There are certain words and colloquialisms I have come to accept. I stood by while the word “lol” infiltrated the Oxford English Dictionary and became a legitimate word. I accepted that “on point” has (for reasons I can’t quite comprehend) been replaced with “on fleek” and that sometimes, when complimenting my friends shoes, it’s appropriate to describe them as “hella” cute.
Based on your age (and let’s face it, Education level) you may or may not fully understand what half of this means and I suppose you don’t really need to. Though for the record, if someone tells you that “Jennifer” is “thirsty” that is not your cue to offer her a glass of water and FYI the word “basic” is basically an insult now.
The list goes on and on. Another year, another list of slang words which will probably be out of fashion faster than combat trousers and choker necklaces.
The world is forming full sentences with words which, I’m certain don’t really exist and I’m okay with that. That being said, as a lover of real words and a writer no less, I have to draw the line somewhere and I’m drawing it at “bae”.
What does bae even mean? Is it short for babe? Was the additional “b” secretly bothering everyone but me? Or perhaps the extra “b” is considered too time consuming. Though I would argue that if you can find the time in a day to flick your eye-liner and like Kylie Jenner’s latest Instagram picture, you have time to add the additional letter it takes to properly describe your boyfriend or girlfriend.
Some sources claim that “bae” stands for “before anyone else” which is marginally less irritating than a b-deficient-babe. That is until you realise how little sense that would make in a sentence. “I love my bae he’s hella cute” would roughly translate to “I love my before anyone else, he’s rather handsome” which makes about as much sense to me as a carb free diet.
Then there is the use of the word “bae” to describe inanimate objects “my bed is bae” “these cupcakes are bae” which leads me to believe there is no sentence which bae cannot be squeezed into and therefore probably no real escape from it. Bae is everything.
I had until recently made the assumption that “bae” is a term coined and predominantly used by Middle Schoolers and One Direction fans (who I can only assume use it to describe Harry Styles). A belief I held onto until the word began to infiltrate every one of my social media platforms and not sarcastically.
So it seems, much like the previously used “boo” the word bae is here to stay, if not in our actual day to day vocabulary, then most definitely in every song that is played in 20 years’ time when we ask the DJ for some “old school”.
Whilst that may not be of much comfort to those who can’t tolerate the word “bae” it’s best to remember that there was a time we thought “Fo shizzle” was here to stay, but thankfully it’s gone and we were non-the-worst for its short-lived appearance in our daily language.
I suppose when it comes to the word “bae” there are three types of people: the users, the non-users and the Danish, to whom the word means faeces (that’s poop to you and me).
I can’t say I have always been interested in being fit or healthy because I haven’t. In fact the only consistent loves of my life are pizza and S’mores.
Then a combination of reaching my mid 20’s and the growing popularity of stretchy leggings as acceptable day attire meant the skinny jeans which once fit, suddenly became another item of clothing destined to hang in my cupboard forever. Or at least until car boot sale season came around and I could flog them for a pound, eradicating all evidence that I was once thin.
Then came the season of Crop Tops and Bralet’s and it dawned on me, that if I ever wanted to get out of leggings and into something non elasticated I was going to have to unhand the box of Oreo cookies and pick up the occasional carrot stick.
If all that sounds a bit too familiar but you don’t know the first thing about getting into shape, well first finish reading this blog and then consider getting someone to advise you on your fitness journey. Mine started with the help of a personal trainer who helped me set realistic goals and told me where I was going wrong; according to him, swapping lunch for chocolate was not an acceptable weight loss technique and upon reflection, perhaps he was right.
But since even a trainer can’t come to your house at 1am and confiscate the cookies from your hands, you have to accept that this journey is going to require some will power.
But first, the basics:
You can’t lose weight on a half-hearted diet. I have been on a life long search of how to stay in shape without making any effort what so ever. It turns out, you can’t.
Your body goal is something only you can set. No one can tell you what size or shape is right for you. However, if the shape you want is not the shape you have, then set a target and work towards it.
I know what you’re thinking “Learn how to eat? What a load of old tosh. Eating is just about the only thing I do know how to do”. But trust me, eating and eating right are two different things.
Achieving the body you want is 30% exercise and 70% diet. Learn what foods can help maximize your results, cut down on salt and sugar, increase your protein and vegetable intake and don’t be scared of carbs. Excuse the cliché but, a good diet is a balanced one.
