

Is such a high level of availability really necessary? I like leaving my phone upstairs and going back to two missed calls and a text, I like not being able to see my work emails on the weekend. And I like logging in to hotmail on a Sunday to see that five people have emailed me... so what if three of these are selling Viagra, it’s just nice to see that little blinking ‘mail’ icon!

With a blackberry you have all this at your fingertips at all times, there’s no little bubble of excitement when you log on… because you’re permanently logged on. I’m just not sure I’m ready for that heavy load of communication just yet...

Nice guys finish last...

I went to a dating seminar the other day. Yes, a seminar on how to date, advice was given by a guy on how to get a guy. It was all in the name of ‘research’ you understand… yup research. On each of our chairs was a notepad – were we expected to take notes? The dozens of scribbling singletons around me soon answered that question!

They all looked obediently to the whiteboard, as the seminar leader wrote ‘don’t wait - create’ in large spider scrawl. Sure enough, everybody around me jotted the exact same thing down. I stifled a snort of laughter, how pathetic, writing notes on how to get a guy. 20 minutes later and they were still writing everything this guy said. The lemming in me took over and before I knew it I too was scribbling down his latest tit bit on 'how to get a guy'.

The thing is, this guy was teaching us women how to be more approachable, apparently it’s the age old spider theory - Men are more scared of us then we are of them. The seminar leader, Matthew Hussey, was once a Pick Up Artist (PUA) himself, so knows exactly how to get women and he teaches this art to men.

Though, now he has seen a gap in the market… and it’s not to teach us how to be witty, funny and interesting. No, it’s to make us seem demure, easy going and nice. But I’m not demure easy going or nice, I’m cynical, moody and sarcastic.

Surely pretending to be someone you’re not is tantamount to false advertising? Matthew promises us that his guys are ‘nice guys’, and that we should give them a chance. They may not have the wit and charm of the arrogant guy in the corner but give them a chance.

Listening to him I remembered – I don’t want a ‘nice guy’. There’s a reason people say ‘Nice guys finish last’ and it’s because they do! Girls, overall do not want the obligatory nice guy, but why don’t we?

Jane Austen. Jane Austen is why I don’t want a nice guy. Just look at her heroine in Pride and Prejudice, Miss Elizabeth Bennett. When she meets the gorgeous but disagreeable Mr Mark Darcy she hates him, he is moody, arrogant and slightly socially inept – everything a ‘woman ought not to like.’

Mark Darcy soon falls for Elizabeth and he changes, he makes the effort to make more chit chat, to be more agreeable. This behaviour is something he’s never done, and that is why I don’t want a ‘nice guy’. Nice guys in general are - well, nice, which means that when they’re nice to you thats just them being themselves. Where as if you meet a cocky, arrogant, dry witted, player and they are nice to you and make the effort to text you email you and generally be a nice guy, then you know that there’s something there.

Maybe it’s down to a woman’s innate desire to change every man she meets – you know you do it girls from shoes to how often his Mum does his washing… we want to change them, so when they do it themselves it’s well... nice.

Siteless

Ah, the weekend. My favourite of the two is Sunday that is if i’m not dying a slow and painful death from a ‘dodgy olive’ the night before – gotta watch those olives. For the past year Sunday has been my ‘Searchday’. Until last Thursday I was a self confessed internet dating-aholic, you may well scoff but searching got addictive. I was on at least three different sites and when i wasn’t on Facebook refreshing every three second’s I was on Dating Direct or Mysinglfriend.com clicking my way through London’s finest bunch of bachelors, i think i may now be suffering from repetitive click syndrome or RCS.

Meeting people is hard, no strike that meeting men is hard so when a new option presents itself in the form of a friend compiling a witty yet funny, edgy but soft, informative but interesting profile about me I jumped at the chance. Editing what my friend had originally written I then hunt down a picture which looks natural, but not too ‘look at my double chins’ natural, it has to be a smiley one, but not where i’m smiling inanely and resemble a monkey on crack, and it has to be casual – it’s a mission – but i complete it with only one swearing fit. Information up, picture loaded commence the dating frenzy 2009!

It’s a slow process. Did you know there is a whole internet dating etiquette? Even in the realms of cyber space you have to play it coy as a girl, which sucks. I figure, i’m sat here in my joggers, hoodie – complete with tea stains down the front, no make up on except for the little patch of toothpaste on an unwanted spot, eating salad cream sandwiches’. Coy Schmoy. I go in for the kill and decide to email the next face i like the look of. Because it’s all about looks, don’t let anyone fool you otherwise. If their eyes are too close together, the picture is in black and white, he’s posing with a puppy, or he simply has a monobrow I’m not going to bother reading his profile. I know... I have the depth of a puddle.

