It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman in possession of a good^ quantity of Pinot Grigio must be in want of a husband... or better still an even bigger glass.
Or maybe she is just reminding herself of all of the things that make her happy and shout out loud with joy and excitement rather than cowering to the wants and needs of another…and maybe she is also a little bit tipsy.
So when the chips are down and there are plenty of fish in the sea and you should be glad it happened sooner rather than later and rolling stones gather no moss and all men are bastards and you are worth more than him and a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush (I never understood that one either) and certainly worth more than a string of clichés then here is a list of things you should be doing instead of lying in your bed with the blinds down, nursing a hangover and a half empty bottle of Caffeine Free Diet Coke because caffeine and sugar is bad for you but alcohol is not.
Join a gym.
Louis XIV awakened me to the joy of total and regular immersion in water while showing off his kingly, palatial sporting facilities in Evian last weekend. He also is a strong believer in the healing power of spending ever increasing amounts of money on pedestrian objects and recently encouraged me to purchase a €170 metal thing that holds my shoes so I should know better than to listen to him. But, he is the King of France and the Prince of Evian-les-bains so one must do as one is told for fear of eternal banishment to the land with no Louis Vuitton (Australia!!). So I paid as much as the kind folks at Club Med Waou would let me, ensuring the use of TWO towels. My oh my, how very aristocratic of me. *
The Artsist-ologer if she were here, would add that, being a fire sign, I am only able to relax in water as it puts out my the fire inside that burns so bright in my subconscious at night I am unable to sleep. The stars are more reliable than my own intellect of late, so I take two metros before 7am, wearing tights and no make up, only to run on the spot and then reward myself with a swim in the oversized bath that the locals have classified a piscine.§
The act of running on the spot on a machine in constant motion is enough to terrify any amateur sportswoman but as a professional unco-awkard-Annie, it is an achievement equal only to Billy Elliot flying across the screen in feathers when he finally joins the Royal Ballet. But even betteer still, darkening gradually from English Rose, to Fire Engine Face to Beetroot Babe ensures I get more than my fair share of attention from the resident gym bunnies. But I don’t care because I know that at the end of this self-inflicted torture session, I’ll be back in the pool and everyone looks good under water, just ask Kate Winslet.
Wax or paint something.
Now that you feel like a finely tuned human machine because of your newfound energy and muscles, it is time grease up the gears and pistons to show it off at it’s best. The lovely Laura, who is responsible for the regular upkeep maintenance of the M, is also a lot cheaper than a psychiatrist. She listens, she files, she paints, she soothes, she rips giant strips of burning wax away from my skin and she massages my breasts. How one woman can provide so many services under the guise of Beauty Therapist is quite astounding and incredibly expensive. But then, when you want a freebie…
Go to the MAC cosmetics counter.
How can life be bad when you have blue fingernails, glossy puffed-up lips and gold eyelashes? How can life be bad when you have a man with a soft touch prodding your face with horsehair and sponges? How can life be bad when you can sit in a chair, stare at your reflection, in the middle of a hundred people, while being told how beautiful you look, and not feel stupid? How can life be bad when you walk away looking like Priscilla’s better-breasted sidekick? Which is why I recommend you…
Spend lengthy amounts of time in the company of the Fabulous.
When you look at the world through Gypsy Rose Coloured glasses, everything is Absolutely Fabulous and let’s face it, if they think Barbra and Bette are beautiful, well proboscisly diminutive as I am, I must be too. Not only do we share the same taste in music, Kylie, Madonna and Gaga being de rigeur, we also share an undying passion for Glee…so much so that Braveheart (who shares that same passion for fabulous tartan skirts and Scottish independence with William Wallace) has convinced me to dress up as Rachel for Pride.
Lac Léman - Evian-les-bains
Louis XIV also made the unknowingly damaging remark that given my penchant for Pinot Grigio and viciously biting humour, I could make a living as a stand-in for (Joanna Lumley’s) Patsy. I explained that given she weighs 35 kg, I’d take that as a compliment. The fabulous also make up for the fact that you need to…
Avoid pregnant or married or engaged or religious people and Sex and the City.
One might argue that you should practice this rule anyway, but being reminded of God’s love for me is not going to get me through the next 20 years alone on this earth no matter how many sons He forces to sleep with prostitutes to prove the point. As for Carrie Bradshaw, she stole Ferris Bueller from the rest of us AND lives in New York. So I double-triple hate her.
Wear your own bling!
