How to be fabulous

You’ve been lured in by the title haven’t you? I bet you’ve been drawn into posts and articles like this before. The promise of ‘fabulous’ is very hard to resist. Particularly if you’re a woman. Especially if you’re a woman. Look at the number of magazines women buy that promise the Golden Ticket. (Women’s lifestyle/fashion magazines had a circulation of 6,863,314 at the end of 2011. Source: ABC.)

According to women’s magazines women all want the same: to be fitter, thinner, lovelier, more sexually alluring and successful at work (although on the latter some magazines have yet to be dragged into the 21st century). The sexism inherent in this bothers me. No, I’m not claiming to have noticed anything original. I’m pointing out the bleeding obvious. To become fabulous is to become empowered. Yet where does the power really lie when the yardstick is other women and much of it is to attract men? Seems that the power still sits with those around us, not with ourselves. Depressing really.

So what’s to be done? I suggest we ditch the mags and subscribe to my 3-year-old’s guide to How to be Fabulous. She wisely advises that to be fabulous you must:

• Be nice.
• Be good.
• Listen.
• Not burn your fingers on the oven.
• Be a builder.
• Don’t chop your fingers off with scissors.
• Not be grumpy (like me apparently – delightful child.)

See, it’s as easy as that. Male or female, fat or thin, young or old, you can ALL be fabulous.*

* The precise amount will depend upon your circumstances and your soul may be repossessed if you do not keep up repayments. Due to market fluctuations terms and conditions are subject to change without notice. (You didn’t think it was really going to be that easy did you?)

Tags: absolutely fabulous, women's magazines, lifestyle, fashion, self-help, sexism, empowerment

Quite frankly I’m a bit pooped

I am writing this fresh from ‘going for a run’. When I say fresh, I mean fresh – I’m slightly moist and clammy and my intergluteal cleft will be leaving a damp patch on the chair. This wasn’t just any old run though. It was my first ever run in what have been 35 pedestrian years of life.

When I say I’ve been for a run, I ought to qualify that. What I’ve actually done is embark on the NHS’s Couch to 5k regime. The website describes it as follows: the “C25K plan is designed to get just about anyone off the couch and running 5km in nine weeks.” I’m delighted that I have proved myself to be “just about anyone” – for me that’s practically an Olympic gold medal – and not someone whose arse has become truly and irreversibly melded to the couch.

I’m not ashamed to admit it was touch and go though. I’ve been thinking about dusting off the trainers for a good couple of weeks after hearing of a friend’s success with C25K (I even downloaded the podcasts a week ago) but I then made polite excuses and slowly sank deeper into the sofa. I was too tired. I was too hungry. I’d got flat feet (but then someone told me that Linford Christie has too – sigh). There might be a nuclear holocaust whilst I was out and I really ought to be at home near my kids.

And so tonight I at last struggled into my industrial strength sports bra (I’m not bragging – to be honest it’s not entirely needed and any post-breastfeeding mother will testify to the inevitable disappointment in that area). I was a little out of puff after getting the bra on and that really didn’t bode well. Yet I got out the door (having also added tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt to the sports bra in case you were wondering) and returned having run for a whole EIGHT MINUTES. Okay, so it was 60 seconds of running followed by 90 seconds of brisk walking but it was still eight minutes. Yay for me and all the couch tatties in the world! (Hell’s bells, I’m pooped though.)

I’m measuring the success of this run on four important criteria:

1. Did my pelvic floor hold out? YES (I didn’t stray far from home just in case …)
2. Did I trip over any uneven pavement and knock my front teeth out? NO
3. Was I chased by any dogs? NO
4. Did anyone see me? NO. Well apart from one elderly man who I waved at so as to disguise my lack of style. And what better way to make it look like I wasn’t running like a girl than by flapping my arms?

I’d tentatively say that tonight was a success. I’ll never be a runner, nor will I be kitting myself out in lycra or getting ‘in the zone’ as I thunder around the local recreation ground dodging the dog muck. But as with any sporting achievement for the girl who was always picked last in PE, it can only be good for me.

Tags: C25K, couch to 5k, dog muck, exercise, Linford Christie, lycra, Olympics, run, runner, running, sports bra, tracksuit, trainers

Saturday is Caption Day!

