lbd

Living each day as my last.

My colleagues all think I went on a date tonight.

They noted my straightened hair, my lbd (long, black, oh-so-very-smart dress), and my amazing red peep-toe heels.

They asked, “Who is he? Where are you off to?”

I giggled, smiled… but wouldn’t say.

The thing is, I woke up so happy this morning from last night that I decided that I had to wear something that made me happy. And rather than dash all of their hopes, I eluded their questions.

So when my colleague T asks me tomorrow if I put out (can you believe the nerve!?)… I will giggle to myself… because only I (and you!) know that that lbd of mine was stripped off and placed on the peg for… the gynecologist for my check-up! (a woman)

p.s. I was just thinking about the gown I had to wear and the slit up the back… I held it shut as I walked around radiology, but considering that I had one of Victoria’s Secret Sexy Little Things on, it’s a shame I didn’t jump start the tickers of the old men in the waiting room by “mistakedly” tucking the gown the wrong way for a cheeky flash of the knickers pictured below!  Next time!!

bachelorette

29th December: Day 77 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

Two years ago, at some point during the course of watching twenty-five men nibble sweets off my beloved colleague’s neck…lace, it occurred to me. What’s the point of having a bachelorette party when it’s too late to have fun? Why not do it now with no strings attached?

I filed this notion away, only to come back to it now that I was released from the prison otherwise known as Brussels. With two years of perspective and great wisdom, I realised that this brilliant night of celebrating singleness with reckless abandon was probably just the same thing as being a slut. And that I probably didn’t need a posse if I really wanted to up my snog tally. But still. I just set myself up for a “rose by any other name would still be a rose” response…. but I just couldn’t help thinking, “what the hell, why not!?” Especially since for the real bachelorette I would much prefer a great adventure with my very best friends free of any cheesy bridal paraphernalia.

So I began emailing my craziest NY friends… not just ones that I felt I was comfortable enough with to slip a rhinestone ring on and make a fool of myself in front of… but ones that would be on the front line, with a lifesaver t-shirt in hand, cheering me on.

And so, you may be wondering, just how many gorgeous NY men did I trick into smooching me for one last big hurrah?

Do you REALLY want to know?

It’s probably, actually more fun not to tell.

But I’ll tell you anyway. none. not one.

When push came to shove, four days after Christmas was really not the greatest timing for this all-important mission. Not if I wanted any friends there to be a part of the support team.

So instead, I had a really great night of drinks and work gossip with two of my very favourite NY work friends.

But I’m still not deterred…

karaoke

19th December: Day 67 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

Two in one day. You may think I’m overzealous, but really, it was a pretty terrific day.

So I did the thing I swore I wouldn’t do: karaoke. At the company Christmas party. And it was awesome! (song features: “Summer Lovin” and “9 to 5″…in groups!)

*****Check back because I may just be able to load an awesome video from the X Factor competition!

The bus ride to Eve3…  sitting in front of a bunch of Flava-flave wanna-be’s…

My fellow colleague from the Westfield Launch:

My amazing colleague J who is just about to move to Australia.  Also one of my Westfield lovelies.

My colleague G always sends out a highlights Powerpoint with humorous captions.  Apparently this was a highlight.  Caption, “It’s ok, she’s American.”  Laughing with, Laughing with…Another one of my very favourite Westfield teammates in the hat.  Still gushing about our amazing team!! I heart these peeps. Oh, J.  Contrary to what it might look like, I didn’t consume too much alcohol.  Certainly not enough to forget this.  The Take That performance that will be one of my favourite memories EVAAAA.  (may just be able to load up a video… check back!!)  

santa

17th December: Day 66 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

Naughty or nice.

Santa is supposed ask that. Not be asked.

This year as a Secret Santa, I asked myself that question. And decided that it would be so much more fun to be the former.

So when I pulled one of my closest friends, C, in the office Secret Santa, I decided it would be terrific to buy C the oddest, crappiest present.

So I went to the thrift store and found the cheapest thing. A book in German. For £1.50. C doesn’t speak German. It was perfect. I couldn’t help but allow the saleswoman in on the plot. Her face broke into a smile and she summoned me forward, with large eyes and a breathy whisper. Her son also had done Secret Santa last year. And – dramatic pause, ever-widening eyes – he received a condom!

I giggled all the way along the tiny alleys back to my bike by the Richmond Green. I decided that I positively had to leave the tag for £1.50 so she can see that even Santa was hit by the recession. And then I should include a card that said that a little elf had told Santa that she was a Germanophile (funny how you never hear this word, like you hear francophile…. hmmm….. well, I know I love my German friends!). It was going to be great. Though I wasn’t so sure I’d get a reaction of disappointment or confusion.

As expected, my lovely friend had a big smile on her face and completely hid the fact to the surrounding crowd of gift openers that she didn’t speak German.

