A well-known department store over on this side of the world has published several shots of a bikini model in which they show how a photo is retouched and to what lengths magazines/advertisers go to achieve this image of perfection. On the heels of this, this store also proclaims that from now on they will be using non-airbrushed photos to launch their new swimwear line. Their goal: to sell just as many swimsuits whilst showing a ‘real woman’ in one of their suits than one that looks like she came from planet perfect. The funny thing is, the photo they show as a before photo, the woman was thin, in shape, and attractive and didn’t need much help to look better.  So in short, we're still using models who clearly take care of themselves and have good genes, and don't spend all their time sitting on the sofa shoveling in potato chips as they watch Jeremy Kyle. 

I suppose I’m now wondering what the definition of a ‘real woman’ is; is a real woman indeed the one in the photo who looks after herself? Or the one I saw stumbling out of the pub last night with a tank top two sizes two small squeezed over her ample beer belly, or is it the woman on the corner that sells Big Issues (a local magazine over here sold by the homeless) who is missing most of her teeth. Trust me, I make no judgments here, the woman is sweet as pie, I’m just wondering who is defining a real woman these days and what exactly that entails. And furthermore, how much realness do we really want to see in our ads? Cause trust me, I see REAL when I go into a changing room under that florescent lighting and it scares the crap out of me!

On the other hand, let's be honest, clothing looks better on tall thin models who are hot. That's the truth, and I can take it. In fact, I’m not sure I want to see women ladened with cellulite trudging down a runway like a Clydesdale as they do their best to squeeze into some haute couture number. Fashion - to me anyway - is a world of fantasy, (have you seen some of those outfits, who would wear that stuff anyway???) I know that these women are starving their asses off, but damn can they make a dress look good. I also understand that if you don't quickly realize that you have to work with what you've got, you're going to have one tortured existence. I'll never be Amazonian like most of these women, but I'd like to see any of them wrap one of their legs around their neck - I may be short, but I'm bendy as hell. And that my friends can be a definite asset. :-)

Don't get me wrong – along with millions of women out in the world – I do my fair share of retouching before I leave the house. HELLO Studio Fix by Mac, how I love thee! But what has been happening for some time is that retouching has gone from a few simple fixes - remove some cellulite here, a dark circle there - to an all out whitewash that makes the model or celebrity look like some wax-like freak with skin like the Velveteen rabbit, who doesn't exist in nature.  The funniest photos are those of the celebs over 40 that end up so bleached and wrinkle free, that their faces look like they’ve been blasted into oblivion. And the irony, the next day you’ll see a real photo of them out and about clutching to their oversized glasses that cover half their faces and they look nothing like their photo. Cause well, they're human and humans AGE. Trust me I wish we could get around this, but it's not going to happen anytime soon.

It's a business, and there is product to sell, so I understand the clients wanting to put their best foot forward. But I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m not buying so and so's latest night cream cause Julia Roberts looks like a five year plastic doll old in her photo. I’ve been around long enough to know that most creams don’t do squat. In fact, I think I’d be more compelled to buy a product if the photo showed me a woman who had a few wrinkles, some eyebags for good measure, and then showed me how this product helped cover up some of that damage. Here's a campaign I could get behind: "Do you look exhausted, those wrinkles and sun spots starting to show? Here's a cream that won't work miracles - cause honey you ain't 20 anymore -  but at least people won't turn and run from you screaming in the supermarket." 

Now that I could get behind.

I thought today I’d do a blogging potluck, if you will. No general theme here, just random delights and disturbances as per usual. Onward we go….

