Now I'm gonna begin by stating that, despite how lucrative I have heard it can be, I've never been employed as a prostitute, stripper, escort , lap-dancer, nor any other lady of the night. And yet if were to be asked the question, 'Have you ever used your sexuality to further your career?' My answer will always be, 'Hell yes.'

In fact I have taken full advantage of my sexuality and femininity from the minute I was old enough to stand tall in my first pair of high heels. I've used my sexuality to achieve more in all aspects of my life, not just my career, and I anticipate that I'll probably still be playing on my powers of a woman long after my boobs have deflated and my hair has started to grey.

What's prompted this topic?  Well yesterday I watched a documentary on BBC3 made by Kirtsen O'Brien, (you might have seen it?) Kirsten has been a childrens TV presenter on Smarteenies, (which by the by is a very good arty programme for nippers,) for the last 12 years of her life, but now she wants to climb the career ladder for more mainstream work. In the documentary Kirsten flirts with the idea of following her kids' TV predecessors and stripping her kit off to pose in lads mags.

Kirsten hit on a very valid point in the documentary,  she observed that most women have to use their sexuality to further their careers whilst their male counterparts don't. So accurate, so obvious and yet I'd never given it much thought before.

Men can rely soley on their charms, skills and CV's to get them what they want, whilst it seems we have to throw fabulous powers of persuasion, the very best flirting-skills, our bums, our boobs and our entire bootilicious bods all into the mix in order to succeed in all aspects of our lives.

This has to play a part in my theory. There are so many more gorgeous girls than there are gorgeous guys and this must have something to do with it.

No-one has forced me to use my feminine charms to ahieve higher targets, I, like most girls I know, (my daughter included,) learnt these skills (and their success rates) at a very early age. My little girl will often flutter the lashes that surround her baby blues when she's after something and I can't help but wonder would my son do the same?

You could argue that using ones sexuality or femininity to their advantage compromises ones intelligence, but I don't think this is the case at all. In fact I think these skills can compliment a womans brain perfectly.

So what do you think? Do you use your sexuality to help you get what you want out of life? Or do you believe that knowledge and brain power should be the driving force behind progressing?

Let me know - in the meantime I'll be back ;-)

 

 

 

 

 

 

This morning we won £250,000.

What do you mean, 'yeah right.' ?! We did!

Granted the money isn't quite in the account just yet. But we've definately won, the Readers Digest told us so. And I trust the Readers Digest because . . . well . . . because I'm sure my Nan has a few of their books and she wouldn't buy from a dodgy company.

So we are definately winners and the dosh shall definitely arrive within 72 hours, which gives me enough time to properly plan out what I'm going to spend it on. I'm going to make a list. (I love making lists.)

Obviously I'll have to briefly take darling Jay's wishes into account, especially since it was technicaly him that won the money, but we are married and everyone knowes wives are better at spending money than husbands.

Whilst I'm contemplating exactly what to buy with our £250,000 I am munching quite happily on some ice. (I should explain that when pregnant I suffer irrational and quite disturbing cravings for ice cubes, I like to make up at least a pint of ice cubes, which I then crunch, (much to the annoyance of mates and family) and I am extremely particular about the kind of ice I consume - eg. it has to have a 'snowy, frosty texture.' and the cubes have to be relatively small.) - so todays fix of ice cubes hasbeen donated ever so kindly to me from the staff at Raunds Maccy D's. Last night, on the way home from my evening at Mum's i started clucking like a heroine addict.  My withdrawal symptoms, i imagine are quite similar to those of a proper junkie. I start getting stroppy, (not unusual for a hormonal girl, least of all me,) and i get irritable. My heart starts to beat extra fast and i get hot flushes too. I just couldn't wait til we got home.

Really i ought to take this oportunity to thank Jay for negotiating my ice deal in Macdonalds in the middle of the night. Thanks baby, you're a star!

I suppose this leads me to the first item of my list.

1. Ice Machine. (Preferably portable.)

I need to go now, i need to pop into town and get some bits for the house, some stuff to keep us going until our dosh arrives. ;-)

I'll keep thinking about that list though, rest assured. And if you can think of anything else i might buy just let me know!

With Love,

Lady Steph.

(Item number 2. - A Title.)

x

Yesterday my 5 year-old daughter, Lorelei, had her lovely blonde locks pulled by a nasty little brat 2 years above her in school.

I was called to the classroom and told of the incident, which occured whilst the kids were waiting in the dinner queue. Mia, (hereby known as brat-face) had, for some unknown reason, decided to get her grubby little hands on one of my daughters plates and had yanked it out, resulting in lots of tears from Lori.