Tiffany, her pretty blue boxes with white ribbons and I, have been close friends for a long time. She was marched out each year for Birthdays and Christmases but had of late dwindled into oblivion. What better way to remind one self of the great words of Beyonce and putting a ring on it than by putting your own ring on ‘it’? Ok, so I don’t have 30,000 mazillion euros for a rock from Sierra Leone, so I put a heart shaped charm on ‘it’ instead.. but the sentiment remains the same.
Buy Flowers and other expensive smelling anythings.
I’ve waxed lyrical about the joys of Oriental Lilies in the spring on these pages before. But along with luxury branded candles, sticks that stink and new designer perfume, there is a now a bunch of Eucalypt in my bedroom. Only the more appreciated, as I know that it is not playing home to any spiders.
Throw s**t out.
The food, the clothes, the movies, the books, the photos, the anything that you look at and makes you feel bad about yourself so scoop it into a black plastic bag and throw it in the bin. But not that piece of cheese that has some petrified staphylococci on it; a serrated knife will have that looking like new in just a jiffy and onto a piece of toast with Vegemite and Bob’s your uncle and Fanny’s your aunt and do you know anyone in the market for a full set of Harry Potter Lego that I am looking to offload? Which makes room for…
Buy really good s**t.
Now you have so much new space to fill, it is time to go shopping. Thanks to Peter Alexander for providing us with the Glamma Nanna Knicka and Victoria’s secret for giving the world Fluoro-Turquoise bras and the internet for making sure it all comes to you! But it is not all about the knickers, there is also the coffee machine I asked for and never got, two weeks in Sydney and even a mandolin. The kind you use to slice potatoes not the kind that medieval people sang Greensleeves to which is all the better to help me…
Cook.
Gwyneth’s book (which and whom I gleefully love!) is an ode to her father; mine would be an ode to finely dicing vegetables because my Dad never cooked more than chips and egg#. The more intricately it can be done, the longer it takes, the more music I can listen to during preparation, the more fun I have making it, the better it tastes at the end. Which leads me to the end of this rather self-indulgent missive…
Sing!
I am yet to wake up the neighbours or receive an official complaint but it can’t be far off given the noise I’ve been making. Adele, Beth, PJ and Sarah Mac get me started with a good dose of womanly whining and spewing vitriol upon the world while I Roll in the Deep. Once I’ve cast all the hatred I have in me out into the 18th arrondissement, it is time to dance and sequin (a verb I just invented) to some Abba, some Kylie (especially therapeutic with that hand flicking movement) and good old faithful Madge (after all these years I still don’t understand the milk). After I have exhausted myself moving around, which is quite easy now given all this bloody exercise, it is time to glee (another verb I am creating, Shakespeare made up words and we had to study him every year, so I can too). Gleeing involves singing out loud to a mixture of show tunes, ballads and top 40 hits, all sung by a bunch of school kids from a television show that is appreciated only by people that have a low tolerance for people breaking out into song in the middle of a corridor. A tolerance that was developed early for me given I was on stage when I was 6 and singing in classes every week, gleeing (and being a Drama Queen dearest Motherbear) is second nature to me. And so I leave you with this.
And above all else…
…sing it ‘til you’re nuts, sing it for the ones that will hate your guts...
^For the French who read this (an ever increasing minority thanks to Google Translate), that is a very famous quote from Jane Austen.
* A special note to the Microchef in Aoteoroa who thought I was going to the Club Med five times a week. While the place is crowded with over-tanned people wearing microscopic Lycra patches over their bits, it is indeed a gym that I am visiting and not a beachside resort.
§ Everyone who ever took a French class anywhere in the modern world knows that the French word for swimming pool is ‘piss-in’
# For those of you that do not understand the Shirley Valentine reference, here is a video that might help you better understand my father and perhaps a clue to my childhood enthusiasm for living in France.
F is for FREEEEEEEDOOOOOOMMMMMMMM
Posted by: Braveheart | 06/18/2011 at 05:58 PM
I was going to say something about your shared loved of facepainting...
Posted by: MM | 06/18/2011 at 07:39 PM
That kettle and toaster are spectacular.
Posted by: inner pickle | 06/19/2011 at 03:00 PM
A new Marie Antoinette is coming and she will cross soon the road of the prince! Le roi est mort, vive le roi!
Posted by: louis XIV 2.0 | 06/25/2011 at 11:08 PM
Louis, t'es adorable. La nouvelle Marie s'entraine...Il faut just trouver un Prince..au boulot!
Posted by: MM | 06/26/2011 at 04:25 PM