The British government announced yesterday that with the release of a damning report in regards to the 1972 Sunday Bloody Sunday Massacre, they were – after 37 years – placing blame entirely on the British soldiers who shot and killed 14 unarmed protestors in Northern Ireland on that day. So, let get me this straight, cause this one is taking awhile to sink in….after over three decades and 280 million dollars (!!) (how much the inquest into this contentious event over the last 12 years cost) they finally realized that shooting people who were not in possession of guns was a no-no? How about they needed 37 years to let things die down so they didn’t come off like trigger happy A-holes. And why does it take 12 years to figure out that anyone holding a gun, against people who have no guns is an unfair advantage? Even my one-year old nephew could work this one out. I’d say in this case it’s definitely a little too late, especially as the poor parents of those that were murdered are most likely six feet under ground. I’d like to see that heartfelt apology take place. Ah yes, the frightening and unyielding power of the State – if they want something hidden or buried, trust me it will forever stay that way – until of course a new leader comes in and wants to issue a mea culpa on behalf of his naughty former contemporaries so he may come off looking thoughtful and sympathetic. Sorry, my cynicism is showing through this morning.

Onto to the World Cup, cause well, Tis the season! North Korea played last night against Brazil - as I'm sure most of you know. It is the first time in 44 years the North Koreans have been in the tournament - 44  years!! I of course immediately decided that I was routing for the underdogs. To hell with Brazil, they have enough trophies. So during the anthem, Jong Tae Se, one of the top Korean players, was crying so hard from sheer emotion I thought he was going to lose it. Of course, me the wet noodle that I am, began weeping right along with him. His teammates on the other hand didn’t seem as moved, and you know the poor guy got a serious beat down in the locker room for showing too much emotion. I say let the river flow buddy, show that emotion, now is certainly a glorious time for it. This is what I love about global sports, the world comes together and everyone forgets about recessions, natural disasters etc, or the teensy little fact that one’s own government (ahem, North Korea) just threatened war against another. Seriously Jackasses in power, can’t this wait till after the first round, the people of your country just want to watch some football!

And for the final installment of the day, a man in West Hartford CT got his arm trapped in furnace boiler in his basement when he was trying to fix it – [note to self, DO NOT do your own home improvements you suck at it and you like your arms]. After screaming for help for 12 hours and realizing he was losing his arm and soon to be dead from dehydration, what did he do?? Well he thought to himself, ‘what would MacGuyver do in this circumstance?’ Genius. Apparently MacGuyver would cut off his own arm to save his life, and is what this man decided was the only course of action. It turned out to save his life actually (sadly, I think old Mac would’ve demanded the director call cut and ask for a sandwich and a make-up retouch)….and they say TV rots your brain, ha!

I went to my first antenatal class the other day. Imagine if you will, 12 couples, the women looking uncomfortable and slightly nervous; the men, equally as nervous with a twist of utter boredom thrown in for good measure. So there we were on a Sunday (during World Cup no less, priorities people. At least there could have been a TV set, no?!) sitting on the world's most uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room of the antenatal hospital wing – the thought was it was the one area that had the most bathrooms for those of us with impaired bladders. The men clearly had no problem with this arrangement; it was those of us with human basketballs shoved up our innards that couldn’t find a pain free way to sit that didn’t result in a small baby foot wedged into our ribs.

And as always the leader of the class was an uber-peppy mid-wife put on this earth to lead us through the minefield of giving birth. (I have to admit it always unsettles me a bit to be taught be someone who has not gone through the experience. Then again, she has seen hundreds of screaming women go absolutely primal, so I’ll cut her some slack). The first thing she did was bust out a model of a pelvis, and a ragged beat up doll that resembled Chucky from those evil horror films and began to show us how the baby moves through the pelvis and out into the world. The problem being, it’s not such an easy journey, as the baby essentially has to bend and contort like a pretzel to get through the maze of a pelvis that looks freakishly small. I of course immediately felt compelled to stand up and start doing squats to stretch my pelvis out - ‘Honey, grab a hip muscle and pull damn it, PULL!

She then proceeded to go into every detail of labor; I mean every detail while the couple on my left asked question after redundant question (“so a contraction means the womb contracts in and out?” Um, yep that about spells it out, no surprises there) and the wife of the couple on my right had to translate every single word in a loud whisper to her husband for the entire class as he didn’t speak any English.