So click after click I sift through the pictures, speed reading the profiles scanning for key words ‘lawyer’ ‘employed’ ‘hates puppy’s.’ Sometimes i email, sometimes i just ‘wink’ at them – the internet version of, erm... well actually winking at them in person. Which is weird, I’m pretty sure no on other than Del boy would actually wink. I would only consider winking at a guy on a very high end dare involving some kind of Champagne.

Whether it’s winking or emailing I’ve met some strange people through these sites, it’s been interesting. But i’ve hung my internet dating hat up for good – i think, I hope. I’ve not found the love of my life, my soul mate who I’m about to marry I’ve simply been talked out of using them. Internet dating should be plan B not Plan A, apparently.

This makes sense, I want to meet a guy in a normal – and by normal i mean sober – scenario where he sees me in my glasses being all natural and steph like and he likes what he sees, not have him click on my face because he liked the picture i very carefully chose to resemble my best tanned smiley side.

So here’s hoping, it’s been a week so far and glass adorned natural steph has got nada. Maybe i can renew my dating profile...

Two's a Crowd

It’s 3am and a naked Irish man walks into my room… No, this isn’t a bad joke it actually happened. It’s Friday night and I have the flat, which I share with three other girls – all to myself. This is a luxury, one many a flat sharer will understand, I was able to enjoy all my annoying habits without the tuts and huffs of my fellow dwellers. Like, flicking through channels when the adverts are on - thus missing the end of whatever I was originally watching, voluntarily choosing late night repeats of Jeremy Kyle, Inspector Frost and/or Friends, openly crying at the SMA baby advert and trailing digestive crumbs over the sofa, it was a great start to the weekend. After finally finding out who Fathered Chanice-Mercedes’ dogs’ budgies cousins baby on the good old JK show, I took my tired sober self off to bed for an early night.

It was a nice dreamless sleep until my ears pricked up to the sound of my handle being turned and my door slowly opening. My eyes flew open and I was sat bolt upright, heart pounding so hard I could feel it hitting my ribs. There stood, silhouetted against my dark doorway was a very naked man followed by a very drunken Irish slur of “sorry wrong room,”
“out, get out; it’s the other side of the hall!” I shouted, pointing aimlessly in the dark towards, what I hope, was the bathroom.
I lay there eyes wide open, heart still pounding, door still open, wondering what just happened. I then listened intently as the drunken house guest stumbled downstairs knocked something over, swore gently then made his way back up the stairs, never once going to the toilet!
I furiously grabbed my phone and texted the culprit, my flat mate Lou. Except it wasn’t her I found after a half asleep reply, but the other one Sal. After one too many at the after work drinks Sal found herself a little of the Irish to play with.

I’m not one to prevent my friends from the occasional ‘how’s your father’, but when it overspills, naked, into my room I find it a cause for concern. Not that I want to be melodramatic or anything, but it could have ended so differently. Yes, he was an innocently disorientated drunk, but the next one may well know exactly what he’s doing. Until that night, I’d never felt unsafe in my flat, now I always have one ear open when I know the party girls are out.

Since the credit crunch, house share adverts have gone up by 33% (Gumtree). Moving to London can be a scary place it’s nice to be in a sociable house where you get to know others, plus living with others is much cheaper, great in this ‘current climate’ everyone keeps banging on about. Heed my word of warning; be careful when you choose your flat mates, try to make sure that you have a similar outlook on life, failing that make sure your room has a lock, I’m getting mine fitted tomorrow!

Delete, delete, delete

I read recently that lab based boffins have developed a memory-erasing pill! http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1145777/Pill-erase-bad-memories-Ethical-furore-drugs-threaten-human-identity.html

Dutch researchers have claimed to test this theory with beta-blocker drugs, usually prescribed for heart disease, they gave the drug to a group then showed pictures of spiders and monitored their response. They were then tested over two days and when the drug was out of their system, they seemed to respond less dramatically to the pictures. In theory they’re memory of being scared of the spiders had gone.

I laughed when I saw the little memory eraser thingy used by Agent J (Will Smith) in 1997's Men In Black - I thought it was a good idea. The same with Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, where a couple, after going through a painful break up, under go a process to delete all their memories, it was thought provoking. Now it seems that soon we will be able to delete our own memories. In theory, it was nice to discuss, in practise I’m not sure I agree with it.