No, walking from your desk to the office kitchen doesn’t count.
Work out 3 times a week, don’t be afraid of weights and try exercising with a friend for extra motivation. If you make working out fun, you won’t dread it as much, in fact eventually you’ll start to look forward to it.
On average, it takes more than two months before a new behavior becomes automatic — 66 days to be exact. So all you have to do is stick to it for two months and then it will become part of your life. If you want to maintain a fit and healthy body you have to accept that it’s all about making a positive lifestyle change.
Everyone has a vice; whether it’s too much alcohol, too much sugar or too much snacking on the wrong things, if you’re having trouble achieving your goal weight, you’re probably going wrong somewhere. I found that keeping a food diary was key in identifying where the extra weight was coming from.
Before you begin your diet, considering writing down everything you eat or drink for a week, after all, it’s hard to deny the truth when it’s written in front of you. My vices? Six cups of tea a day with 2 spoons of sugar each. Large meals after midnight and no breakfast resulting in large 11am pre-lunch, lunches.
You don’t have to eat less, you just have to eat right. 2,000 daily calories in burgers, chocolate and fizzy drinks is never going to get you where you want. 2000 calories consisting of healthy meals, vegetables and low-fat snacks will.
Losing weight shouldn’t be slow and painful torture. If you fancy being a little bit bad, go ahead. Just remember that a cheat meal does not need to turn into a cheat day (or a cheat week). Change that “I’ll start on Monday” attitude to “I’ll start after this cupcake” and you’re half way to success. Well, figuratively speaking anyway.
Work towards being a healthier person and the weight will sort itself out. In the mean time, don’t get caught up on what the scales show you, think “fat loss” not “weight loss”.
It just don’t work like that.
It takes 4 weeks to notice your body changing, 8 weeks for your friends to notice and 12 weeks for the rest of the world. Keep at it and results will come.
As for the personal trainer part, if you’re in the market for someone to help you squat to your ideal bottom size, click here to check out mine.
Nothing makes a women more mentally imbalanced than having to wait by her phone for a text. And the longer it takes to get a reply, the more irrational we seem to become.
The first port of call is always the ‘best friend’ who is on hand with logical advice which you totally intend on ignoring. “Maybe he’s busy, or at work. Maybe his phone ran out of battery, or he’s testing you to see if you’ll go nuts. Try not to think about it, he’ll text back soon”.
And you’re nodding like:
But then as soon as you’re left to your own devices, all that great advice somehow gets forgotten and you’re back to trying to come up with your own brilliant ideas for making him text back faster.
For the record, cross the following off your “maybe I should” list because trust me you shouldn’t. That is, unless you have been given any indication that this particular gentleman is slightly turned on by clingy and or desperate women.
Despite what you want to allow yourself to believe, his phone hasn’t spontaneously started to reject your messages. He didn’t accidentally block your number and I’m pretty certain he didn’t “reply but forget to press send”.
Whatever your logic, it’s wrong. He got your text, he just can’t reply right now, or simply doesn’t want to. Sending more texts is unlikely to help.
And for the record, re-sending the same message again is also pretty ridiculous. “Oh maybe he’ll think my phone just sent it twice accidentally”. Yes, maybe. Or, maybe he’ll think you’re insane.
Cute voicemails are only cute when they aren’t preceded by three unanswered texts. If he’s ignoring you and you’re leaving adorable messages for him, you just seem a little desperate. And I was being nice when I said “a little”.
Classic girl move. After obsessing over the fact he hasn’t replied, you decide to put him through the “does he have his phone with him” test. Of course he’s with his phone! Is there anyone in this day and age who spends more than an hour apart from their beloved smart phone? Unless he was mugged (unlikely) he has his phone with him.
So if your plan is to call him from an unknown number, then act enraged when he picks up, I’m telling you, save those unlimited minutes and don’t bother. Whatever the reason for his silence, it is not that he is phone-less.
Don’t call him after three glasses of wine to tell him what an idiot he is. You’re going for class and sophistication, not desperation and alcoholism.
By all means have your wine fest, go ahead and drunkenly bitch to your friends about what a “child” he’s being, but first put your phone somewhere, where drunk you can’t reach it. Sadly, “it wasn’t me, it was the vodka” is rarely accepted as an adequate excuse for drunk dialing.