This isn't the first time she's done it either. She's pinched and pushed Lorelei in the past, but this time she was caught out by one of the teachers. She was asked to write a letter of apology, (in which she demonstrates really shit spelling, which makes me loathe her even more - yes I know she's only seven but that's no excuse,)  and Lorelei, (who is normally a very bright and happy child) was clearly upset about the whole thing, ('she doesn't pick on anyone except me, she obviously hates me . . . ' she tells me whilst sucking on her little thumb.

It broke my heart and I know this is going to sound completely unreasonable, so i apologise in advance for this next statement but the idea of ANYONE picking on my little girl has me so outraged and pissed off and underneath it all i'm battling furiously to refrain from hunting brat-face down and  tearing her hair out.

Of course this wouldn't get us very far, (other than jail perhaps) so i have opted to take another, less satisfying route. I'm letting Lorelei stand in her own two shoes. After all we all know that bitches exist in all corners of the world and she's gotta suss out a method for dealing with them for herself. Still this is not a lesson I'd anticipated she'd have to learn quite so soon.

She's cool though, has put the incident to the back of her mind and is back to being her usual entertaining sweet-self. So i'm putting my faith in her abilities and I'm sure it'll all blow over.

And if not? Well then it'll be handbags at dawn! :-)

I'd suspected, when I asked for suggestions for today's blog post, that amongst many intellectual and thought-provoking topics I might also receive a suggestion to write about a certain little topic that still never ceases to fascinate . . . a little topic beginning with an, 's' and ending in an, 'x.' (No prizes for guessing . . . ) ;-)

I hadn't, however, banked on receiving only suggestions to write about sex and all the sub-topics that a bit of bedroom-action encompasses. I received tons of responses and not one of you suggested i write about politics, current affairs or science, (thank god!) So yes it would appear that you fine people are all a little bit dirty underneath it all.

Well today i am going to beat around that bush, (after all I am eight months pregnant and talking about my own antics doesn't seem all that appropriate at the mo, Mum, Dad - you may now breath a sigh of relief!) instead I have picked a closely related subject which i reckon should still delight.

So boys and girls I invite you all to think for a moment about the area between your navels and noses - that's right , Boobies! (Or moobs if you're a boy!)

A.K.A Bosoms, Bazookas, Coconuts, Fun-bags, Jugs, Knockers, Melons,  Puppies, Tits, Whopper's (or whichever you prefer - please feel free to add your own . . . )

Whilst my own bad-boys don't quite qualify for the Guinness book of Records, they are pretty impressive, even if i do say so myself . They are perhaps a little larger than I would personally prefer, (yet again another joy of pregnancy,) but overall, when shape, texture and characteristics are taken into account my personal pair have proven to be rather valuable.

You see in my opinion having the perfect pair has very little to do with size. I definitely don't think the term, 'bigger is better,' applies to boobs, nor do i think smaller boobies are more desirable. I heard once that the perfect size was, 'about a handful,' but of course this all depends on the size of the hands ;-)

I guess we all have our preferences and nowadays it's so easy to exchange what Mother Nature gave you in favour of a shop-bought pair. You can pick and choose the shape and size, you can even have a say in nipple position, if you so wish. It's as easy and addictive as shoe-shopping, (though less fun I imagine.)  

Statistically I read somewhere that women who have been under the surgeons knife once in pursuit of the perfect knockers almost always visit a second time. Whether that's because perfection wasn't quite obtainable the first time, or that a woman's perception of perfection simply changes I do not know. But I'm guessing that like most things in life the boobs aren't always better on the other side.

So are fake boobs as impressive or as desirable as their Real McCoy counterparts? Well i guess it's just a matter of opinion. But personally I am always more impressed by a pair of cracking Au Natural knockers. I suppose i find Mother Nature's handy-work even more exciting that the skills of a surgeon. That's not to say I can't appreciate the beauty of a good old pair of fake baps though, because I so can. They defy gravity and have a pertness all of their own, those qualities alone are enough to make splashing the cash seem extremely viable.

Isn't it amazing though, how much time, effort, energy and money we invest into this area of our bodies? Over the years, since my pair made their first appearance, (way back at the tender age of eleven, much to the delight of my male school friends,) I reckon i must have spent literally thousands on pinky and perky.

Then there were the exercises we all did, (usually in the changing rooms before PE) - the ones with the little rhyme . . .'We must, we must, we must increase our busts. The boys, the boys, they all depend on us!' lol Ahem. Oh the shame.