It’s been said that this pill would be used for post traumatic stress and awful recurring bad memories, but who would decide what a bad memory was? Two years ago, I climbed into the shower at the farthest end of the bath. My flatmate had clearly been over zealous with the shower gel and missed her target loofah, I promptly slipped hitting my face off the edge of the bath almost breaking my nose and creating not only two lovely little black eyes but also a new phobia of bath-showers, cubicles are my future. Even now I get flash backs of slipping and it makes me go all goose pimply, I really do avoid bath showers and I am forever warning people to use them at their peril. Seriously reader, be careful as you climb in keep hold of the side and if you slip once abort ‘mission shower’ ABORT! That may well be a memory I would want to suppress, nay erase! Would a Dr consider that bad enough to fall under the 'erase' category?

I understand that victims of terrible muggings/beatings or rape may want the option to erase that memory, but is that a good thing? What about the lessons you learn from all these experiences, how it makes you stronger? If this pill makes it to mainstream medication we run the risk of morphing into botox shadows of our former selves with no stories to tell, no experiences to share, good or bad. Isn’t that what makes us unique, makes us, us? Isn’t that what makes us human?

Erasing memories in theory would be good, but in practise it’s just messing with our human make up and we’re amazing as we are, how we cope with life, how we learn from lessons. Erasing memories would be erasing a piece of you. That, and my councillor friend said it would put her out of a job….

Gym Schmym

I joined my local gym three months ago. It was a bit of an accident actually, I popped in on my way home from work one evening to ask how much it would cost to humiliate and degrade myself thrice a week, it was only a question. Ten minutes later Anya, the gym’s resident skinny cow, is interrogating me. I’m convinced her employment exists solely on her size eight booty’s ability to shame me into joining.

It's like looking in a mirror

While the skinny cow is ticking off a questionnaire on my living, eating and exercise habits, she is simultaneously drawing up a contract. To this day I’m still not sure what happened, it could have been the tedious Monday at work, her size eight booty or a rare out of body experience, but I found myself nodding and signing my life away on a 12 month contract. Following that, like many a fledgling gym goer, I strode purposefully to my nearest Adidas shop and proceeded to blow half my rent on new trainers, sports bra and lycra gym kit… which I never wear as I opt for an over sized greying tee shirt. For the next three months I go about 15 times, four of these times I don’t think count as all I did was sit in the sauna, but I went.

When I signed, Anya ticked the new programme option. I paid an additional £15 to be weighed, prodded, measured and then monitored - this was the yellow brick road to skinnysville I was sure of it. After the humiliation of the prodding, poking and weighing, there was no monitoring. When I made an appointment to sort this out Chad/Darren/Anya just wouldn’t turn up. All I wanted was a new programme; one that avoided ten minutes in the testosterone weights pit ‘working my guns’.

One Sunday I turned up and Erin (a new one) didn’t, the receptionist offered me his mobile so I could call him. I was stunned, and politely declined, I do not pay £50 a month to chase their staff! This was ongoing, I’m not going to lie to you, I didn’t feel special. Soon I stopped making appointments, then stopped going all together.

I have since cancelled my direct debit, now the fun has started. I am cancelling due to shoddy service; I cited this in my cancellation letter. They disagreed and have told me I can’t get out of the contract. Oh, they want to play it that way. I request a copy of my contract to go through, and funnily enough, they have yet to send it.

In the mean time, now this could be a vicious rumour you know how these Chinese whispers spiral out of control, but apparently there is a recession which has a direct effect on gym memberships and en masse cancelling. Now I’m trying to convince them that it’s not just because I’m poor that I’m cancelling but because of shoddy service. It’s not fair I started it first, bloody recession, ruins everything.

decrease of the bridezilla?

With the ever-over commercialised V-day looming large, I couldn’t help but smile when I read in today’s Sun that marriage is down. Yes, fewer Brits are tying the knot, apparently levels of meringue dressed brides and their matching grooms have been steadily decreasing since the 1980’s. Last year, according to Office for National Statistics 2008’s weddings totalled a mere 231,450.

Hmm, I find this hard to believe. Not only am I the Maid of Honour at one wedding this year but I’m also invited to a further three. Everywhere I turn, people are getting hitched, or at least it seems that way.

Needless to say my MoH duties know no bounds, I am at the brides beck and call 24 hours a day, I’ve learnt words I never knew before like favours… these are a thank you to the guest for deigning to come to the wedding, apparently a three-course meal and free bar doesn’t quite scream thanks anymore. My very own bridezilla has so far sent me three different links to different favours to go with her theme. Hang on, there’s a theme? Now, I don’t want to be a man about this, but it’s a wedding, don’t you just rock up in a white dress say a few I do’s then party on down? No, I learnt you do not do this, you need a theme and you need to colour coordinate your future husband to the colour of the flowers you choose. Poor guy, he is now but a mere accessory to a rose, or a tulip or a lily....

