My salad dressing days

See now, I’d rather pay £20 less per night and live without the towel sculptures. (Still, they beat Tracey Emin’s unmade bed hands down.)

OK. I’ve decided that I’m no longer worried about the people* who get here by searching the interweb for photos of ‘defecating women’.

I’m now concerned that someone from Australia arrived here having looked for advice on ‘how to lick out a chick’. [Don't complain - I told you in the title what you were to expect from this post. Quick! Hit 'next blog'.]

But what makes me laugh more than the thought of how disappointed this person was to end up here is what MSN suggested they might really being trying to search for.

How or why might one try to lock out a check**?

* including yesterday’s visitor from Baghdad
** assuming that what MSN means is what we in Britain call a ‘cheque’

 
An hour.

An hour was all it took in TK Maxx and I was walking out the door with not one, but two handbags.

The Other Handbag very much fell into the Notablinkoftheeye category insomuch as it set me back under a tenner.

But this one. Oh, THIS ONE.

In no way, shape or form can I justify the purchase of this one. Other than…

it marks a welcome departure from my dark colour leanings. (Woo hoo, I thought, it’s burnt orange in a sea of browns and blacks. Actually it’s more tangerine.)

it’s simplicity personified (nay, handbagified) in an age of endless and excessive buckles and clips.

I’ve never done a handbag which you have no choice but to loop over your arm or swing at knee level. I usually insist on tuck-it-under-your-armpit-length straps or a sling-it-diagonally-across-your-person-so-as-it-cuts-into-the-crevice-between-your-boobs style.

But alas, I am not Catholic, so there are no rosary beads to rub, Hail Marys to recite or confessions to attend.

So…I have vowed to donate two old handbags to my local Oxfam shop.

Oh, and I might buy a packet of Fairtrade coffee whilst I’m in there.

(I think that pretty much cancels it out.)

Overheard in a London restaurant earlier this month:

Woman [talking into mobile]: ‘Hi Dad. Yes, I’m just having a drink with a work colleague, so I won’t be home until 8ish. That OK? Great. Yes, put him on…Hi, sweetie! How was your day? Good! Now, listen, Mummy’s train has been delayed so she won’t be home in time to give you your bath, but Grandad will bath you. Is that OK, darling? I’ll come and kiss you goodnight when I get in. Be a good boy for Grandad now, won’t you? Bye!’

There comes a time in everyone’s life when they are forced to interact with that other breed: The Estate Agent.

Only these days, The Husband and I notice, they are going under a different guise: Negotiator.

That’s right.

Yesterday: second in command to Kofi Annan, passing resolutions and chastising China about its human rights record.

Today: selling over-priced arrangements of breeze blocks and plasterboard in a large metropolitan area.

It’s what management gurus call ’skills transfer’.

sexual perversion.

Which might be somewhat unfair.

I mean, what if in real life he is a pretty straight sort of a guy?

Oh no. That’s Tony Blair.

Always get muddled up.

[See what happens when you take a break from blogging?]

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I was changing The Son’s bed when I noticed the following label:

“A baby who is being sick will want watching.”

Gosh, I thought. It’s true that I don’t have much time to watch TV or read books these days, but I hadn’t considered observing a projectile vomit as entertainment.

Clearly I need to think outside the box a bit more often.

This little nugget of wisdom was closely followed by:

“This mattress may not soak up vomit.”

What?

I didn’t buy a vomit-absorbing mattress?

I sighed.

Once again, it seems I have stumbled and fallen at one of the many Hurdles of Parenthood.

*******

So I delved around a bit in my amnesiac brain to remember the moment: the moment when I failed to purchase a vomit-absorbing mattress.

Ah yes.

We were doing that first-time parently tour of the nursery section of a major department store. A sweet young woman with a glamorous-sounding title was trailing us past shelf after shelf pointing out ‘essential items for Mother and Baby’.

Whenever we veered towards a product, she merrily proclaimed ‘oh, that’s a very popular model with our parents!’. (The shop equivalent of seeing lots of people eating in the window of an otherwise iffy-looking local restaurant. “Weren’t sure we wanted it before but want it now!”)

