Gym Excuses - A Litany

Image courtesy of
http://elizabethharmonblog.wordpress.com

Below please find a sample of excuses used exclusively but not limited to persistent gym avoidance. Despite Carlisle Fitness being squarely visible from my bedroom window, I find myself using a combination of said samples in tandem; sometimes simulatneously. My powers of eschewal are sterling. I deserve an award; but not before I have some ice-cream....

Why I Can't Go to the Gym Today (or any day for that matter)...

      1.      It's Monday
2. I'm cleaning out my closet.
3. The floors need a good scrub.
4. I have to weed the garden.
5. I'm going to the cinema tonight.
6. I want a glass of wine later tonight.
7. I had a glass of wine last night.
8. I have an article to write.
9. I just ate a dougnut; there's no point.
10. It's Tuesday.
11. Is Cougar Town on again?
12. I have an article to write.
13. I'm giving my muscles a rest.
14. There’s someone at the door.
15. I feel fat.
16. The cat needs to be fed.
17. I have to wash the windows.
18. I forgot to wash my gym gear.
19. It’s Wednesday.
20. I must write that article.
21. There's ice-cream left in the freezer?
22. Catching up with friends tonight.
23. There's more to life than killer abs...
24. I should really do more charity work.
25. You know what they say about 'too much of a good thing'.
26. Wait, that's my phone.
27. Is it that time already?
28. It’s Thursday.
29. The cat ate my homework...I mean, my gym bag.
30. My knee hurts.
31. I’m alphabetising my collection of Douglas Coupland books.
32. This Wikipedia entry has me hooked!
33. What’s the meaning of life?
34. Cleaning out my spam folder.
35. Did you see that? (points to the distance and runs)
36. Dungeons and Dragons? Count me in!
37.  It's nearly the weekend; I'll start next week.*

      * and repeat

Iris Van Herpen X United Nude

Coming soon...the latest Iris Van Herpen limited edition beauties for United Nude. Only 100 are being produced, retailing at $995 from Solestruck.com. Two words: I. DIE. 

Iris van Herpen x United Nude.

Irish Red Cross - Please Give What You Can

An Urgent Message from the Irish Red Cross 

Two areas of southern Somalia are now in the grip of the first famine the country has seen for 19 years.

A famine is when more than two people per 10,000 are dying every day and when children under five years old are suffering severe muscle wasting.

Unless we act soon to bring extra food and water, the International Red Cross fears that one child in every 10 will starve to death.

Please help save the lives of families and children in Somalia and in other parts of East Africa.

The International Red Cross is one of the very few organisations with access to Somalia's worst-hit areas.  In the Bay and Lower Shabelle regions, nearly 11% of children under five have severe acute malnutrition. This has doubled since March and may get worse. In all, more than 10 million people are suffering, thousands are dying.

CLICK HERE TO DONATE NOW
Definition of famine:

    More than 30% of children must be suffering from acute malnutrition
    Two adults or four children must be dying of hunger each day for every group of 10,000 people
    The population must have access to far below 2,100 kilocalories of food per day

Make and Don't

A new shade of wrong

I felt sick. Whether it was the bleach fumes or the prospect of looking like a deranged hippie, the gag reflex was imminent. This was not the Proenza Schouler effect I had anticipated and as I glanced at my tie dye t-shirt, I realised I simply could NOT turn this in to be photographed for a  project the following day. Why was I indulging in beatnik batik? More on that later; now, back to the nausea.

I stood pouring Domestos over what looked like a prodigious Smurf turd in the kitchen sink but
was actually a blue t-shirt clad in rubber bands awaiting its sodium hypochlorite scars.  This was attempt number three, the prior two of which left me looking like an undergrad just back from a tour of Thailand. All that was missing was a dolphin tattoo on my
lower back to complete the look.

I couldn’t figure out how and why I wasn’t able to promulgate those Dries Van Noten poppy prints, so popular on the s/s 11 catwalks; or even a Nicki Minaj fringe homage.  As I smeared the cleaning gel onto the turd with oversized Marigolds, whacking it around like a Turkish masseuse, it hit me that maybe my method needing addressing. Not exactly the 'unique technique' of Jasper Pollack, eh?

