35 posts tagged “women”
I hit the bottle today.
The bleach bottle that is.
I had my home hairdresser pay me a visit. As soon as she arrived I said
You've cut your hair
She said
Yeah - last sunday I drank a bottle of wine, then decided I'd cut my hair with the nail scissors.
Thats what I like to see in my hairdresser. Someone not afraid to take risks.
So I've taken another step on the road to blonde. And I'm starting to remember how cruel bleach can be to your hair. So I'm after the name of a really good shampoo and conditioner for bleached hair.
I'll just give you a brief description of my hair. On a good day.
OK - go to your kitchen pantry and get out a piece of steel wool or brillo or whatever you scour your saucepans with. Have a little feel of it. Then imagine thick masses of it. Now picture it after it has soaked in a bowl of bleach for a while. And thats my hair.
I have read that Tigi Bedhead Dumb Blonde is very good but I'm open to suggestions because I also read that mayonnaise was good. Tigi also have a shampoo called Thick Massive Hair which sums me up. (Well not necessarily me, but my hair).
So please anyone if you know of a conditioner or treatment that really works on thick, coarse, bleached, massive hair, I'd be very grateful.
This is the part where I was going to give you the recipe for Lizzie's Pig and Lard Muffins, but I can't find it. And I have spent the last hour re organising all my cookbooks in the process (sorry Oona - I shall let you know the minute I find it).
Today Operation Thunder Thighs began. I'm not trying to find some, rather prevent some from arriving.
It all started about a year ago.
My mother had two knee replacement operations and I went and stayed at their house to look after her. One of my jobs was to put on the compression stockings. And they aren't joking when they use the word compression. So she'd have a shower and stand in front of me. I'd kneel on the floor and wrestle the stockings onto her. After a few weeks doing this I could have killed a person with only my thumbs. It's a tough workout.
Anyway the point is, that one time while I was doing this, I glanced up at my mothers legs and thought -
wow - they sure are chunky thighs.
But it wasn't a huge shock as she's always had terrible legs.
However, last week I stepped out of the shower, bent down to dry my toes, glanced at my legs and thought -
OH MY GOD - those babies could turn into my mothers thighs.
They definitely have the potential. They're still slim, but I can see a similar shape emerging.
Lizzie is also going to begin Operation Thunder Thighs. I was going to say that at 16 she has different goals than me, but I don't think she has actually. I think we're both trying not to turn into our mother.
My friend Jem is going to start Operation Fat Guts. Thats because her mother looks like a ladybeetle. Or a bee. She has the tank middle and skinny legs.
Bloody mothers - pass on all their faulty genes - why can't they be perfect.
My parents between them have already warned me to look out for varicose veins, glaucoma, haemochromatosis and schizophrenia. And now they expect me to deal with fat thighs as well.
So basically the routine will just include more of what we should all be doing.
Less grog - I must say Four Corners scared me off binge drinking (almost) last night with the brain damage angle. Was much more frightening than ManWoman.
Less fat - twisties, chips and gravy, pastry - basically all the tasty stuff.
Less sugar - no actually I don't eat much sugar - that can stay.
More exercise - I'm excellent at making excuses to get out of exercise, so no more of that. Definitely more leg work.
I was going to take before and after photos but common sense prevailed. I did that once before. I had Daz take some polaroids of me in my undies and bra. I couldn't be bothered taking my jeans off so I just had them bunched around my ankles. So I told him to cut that out of the photo. But he didn't - he put them in and cut my head off instead.
I don't remember if I actually cried or not when I saw them but I knew they must be destroyed instantly. Do you know how hard it is to set a polaroid alight.
So here we go. Operation Thunder Thighs has officially begun.
Over the years I've been a bit of a Madonna fan. And not usually for her music, but more for her attitude, versatility, work ethic, her ability to stay one step ahead. But something happened on Friday night that may have changed that a little.
I saw her being interviewed on telly and as soon as she sat down she turned all coy and said
Don't film my fat thighs
And I felt very disappointed that she said that. She should be saying
Make sure you get my thighs in the shot. I've worked hard to get these thighs so make sure you show them.
And anyway, doesn't she know there's nothing worse than a skinny chick going on about how fat she is.
