“You’re a Tomboy.”

IMG_1907Hearing these words from an old buddy who knew me well was like looking in the mirror and seeing someone else.

A Tomboy? Me? Why?

” Because you can hang around with us and stand up for yourself ” he said.

I remember a girl from summer camp who was called a Tomboy by other girls, but in this case the line between “Tomboy” and ” Bully” was almost invisible.

Until I went in the underground the next morning, I hadn’t realised who I had become after 12 years of  having only boy- friends.

No, I’ve tried hard, tried it all, but I can’t be friends with 90% of women. The gossiping, the need for attention, ” daddy’s girls “, the time-clock…. and their ways to go around  a complete communication tools “blocking” -and even running away from them to another continent – when dangerous intimate secrets are exchanged….

Back to the Underground. I scanned a few women who were standing in the wagon- maybe standing makes them more masculine- and I noticed first they all carry a bag. Poor souls.

What’s in their bags? I only carry my keys, phone and purse in my pockets. What’s the point of carrying  a guilt- packed, half- eaten chocolate bar for six months back and forth ? And all that make up? Is it really the end if the World if a colleague catches you with faded makeup?

Scrolling down a little, and getting more and more amused, I spotted the uncomfortable shoes. Whether too narrow or too high the heels, does bearing that kind of Medieval punishment make you a ” Power Woman”?

Who says? Which pseudo- “Premiere-Dame”? No wonder the wages are gapped- who can achieve a fair rate of work productivity in those shoes?

For an enlightening moment I thought I had walked into the subway in my slippers.[sociallocker][/sociallocker]

As a toddler discovering a new world around her, I couldn’t resist but reading the WhatsApp a young  office worker was sending to her friend. She was actually pasting her previous nights boyfriend ‘s WhatsApps to another female friend- to get some sympathy from her, I supposed.

A man would never do that. Neither would a tomboy.

Which means- if you’re named a Tomboy you can go from A to B without getting three scratches on your car.

You don’t stain wine glasses with sticky rouge.

You don’t spend cash nor time on learning details about celebrities ‘ lives.

You don’t use a push-up bra- your breasts are fighting fit thanks to the volleyball.

Other woman ask themselves why men get into joking mood when they’re around you.

You don’t need two and a half hours of grooming before going out to a party.

You always get an early call after a one-night-stand.

And best of all, your hair, skin and nails look like a healthy baby’s because you don’t get your body vandalised at hair salons, tanning beds etc…

As I do own a favourite rag doll from childhood which comforts me when PMS, and always get given jewellery by my partners, I am past the shock after a week and I am embracing the practicality, comfort, joy and freedom of being somewhat tomboyish .

But the old buddy? Wait a minute! He’s got long hair, tight pants and pointed shoes…. isn’t he slightly queer?

Thanks for sharing!

 

More humor here…

The Other Woman

votenow-2-transI am not the jealous type. But what happened to me last Christmas changed my marriage for good.

I had been suspecting her existence for a couple of months -but I didn’t think twice when I was sent to a Seminar in Manchester for a week: “if he’s got to see her he will anyway “.

My marriage with my teenage love was too perfect and I would even say boring for Her not to appear like a flesh Ghost. I hadn’t mentioned her to anyone, all I did was get myself a small cute notepad in Cards Galore, and tracked down the clues she left behind. I secretly enjoyed this and carried on with my life.

But when I got back from that Manchester Seminar and found he was not home, I thought myself a fool. Instinctively I went through the bedroom and en suite bathroom to find a case left behind.

It was a tablet case… with no tablet. All there was inside was a collection of cards I avidly went through one by one. This woman was spoilt, and popular. All cards said something like “free ” or “gift” on them, and there was a handful of VIP business cards too.

My darker side took hold of me and I quickly went to my little home desk and sat down to find a place to hide the treasure.[sociallocker][/sociallocker]

“Mother Christmas I shall call her”.

Still trembling with excitement I took a quick shower and undid my luggage. Stan had called to say he had a last minute football ticket given by his colleague and would be back home soon.

Nobody ever reclaimed the little “Christmas present ” but the following months were a new beginning thanks to the cards.

I had used one of the Spa vouchers for an egyptian mud treatment which knocked five  years off my skin complexion . I joined a belly dancing group with her membership card and started to enjoy a kind of sex appeal only celebrities can show off. I used the VIP contacts to make my way through a career change.

