Ladies . Look Great, Look After your Feet

I don’t know about you ladies and gents but what is it about people who step out looking like Miss World or Mr Hunk the Dunk and then that whole illusion is destroyed when you look down at their feet. Ok ladies’ I’m sorry but I got to go there with this. Don’t get me wrong ladies, I love you I really do and it’s painful to turn against you like this, but sometimes you gotta be cruel to be kind.
Ok peoples stick with me now, just bear with me on this. As women, especially during the summer, we like to look better than our best. We want to look as if we are ‘hot sauce’ or ‘spicy and nice.’ Every woman wants to walk the street as if she’s Miss World or Sophie Loren.

To be honest, elegance is a bit of a swear word nowadays because if we can squeeze into it then its on. If we can bend over in it, even if it is from the waist to the hip (no point trying to conform to touching the toes, we’d have to swallow in our gut) we’re dragging it on with a lot of inhaling and swallowing in and clenching of our stomach and buttock muscles. Gone are the days when a woman dressed according to her body shape and size, now everyone’s into the short, tight, I’m so sexy look and bless, if they actually owned a mirror or if their family had the balls to be honest, many women would not be leaving the house as they do. Being a bit judgemental here........hmmmm – yes I am. Girlfriends you can do sexy in a tracksuit believe me. It’s not what you wear but how you wear it.

Wearing sandals is usually a time to take note of an area of the body that we usually ignore. Once we’ve put on our face masks so that we no longer resemble who we really are, and have our chests out on display all else that should matter becomes secondary. After all, the guys are only interested in a pretty face, a pair of tits and if the clothing is tight and fitted, it makes no difference if we’re shaped like a shoe horn or a rectangle with boobs, they’re gagging for us. But woman to woman now – what is it that is a real turn off and really sucks? Ok, ok a man wearing crocodile shoes and white socks has always been laughable even a man wearing sandals and socks is like yuk what’s happening dude? But seriously let’s leave the men alone for a moment. What is it ladies that just kills an outfit so dead that it would be less painful to be shot will a pellet gun and have a weasel shoved up your nose than to recognise this problem?

Ok let me let you onto the secret. The worst thing a woman can do, when she is all dressed up and looking fine is to put on sandals and not have creamed her foot bottom. I’m not joking now. How many times have you admired a lady for looking finer than roast beef on a bed of roast potatoes and thought ‘damn.’ How often has someone walked past you and you’ve literally zoned out because she is carrying her body like sex on a bed of strawberries and cream and oozing charisma. Then the ‘hell no’ sirens go off because my girl has dry, cracked heels and toe nails that should’ve been on a dinosaur. Stay with me now. Ladies, if you’re going to put it together, then put it all together, together if you catch my drift. It’s like going out for a meal at the Ritz and leaving your dentures indoors. There is nothing more off putting than a woman sitting looking all sexy, her shapely legs crossed and her toe nails are scratching the paint off the chair leg. I haven’t finished yet. There is nothing more unsightly than a pretty gal walking away from you, swinging her hips which are singing to you ‘hey baby wanna piece of me’ when the heel is saying ‘boy, times have been hard on the rail road.’ It just does not add up. It’s not right.

So here’s a piece of advice from someone’s daughter, a mother, a human being for heaven’s sake. Cream up and look after. If the toe nail clipper no longer works on those claws, you can purchase a chain saw for as little as £10 on ebay I would presume. If Vaseline and the peppermint cream no longer works on those heels then I hear tarmac is the next best thing. Ladies, you gotta find a way to heal that stuff. You’ve got to look the whole part and come correct.

Can you imagine after a steamy night out, you cuddle up to your man, fall asleep and the next morning his legs look as if he’s been attacked by a lawn mower? Keep it simple and elegant ladies. Dress according to your body size and shape and look after those gorgeous feet of yours, because they say so much about you.