Saturday is Caption Day thanks to the gorgeous Mammasaurus! My recent holiday to the US has provided some lovely blogging inspiration: Disney and bum cracks mainly. And then there’s the photo below. What do you make of this then? US dictionary at the ready please …

The crack police

Call it what you will – intergluteal cleft, vertical gluteal crease, bicycle park, builder’s bum – we’ve all got one: a bum crack (or butt or ass crack, if you will). There isn’t a pleasant name for it. As a meeting point for the buttocks, it doesn’t have a specific purpose other than perhaps as a quasi pair of velvet curtains to drape the least pleasant exit point in our body. Such is the personal nature of the bum crack, we tend to keep them covered up. Even the skimpiest of thongs gives a nod to the sanctity of the bum crack.

Of course bum cracks do occasionally make a bid for freedom and unless the offending crack is hairy and sweaty this generally raises a giggle rather than disgust. I assumed this was a universal reaction. On a recent trip to the US, however, I was amazed to discover the existence of what I can only call the Crack Police. Upon arriving at one of the Disney parks, poor Mr C&P was taken aside by a security guard:

“Excuse me sir, but I … errr … thought I should … errr … let you know that you are showing your … errr …crack. You might want to … you know … just in case … you know.”

He was obviously embarrassed but clearly not embarrassed enough to stop him pulling someone aside and having a serious word. Is showing your bum crack down there in the Disney Rulebook alongside not taking Mickey’s name in vain and not mentioning Donald’s speech impediment? And “just in case” of what? The mind boggles.

An amusing one-off? Well, no. It seems there is something in the American psyche that finds bum cracks enormously troublesome. A few days after the above incident, Mr C&P was carrying our daughter on his shoulders when we heard quickening footsteps behind us. I turned to see an elderly lady signalling to us and I expected her to be clutching a dropped hat or toy. But, no, she was an undercover officer from the Crack Police:

“Your little girl is showing her bum crack. I wanted to tell you just in case people … you know …”

Just in case of what??! In case 1 cm of her crack ends up in a photo on a dodgy hard drive? Hell’s bells – some perspective please! Just as Mr C&P was made to feel like a wannabe flasher, I somehow felt a bad mother. My daughter should be wearing industrial trousers pulled up under her armpits and fastened with a padlock. I’d not packed these – I’d only packed skimpy summer stuff for the baking heat. Bad BAD mother.

Florida is one of the most conservative states in the US. Topless sunbathing is illegal so maybe showing an inch of crack is perceived to be the start of a slippery slope to whipping your boobs out in the local 7-Eleven. If anyone can shed any light on this ‘interesting cultural difference’ that would be cracking.

Tags: 7-Eleven, America, ass crack, bad mother, builder's bum, bum crack, Disney, Donald Duck, flasher, Florida, Mickey Mouse, topless sunbathing

My little big boy

Dear W,

Here is the view across the park I had this morning whilst I waited for you to finish your first hour at nursery by yourself. It’s the same view I had two and a half years ago as I waited for your sister to do the same. Same bench, same weather, same coffee (well, obviously not exactly the same coffee but you know …), same inane conversation from the dog walkers on the next table. And did I feel the same as when I waited for my first born to spend her first hour untied from the apron strings? Yes and no. Yes, in that I’ve never left you ‘by yourself’ for so long and it punched me in the heart to think of you realising that I wasn’t there. No, in that I knew you were being well looked after – when your sister started the nursery was an unknown quantity. Ultimately, I knew that if you cried they could show you a vacuum cleaner and you’d be alright. (But your penchant for vacuum cleaners must stop when you reach adulthood, young man.)

These coming few weeks will be big ones for your Mummy and you must excuse me if I blub over you a few times. You’re starting nursery, your first birthday is coming up, your boobie ration is being withdrawn and I’m going back to work. Big emotional stuff for me so don’t you go all teary on me when I leave you at nursery – I’ll be doing enough of that for both of us. Stiff upper lip and all that.

I’ve had a super year with you. Admittedly, I can remember very little of it but don’t take that personally. I blame a lethal mix of hormones, juggling you and your sister and not enough sleep. I hope you’ve had fun. If I’ve been ratty, cursed you when you’ve woken in the night AGAIN, not talked to you enough, not done enough cutting and sticking with you or ever missed an opportunity to give you a cuddle then I apologise. If I have done anything wrong then it’s not stopped you from growing into a super son. (Thank god your Daddy is the perfect counterbalance to my jingling nerves.)

Go get ‘em my little big boy. There are crayons to be eaten and peas to stuff up other children’s noses.