Now she did say (after the reporter said - don't tell me you just said that), that she was proud of her thighs but the damage had been done.
Anyway it reminded me of a joke I heard.
A woman was granted a wish after releasing a genie from a bottle. He said to her
You can have one wish, what'll it be?
And the woman said
I'll have thin thighs thanks.
And the genie sighed and said
That is really selfish. Why don't you think of all the people suffering in the world?
So she said
Okay then, make it thin thighs for everyone
The government is contributing to my alcohol problem.
Here in australia we have a huge drinking culture. Everyone drinks. Matter of fact, I'm drinking now. And we are a nation of binge drinkers.
And apparently no one likes a drink more than teenage girls. Once you hit 13, its game on. They love all those premixed bottles of brilliant coloured grog that we now call alcopops. Do you know that the manufacturers of those bottles even made them smaller so they were a more comfortable fit for a girls hand. I wish they'd been around when I was 13. Would've saved me from the nasty rubbish I had to drink.
So the government decided something must be done, so they have raised the tax on alcopops. They figure if they make them expensive enough, teenagers won't be able to afford them. And this is where my problem arises.
I'm normally a wine drinker. Or a vodka drinker. Hmm, vodka, lime and soda. However on Fridays I buy myself a 375ml bottle of premix smirnoff black. It's a treat. But when I went to buy it last week, due to the new tax, that one drink of premix was going to cost me $6. So I look around and see that for a couple of extra dollars I can buy a whole bottle of wine. So thats what I did. So instead of my one drink, I now have four. And thats just my treat.
So why isn't it just going to be the same for teenagers. They'll think, well hell, I can buy a cask of wine for not much more than one 375ml bottle of alcopop. Kids aren't stupid. They always find a way around things.
It all started with the yoghurt.
I don't eat yoghurt - don't like dairy much at all. But I felt myself slouching, and I could feel that dowagers hump growing between my shoulder blades and the osteoporosis eating away my bones. Must eat calcium I thought. And even though I knew it would make the wierd throat thing worse, at that moment my fear of brittle bones was greater than my fear of phlegm.
So because I can't face a glass of milk, I thought - yoghurt. And I was right, it was awful. It leaves a taste in your throat like you've just had a vomit. But they say you need three serves a day so I added cheese to the daily diet. And how else to have cheese but on a toasted sandwich. Even though I know bread makes me feel like an unsettled doughball. And before you know it you're washing it all down with an extra cup of coffee and then surely a couple of glasses of wine while you cook dinner can't do any harm, and surely you don't need to exercise every day. And before you know it you've got a family block of chocolate hidden in the vegetable crisper.
Then one night I was home alone, with no car and I had to pick up Lizzie from work. So I jogged. I could have walked, but I was watching CSI and I didn't want to miss too much. And it was while I was jogging, in the howling winds and light rain that I felt, not fat, but sluggish. Heavy. I didn't feel that my blood was zipping around my body. It felt more like a sludge trying to make it's way through my hardening arteries.
Ok then, I did feel a little bit fat. But that was only because I'd seen Madonnas new film clip. And even though they may have used soft filters on her, there is no denying her overall fitness and flexibility. This does not look like a woman who groans when she stands up after squatting on the floor for a while.
And my throat feels awful. Constantly throat clearing. So the yoghurt and cheese are gone. I'll just have to buy calcium tablets.
And don't forget to keep those shoulders back ladies - SQUEEZE them. Several times a day.
SQUEEZE.
Magnified as well.
This was sent to me when I bought a collage sheet of old images. And yep, thats pretty much all that goes on in my head.
Puppies and babies, hats and dresses, men vying for my hand in marriage, chocolate and love letters. Actually I don't want anything to do with that nasty looking baby.
Now what was in that mans head I posted a while back. Hang on I'll find it. Oh yes thats right. Loose women and alcohol.
So the home hairdressing appointment went ahead as scheduled yesterday.
Robin turned up with a large bag full of goodies that I'd like to have in my bathroom cupboard and set up. Then she took a bit of the bulk out of my hair before she coloured it, then after we'd squashed in around my laundry tub with me leaning over it and her washing it, she cut it.