This move is also known as the “what the f*** is he doing, that he can’t stop for two seconds and text me back?”
First I must ask you, what possible difference could his location make to this situation? The beauty of mobile technology, is that it really doesn’t matter where the hell he is.
Secondly, what do you intend to do if he sees you? Roll your window down and wave? I think not… reverse back into your drive and abort mission.
“Hey babe, did you get my text” roughly translates to “Hey babe, I’ve been sitting by my phone for 13 hours and if you don’t reply soon, I’m going to have an emotional meltdown and change my Facebook status to It’s Complicated“.
Don’t be that girl.
What’s that? He tweeted that he was going to the pub and you just happened to bump into him there? This ones a total mystery, surely he’ll never put two and two together! That is, unless he didn’t have a partial lobotomy earlier that day.
Pandering to his ego won’t help. Your 3 texts in a row already made it obvious that you like him. I promise you the issue is that you haven’t made your feelings clear enough.
Because the only thing worse than him thinking you’re a bit clingy, is his friends thinking it too. Men who lack their own opinions, tend to just develop those of their friends. Plus, if he isn’t texting you, it’s unlikely his friends will take your side instead of his. When it comes to getting his boys involved… avoid avoid avoid.
I know you have images of them going back to him with a “why aren’t you texting her, she’s such a nice girl”. But guys don’t do that. The closest you’ll get is: “how did that chick you’re dating get my number?”
So now we’ve gone through what you can’t do, here’s what you can: Stop starring at your phone, stop checking to see if you’ve lost signal, stop asking your friends to text you to test if they’re coming through. Go out, enjoy your life.
I guarantee he’ll reply eventually, usually with a half baked excuse which you may or may not choose to believe, that parts totally up to you.
Location: Ashfield Parade, Southgate, London
Once known as Choccocino’s, the newly opened Mojo’s Kitchen is very much a case of: new owners, new name, new menu.
I can only describe their style of food as “a little bit of everything”. Whatever you fancy, they’ve probably got it; their menu varies from breakfast to burgers, fish cakes and ribs. Whilst the menu sounds a bit messy, for a food lover who appreciates a bit of variety, it makes perfect sense.
Whilst Mojo’s menu runs all the way from breakfast to dinner, I would offer them a delicious crown of honor as the perfect place to brunch. There’s nothing overly fancy about Mojo’s, the interior is simple, clean and even has an outdoor area with tables and chairs where you can enjoy a cup of tea in the sunshine (if ever we see any that is).
Their breakfast pancakes are especially good and they seem all too happy to appease fussy customers by substituting a bit of this for a bit of that. Most importantly they’ve got their proportions the right way round – large portions, small price tag.
Not to mention that the end of our meal was greeted with both the bill and a follow on Twitter and let’s face it, it’s always nice to come as customers and leave as friends.
As of 2006, ambitious women the world over watched as a Meryl Streep type Anna Wintour invaded their screens, reminding them that a modern day love story, can be just as much about a job as it can be about a man.
Girls are no longer raised to polish oven doors, we’re here to work. Don’t get me wrong, I know my way around a turkey baster as well as the next Nigella Lawson, but I was brought up knowing I had to work, and since statistically we spend 99,117 hours of our lives doing just that, I figured I might as well get the job that I want. Unfortunately for me, so did everyone else.
Everyone seems to be looking for a job, yet no one seems to know what wins in the battle between industry experience and education. Take it from me, who has tried both, having the right contacts wins hands down every time. Instead of complaining about it, you just accept the hierarchy of the working world, and start from the bottom. The bottom of course, being unpaid.
The chances are life will throw you a lifeline eventually, even if it is a minimum wage one. You take it of course, because let’s face it, a few thousand a year, is better than no thousand at all.
Before you disagree with me, I must admit it’s not just the career aspect of ’The Devil Wears Prada’ that caught my interest. It’s was the Chanel. And the Prada of course. Definitely the Prada. I need shoes, and not just for my own vanity, no, I need them to make a good impression on that next job interview, waiting just around the corner.
Also if like myself, being able to afford to move out before the age of forty seems an appealing prospect, you must embrace the jobs which pay badly, just as much as the ones which pay well.
As for my soul. That was sold a long time ago. I could blame the companies which take us in under their umbrella, fully qualified, yet working for free. One volunteer after the other, all of them getting the job done, not one asking for a penny, because having the experience on the CV is payment enough.