With lots of love.

Tags: clarence park, crayons, first birthday, mummy, nursery, park, son, starting nursery, toddlers

People watching Disney style

There are moments at Disney World when one half of a family will be left to ponder the Disney dream. You’ll find yourself sharing a seat on a wall with the claustrophobes, the adrenaline averse, those prone to motion sickness, the tired and the downright disillusioned. But you won’t class yourself alongside these people. No siree, you’re the regular, normally fun-lovin’ guy who has a child asleep, a child who doesn’t meet a ride’s height restrictions or who refuses to queue for an hour for a five minute spin in a giant teacup. Straws have been drawn to see which family member must sacrifice their turn. You drew the short straw and you alone must deal with whatever and whoever have been left in your care. Fear not for there is plenty to do while you wait. Here are my suggestions for games to fritter away the time, all of which can be played comfortably from a seated position whilst feeding your face with a Mickey ice cream:

Who is dressed most inappropriately for the hot weather? Top points go to thick tights and all-over nylon. Look out for the ‘fashion conscious’ as there are points aplenty to be scored here.

The worst tattoo award. There will be plenty to choose from. Remember, you’re at Disney and dolphins are popular (dare I say common?) so only score one point. Bonus points go to badly executed tattoos of babies and children.

Pin the tail on the couples about to kill each other. After a magical Disney day, which ones will be taking advantage of the $99 divorce you’ve seen advertised on the roadside?

Spot the child most likely to throw a tantrum of Cinderella’s Castle proportions when they don’t get to meet Rapunzel. Sometimes this one can be a little too close to home …

Spot the child wearing the most polyester. Because, yes, in the Magic Kingdom it is okay to dress your child as their favourite Disney character in 90 degree heat and not bring a change of clothes. Note that it’s not good gamesmanship to play this in a thunderstorm as the static generated makes the spot too easy.

Guess the combined weight of the family. The weight of any mobility scooters must not be included. Really, you’ll be spoilt for choice with this one.

As the name of one saccharine ride at the Magic Kingdom states “It’s a small world”, and at Disney World you’ll find a microcosm of the world’s good, bad and ugly. If you enjoy people watching then this is truly the place ‘Where Dreams Come True’.

If you’d like some super (and proper and practical!) advice on a trip to Disney World visit SAHMlovingit’s Beginner’s Guide to Orlando and Walt Disney World.

Tags: cinderella, Disney, disney world, Florida, magic kingdom, Orlando, people watching, polyester, tattoos

Black and white and pink and sparkly

Until a couple of years ago I lived on London’s Brick Lane – an area that the term ‘melting pot’ could have been invented for. After living there for ten years we moved to St Albans to be closer to work and family. I remember walking around in the first week thinking that something was odd. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Then it dawned on me – everyone was so WHITE. I found it unnerving. A bit like I’d moved somewhere that had yet to catch up with the rest of the country. What worried me most of all was that I’d be bringing up my children somewhere where they might only learn about different cultures and religions from books.

Three years into Snorbens life and thankfully those early impressions have proved exaggerated. It’s not Brick Lane but it’s hardly Midsomer (no John Nettles certainly) or Norfolk (ahem, no offence intended – I did live in Norwich for three years so feel somewhat qualified …). I was relieved to find that my daughter’s nursery wasn’t solely full of little white, middle-class faces (again, no offence intended for I fit that social bill). Great, I thought, she’ll grow up knowing and, most importantly, accepting that everyone is different.

Now here’s the rub. Yesterday, whilst looking at a picture of the whole cast of Disney princesses, my 3-year-old daughter announced that she likes all the princesses except Tiana (The Princess and the Frog for all you Disney luddites). And why doesn’t she like Tiana? Because “she is dark”. Because “she is different to the other princesses”. Gulp. Trying to explain that everyone is different is tough when a child knows no better than to base their likes and dislikes on such things as colour or quantity of sparkles. In her eyes a pink princess is better than a brown one. Fact. She doesn’t mean anything by it. It doesn’t make her racist. But her comments still made me quake in my parenting boots.

I’ll be doing my best to bring up my children so that they know better than to treat people differently because of creed or colour. As for the immediate future, if my daughter repeats her comment I hope that it will be taken for the little girl’s simplistic analysis of the world that it is and not for anything more sinister.

Tags: brick lane, disney princess, nursery, racism, st albans, toddler