Said light bulb moment unfortunately coincided with me pouring Toilet Gel atop the Domestos for good measure. As the foam started to spit, sizzle and rise, I hit the cold tap. The poo made a few cavalier jerks before magically disintegrated into a blue fizz; its rubber bands snapping off like constipated shackles.

Wary of the result that lay in the sink, I gingerly shook out the tee with a porridge ladle. As I suspected, the tee looked like it belonged to a girl named Cloud: likes patchouli, drinks organic beer and spends her free time in an incense haze.  How I would pass this off as a stylist’s own customised tee was anyone’s guess.

I wasn’t even crafty enough to come up with an alternative…unless scrawling  ‘MAKE AND DON’T’ in black marker over the offending article was a viable option. Oh my, how artistic!  

I never knew I had it in me…

Conceptual - a definition; a fact

http://www.stefanbruggemann.com/

Conceptual: n. a term used in fashion to illustrate something vague or abstract. Applied frequently when describing photo shoots, haircuts and Swedish ready-to-wear lines.

It couldn’t be helped. I was in a state of near desperation. The summer sales had started a fortnight earlier than anticipated and I had three pages of swimwear to shoot.

As I typed the brief to my team, a blinking cursor mocked the blank space next to ‘theme’.  Dare I put ‘TBC’?  Or perhaps, ‘we’re kind of stuck for options lads, so we’ll see how we fare on the day’. Hardly.

It was time to swallow my pride and key stroke some fashion-ese: ‘c-o-n-c-e-p-t-u-a-l’.  There, that wasn’t too difficult. Oh dear, but what kind of concept am I referring to here? I glanced over at the TV screen where Carrie-Anne Moss was kicking some Matrix butt. ‘F-u-t-u-r-i-s-t-i-c…’ The mocking cursor beckoned still. Currying favour to another dimension is all well and good but fashion folk are mad on detail. 

I recalled a passage from Amanda Brooks’ tome ‘I Love Your Style’ with game-like instructions on how to mix one’s fashion references. The style stratagem operates on the same principle as fashioning one’s porn name. Start with a core theme, add a celebrity and finish with one’s favourite trend. This could work. Shall it be ‘futuristic-Dolly Parton-bohemia’? Nah.   ‘Futuristic-Jackie O-rockabilly?’ Too much hairspray. What about ‘futuristic-Grace Jones-tribal chic’? Eureka!

The genre mash-up evolved like the seven stages of man in my head.  It was a brave new beach where cyber warrior priestesses took swimwear to a new dimension.  I began to type furiously, ‘Futuristic tribal warriors...from outer space’. And with one trigger finger on the send button, I committed myself to the conceptual, the abstract, the vague and if I wasn’t careful...the ridiculous.

“So just what does a ‘futuristic tribal warrior’ look like?” enquired my sister (a.k.a. The Wise Elder) as I siphoned through bags of nearly-there neoprene.

“I’m thinking body armour, bikinis, wet look hair...” 

“Ah yes, because clearly there is alien life form on Dollymount Strand,” she chided.

“I think you’re missing the point. It’s conceptual,” I offered weakly.

“Wait a minute,” urged the Wise Elder. “Are you saying that in the future we all wear bikinis?”

I was beginning to lose patience with my straight-talking sibling and confidence in my seemingly cock-eyed concept.

“Look! A concept has no apparent basis in reality or fact,” I balked. “It’s simply an imaginative construct.”

“Help me understand then,” she urged; despite my best efforts at clarification. “What you’re saying is that a simulacrum is all that’s needed to sell swimwear; no beach, no sea, no sand, no hunky extras.”

Looks like I wasn’t the only one to spill water from the bath this week. “Congratulations, you just had your first fashion moment,” I goaded with a smile.

 “I’m gathering that’s a so-called ‘concept’ too?” retaliated the seer. 

“No, my dear sibling. That’s a fact.”

Irish Examiner Swimwear Shoot

Pick up a copy of today's Irish Examiner Weekend magazine for a look at my swimwear shoot. Highlights below...

Somewhere in a parallel galaxy, battle lines are being drawn as intergalactic queens and cyber priestesses take swimwear to a futuristic dimension. It’s a brave new beach. Are you ready?