Love and light from Auntie E who loves to keep life real
By Esther Austin
www.laughatlifewithme.blogspot.com

My Trip to the Laundry and The Sweat

Ola, Bonjour, Hello

Well ladies and gents, Summer is hereya!!!!! Well so methinks. I actually was forced to de-layer on Sunday because temperatures went up to a whooping 20 degrees Celsius. Oh babeeee, I can hear a tune coming on – from Will Smith’s Summertime Lyrics: ‘ Summer, Summer Summertime, Time to sit back and unwind.’

I didn’t quite do the laid back thing and unwind over the weekend, but it was good all the same, and after my laundry visit I was a able to take time out and have fun.
So here’s the tale...........

My washing machine is now doing a permanent graveyard shift, since three months ago. One day it just refused to work, so I had to put it down. So once a week, I fill up my suitcase which looks about 5ft and drag her up the road, heavy as hell , whilst trying to look like I’m really going someplace other than to the laundry. Of course, on Sunday it was the same as usual. Got my stuff all ready to go, looking fresh and breezy in a pair of light brown cotton trousers, cool chic white top and my corduroy jacket on top. (I even think I put an extra top in my bag – you never know in these parts peeps, you get four seasons in one day). But I sooo looked in holiday mode, as I heaved my suitcase of dirty washing down the long flight of steps from my flat, feeling as if my air supply had been cut off because the case was so damn heavy and trying not to look Vex (well after all to the onlooker I was going on holiday, and I had to maintain street cred).

So there I was all dolled up with my autumn jacket on and then the sweat started to pour half way up the road. Because I had the suitcase in one hand and a bag with the washing liquid in the other, I was hard pressed to take the jacket off. My hands were tied. As the sweat began to trickle down my forehead and into my eye, a voice cut through my torment “going on holiday?” I flicked my hair and sweat from my face and with as much grace as I could muster smiled rather meekly “no, going to the laundry.” I really should’ve lied but I’m not very good at that. “but you look like you’re struggling” came back the comment. By this time I was perspiring rather heavily and trying to maintain conversation in between gasps of ‘my lungs are killing me, so please pisher off and go away’ – but I felt obliged to continue with the mundane politeness offering “no, no, it’s ok I’m fine” (whilst my mind was screaming ‘hit the road Jack and don’t you come back no more, no more, no more, no more.)



As I moved off into what seemed a very long and hazy journey which in reality was about 10 minutes from where I lived, but seeming much, much further, I was glad when I finally got to the traffic lights. This was an indication that the laundry was only two minutes away and it also gave me time to catch my breath. Dragging the suitcase across the road was my next challenge as by now, my arms felt as if they had been ripped out of their sockets and the chic look I had originally started out with was looking rather tired and worn and I was wearing on my face ‘this ain’t funny.’ By the time I reached the laundry, I felt some comfort to know that there were other people there who had arrived with what looked like barrels and their clothing, well, not one to gossip, but some of their clothing looked as if it hadn’t seen water since The Garden of Eden came into being, or if you don’t believe in that tale then, since the big bang occurred.



I managed to locate two washing machines as far away from prying eyes as possible and began to empty my dirty laundry into them quickly because to be honest some of my clothing really should be in a container marked rabid. And as always, it’s when you are trying to do things quickly that an item decides to flutter its wicked self out of your grasp to the floor, exposing itself to everyone and more embarrassing, it could never be something like a top or tea towel, it is always something like a knackered bra which looks as if it acts as a leash or a pair of dingy knickers which have seen better days. But by now my dignity had already gone out the window with the sweat.

Yet there are rewards to all these little challenges, methinks. One is the smell of fresh, sometimes, still dingy, grey clothing, but all now nicely washed and dried and folded (sometimes). I only fold the clothes because I see everyone else doing it, otherwise, I’d just dash it all in the suitcase. After all they still need ironing. But like I said, I had to do the street Cred thing and as they say when in Rome, do as the Romans do, or something along those lines.

As far as the temperature and the jacket wearing thing went for the rest of the day – I had to ditch it and an hour later left the house looking even more summery, a lot cooler without the jacket and singing Summer, Summer Summertime, Time to sit back and unwind. Didn’t quite unwind though as I then went for a lovely three hour bike ride and a game of Frisbee in the Park. More sweating and panting but for a more pleasurable reason methinks.