There are so many gadgets and gizmo's one can purchase to make their chests more appealing. From chicken fillets (you know the fleshy boobs you pop in to enhance your own baps,) to Wonderbra's, (a friend of mine used to say that the Wonderbra was so called as when you take the bra off the boys WONDER where your tits have gone.) - And let's not forget the fake nipples, (as demonstrated by the fabulous Samantha from Sex and The City.) Bizarre, but apparently desirable nevertheless.

So what about when you have to bid farewell to your former fun-bags as they take a brand new route in life? What about when you have babies??

No longer are they weapons of seduction. No longer are they the sexy bundles of fun they once were. Instead they become little more than huge and uncomfortable milk-bearing udders.

I've yet to reach that moment, but i know it's coming. I've already experienced the bizarre, (though fairly humorous) incident of producing my own breast-milk for the first time. Once when my darling daughter was born over 5 years ago, and more recently after the devastation of losing my son Harrison in August last year. To be honest I'm not looking forward to my third experience.

This time round I'm committing myself to breastfeeding (and expressing the milk into bottles - which sounds like a recipe for disaster, yet should be highly entertaining at the same time.) - As a Mumma I'm feeling fairly confident about it, but as a woman i can't help but think my boobies and all their glory may be things of the past in just a few weeks time.

Pray for me won't you? Pray that I never have to end up with a cleavage that one could drive a bus through. Pray that pinky and perky do not decide to head south for the winter, (no indeed any other season for that matter.) Pray that, at 25, i still have a few years left of enjoying the cracking crew!

Time will tell, but I'll keep ya posted! In the meantime do take care of your own Babylons won't you! ;-)

Steph x 
  

P.S Why do men hve nipples?? Answers on a postcard please!

What a gorgeous day! The skies are blue, the birds are singing and the sun is twinkling in all its glory as I sit out on the patio, wearing as little as i can possibly get away with, (without  alerting the neighbours.)

To give you more of a visual impression I am dressed in my white smock shirt, my husbands scruffy sport shorts and his slippers and my sunglasses are perched on a mop of wet hair. I'd describe the overall look as boho-ghetto chic. Probably not the ideal candidate for style icon of the year. What would Gok say I wonder . . . ?

I am however extremely proud to announce that underneath my fashion faux pas I am deliriously silky smooth - having been de-frizzed and lavished in moisturiser - and am feeling quite accomplished, considering de-fuzzing is proven to be extremely tricky when one has the obstacle of a uterus the size of a football to overcome.

I've heard that most women in the latter stages of pregnancy employ the handy-work of their other halves when it comes to body maintenance? Asking them to help with shaving and painting of toe nails etc. I've let Jay off the hook on this occasion though, just so i could feel more human again. (There's something very undignified about a 25 year old lady getting her fella to tidy up her lady garden.)

I've been thinking a little about being body-image conscious, especially when pregnant and in a relationship and I have come up with a little theory, which i have had for quite a while actually, regarding why us women, (and men too, though that's a different subject,) are so obsessed with taking care of ourselves. I thought I'd share the theory with you for opinion.

You see Mother Nature, (or whoever it was responsible for the make-up of our bodies and the differences between sexes) has determined that Men have the ability to sow their seeds willy-nilly, (pardon the pun) meaning they can technically impregnate as many of us poor women folk as they like. Whilst we, (the fairer sex?! ha!) can carry only a small number of offspring at a time, and it takes the whole of nine months, (which, trust me, is a fairly long period of time) - before we're ready to reproduce again.

So basically it would seem that we have more of a job than they do at actually keeping our partners interested enough to stay with us, whilst we produce the off-spring, to reap the rewards of having a male present, and to ensure that their hunter-gatherer talents are not spread amongst every baby-mumma they have. (Am I making sense here? I hope so.)

You see i think it's a theory that comes from the cavemen days and based on this i figured that somewhere buried in our systems is the need to ensure that once we've found our men we have to work pretty damn hard at actually keeping them. (Kinda like fishing i guess??! Reel them in and then step on them for long enough to ensure they can't wriggle free . .  . lol Brutal but true.)

I think being aware of how we appear on the outside is part and parcel in a way. Perhaps, (and I'm not saying that my theory applies in all relationships, not by a long shot) but just perhaps, we work extra hard at keeping ourselves looking gorgeous,  to subconsciously keep his eyes from straying?

Hmmmm - Any truth in it? You decide.