The first thing most hairdressers want to do when they see my hair is get amongst it with the razor and the thinning scissors. And they usually leave me feeling like I have a skull cap of hair with some rats tails clining to my neck and shoulders. But Robin kept herself well in control and when I washed it this morning I still had a LOT of hair.
And I did sit at the kitchen table and talk to her while the bleach did its thing. But as happens in a small town we discovered we both had kids in the same class, so we had plenty to bitch about.
And I did the fringe. And I like it. Even though it does feel like I've had an insect creeping around my forehead all day.
So I'm seeing her again in about 4 weeks. She tells me it'll take about 4 goes to get it up to blonde. Without turning it to jelly.
She wanted me to let it dry naturally but that takes about 3 days so after she left I gave it a blast with the dryer. And I have actually put the straightener through it, but it resisted.
So today I straightened it again. Which I'm sure was good for it.
I'm in dire need of a haircut. Or at least a pair of thinning scissors. But of course I hate going to the hairdresser. I hate the whole boring, time wasting experience. And I hate paying a small fortune to get what I didn't want.
Then a friend said to me
Why don't you call Robin?
It seems Robin is a hairdresser who comes to your home. And she's cheap as chips because I don't have to pay for her electricity, her water rates, her superannuation or her stupid magazines. So I can pay her half the amount to get something I don't want in the comfort of my own home.
So she's coming in the morning. And as well as a haircut we're going to discuss a way to blend in my grey roots. Which are coming at an alarming rate. She's even allowed time in case I want a colour.
But then I had a thought. When you go to the hairdresser they put on the colour then leave you and go see to another client. But what does Robin do while my colour is on? Do I have to entertain her, or can I leave her in front of the television while I do other things?
Maybe I should wear my anti-socialite tshirt to make it clear to her how I feel about things. I'm the one on the right.
I'm thinking a fringe. Even though I always regret a fringe. But I'm feeling a strong urge for a thick fringe. And what the hell, it's only hair - it grows back.
Don't worry - I'm under no illusion that what I end up with will at all resemble the picture I have picked out.
I have three personal trainers. Their names are Billy Blanks, Denise Austin and Jillian Michaels. Four days of the week they take turns in kicking my arse. And these arse kickings often leave me wondering if exercise is actually good for you. I wonder this when my arms are so stiff I can't change gears or my legs have trouble getting me up and down the steps to our front verandah. And the only reason I really do exercise is so I don't become all feeble as I get older. If someone decides to break into my house I want to still be able to beat them to death with my bare hands.
But maybe lawn tennis is the exercise for me.
I found this book from the late 1800's over at the internet text archive while I was looking for some Alice in Wonderland quotes and it's full of all sorts of helpful information about how ladies should behave.
And not only can I be weak and lazy to play it, I can be stupid as well.
The now fashionable game of Lawn Tennis is essentially a field sport adapted for ladies. Its requirements are not such as to de- mand an amount of physical exertion for which an ordinarily healthy girl is not capable ; and its playing rules, too, are not so intricate as to require special mental ability to fully comprehend them. The bat used in the game is light and easy to handle, even by delicate hands, while the rubber ball played with — weighing not quite two ounces — is quite harmless, even if it should happen to hit the face of a player. The game affords the most enjoyable exercise of any field.
The RSPCA aren't mucking around this time. They have a new campaign out and you won't see any cute little puppies or chickens with bandages on their legs running across the screen while All Creatures Great and Small play in the background.
This new campaign they have adresses the issue of domestic violence and animal abuse.
The fact that a large percentage of violent criminals admit to having been cruel to animals as children.
But even more frightening and sad is that many women involved in abusive relationships stay because of the family pet. She fears what the abuser may do to the pet if she leaves or the abuser uses threats against the pet to keep her there.
And the thing that really sucks is that broadcasters are reluctant to air the ads. In fact since seeing it on the news a while back I haven't seen one of the ads on TV. Broadcasters are concerned because in the past ads showing domestic violence have recieved a lot of complaints.
Thats because people feel better if they don't have to acknowledge whats going on out there. If they don't see it, it's not happening.
Here's a sneak peak at one. Get behind the RSPCA.