Auntie E
AKA Esther Austin
21st April 2010

My Trip to the Laundry and The Sweat

Ola, Bonjour, Hello

Well ladies and gents, Summer is hereya!!!!! Well so methinks. I actually was forced to de-layer on Sunday because temperatures went up to a whooping 20 degrees Celsius. Oh babeeee, I can hear a tune coming on – from Will Smith’s Summertime Lyrics: ‘ Summer, Summer Summertime, Time to sit back and unwind.’

I didn’t quite do the laid back thing and unwind over the weekend, but it was good all the same, and after my laundry visit I was a able to take time out and have fun.
So here’s the tale...........My washing machine is now doing a permanent graveyard shift, since three months ago. One day it just refused to work, so I had to put it down. So once a week, I fill up my suitcase which looks about 5ft and drag her up the road, heavy as hell , whilst trying to look like I’m really going someplace other than to the laundry. Of course, on Sunday it was the same as usual. Got my stuff all ready to go, looking fresh and breezy in a pair of light brown cotton trousers, cool chic white top and my corduroy jacket on top. (I even think I put an extra top in my bag – you never know in these parts peeps, you get four seasons in one day).

But I sooo looked in holiday mode, as I heaved my suitcase of dirty washing down the long flight of steps from my flat, feeling as if my air supply had been cut off because the case was so damn heavy and trying not to look Vex (well after all to the onlooker I was going on holiday, and I had to maintain street cred).

So there I was all dolled up with my autumn jacket on and then the sweat started to pour half way up the road. Because I had the suitcase in one hand and a bag with the washing liquid in the other, I was hard pressed to take the jacket off. My hands were tied. As the sweat began to trickle down my forehead and into my eye, a voice cut through my torment “going on holiday?” I flicked my hair and sweat from my face and with as much grace as I could muster smiled rather meekly “no, going to the laundry.” I really should’ve lied but I’m not very good at that. “but you look like you’re struggling” came back the comment.

By this time I was perspiring rather heavily and trying to maintain conversation in between gasps of ‘my lungs are killing me, so please pisher off and go away’ – but I felt obliged to continue with the mundane politeness offering “no, no, it’s ok I’m fine” (whilst my mind was screaming ‘hit the road Jack and don’t you come back no more, no more, no more, no more.)

As I moved off into what seemed a very long and hazy journey which in reality was about 10 minutes from where I lived, but seeming much, much further, I was glad when I finally got to the traffic lights. This was an indication that the laundry was only two minutes away and it also gave me time to catch my breath. Dragging the suitcase across the road was my next challenge as by now, my arms felt as if they had been ripped out of their sockets and the chic look I had originally started out with was looking rather tired and worn and I was wearing on my face ‘this ain’t funny.’ By the time I reached the laundry, I felt some comfort to know that there were other people there who had arrived with what looked like barrels and their clothing, well, not one to gossip, but some of their clothing looked as if it hadn’t seen water since The Garden of Eden came into being, or if you don’t believe in that tale then, since the big bang occurred.

I managed to locate two washing machines as far away from prying eyes as possible and began to empty my dirty laundry into them quickly because to be honest some of my clothing really should be in a container marked rabid. And as always, it’s when you are trying to do things quickly that an item decides to flutter its wicked self out of your grasp to the floor, exposing itself to everyone and more embarrassing, it could never be something like a top or tea towel, it is always something like a knackered bra which looks as if it acts as a leash or a pair of dingy knickers which have seen better days. But by now my dignity had already gone out the window with the sweat.

Yet there are rewards to all these little challenges, methinks. One is the smell of fresh, sometimes, still dingy, grey clothing, but all now nicely washed and dried and folded (sometimes). I only fold the clothes because I see everyone else doing it, otherwise, I’d just dash it all in the suitcase. After all they still need ironing. But like I said, I had to do the street Cred thing and as they say when in Rome, do as the Romans do, or something along those lines.

