Thursday, 18 June 2009

Beauty and the BEAST

Last night I was kind of sad and depressed, after seeing some very hot pictures of my very hot friends on facebook, and feeling woefully un-hot by comparison.

S and I curled up on the bed to have a chat, wherein I whined until he told me I was BYOO-TE-FUL. Several times. God love him.

Our conversation evolved, as conversations are prone to do, until it reached a discussion on the waxing of body hair. S claims it CANNOT hurt that much - rest assured, I've tried to communicate the painfulness to him.

Anyway, we talked about the merits of waxing and which areas are the most painful to wax. Because I know several trainee beauticians over the years and am apparently some what of a masochist, I have been the model for many beautification projects. I loved the facials and the pedicures, but of course there is a down to every up. I also sat through the waxing of nearly all my bodily regions, and so am well versed on the topic of sticky hair-removal.

As I told S, the most painful area to have waxed, HANDS DOWN, is your underarm. I know. The waxed cloth strips came away bloody, and the skin was hideously bruised for days ... but the complete absence of armpit stubble for a month? NICE. (The fact that it took a month for the hairs to reappear should clue you in to how deeply-rooted they are, and therefore how painful the waxing was.)

S was duly impressed by my recounting of the experience.

And so, here is the natural conclusion that was drawn at the end of the night. I might not be the most byoo-te-ful, but hell, I am the most hardcore.

Feeling much better.

Wednesday, 17 June 2009

In which I find I have another, more practical function

This weekend S and I travelled to Scotland to attend the wedding of a school friend. We decided to set off super early so we could go to Edinburgh Zoo on the Friday (please note, the Zoo itself is fab except for two things: they have beavers and you have to walk up a MASSIVE hill to see some poxy zebras, which lets remember, are just horses with stripes - so not worth it), we did get to see koalas and a polar bear and a teeny tiny baby penguin. As an added bonus I also got to spend 20 minutes queuing for the toilets behind a Russian school group.

On the Saturday we made our way to the wedding venue. A castle. And not one of those we'll-call-it-a-castle-but-its-actually-just-a-big-house type castle. No, an actual, could have been in Cinderella, fricking castle! The wedding was gorgeous, the bride looked stunning and it went very well (the wedding that is, I ended up falling asleep in the toilet and then falling in a bath but that's another story.)

One last thing, S and I have been together for nearly five years now and were therefore continuously asked when it would be our big day and then, when we paused with no answer, I was routinely patted on the shoulder and told not to worry. This grates after a while let me tell you.

Anyway, from then on S tried to avoid all public displays of affection (a common thing with him anyway I might add). I resigned myself to being the unloved until... in the middle of the service S tentatively touched my hand and gently stroked my palm with the back of his thumb.

All is not lost, I thought!

Later I quietly mentioned that it was very sweet of him to stroke my hand when they were saying their vows.

He pauses. He looks confused.

I continue, 'During the service, you stoked the palm of my hand really romantically.'

He stays confused and then suddenly it dawns on him, 'What? No, I had an itch and didn't want to scratch it myself.'

A human scratching post. Bloody fab.

Wednesday, 10 June 2009


Against my better judgment, and with blatant disregard for the summer reading rules I set myself, I attempted The Kite Runner last week.

I read the first couple chapters over the weekend, then went to bed early (9:30!) with the book, planning to read for a half hour or so before the Sandman came.

And now I rue the day all my friends and all my co-workers told me what a good book it was. I rue the day I ignored my instincts. (Those sentences should be said in the "I pity the fool" voice.)

By the time Hassan and his crippled father were trudging away from their home with all their earthly possessions, I wanted (seriously) to track down every copy of the book in existence, and BURN THEM ALL.

I despise Amir with a fire that scalds my soul every time I think about him, and I put down the book indefinitely, choosing instead to write my own ending - one in which that evil, guilty little 12-year-old boy is burned at the stake.

I don't even like him enough to finish the book about him, and I don't care how many times his best friend Hassan forgives him for STANDING BY AND DOING NOTHING while Hassan was brutally raped, and then TELLING NO ONE, and then FRAMING him for STEALING so that Hassan and his father would get sent away and life would be more comfortable for AMIR.

I can't forgive him. And Hassan, who forgave his friend (who behaved like his worst enemy) at least seventy times? Seriously, I lost a piece of my heart for Hassan. It broke off and bounced around my ribcage for a while, shredding what was left of my aortic pump, and at some point during the night (which consisted of about 5 hours of sleep and 3 hours of crying and tossing and yelling into my pillow) it fell out of me and went away.

Did I spoil the book for you? I'm so sorry. But since I can't fulfil my dream of burning every copy, I'm just going to do what I can to ensure that anyone who hasn't read this book WON'T, that you'll all treat your own aortas with more respect, and not have to learn the hard truth about yourself that I learned.

I really and truly can't forgive Amir. Seriously, I can't. This does not bode well for my future as an unconditionally loving parent.

I do feel somewhat better now that my friend has told me the rest of the story, and I know that later in the book he gets the crap beat out of him.

Tuesday, 9 June 2009

I'm so excited

Two weeks today I am going on holiday to Dominican Republic.

As some of you may know, this is the first foreign holiday that S and I have been on just the two of us, we've always been with friends previously or in the UK, for example the infamous holiday to London which we went on one week before I moved there.

On this note I broached the subject of what on earth we were going to do, just the two of us, for 10 days in an all inclusive resort.

"Play 'Ring of Fire'!" was the answer I got.

Yes, that's right people. My boyfriend of five years wants to play a drinking game on our first alone holiday. A drinking game where you have to tell deep, dark truths before downing a concoction of left over alcohol.

I feel so special.

So then we come to the organising of all the arrangements. It is all going swimmingly - passports are located and, more importantly, in date, sun lotion is bought, currency ordered.

And then I get a call from my doctor's surgery.

They have heard that I am going to Dominican Republic (from where?! I mean, I know I am a truly exciting person but gossip at the doctor's about me? Really?), they are concerned that I haven't got my jabs yet.

I have several long conversations with the incredibly dim nurse in which we establish that I only need a Hepatitis A booster. What about Malaria? she asks. I have heard it's nasty. I say. This is NOT appreciated.

So now I have to take tablets of which the common side effects include: severe itching, hallucinations, blurred vision, depression, sickness and heart palpitations. Oh and if I take more than one in a 48 hour period then I die within two and a half hours.


Tuesday, 2 June 2009


Yes, on Sunday I turned 25 years old or as my sister put it, half way to 50.

It was fab. Let me point out to you that I LOVE birthdays. Not just mine (although it is blatantly the best) but everyone's. It is just a great excuse to make a fuss and celebrate and have fun.
I am big on cards and presents and food and drink, banners and badges, all of it.

I mean, what is not to love?

The only thing that gets me is that other people don't like your birthday. I'm not talking about friends or family, they always can be relied on to muster up some excitement, no, I mean the people that don't know you.

Now, I am sure that sounds very weird. Why would they care? But I was thinking on Sunday as I walked through town, all those people wandering about like it was a normal day... then I went on facebook and saw all the status updates: so-and-so slept in till noon today, so-and-so has been shopping. ON MY BIRTHDAY!

I best hurry up and do something spectacular so it becomes an international day of Livy loving.