I could even blame the boss, who pays you too little despite demanding so much. Yes, he definitely deserves a mention.
Not because they are the reason I will soon be purchasing from the very charity shops I once donated to. Or for the lines around my eyes which no Sainsbury’s bought home facial can seem to eradicate. But because they gave me the first taste of what success could taste like, and I kind of liked it.
I have been advised by my daily horoscope to take a break. Not that I needed an Oracle to tell me that. And not that I much believe in Star Signs either, but due to a complete lack of any personal wisdom I thought I’d seek outside help.
I’ve never been a believer in fate, I think we make our own decisions, and the relevant outcomes are ones we inadvertently chose. That being said, I’ve been hoping that perhaps (for maybe the first time ever) I might be wrong.
If someone could convince me that everything happens for a reason, then I wouldn’t have to worry so much, about all the choices I have miscalculated. Wouldn’t it be nice, if instead of regretting the things which go wrong, we can just assume that if they were meant to be, they would.
I’d definitely sleep better at night if I could just conclude that things happen because they’re meant to, and I have no actual control, just the illusion of it. Because the alternative, that things aren’t all tied up in fate, and that we make our own luck, involves a lot more bravery than I think I can summon. If life is, as I had originally thought, unplanned, unscripted and just plain messy, then every tiny thing you or I do, effects the way we’ll end up.
Think about it.
Leaving 2 minutes later for work, can be the difference between a collision, and a morning spent listening to mediocre breakfast music. Smoking that cigarette can be the difference between living till 40 and living till 85. Applying for that job might be the line between survival and success. Going to this bar instead of that one is the difference between meeting someone, and never even knowing they existed. And telling someone how you feel could be the difference between being happy, and not.
If this doesn’t scare you, then maybe you could share some insight, because it sure as hell scares me.
I’ve never much believed in New Years Resolutions, mainly because the turning of the year is no more likely to get me on a treadmill than bikini season or my gym instructor’s scornful “I haven’t seen you here in months” eyes. So just to be clear these are not resolutions. It’s two weeks into 2012, so we can agree that I’ve definitely missed the resolution making portion of the year.
These are not so much ways to improve myself, and lets face it why would I want to (don’t answer that) but instead, more ways to ensure I don’t reach 2013 without a single thing to show for myself aside from that increasing Jack Daniels dependency. And shoes, far, far too many shoes.
1. Get a job, one which pays more than the most minimum of wages. As much as I love my mum, I can’t spend the next 27 years living at home, which incidentally is how long it would take me to put a deposit on the very shittiest of flats with my current salary.
2. Sky dive, or bungee jump, or take up aerobatic flying lessons or pretty much anything in this general category that is guaranteed to make me pee my pants a little bit. You’re never going to be amazed in life, unless you do some things, which are a little bit amazing.
3. Succeed in getting George Michaels “Faith” out of my head. It’s been stuck there for approximately 3 years, and whilst before it was bad, now it also comes with the accompanying dance moves compliments of J.D. No not the liquor, the character, in Scrubs.
4. Visit a county, where the rain is warm. Or perhaps before I get ahead of myself, I should aim to visit a country which is not Cypriot, Greek, Greek-Cypriot or any other variation which results in me eating Feta in the village tavern owned by Stelios.
5. Slow dance. Not jokingly. Not with my God-sister while drunk. Not with my dog (who for the record does an excellent Waltz) and not with my fingers on the steering wheel whilst bored in traffic.
The list could go on. A result of a very unproductive 2011 no doubt, I am left with a million and one things I was always meant to, but never quite got around to doing. I guess I could add teaching my dad how to text to the list and losing that last pound that just won’t budge from my thighs, but like I said these’s aren’t resolutions, and I am not a miracle worker.
I’ve lived in London my whole life. I was born over here so I suppose that makes me, if not English, then British at least. So what separates me from all my English friends? Because despite the fact we all went to the same school, watched the same cartoons growing up and all now live within about a 2mile radius of each other, there is a definite difference.
It’s our families, and while my classmates were all bought up with some level of normalcy, I was raised by a man who herded sheep as a child and the woman who chose to marry him. On face value we might seem the same as every other Londoner, but once you know how to read the signs, you’ll notice that you can actually spot us as mile off…
1. You know you’re dealing with someone who has foreign parents when it takes them 10 minutes to explain to the Fed Ex guy how to spell their surname. “No… an.. as..iou… iou… no just one iou… here let me just write if for you!” Because apparently even spell-check can’t help you out with Athanasiou.