But I can see now that we were being distracted from the business of cot mattresses by having to make earth-shattering choices such as: disposable breast pads or washable breast pads, and one pack of maternity pads or seven?

We grabbed a well-known brand of sling (which, when we unfurled it at home, turned out to be a long – not to mention expensive – length of stretchy cotton with a cute pocket…probably for carrying breast pads).

‘Oh, Baby will be very comfy in that!’

I seem to remember The Husband and I making a pact in the car park not to be swayed by persuasive sales-talk and to leave with just a few choice bits and pieces, but already our three wire baskets contained four cot sheets, two cot blankets, four pram blankets, a sparkly-twinkly gadget that shone weird images onto ‘Baby’s’ ceiling, seven packs of maternity pads, disposable and resuable breast pads, sunshades for the car windows, two snuggle-cuddle robes, an expensive plastic two-compartment container (‘a must for topping and tailing!’ – I thought this sounded like a technique for chopping French beans but it seems to be the universally-accepted phraseology), mini nail clippers, three soft toys and an industrial-sized bag of cotton wool balls.

Weary from this heady bout of consumerism, our wills were weak by the time it came to the major items (a very clever sales trick indeed).

So I don’t remember being shown the vomit-absorbing mattress, although I do vaguely remember being given a choice.

It was something along the lines of:

‘Well, there’s the cheap-as-chips mattress, which will probably fall apart after three weeks of use and the chemicals contained therein are quite likely to asphyxiate Baby. But it is just five pounds, so you gets what you pays for, I suppose!’

or

‘We do also have a premium, spring-loaded, coconut-hair-lined*, deluxe mattress, which is that bit more expensive, but when it comes to your precious bundle of love, most of our parents don’t want to compromise on safety!’

Doubtless she went on to mention add-on features (‘by special request to the manufacturers’) which included the ability to absorb regurgitated carrot, but if they were mentioned, we were too busy feeling guilty about buying a chemical-laden scrap of recycled foam.

Bloody Miriam Stoppard.

Too busy advising how best to hold our babies and how to resist throwing them out of a third floor window when they cry for hours on end, she failed to tell us about the importance of vomit absorption when it came to mattresses.

I blame her.

* I’m not actually making this bit up

Ah…blue leather Mary Janes.

Chicklet #1’s verdict: “Oooh! Shoes! Nice! Like it!”

**UC beams with pride**

(Sadly there were none in my size.)

Sometimes I feel a desperate urge to belong. To feel part of some greater whole. A small, yet significant something in the grander scheme of things. On this particular day, however, my brain just would not stretch to concepts of The Universe or The Solar System. So I decided I would settle for the greater whole that is a large department store in central London.

As politicians and civil servants are wont to say, I was minded to acquire New Make-Up Habits. Yep, not just Products, but Habits.

A whole new me. Oh yes.

Having briefly consulted The Plate Invigilator (she being my own personal font of beauty and fashion knowledge), I had been tipped off to take a stroll past the MAC make-up stand.

And right enough, a leisurely stroll was all it took before I was accosted by a MAC make-up consultant.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Oh yes! I’m just looking for some tips, really. Well, a whole new look, actually. Thing is I’ve been wearing the same make-up for, ooh, decades. Seriously! And I’m just wondering: am I wearing colours that suit me? Do I need to think about changing my lipstick colour? Stuff like that….’.

[Suddenly words are tumbling out of my mouth at a rate of knots. This is so not like going to the hairdressers.]

‘O-kay,’ she replied. ‘So…foundation?’

‘Oh God no! I haven’t got time for that! I have two young children and about four and a half minutes to devote to putting on make-up each day, if that. Basically, I can manage a bit of eyeliner and mascara and maybe lipstick if I’m going out.’

[She looks at me as if to say: 'My God, your life SUCKS!']

I ramble on: ‘I mean, I’ve been wearing grey eyeliner FOREVER. See? Maybe you’re going to say it doesn’t suit my eye colour…I am totally open to suggestion here.’

[She looks my face up and down a bit.]

‘Well, here, you could try this Super Duper Paint-It-On-Anywhere Stick Liner in taupe. That’s a good colour for you.’