I have to say however that my own relationship completely contradicts my theory. I mean whilst i love to receive a compliment from my husband when I've made the effort to scrub up a tad, I don't preen and beautify myself purely for his benefit. I like to look good for me, to keep myself feeling good. 

Yet there is an element of self-doubt that comes with being pregnant. The fact that I can't shimmy and strut in my heels. I can't walk with the wiggle that I have subconsciously developed over the years and  I can't squeeze into sexy little dresses at the moment, these all leave me with the sense that I've lost a part of my femininity that always kept me feeling good.

It sounds silly I know, I mean, I'm carrying our baby - what could be more feminine than that? Yet the shoe queen within me is not satisfied with being merely a baby-making machine.

It's not Jay's fault that I feel like this, (well, technically it is but we won't go there . . . ) He's constantly showering me in compliments and he tries really hard to make me feel good about myself yet I can't help but put myself in his shoes (like i said I have pinched his slippers today,) and I don't think i'd be content with a waddling, whinging, hormonal woman in my bed!

So I have two options . . . I can sit and feel sorry for myself whilst stuffing my face with chocolate, (since Vodka is currently out of the question,) or I can indulge in lots of yummy bubble baths, have my barnet done and my nails done too and concentrate really hard on a very strict beauty regime. And right now I'm flitting between the two :-)

 

 

 

Well I have been wracking my one brain cell, (pregnancy has killed off all but one,) trying to mentally regiment this, my new blog, into some kind of category today.

I felt, if I were to be committing myself to this full-time, that I needed to ensure all my blog entries fall under a specific genre, so that I could easily explain to people what I do and could therefore give them an easy indication of what to expect from my writing.

But the truth is I just don't seem to fit into the one box, (ha, let's face it, right now i don't really fit into anything!)

Like Meredith Brooks, (remember her?) I'm kinda a bit of everything. I'm a bitch, I'm a lover, I'm a child, I'm a mother . . . you get my drift. I write, I sing, I keep ducks as pets, I drink lots, (though not at the moment,) and I grow herbs in my kitchen, (not that kind,) I like to cook, I like to run, (especially in high heels, but that's a different story) and I am currently extremely distracted by my husband enthusiastically sharing highly interesting information on squirrels . . . (God I am so scatty - where was I . . . ??!)

So I suppose what I am trying to say is that with me and my blog you can pretty much expect the unexpected, and I don't care how corny that sounds lol.

I can't really make any promises with this blog. Some of the entries may amuse you, some may bore you to tears, some could be inspiring, thought-provoking or could just serve to annoy the crap outta you. Either way I hope to keep you coming back for more!

I won't leave you completely clueless though as there is one thing I can guarantee. And that is to ensure that every blog entry, every thought and every story I tell will come straight from the heart and will be brutally honest - On this you have my word! :-)

 With Love,

Steph x

'Give a girl the right pair of shoes and she can conquer the world . . . ' Well at this precise moment in time, on a sunny April morning, I sit here in a pair of totally uninspiring, unsexy and unbelievably scruffy pair of flats and thus I am conquering very little.

Drawing anything remotely witty or clever from my rusty brain today is proving extremely difficult. It's not that my mind is empty, on the contrary, I have a million thoughts flying around in there, a million things to do and a million plans to make, but as yet I haven't been able to grasp anything for long enough to actually conquer it. 

Truth is though, I doubt very much that this has anything to do with my innocent little ballet pumps. In fact I suspect that the real reason for my lack of brain power has more to do with my currently being almost 8 months pregnant. 

It is true, (if not based entirely on scientific theories - (you'll soon discover that none of my facts are ever really based on scientific theories since science isn't exactly my strong point)) - that pregnancy kills off brain cells. Little by little. And it's quite scary really as one can't help but wonder if the charisma, charm, wit and intelligence(??!) that one used to possess will ever return? (You'll also discover that I have the occasional tendency to exaggerate, just a tad!)

You see in my former life, before my body was assigned it's duty of being a baby-growing machine, there was a little more to me than this rambling 25 year old, shoe-a-holic, trapped in a body that travels by waddling as apposed to actually walking.

It's seems an age away but the girl sat here in the aforementioned black pumps, used to strut in stilettos from dusk til dawn, she used to be able to read more intellectual material than the odd article in a pregnancy magazine and she used to be able to take part in a good old debate, without forgetting the er topic mid-sentence.

I'm seriously hoping she will return soon, but in the meantime I hope you'll join me in my quest to get this girl out of the flats and back into her dancing shoes, before the only part of her dancing is her mind. :-)