The only thought I of course had in my head during all of this was drugs (legal ones people, settle down). When do we get to the part about the pain relieving drugs!!! However, I soon discovered that the whole drug topic is slightly looked down upon – cause you know, passing a child the size of a watermelon through your vajayjay is natural, and should be a pleasure cruise full of love and birth pools and hypno breathing techniques that will whisk away the pain and leave you surrounded by fluffy clouds.

OH SERIOUSLY???? Show me where I stick the needle filled with opiates and I’ll do it myself. My thought is this, I’ve experienced pain in various ways throughout my life. I’ve been hit in the nose with a baseball bat and in the forehead (separate occasions if you can believe it and purely accidental); I’ve had stitches, burned myself, cracked my head open on a bed frame - you know, some painful stuff. And in all those occasions I never used something like hypnotherapy to get me through the experience. It was straight to whatever pain reliever I could get my hands on and fast! So why on earth, during the most painful experience OF MY LIFE (so I'm told), would I think imagining me walking on a white sand beach is going to cut it?! 

The problem with this class, other than having to sit still for six hours was that I’m not sure I want to know every detail of what is in front of me. I suppose part of me likes the myths dispelled, but the other part of me thinks, if every woman’s labor is different, then who knows where the hell I could end up. I could be the woman running loose in the hallways, gown open, screaming like a banshee cause I've been in labor since last Tuesday. Then there will not a birthing pool big enough in the entire universe to tame this beast. Just saying.

Most of you know by now that I am a sports fan. More importantly, I’m a loyal sports fan, I mean to a fault, even backing to the very end the man or team that never wins; (I also pick a few others to follow to at least feel like a winner on occasion. See, I’m loyal, but not stupid!). In saying this, I’m always a bit amazed by the fans that idolize one moment and crucify the next. And oh my, are there are many that fall into this pack.

In fact, living in England for as long as I have, I can confidently say that English fans are as fair weather as they come (I know I will receive death threats for this one, cousins, do not picket my house!). It’s the truth. Handle it!

In short,  I’ve never seen a country (helped by the trusty media of course) build up an athlete or team quicker only to then turn around and plot their demise, or even worse celebrate it. David Beckham is of course a perfect example of this – and yes I agree the skirt-wearing god is an easy target (when you’re that hot you’re bound to incite anger and jealousy). In the past, when he was playing well and king of the corner kicks, he was everyone’s darling. But as soon as the red card fiasco struck – for those of you not in the know, just google Beckham red card and you’ll get the whole breakdown – there were cries to take that damn sarong and string him up like a rag doll.

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you know that currently World Cup is in full swing. And if I were to say the name Robert Green, a groan of sympathy (or loud grunt of anger) is passing through your lips right about now. All I can say is that POOR SOD. For those of you that find football (soccer to you Yankees) about as stimulating as a Geri Halliwell video, I will catch you up to speed. During the English/America match, a mistake on Green's part led America to equalize. I won’t lie, it was a dreadful screw up as the ball was in his hands, and then wasn’t and the poor guy scampered after it on his hands and knees like an 80 year old dog, knowing it was time to tell the wife to start packing their belongings. And oh did the floodgates open. Overnight he became the most reviled man in England.

But saying all this, it was a mistake. Let’s say it slow together for those of you that are still burning this man in effigy, IT WAS A M-I-S-T-A-K-E. He didn’t kill anyone, he is not a pedophile, he messed up on a goal. And in his defense, his lovely teammates weren’t playing that great to begin with – again, sorry guys, but it’s true. All this forecasting of a 4-1 victory, well, we saw how it ended. And more importantly, if this man saves a goal in his next few games that turns the tide of the game, oh how quickly he will be forgiven. So forget about cornering his parents at the local shop and giving them a bollocking about their good for nothing son. 

My point is, if you support the team, support the team, screw-ups and all. If Green develops a bad case of butter fingers in the next few games, fine, kick him to the curb like a bad habit, but until then, think of the England team like 11 of your kids. You wouldn’t kick them out for making one mistake would you? (For those of you that just said yes, you better not be procreating!). Right now, our 11 children need our unwavering support and belief to get through this.

…Especially as they’re never getting past Argentina. Oops. Sorry, did I say that out loud?