So anyway, these favours came in at a cool £160. I just can’t get my head round it, £160 for something people are going to stand on, lose or not even bother taking home. I try to communicate this to my friend but receive the bride death stare, more deadly than your run of the mill stare I can assure you, so I just nod and pick the one I know she’s already ordered.

The favours are just the tip of the dwindling savings account iceberg, there’s also ‘the’ dress, the bridesmaid dresses, grooms man outfits, flowers, food, drink, entertainment, invites, cars, phew! Denise Knowles of relationship experts Relate says, “We’re in a period of transition. Couples are choosing to spend their money on a house or starting a family rather than give a big wedding.” I don’t blame them, a wedding is equal to some third world country's debts!

What happened to love making the world go round, nope it’s nothing less than a £15000 savings account now, it’s one day people. One day, a fact I keep telling the lovely bride, she shrugs and says, “I know but I want it to be nice, I don’t want people to think we’re stingy.” Is that what a wedding has become, a couple not only proving they love each other and will commit to each other in front of all who are dear but also "surprise, we have also secretly won the lottery"?

I’m beyond happy for my friend (I have to say that in case she reads this) but I want her, and every other bride to know that when it comes to your wedding, we're there for you, to celebrate for you and to feed you shots of champers!
Remember, the people who mind don't matter and the people who matter don't mind.

I procrastinate, therefore I am.

“Got any ID love?” boomed the towering bouncer (is being the size of a small transit van a prerequisite to stand on a door all night?) It’s another quiet after work drink at my local and on this particular night I clearly looked under 18, which at almost 27 years old, makes me feel slightly giddy. I smugly hand over my *cough* provisional drivers license for study and he helpfully points out that it expires at the end of February.

What the…? I snatch it back, scanning for the date. It’s not possible, it doesn’t, it can’t. That would mean I have gone ten years without learning to drive. Ten years! Then it dawns on me, I remember. I am the all-powerful long time reigning, Queen of procrastination. This is but one of the many cases of my skill at delaying, postponing and avoiding at all costs.

‘I’ve never needed to drive', 'I can’t learn in London', 'I can’t afford the lessons, let alone a car’, I pour my excuses out to anyone who scoffs at my green license. These excuses have become more and more mumbled with each passing birthday. I am just a procrastinator I will put it off until I can get away with it.

Case in point, I thought of this article over a week ago but only now am I actually getting round to writing it. I have a wedding to attend in August, for which I plan to shed half my body weight. I’ll start running tomorrow… I made this promise a month ago. The running trainers remain under my bed untouched. I’ll start a savings account - which currently has 12p in it - because I’ll start next month.

I can talk the talk, but I’m starting to worry that I can’t actually put one ballet pump adorned foot in front of the other and walk the walk. In theory, I am a great doer, in practise I’m a great don’ter. I’m one of the more common species of procrastinating ‘I’m going to travel the world/write a book/go skiing’ type people who never actually follow up on anything.

Is there some kind of imbedded dysfunctional gene that makes procrastinators procrastinate? Or, is it a simple combination of facts? Like, I have the attention span of a gnat thanks to MTV, or that I’m one of four children so I’m convinced there is always something more fun happening elsewhere, which means I never finish anything - well I don’t want to miss out.

I actually get cold sweats when I think about having to do something, and I will look for a short-term way to get out of it. I work much better when the pressure is on, if left to my own devices I will procrastinate, fact. How I got a degree is a mystery!

To summarise, I’m a chronic procrastinator. There’s a website for it you know, I plan to have a look at it… later.

Fashion and the flakes

Ballet pumps do not, warm feet make, I’ve only recently learnt this. I made the executive decision to take my friends on the Thames clipper to Greenwich Village, we shuffle around the shops with red noses, trying to shield behind one another from the wind, our peepers peeled for the next Starbucks so we can dive in and defrost. Light styro-foam type snow tries to fall, and it does try its little hardest, but to no avail. This is our preview for what is about to hit! Monday morning greets London with a gloriously untouched white veil, so delicately coating everything. Even office buildings look slightly more picturesque.

I lay in bed weighing up the odds of being able to leave my hair for another day before grease takes over - I press my snooze button - I mentally go through my shoe collection comparing what could keep my feet warm, dry and prevent me from slipping - I press snooze again. My patent knee-highs have the grips on the bottom but are very thin material, my Uggs would work on the warmth side of things but they are suede, unprotected suede at that. Snow would certainly ruin them and they are new. Hmm, then there’s my wellies. Yes, wellington boots may work, I look like Paddington Bear in them, and feel I wouldn’t be doing them justice if I didn’t jump in every puddle and refuse to eat my greens, but they may well work. I press my snooze button a third time. Yes, my wellies with a black dress, cardi and leopard print pashmina… I finally get up.