As far as the temperature and the jacket wearing thing went for the rest of the day – I had to ditch it and an hour later left the house looking even more summery, a lot cooler without the jacket and singing Summer, Summer Summertime, Time to sit back and unwind. Didn’t quite unwind though as I then went for a lovely three hour bike ride and a game of Frisbee in the Park. More sweating and panting but for a more pleasurable reason methinks.

Auntie E
AKA Esther Austin
21st April 2010

I CAN’T TAKE THE COLD ANY LONGER - IT JUST AINT FUNNY ANYMORE

Hello my gentle peoples

How are you on another freezing cold winters day? Me, I’m not doing too well myself. I refuse to believe that Spring is just a hop, skip and jump away as I have not been able to adjust very well to the bitter cold that we have been having in the UK this time around. Even in the summer, unless temperatures are over 24 degrees, the thermals DO NOT come off. I’m even looking to find thermal knee cap pads, cause the cold is really playing havoc with my knees.

I can trek the arctic and I can do cold, but I’ve got to be padded, peeps, and even so I am getting tired of the padded YETI look now. I’ve been padded up for so many months and now feel that my breasts have disappeared into my ribcage. I look as if I’ve been flat-packed. Mind you, I am quite a small girl in the upper regions anyways.

But maybe my body is slowing down and old age is creeping its sly self upon me. Many people say I look around 25, which is a great compliment and thank you for that really (you haven’t seen the state of my teeth, well the ones that are mine, they’ll certainly tell my age). Yet the reality of age is that it is dictating its rather wicked self in the way my body handles life and one of those ways is that I feel I am loosing the war against how it handles the cold.

I must share this with you rather ashamedly but share I must anyway. I have almost cried because of how cold it has been and I don’t cry easily. (Once you give birth then the association with pain and crying is like eating candy) so you must know how cold I have been feeling. At times, I have been unable to SPEAK, and have ended up stuttering like a chimpanzee on weed after a night on red bull. Yes, I feel my coping mechanisms are shutting down.

I must admit, even when I was young and sprightly, to dress light in the winter and even summer was a no, no. This was because my parents were kind of fierce in the discipline arena. The few times I was allowed to venture out without the Gestapo (my father with mother in tow) which was not often believe me as my father was a rather stern religious man, and partying or going out was always associated with Satan and orgies. So there was very little chance of me walking the streets of London clad in nothing but a belt-skirt, pretty blouse, a pair of mind numbingly painful shoes and a smile on my face.

I couldn’t even do the skirting down the drainpipe thing to go out, as father dear would be standing at the bottom of that drainpipe like Papa Ninja with belt in hand and ‘Mama’ would be giving me the dirty eyeball look which could make a grown man shrivel up as if to die and I wasn’t going to mess with both of them on my own.

During the summer was worst. I dressed like someone from Little House on the Prairie and I dared not show any flesh or anything more than a smile and fingertips. So even in the sweltering heat my sisters and I could be found sitting on the wall in front of the house playing sit-down hopscotch (because we were not allowed to venture far from the house) wearing trousers and blouses that could cut off a man’s circulation. Yep we were strong girls believe me.

So at this moment in time, I feel the only option I have is to look to warmer shores overseas and relocate. I hear one needs a green card to get into the States. I hear there are other options if the green card proves to be a problem to get, such as to strap oneself under a plane or some other crazy dude idea to reach the land of freedom.

I could head for the Middle East – hmmm ….actually maybe not. The Caribbean sounds delightful and very exotic – but I’d be bored to tears on Barbados after a few months. After all one can get around the island in less than a day so what happens to the other 364 days of the year? St Lucia is gorgeous, stunning, but kinda quiet like ‘I can hear you breathing’ kind of quiet.
But whatever it takes, I will find some place warm and suitable for me where I can burn my thermal underwear, see the tips of my toes, realign and pump up my breasts again (the padding did a bit of damage here) and once again begin to enjoy living again.

I’m sure even in warmer climates there will be a new problems and dilemmas. Oh well – still want to see if the grass is greener oh the other side so adios for now. I’m off to sit on the heater again. I think I’ve got chilblains on my asp, is that possible?

Auntie E
A.K.A Esther Austin