And best of all, my wardrobe got revamped and Stan said he couldn’t recognize the “new woman ” I had become. So he took me on a second honeymoon where we finally conceived twins.

While we were there on a drunk night by the fireplace, I confessed my little detective book and so he said She was just a woman he was trying to sign a deal with and who lurred him into intimacy. He said he had set her up with the football fan colleague to get rid of her -and now these two were engaged.

Drunk as he was, he showed me a video of her on his phone where she is shouting at a cabbie in Spanish.

“By the way, can I ask you Jennifer – you don’t happen to have a sugar daddy buying you all this expensive sexy underwear, do you?” And I spilled the whiskey on the sheepskin rug….

 

The End

More humour  here !

The Day I Switched To Decaff.

Caffeine hurts, Caffeine drains you, you look nervous. I had heard it all.

Gazing at the infinite coffee lovers’ options at my favourite massive supermarket,  and with time leaking between my nervous fingers, I grabbed it.

A jar of decaffeinated coffee.

” I don’t believe it would be on the shelves if it were bad for you” I said to myself.

In twenty four hours I  were to find out.

Because it was only early afternoon on Sunday I packed some goodies to last me til Monday and decided to spend the rest of my week-end decluttering, then reading my vampire novel… and drinking Decaff.

I even wrote on my smartphone calendar a “good news note” about the new change.

Halfway through chapter six of my novel I realised I was getting a headache and strained eyes, felt drowsy and couldn’t take anything in.

“I will take a bath tomorrow before work”. I forgot to mark the page in my novel. Zzzzz……

Thank goodness I use a loud alarm clock, my good old alarm clock from the eighties, which followed me around the world, through six boyfriends and three redundancies- because I was having a nightmare about London getting flooded with Coffee, and people escaping in huge paper cups and rowing with teaspoons.

I found the bath too hot so I made it a bathspresso. 

Very proud of drinking Decaff, but Heck, where’s that Buzz?!

“I’ll get through this...”

Work is just three blocks away, but on my way I stopped at the ATM. After a seven people queue, I entered my PIN number wrong three times.  Card swallowed. Because I have another pair of cards I just walked away thinking “I ‘ll pay my rent via direct debit like Sasha rightly tells me to”.

We can do this. Even if I’m not quite sure who “we” is, but I needed some back-up then.

 

I had never noticed there’s a Decaff option at the office coffee machine. Stubborn me.

A call. My neighbour Ted yelling. Oh no, I forgot to turn off the hot water tap after my bath! And we were not insured. ” We” again?

Luckily my boss is understanding and I usually don’t call in for too many stickies- so I grabbed my bag and made my way to the bus stop, as Ted was telling me he had recently refurbished his studio flat. So time wasn’t on my side.

“That ‘s a new nice building they’ve just built there!”  This bus was unusually empty so I took a seat and fell asleep while looking outside the window. ” We” weren’t even aware it was the wrong bus.

“Driver! Please let me off! I’ve got a leak at home and am on the wrong bus!”

“Sorry Madame, I  cannot let you off til the next stop. ”

“We’ll get over this Stella”. Was I going mad talking to myself, this time out loud?

As I looked right, Simon was there, pressing the emergency button that opens the door, and pulled me out by the hand.

 

Simon was a summer camp teenage love from Colombia who I had met in the Alpes.

” I still keep all your letters in chocolate box, You look great, just a little sleepy”. He kissed me confidently.  ” Now where ‘s your flat? I will steal a couple of bikes to get there, then we can dump them in front of the Police station like we used to, remember? ”

“We do. I mean- I do”

“Do you still have that alarm clock we used to meet up in the stables at 4 AM?”

I hadn’t realised how far we were from home- I must have really dozed off on that bus. That lucky bus!

Now all I wanted was a double coffee, gaze into Simon eyes and hear his stories.

I don’t know by which exact magic art he happened to have some Colombian Roasted coffee, feather dream-catchers and cafe creme cigarellos. But before there was going to be some fifth gear love making, while being interrupted by Ted the angry neighbour who was still waiting for me to close the tap!

 

The End.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

London’s Pink

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“I promise I won’t be long Candy, just going in there to get us some Marshmallows!”
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Honey? I won’t make it to the hallowe’en party!
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Two baby Unicorns are born in London again
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Two legs bouncing on four wheels!
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Friends will be Friends[sociallocker][/sociallocker]
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Don’t we Love London?!
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If only there were benches in London

That Awkward Moment

That awkward moment. It gets even more frequent as we grow older.

