Soon, very soon, I am going to have to dig out the bag of stretchy-topped jeans and tent-like tops from under the bed. But until that happens, I intend to make the most of the warm weather and expose a dignified amount of flesh.
If, that is, I have remembered to both fake tan and to remove my leg stubble – neither paleness nor hairiness are a good look with a cute little summer skirt. Mind you, nor is a tum that doesn’t look properly pregnant and instead suggests I had a rather large lunch. For the last six weeks. Continue reading…
Before I continue, I would like to make it clear that I love Jennifer Aniston, and if we met in real life, we would get on like a house on fire and end up being inseparable and possibly swapping clothes. (Except that she would put mine in the ‘garbage’ and I would not being able to get into any of hers. Whatevs.)
Last week though, some shocking news landed in my inbox from one of the many quality publications I subscribe to for research purposes. (Heat, probably.) Jennifer has a flat stomach. I know. It has taken me until today to pick my lower jaw up off the floor. After all, she’s never grown a baby in the aforementioned abdomen, and has thousands – nay millions – of dollars to spend solely on looking phenomenal. Continue reading…
It’s not deliberate. It just so happens that in our household, I seem to do the womanly things while my other half is decidedly blokey in his choice of chores. I’m no Doris Day, it just happens to be a division of labour that make sense. I do most of the cooking because, well, I can. What would you choose: a nice risotto with prawns and asparagus, or something that needs its film lid pierced several times before it’s nuked for three minutes in the microwave?
It works the other way round too. Even though I’m entirely capable of taking our car to the garage, we’ve discovered over the years that I might as well arrive with a note stapled to my forehead that says “Hi, I’m blonde, female and don’t know that much about engines. Please make a noise through your teeth, tell me it’ll need something done relating to hose clamps that have to be ordered, and then rip me off spectacularly. Thanks.” My husband, on the other hand (who knows exactly the same about cars as me) gets called “Big Man” and “Mate”, and is given an immediate discount just because he’s got a beard. Continue reading…