And since I couldn’t help being Nice Santa as well, a gorgeously wrapped present later appeared on C’s desk with a beautiful leather change purse inside, filled with Aveda mini bottles and tiny hot chocolate packs… clearly Santa kept his cash tucked safely in his mattress rather than the stock market.

Oh yes. And with it, a card saying, “You thought Santa was a cheap bastard. Turns out he has a sense of humor!” and a few cartoons such as this:

woobs

18th November: Day 37 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

This one’s silly.  But I’m going to tell you anyway.

The first time I stepped into a locker without cubicles was middle school.  It was awful.  I thought about creeping into the unused shower room, but I figured I’d get caught and we were all in the same boat.  So we, pubscent girls, twisted and turned in our clothes until we managed to unhook our little training bras and show as little flesh as possible.

Since then I’ve loosened up a bit.  Meaning I don’t take an extra fifteen minutes wriggling around to cover up every patch of skin.  But I certainly never graduated to the Belgian women who draped their naked bodies over the lounge chairs and continued their conversations seamlessly.

It all changed on Tuesday.

It was my first morning working up a sweat at the place that encourages Londoners to leave the cleavage to the girls and loose the moobs.

I descended the stairs, feeling every step in my bum after my killer workout.  It was then that I realised that I had forgotten a towel.  And this otherwise relatively nice gym doesn’t give them out.  (Oh the plight of the girl spoiled by Equinox and Royal La Rasante!)

So my choices were: hit the showers before and after a long, chilly, accessory-free walk, or wipe off the sweat and don my work clothes.

I resisted the temptation of instant gratification and went for the option that provided the least embarrassment and smell for the following eight hours.

It was quite a long walk.  I was acutely aware that I was in London rather than Germany.  I hightailed it to the shower and back, fearful that a colleague might be lurking around the corner.  And then I set out a big sigh of relief.

Afterwards, though, I realised that this was in no way been a walk of shame but in retrospect was pretty empowering and not so bad to bare my woobs (woman boobs) after all.

But don’t get any ideas.  I’m investing in some serious towels…

girl

14th November: Day 33 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

You will never guess what I did.

Ok, let me give you a hint…

Oh yes I did.

Ok, fine, but I thought about it.

And then dreamt about it.

The girl, you ask?

You ask wrong.

The WOMAN, BBC 2’s Mary Queen of Shops.

Window displays at Harrods + TopShop displays + thrusting Harvey Nichols forward as the fashion mecca that it now is + BBC’s Absolutely Fabulous = “What Mary doesn’t know about shops isn’t worth knowing.”

Or more appropriately = settling into the couch at work, bobbing her bob, rolling her eyes and declaring, “It smells like my dog wee-ed in this couch.” + sending me off for tea + round two for water.

And then came the dream. Which never would had the fifty-year-old fashionista as the subject if it wasn’t just after my event and if I wasn’t thinking in a very general sense about Katy Perry’s proclivity.

A bunch of work mates and I were walking down a dark, wide street, on our way for drinks while on site. She strutted toward me and said she needed to talk to me. The “ooooooh’s” from the guys was embarrassingly loud.

I followed her down an alley.

My back up against the brick wall, she leaned forward and told me she wanted to kiss me.

“Oh God,” I thought, pressing further against the brick wall, “Do I really have to?”

And then I did it. I squeezed my eyes closed, held my breath, and leaned forward to get it over as quickly as possible.

I pressed my lips against hers. And then she pulled back. And she kissed me on each cheek, rolled her eyes and said, “I meant on the cheek!”

I pulled back, completely and utterly mortified.

And then I woke up.

Thank God.

mate

7th November: Day 26 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

This is one of the “what the hell, why not” ’s… that is always accompanied by steadily rising undulations in my tummy.

A text arrived to my Blackberry last night from my friend A. Since the dust was now settling from my event, she thought it was very important that I attend “Date My Mate” with her. The hitch: I had to appear with a single male by my side that I didn’t want to date. And I had to do it in 24 hours!

In the midst of my 3-2-1-GO! scramble I managed to rustle up two eligible bachelors. Upon arrival at the dark smoky-wooded, sophisticated yet understated modern members club, Shoreditch House, I popped out of the elevator into the lofty Biscuit Tin and my date and I did a mutual ditch.

Was it a success? I wasn’t so convinced, until A told me how impressed she to was turn around to speak to me and see me off, working the room (with a big smile as J in Chicago emailed me seconds before I stepped through the door that I looked FHAH…F***ing Hot As Hell) . Regardless of some of the cringe-worthy conversations and complete duds, I was out there. Most successful plan of attack: finding the men talking between themselves, tell them they are being very naughty keeping to themselves… Result: me, surrounded by a group of guys, with the ice broken! …and being told that “naughty” in my American accent sounds oh-so-sexy!? Right.

knickers

6th November: Day 25 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

Oh yes I did.

Red shoe day in the fashion rotation. Oh so many wink, wink, nudge, nudge, “know what we say red shoes means?”, that I made it worth one hell of a wink and a massive nudge.

To work!  And then for a night out!

Naughty, naughty.