‘Oh, so grey is not?’ [I feel thrilled. A poor choice of eyeliner colour is what's been causing me to look like death warmed up! Hoorah!]

‘No, grey is good for you too. Greys and browns are good.’

‘Oh.’

She applies some of the taupe stuff and it looks pretty good so I say I will buy some.

‘Mascara?’ I inquire.

‘Hmmmm, let me see…you have a lot of lashes [YAY!] but they are quite thin [BOO!], so I’d recommend Super Duper Lash-Thickening Gorgeous-Making mascara in black.’

Again, I try some on and commit to a purchase.

She saunters over to the till indicating that I should follow.

Thing is, I’m getting a taste for this make-up makeover thing, so I ask:

‘As for lipsticks, I always go for a dark plum colour, but maybe I’m not choosing right? What d’you think?’

She scurries back from the till and takes me over to another stand.

‘Pinks are good for you,’ she muses.

‘So not plum?’

‘Oh no, plums are good. Here, let’s try this one. OK, part your lips just a little – I’m going to put on some lipliner first.’

This takes about five minutes. Crikey. By now, the chicklets would have broken into the cupboard under the sink and downed a litre bottle of cleaning fluid. Besides, I am starting to feel like a porn star posing for a shoot. I hope I don’t see anyone I know.

She disappears off, returning seconds later with the lipstick.

‘Oh no! You licked your lips!’

Did I?

On goes the lipstick. Another five minutes. At this point the chicklets would have figured out how to climb onto the gas hob and given themselves third degree burns by delving their arms into a vat of boiling soup. This, I think, is why I never wear lipstick.

I’m not so sure about the lipstick. It’s a bit too pink. I decide to stick to dark plums.

No matter, because now I am on a roll.

‘Alright, so say I did want to wear foundation, y’know, for a special occasion…do you have some that is VERY QUICK TO APPLY?’

[I hope by now she is getting the whole 'time is of the essence' message.]

Together we scuttle off to yet another stand.

‘This is a stick. You just roll it over your cheeks and forehead and blend it in with a brush.’

This sounds marvellous. She invites me to sit on a stool in front of a big, well-lit mirror.

‘Oh God, I look dreadful! I look as if I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep for months!’ [I haven't, so I guess that figures.]

She smiles. I wait for the ‘no, not at all! you look great!’. She nods.

Work your magic, lady, WORK YOUR MAGIC, I think.

She starts painting the foundation on and my verbal diarrhoea continues:

‘Thing is, I have two young kids. I care for them full-time, so there’s not much time for beauty routines!’ I chortle merrily.

‘So, you don’t get out much then?’ she asks, her eyes full of pity.

I shake my head dolefully.

‘So this is a rare afternoon off?’

I nod.

‘Oh well then, we had better make the most of it! How about a bit of blusher? And I’ll put some concealer under your eyes.’

I briefly feign reluctance but then say ‘oh, go on then!’.

Once our session is over, I look at myself in the mirror. Yikes, I hope I don’t scare the chicklets when I get home. Mr Chick will most probably think I’ve developed a secret amateur dramatics habit.

Still, I now possess a whole bunch of beauty secrets and tricks to rival those espoused by make-up ‘I worked on The English Patient’ experts on TV, and this was by far and away the most productive use I’ve made of the chicklets’ Child Benefit.

I scoot upstairs for a cup of tea and a piece of cake. As I am shovelling the last morcels of pear and almond tart into my mouth, I find myself licking my lips. I quickly check myself in the mirror of my compact – my lipstick has half-disappeared! This explains a lot. I can’t get along with lipstick because I lick my lips! Because I EAT! Dammit, there’s another habit I’m going to have to kick in 2006.

Anyway, I take a long route out of the store to avoid the accusing eyes of my consultant and tootle home, stopping to pout and admire The New Me in each shop window I pass.

When I get home, I race upstairs to give the chicklets a goodnight (air)kiss.

Mr Chick looks me up and down:

‘Decided to audition for ‘The Mikado’ after all, did you?’

Ha bloody ha.

[Image courtesy of Natalie Dee.]