Look 1 – Hyper Space High Priestess
Úna Burke sculpted armour bodice, Unaburke.com €POA

Look 6 - Golden Glamazon
Melissa Obadash Martinique padded gold bikini, Clickini.com €190
Asos linked rings upper body harness, Asos.com €38.46
Lara Bohinc ‘Lunar Eclipse’ necklace, Harvey Nichols €545
Lara Bohinc gold rope necklace, Design Centre €710
Merle O’Grady ‘Bombshell’ ring, stylist’s own

Credits
Shot on location @ The Gibson Hotel at The Point Village, Dublin 1; 01 681 5000; www.thegibsonhotel.ie
Stylist and shoot producer: Annmarie O'Connor - 087 976 4920; www.iblogfashion.blogspot.com
Photography: Miki Barlok - 086 223 7081; www.barlokphoto.com
Models: Clodagh and Gretta @ 1st Option; 01 670 5233; www.1stoption.ie
Hair: John Geaney @ John Geaney for Hair - 021 450 3788; www.johngeaney.ie
Hair assistant: Karen Healy @ John Geaney for Hair
Make-up: Kate O'Reilly using MAC Cosmetic; www.kateoreillymakeup.com
Shoot Assistants: Bríd Ní Laochdha and Caroline Walsh

Zoe Wong - Gepetto

Gepetto

Fancy crowdfunding a new Irish fashion collection? Dublin boutique owner and Parsons grad Zoe Wong is launching her debut line of ethereal frocks at this summer's Kilkenny Arts Festival. By donating as little as €10, you can participate in the birth of a new homegrown fashion name. Rewards range from signed sketches to custom tailored gowns. CLICK HERE for more info, or why don't you pop into Horse & June on Drury Street for a chat with the lovely lady herself. Don't miss out!

Horse & June, 22 Drury Street, Dublin 2. Ph: 01 672 9748. www.horseandjune.wordpress.com.

"Amaze-bags"

Gretchen Weiners - stymied semantically with 'Fetch

“Amaze-bags!”

I dropped a straight flush and my new catchphrase in one go.

“NOOOOOO!” came the collective response of card playing circle.

“But why?” I pressed. “It’s so much nicer than ‘amaze-balls’.”

“Drop it; it’ll never happen,” demanded Andy.

“I think you’ll find, I dropped an Ace, King, Queen and Jack of Hearts,” I boasted wrly.

“I’m talking about that ridiculous word!” 

I felt like Gretchen Weiners facing off against Regina George in her lexical defence of ‘fetch’.

Granted, I’m no E.E. Cummings but swapping a Polly Push Lock for a less salubrious sac shouldn’t have amounted to half the aberration of which I was being accused. 

Clearly this wasn’t my desired audience. In order for ‘amaze-bags’ to go viral, I needed it to be endorsed and spoken into existence; rather than forced into early retirement with ‘fierce’ and ‘funky’.

A week later I attended a cocktail party – a perfect milieu for testing the lexical waters. Fashion folk love bizarre epithets. I was cognizant however that Andy may well have had a point. Victoria Beckham suffered a seismic failure with ‘major’; Rachel Zoe panned with ‘bananas’ and Andre Leon Talley’s ‘dreckitude’ was well...’drek’.

My semantic debut came with a side of hors d’oeuvres. Those tomato and red onion mini quiches evoked a tandem of ‘oohs and aahs’. It was now or never. 

“Amaze-bags!”  I cooed, eliciting a flutter of chuckles.

I regaled my past troubles of positioning said shibboleth in the general patois.

“You need a critical mass,” advised one of the partygoers.

“Or Jedward,” offered another. 

“If my initial market sample was any indication, the viral capacity of ‘amaze-bags’ was not unlike that of a mild cold – unwelcome, irritating and hopefully gone in a week.

Marketing is all about timing and mine was all wrong. It was time to admit defeat and tuck ‘amaze-bags’ back into my rhetorical clutch, assuring myself the time would come to ‘fetch’ it again.

The Holiday Aftermath

The Dangers of Loose Clothing

It wouldn’t even pass over my thighs; not without Body Shop Cocoa Body Butter, some shimmying and a near act of God.  By the time I actually managed to zip the dress, I was sweating like Kim Kardashian fielding questions about arse implants. “Does she sweat though?”  I wondered to myself, suspicious of her rather smooth motionless brow.  But I digress. 

