China Soup Bowl
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Save Me, Glossies, Save Me!
Tag:china toys,glossies
From:http://www.buy-china-toys.com/
A year ago, US writer Cathy Alter was a binge-drinking, sugar-sucking wreck, shagging a feckless colleague called Bruno. Now she is happily married and eating vegetables. How did she did do it? By following the advice of glossy magazines. Every word. She had Elle in her ear, Vogue at her throat and Oprah (O magazine) up her nose. She describes it all in her book Up for Renewal.
On reading it, I puke and puke again. I have agreed with my editor that I will emulate Alter, spending a week following the advice of women's magazines - my nemeses. I despise Tatler, Harper's and all their evil spawn. Whenever I hear the words Style Bible, I reach for my garrote. I blame them for all the evil in the world: greed, bulimia, blusher, but I duly go to the newsagent and find them on the shelves, preening with self-love. I take them home, spread them out and howl, "Save me glossies, save me!" and immediately I see a list of impossible demands. Take your Brain Shopping! Linger over Love Time! Say Goodbye to Fungi! Stop Stress Making you Fat! Think Yourself Happy! Wear a Romper Suit! Decode Your Sex Dreams! Feng-shui Your Arsehole! (OK, I made the last one up.)
And the more I stare at the pages, the more surreal the advice becomes. Cosmo suggests I stop emotionally dumping on my cat: "Is Your Cat Your Counsellor?" Prima suggests that, when tidying, "gather up items left downstairs and take them all up in one go". Thanks Prima! There is, according to Company, a correct way to board a plane. Step 4 is to "eat an avocado".
I suddenly feel disorientated. Am I in my bedroom? Or am I standing in the middle of Wembley Stadium, with 86,000 Jewish mothers shouting at me?
I start at the top, with Tatler. Admittedly, Tatler doesn't really give advice. That is not the point of Tatler. The point of Tatler is to float above you, taunting you with your disgusting plebbiness. This month, Tatler says I should go and buy a solid silver lid for my Marmite, and a 14-carat gold bra. This is not so much a "tip", as an incitement to burning down the Cond Nast building, while wearing cheap clothing, no lip gloss and a smile.
But wait. Tatler also recommends a "Fabulous on High-heels Master Class" given by an ex-ballerina called Sarah Toner. She teaches women how to walk in heels, saving super-stylish fembots from falling over and bashing their brains out on their occasional tables. Now, this is interesting. I have had a pair of 4-inch Gucci spikes in my wardrobe for five years. They are what my sister calls "car shoes". I don't wear them; I use them to kill flies. I put them in my bag and go to see Sarah in her studio near King's Cross.
She is slim and smiling. I wave the shoes at her. I don't think I can possibly learn to walk in them. "We're not going to put the heels on yet," Sarah says, and makes me do some stretching exercises. Afterwards, my body is so relaxed that when I put on the spikes and try to walk, I can do it. Easily. I feel exhilarated. I didn't think that Tatler published anything worth knowing about. I thought it was all Buffy de la Fluffy Muffy marrying Baron Von Wank and laughing at the proles all night long. So I feel slightly angry too.
I turn to that manifesto for malevolent pencil-women: Vogue. Vogue doesn't really seem to have any advice either, except to buy everything you can lift with your spindly arms. This month they are pushing tartan, denim and romper suits, but there is absolutely no point in browsing for designer clothes. They don't make them in my size. How do I know? Because I once walked into a Louis Vuitton store with 1,000 and demanded a dress in a size 16. "Sold out, madam," they sneered. "Don't you want fat people's money?" I screamed back.
Perhaps I should do something with my hair. A friend once told me it resembles the ears of a friendly dog. "Dual texture is one of the season's biggest hair trends," declares Vogue, in its customary splice of malice, advertorial and idiot-speak. The accompanying photograph shows a woman with two hairstyles on her head. The first has been stolen from the corpse of Maria von Trapp. The other is the bottom half of a squirrel.
So I call Toni and Guy, and a few hours later I am dashing through their doors. The stylist snips and blows and tongs, and two hours later my hair is half soup-bowl, half poodle. I look like Jean Harlow. I love it. But as I cycle away from the salon, it rains. My hair whimpers, sobs and hurls itself under a bus. By the time I get home I look like Animal from the Muppets.