 

Usually involving a middle-aged divorcee: we ask for her age. “How old do I look?” She ventures. Of course, you are not to offend her, as you want her to give you a lift to the airport- and also your new date’s approval.

 

So you subtract twenty odd years from the age she actually looks. And that’s when it all starts. Middle-aged ego boosted, you have to sit there listening to a half-hour pseudo-beauty lecture and confession about her “Secret“.

 

What “Secret”? Can’t she suss out you just lied to her because you feel like your sitting on pins when you’re around her? Or that you need that lift to catch your flight?

 

“I don’t smoke, don’t drink and am a vegan.”

or “Good skin runs in my family”

or even “I use cold water to shower”.

 

But if the lady in question is into Facial Yoga or swimming competitions, you’ll want to stick those pins up her eyes.

 

I have learnt through the years that the best thing to say when stuck in one of these situations is not to lie, or to add ten years to the age she actually looks, to save your head- and precious time.

 

Now the fat divorcee is driving you to the airport, calling you her newly adopted daughter, and making funny faces on the wheel. Facial Yoga. Oh, no! her eyes are strongly shut! And we’re speeding at 80 mph!

 

Not only she’s giving you a Facial Yoga lesson, but it appears like you have offered her a drink, because she’s all high, comparing herself to Nicole Kidman.

 

She’s using phrases like “when I was your age” and boasting about her achievements. You hold your date’s hand tightly as he’s avoiding eye-contact because he’s aware of your discomfort.

 

“Open your eyes auntie, for God’s sake!”

 

When you think the nightmare’s over, and you’re just in time to catch your flight back home, she starts searching into her smartphone to try and give you the link to the YouTube Facial Yoga videos. Just what I needed. And she can’t find them.

 

“Believe me, Facial Yoga will change your life!”

 

“Will Facial Yoga give me an upgrade to First Class?” You badly want to ask.

 

As your irritation is burning your cheeks, you can’t resist anymore:

 

“By the way, how did you get that limp?

 

And your date dumps you. Can’t care less, you’ve spotted a tanned hot surfer at the Check-in queue, he’s smiling at you- and he LOOKS TWENTY-FIVE!

More

Lipstick lasting seven Kisses

Her best friend calls her a compulsive polygamist.

 

She just can’t do without nine guys on the speed dial.

Like a magician shuffling his cards craftily, she fits in all the men into her semi-chaotic, semi-super organised schedule.

 

Blonde wig fot Danny,  change home routes after slapping Stewart goodbye, play the broke student with Phil, French accent for Thomas… and no cheat sheets inside the cupboard!

And she uses the same pet name for all nine. Ugly-duckling.

 

It’s not second nature to her. It is first nature.

When she breaks up with one she whines like a teenager and forgets about the remaining eight. Love- unexplained. That’s when she calls her mother.

He extreme feminity, and occasional outbursts  of masculine-like anger intrigue even herself…

But how she makes a living is not obvious.

 

She is a Spy.

 

I hate meditation

Tuesday. Angry.

 

I haven’t exercised for a week and my do-do list is only half ticked.

 

I’m going to do what they do nowadays, take 12-13 minutes of meditation. By the way, I hate it. So I shall do an experiment. I want to see if meditation will give me creative, practical ideas to sort out my week… because it has already started with a limp.

 

half an hour later….

 

Oh, girl. The ten minutes before the meditation, after I made the strong resolution to sit down and do it, were the best.

 

I must point out, I needed my killer high heels to get myself to do it….

I felt sweetly excited and blissed like by the touch of an Alien. My body became bubble-light, elastic such as chewing gum, and fizzy like lemonade. I didn’t have enough space in my body to host the Oxygen traffic.

 

Dance, fight, knit or work, I can’t make up my mind what I want to do- I’ll do anything that pops in first. I have carried on my research for my project online.

 

Energy is overflowing and a nerve is asking me to Concentrate on a task.

I only meditated for nine minutes. I might be too excited. That makes a change from the gloom and anger I felt yesterday- Monday.

 

I can fix this week now- I’ve got the feeling I will even go beyond that- and embrace all that my spirit desires to get me doing!

 

But two hours later….

 

Had the most upsetting nightmare I’ve ever had: Cannibals got hold of London and enslaved us. It went on for about two hours. I questioned during the nightmare wether it was real, and was so deep into it only the phone ringing saved me.

 

I don’t mind, I want to meditate again tomorrow! This time, with my high heels and make-up on!