2. It doesn’t matter if she’s 26, while she’s living at home, if you’re picking her up for a date, the chances are you’re going to have to wait around the corner.
3. Also, once they do move out, it’s of no consequence how many years they’ve been living away from home, if they’re going to visit their parents, they will be coming back with a clean basket of laundry and 6 assorted Sainsbury’s carrier bags. This is has nothing to do with being spoilt, this is just how our mothers show us love.
4. Cooking for Sunday dinner doesn’t involve a quiet meal for 4. No, it involves peeling potatoes until your arm goes numb; after all it’s rude to cook and not invite the whole family over. And even if the whole family isn’t coming, it’s best to cook for them anyway… just in case. Don’t worry this isn’t wasteful, what doesn’t get eaten today will be re-heated four times and eaten every night next week.
5. If while cooking together you pass them the wooden spoon and they duck, I promise this is completely normal. It’s a reflex deeply ingrained in them from the age of about 10 when they brought home their first bad report card and in turn got their first beating. Other such painful memory triggers include: slippers, brooms and their mums hand.
6. This one may be Cypriot specific but, we don’t say turn ‘on the lights’, we say ‘open the lights’. And no, despite being corrected several million times, we still don’t care that it doesn’t make any sense.
7. We have all at some point in our lives received a lecture which is a variation on the classic: “I came to this country with only two pounds in my pocket and I worked hard to build all this for you so you and your sister could have everything…” This may have something to do with the fact our parents believe we don’t recognise hard work due to the fact we have never ploughed a field.
8. “I’m going on holiday to see my family” tends to mean “see you in 5 weeks. I may have a twinge to my accent upon return and if all goes to plan I will be almost black”.
9. Despite being born over here, and having cultivated just about every British tradition going, we still refer to everyone else as: “English People“.
10. Again, this may be a Cypriot specific adaptation, derived from the days where public transport was called Laki The Donkey, or perhaps it’s a result of our families missing the village days where everything you ever needed was a 3 minute walk away. Either way we all live pretty much down the same road, or at a push a couple of roads over. This essentially saves money on phone calls because you don’t need to call everyone to invite them to a Sunday BBQ, you just put the meat on and wait for them to smell it.
I can’t cry during Titanic. Can’t being the operative word because I’ve actually tried.
And it’s not just Titanic. I sit through every heart wrenching film the Odeon has to offer, next to my best friend who’s going through Kleenex like tears are back in fashion, and I’m just sitting there thinking… please just give me one tear, just one little tear. But alas, nothing.
It’s not that I never cry, I mean the check-out boy at KFC who gave me the wrong order once is testimony to that. It’s more that I seem to have accidentally trained my body to recognize it as a sign of weakness. It falls into the same category as all those other things normal girls should be able to do, but I find such a challenge. Like say the L word (to someone, anyone other than my dog). Or text a guy first. Or bloody hell even hug my friends without thinking, “Okay get off me now, I’m patting your back, why aren’t you getting the hint, everyone knows the back-pat is a sign to immediately remove yourself from me”.
Now I’ve put a lot of thought into this so hear me out… maybe it’s not me that’s the problem. Maybe it’s every other girl in the world with an overly developed level of sensitivity, making me look bad, and ruining all the hard work put in by women who have chosen to evolve past housewives.
They go around, telling guys how much they l*ve them after three weeks of dating, and cry on trains when they read a story in the Metro about a kitten being put in a dustbin and Lord save me, even update their statuses with quotes from The Notebook. But because there’s an actual army of them, instead of cringing, everyone’s got used to it, and dare I say it accepted this as the norm.
Then there’s me. And I think surely I haven’t got it so wrong.
So it takes me a little while to warm up to someone. Even if I really want to I can’t just go up to them and say “hell, I like you, wanna make out” (and jeez isn’t that the man’s job anyway?)
So I watch My Sisters Keeper and think “that’s so sad” instead of letting my the sadness run down my face. At least I can leave the cinema without mascara on my chin.
So I’m stubborn as hell and won’t admit it if nervous. Is that really the worst quality you can find in a girl?
Oh it is..? Then darling I’m screwed.
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