But no matter. A new mistress is whispering in my ear. It is Elle. The magazine splays open on a page about breast treatments. The first suggestion is to inject my breasts with "filler". This will inflate them for a whole year. No. So how about a "Thalgo bust modelling treatment"? This involves "the application of an intense thermal mask designed to enhance elasticity and maintain bust firmness". Please, no. I am afraid of beauty therapists. I was once awoken from a massage in Switzerland by one playing a xylophone.
But I go to the Aquilla salon in London's Knightsbridge, where another incredibly smiley woman takes me to a windowless room. I imagine it is the sort of room that Lavrenty Pavlovich Beria tortured people in. I strip off and she exfoliates my breasts with long, sweeping motions, as if she is playing the piano. Then she wraps my breasts in gauze, and smears it with clay. The gauze hardens and when she pulls it off, I have a piece of gauze with an imprint of my breasts on it. Wow. My breasts feel soft. (I cannot believe I am typing this. I cannot believe I am reviewing the elasticity of my breasts.) It's nice. It's fine. But what does it do? What is it for?
And so, onwards, wilting, to Cosmopolitan, the sex-crazed best friend you want to stab in the face. Cosmo does at least have a work ethic between multiple orgasms, between meetings, and she recommends calling Ros at thecareercoach.co.uk, for advice. Ros is an intensely sane sounding Scottish woman. I confess to my chaotic work habits and she analyses them. Apparently, my chaos is "a badge of honour" that makes me feel like "a miracle worker". So we devise some mantras: I choose the slightly Stalinist "Order is Joyful". At the end of the session, I promise to have my printer mended, and to buy some lightbulbs.
And now, to my final glossy - to the pint-sized, arse-kicking, hyper-aggressive dwarf of the magazine world - Glamour. She beckons me with a bright red claw. "I want", she whispers, "for you to call the Glamour Psychic Hotline for a personal and confidential reading with a real psychic for a mere 1.50 a minute from a BT landline." So I telephone the Psychic Hotline, and a man answers. He speaks very softly, and he sounds very tired. "Hello," he says. "I am Martin." Martin says he is going to read my tarot cards. I ask a few questions about marriage prospects, career and my chances of developing lung cancer. He mutters, "Stay where you are at work; I can see double rings in your love life" and he advises me to stop smoking. "You shouldn't smoke. Animals don't smoke". Then he says my energy is "bright". I wonder if he ever tells Glamour readers that their energy is "dull"? What would they do if he did? Buy a new face?
The week is dead. So how do I FEEL? Did the Glossies Eat My Life? Did I Think Myself Mad? Did I Linger Over Suicide? Take My Arse Shopping? Well, the glossies, I have decided, come in three toxic strains. The ones that say you are ugly. The ones that say you are stupid. And the ones that say both. I don't want to be told why I dreamt I shagged Gerard Depardieu; ask yourself what's missing in your own life. I don't want to be told "the top half is the only part of your body seen in a crowd - so make it main priority". I don't believe in the redemptive power of scatter cushions. So goodbye breast exfoliation and romper suits. And hello again, grim life. Oh, how I've missed you.
About the Author
Tag:china toys,glossies
From:http://www.buy-china-toys.com/
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An..."Excited Much" ? thing. If your wrinkled parts do not smooth whilst chewing almonds..comment?
I'M SORRY, BUT I MUST BREAK UP WITH YOU BECAUSE
WHEN YOU CHEW ON TRAIL MIX YOUR EYES BULGE
by..........
no longer does my cream of mushroom soup,
sway gently, list, wet-kiss soft curves clay bowl,
atop a 60's patterned TV tray
resting warm just slight above my orbs
Normally whilst chowing down at six,
in tube socks, boxers, Lazy -boys we were,
much happier than razor clams that dove,
toward Qingdao, China fast from digger's ... (stomp real hard on a weird shovel)
Now sadly I must beg of you to pack,
and please do not forget your marbled briefs,
remember too your sack of dried-up nuts,
and wilted raisins, shriveled dates be gone !
I treasure trails of nature's healthy mix,
But not when eyeballs.... (get freakin huge and play turtle-head with dèsockets)
.
.
Cuddled up on micro-fibered couch
a bowl of kernels popped between us,
buttered, salted, tender tufts
we partake with hand to mouth.
I dip my dainty digits in
while you remove with fistfuls,
leaving me with roasted hulls
soaking in the oily din.
Days of sharing long gone by,
you don't play well with others.
If for once I got my druthers,
you'd be gone without a sigh.
Mix Seafood Soup