I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. The leather frock that once gently skimmed my curves now choked and squeezed them like some cheap S&M mistress.  I hadn’t just gained weight; I gained a full dress size.  

It appeared my ten-day Andalusian retreat left me with more than just a relaxed mind; my tummy, bum and thighs had followed suit. The fact that I had to loosen my string bikini on day three should have been a dead cert but the tapas, paella and daily beer o’clock by the pool; not to mention wine o’clock, left me with the kind of excess baggage that would require more than a €30 surcharge to shift.

“I was wondering why you kept saying ‘Si’ when the waiter asked if you wanted your tapas ‘ración’,” mused my friend while I wrestled with a zip that stood between me and my blood circulation.

“I thought ‘ración’ was Spanish for ration,” I offered weakly.  

“It didn’t occur to you then that the portions were rather large?” 

I didn’t answer. The broken metal teeth in my hand were a clear sign that I needed my own jaw wired...pronto. 

The misconception that holidays come with their own weight and wine immunity is swiftly brought to rest when one is forced to don something that is neither a cheesecloth sheath nor a shirred swirly muslin cloak of sorts. 

Which reminded me:  I still needed something to wear to the cocktail party the following evening. I cast a glance at the bag of holiday laundry still tucked in the corner of the room. 

“I wonder if I could pass off that full-length kaftan in the Morrison without raising an eyebrow?”

“Are you high?” enquired my friend glibly; clearly concerned as to the state of my mental health.

“No, not high but given I’m standing here half naked with a broken zip in my hand, I’m thinking I’ve reached an all new personal low,” I blurted tearfully.

Silence. 

“Jewellery would be good.”

Walking? Meh....who needs it?

Simply don a pair of these Solestruck.com conconctions and a flash mob will rapidly form at your feet. Ask one of the kind crowd members for a piggy back, et voila...un chauffeur!

Or....just put them on the mantlepiece for dinner party bragging rights. Who needs a "42-inch flatscreen anyway?

Finsk '116.97' $999.95

Jeffrey Campbell 'Get Up' $244.95

Jeffrey Campbell 'Rockferry' $184.95

The New Handbag Semantics

It wasn't too long ago I acquired a Vivienne Westwood bowling bag - my treasure. I even christened it Viv; and when Viv wasn't tucked in her cotton monogrammed covering, her handles were wrenched granny-like in the crook of my arm.

Viv wasn't just a bag; she was a stylish keeper of secrets – receipts, schedules, make-up and stealth purchases all dutifully zipped from the public eye. She once even harboured an iron – but that’s another story.

You can therefore imagine my consternation upon hearing that the a/w 11 catwalks have espoused a new accessories semantics one which renders my own capacious mála - 'déclassé' and 'démodé'.

 Thou shalt now 'grab' thine bag; rather than carry it. Bags shall be bijou to allow for clutching at the breast; or crumpled and held away from the body as if disposing of an offending article. Never do, 'trophy', 'big' and 'stuffed' - too gauche and by all means ditch the handles, lest you be tarred and feathered.

This was all too much for me. A bit of lower back pain and carpel tunnel syndrome never hurt anyone. Not only am I being encouraged to trade in my own overfed friend; but I must also acquire the methodology and attendant patois necessary in ‘grabbing’ a bag.

I should have paid better attention. Vogue pre-ordained the advent of grabbing back in 2009 (but of course) when they featured a lexically-puzzling feature delineating The Scramble, The Dangle, The Cuddle and The Twiddle – all precursors to The Grab. I couldn’t help thinking then if its conjugation applied in similar manner to that of Twitter. If I twiddled, did I twaddle or have I twiddled?  Similarly, would grabbing a bag indicate pilfering on my part? Oh, the confusion!

Such lexical hijinks would be bound to flummox even the likes of Strunk and White. Although, one wonders whether The Elements of Style is required reading at Conde Nast.

Still, I can’t bear to part with Viv. Fashionable or not, her beaten black leather exterior belies a host of juicy gossip; something which a clutch-come-brooch could ne’er come close.  I shall therefore continue to carry her proudly around town. After all, one never knows when they may suddenly require the use of an iron.