It’s the worst snow London has seen in 18 years, I sit with my tea dreading the walk to work. Yes I walk. Therefore I can’t blame tube closures, bus cancellations or trains…I listen to all the commuters freezing in their make shift ski suits and over sized gloves whinging about waiting on a platform for two hours, and I’m jealous. My seven minute dawdle will probably take me 12 minutes today but I’ll still be in work on time. A day stretching ahead of me, forced to look at friends facebook pictures of their snowmen and snowball fights. I resolve there and then to partake in a go slow, snow day.

I eventually start my 12-minute hellish commute to work. There I am crawling along, eyes focused intently on the ground to avoid slippage, critically placing my foot each time when a woman over takes me in her heels. Heels! I'm practically Paddington and she’s managing to not only walk in stilettos but leave me in her snow dust! How is this possible? I just haven’t got what it takes, I lack the fashion finesse, the skill to teeter in sky scraper heels even in zero degree weather, the passion for leaner looking calves the… I look up and she’s wrapped round a lamppost clinging on for dear life. I smile smugly as I plod on past, one wellie in front of the other.

Don't retouch me.

Anyone who knows the difference between Beano and Marie Claire will know what airbrushing means. For those who don’t know, it’s the magical digital manipulation of an image, usually completed by the steady hand of a Magazine Art Designer.

Whether it’s Vogue’s decision to paste Sienna Millers head on another picture of her body (front cover, 2007), staged photos of abuse by British soldiers in Iraqi prisons (Piers Morgan lost his job over that little doozy) or that of Kate Winslet. Photos of the recent Golden Globe winning actress, which appeared on the front cover of GQ in 2003, are only well-known because they took an actress famous for speaking out on weight issues, and (mis-re) presented her as a twiglet! http://media.museumofhoaxes.com/2003winslet_gq.jpg

Airbrushing is rife in the magazine industry, and there are so many reasons it shouldn’t be allowed to happen willy-nilly, a main priority should be the mental health of every woman in the country.

Nothing makes you feel worse than seeing the perfect dewy looking complexion of the latest starlet staring back at you from a glossy magazine… I know the reason is to aspire readers to be like them, we buy the magazine because we believe we’re buying into the image. ‘Look at me clutching my Vogue, now I’ve duped you into thinking my Primark boots are really Miu Miu haven’t I?’ but why do you think the ‘Circle of Shame’ so helpfully provided by the delights of weekly mag Heat, is so popular? We, Joe public like to see Celebs looking normal, with a hint of puffy eyes, stubborn under the skin spots and just-been-caught-in-the-rain frizzy hair.
Scouser shopaholic, Coleen McLoughlin, has chosen to take this fight on too. The latest battle is a search for a supermodel. Coleen wants to introduce the girl next door to the heady heights of fashion, she wants women who are naturally gorgeous, no airbrush required!
With this in mind, I would go as far as to challenge the leading monthly mags to follow in the footsteps of the popular Dove Campaign and have their cover girl go natural! I don’t want to be mean and tell them to wear no makeup… but to just have bear minimum and have no hint of the air brushed about them.

Surely, the use of clever lighting, good make up and application should be enough. At least then, we know we have a shot (a long, never in a million years shot) but a shot still the same.

And that’s just make up, don’t get me started on lingerie shots… what was that? Right. It’s one thing to look longingly at a models smoky eyes and wonder how she didn’t end up with stray black flecks all over her cheek or looking like a doe eyed panda who’s just lost 2-0 to Tyson. We are bombarded with images of size 6 models prancing around in Agent Provocateur delicates with little to no imperfections to boast about. By imperfections I mean no creases in their skin, all limbs are the same perfect colour, with no dents or even character about them! Jenny Medcalfe (Mercedes in Hollyoaks), recently quoted in Heats celebs with no makeup page ‘I don’t let them airbrush all my freckles out otherwise you just end up looking like a clone’
They even airbrush out beauty spots, freckles and birthmarks! It’s a bread crumb trail to perfection gone wrong, very wrong indeed!

Though, I feel since the birth of Facebook, we are all guilty of slight Vogue like behaviour. My friend’s a photographer and as such, she offered to ‘touch up’ my pictures… with my profile pic in mind I jumped at the chance, am I just as bad?
I like to think not, if you keep clicking, there are plenty of pictures to contradict the retouched one.