Inside Style - Divine Intervention

Inside Style - by Annmarie O'Connor - as featured in The Dubliner - July 7th

Divine intervention. Somewhere up in that sodden sky of ours, there’s a fashion god who really likes me. The anecdotal evidence I’ve acquired to prove said theory is such that I could cosmically combust at any given moment. But that would be messy so I’ll just tell you.

My father’s Claddagh ring which I mysteriously lost last September and for which I hounded every conceivable saint in the Catholic canon, appeared like Bobby Ewing only yesterday. Much like said reprised Dallas character, its presence has now nullified an entire season of believing it had been pilfered by a rogue magpie; whereas it was actually stuck in one of my many sparkly shoes.  Mistaken magpie identity – it happens.

As luck would have it, I was also the recipient of a rarefied text harbouring details of a designer sample sale. The 70% discount was enough to make me set my alarm early the following morning, only to have thrown my clock across the room at the loud noise disturbing me up on a weekend. How dare it. 

Having woken up much later, a bit like Pam Ewing, to find that the whole storyline was over, I felt confused (Did I dream I bought ten Pauric Sweeney bags?); bitter (No, because you missed it!); and more cheated than a primetime audience.

Eager to redress the sketchy plot, my late arrival coincided with an equally tardy delivery of swag; one which I systematically acquired and to which I dedicated a small victory dance.  Hurrah!

My hallowed streak then culminated in a hatrick of sorts when an obsessive-compulsive pal insisted on packing my holiday suitcase for Spain. As she assiduously fit ten days’ (and nights’) worth of poolside clobber into a 10kg bag under a half hour; I caught up on East Enders with a hot scald.  Everyone wins.  (Why didn’t I think of this last summer?)

This spate of luck was making me cocky. All I wanted was for the gods to tweak my script just a tad more. Perhaps have JR Ewing sidle into Kimmage and tell me he was staging intervention on Sue Ellen - yet again. This time it would be her wardrobe, the contents of which he would bequeath unto me (season 7 turban included!).  Divine – yes; plausible – perhaps not. Ah well, God loves a trier.  

Inside Style - Maintenance

Photo: Alfred Eisenstaedt

Inside Style - by Annmarie O'Connor - as featured in The Dubliner - June 30th

Maintenance: n. care or upkeep administered to maintain a preferred state or condition. In the case of anyone over 30, said administration tends to take the form of monthly MOTs involving much in the way of time, money and/or pain.

“It never used to be like this,” I decried to my eldest sister while she systematically re-blackened my greying roots. “Now I can’t go two weeks without looking like a marauding badger.” 

“That’s a bit harsh,” offered the Wise Elder. “Badgers don’t ‘maraud; so misunderstood.”

Tempted as I was to retort to the unsolicited sarcasm, I held back, aware of the totalitarian power she currently wielded over my locks. 

“There was a stage when all of this was considered pampering,” I moaned, “now it’s just a chore.”

“Well that’s because you didn’t have to do it when you were younger; and when you did it was for a laugh. I should think the laughter has subsided by now, no?”

Ouch. She was right. As I sat there squinting in my prison-regulation tracksuit with the Exxon Valdez oil slick shoved in a plastic bag atop my head, I couldn’t help thinking this wasn’t a L’Oreal ad.

“Still,” I moaned, “if I hadn’t had to fork out so much each month on simply looking ‘put together’, I wouldn’t be forced to go the D.I.Y. route once in a while.”

Which reminded me: the last time I cut corners and purchased a Ped Egg, I broke it; traumatising its ‘revolutionary’ 135-precision micro files with months of neglect. As for sorting my own unruly eyebrows, let’s just say the rash has begun to heal nicely. That being said, the beauty bills continue to loom large despite my best efforts/worst results.

“You could always book into Celebrity Salon,” teased the Oracle from her perfectly-tinted perch. “I’d rather look like a Yeti than have than be waxed by someone from Big Brother,” I scoffed.

“How about letting Mother Nature do her thing?”

Silence. The prospect of growing old (dis)gracefully (with no access to airbrushing) left more scarring than my adolescent brush with an epilator. This was not an option. We all know what happened when Julia Roberts tried the au naturel route.

The Wise Elder had spoken. It was either put up and shut up; or make peace with my inner badger. I kept schtum...and a beady eye out for would-be weasels.