A Day In the Life of A Dehydrated Woman

I am the dehydrated woman. Long story short, I didn’t pay attention to the signs and here I am with very but very VERY dry skin, broken nails and Hagrid-like hair.

I have plenty of time in my hands these days so I have decided to take some measures.

I started few days ago with drinking as much water as possible. Needless to say I am doing wee wee every other 10 minutes. After each wee I have another glass of water. And so on.

I must have had about seven litres of water in two days but no change in my complexion. My face was still absorbing layer after layer of cream, just like a sponge.


Ok then, time to add up more fruits and veggies to my diet, I thought. The past few days I have been living on cucumbers (one a day), grapefruit (two a day), apples (three to five a day), grapes (a Tesco package a day), cherry tomatoes, broccoli and salmon. And water. With no visible changes in my complexion, obviously.

Today I have decided that enough is enough and if the food doesn’t get from my tummy to my face then I should serve the food directly to my face. And there I went.

1. I washed my face thoroughly.

2. I mixed honey and sugar.


3. I applied the mixture on my face. I left it on for 15 minutes, while I drank water, did wee wee and drank water. After the 15 minutes passed I washed it off carefully, rubbing it gently at the same time (sugar it’s a great exfoliator), did more wee, drank more water and moved to the next step.


4. I sliced a whole cucumber thinking to apply half of it on my face and eat the other half. But…10 minutes after the cucumber slices were on my face, they were completely dry. I postponed the eating, drank some water and applied a second batch of cucumbers. And so on, three times until I finished the cucumbers. I drank water in between applications. Half an hour later, with a full bladder and a slightly hydrated skin, I went to the bathroom. Wee first, washed face second.


5. I applied cream (Avene for dry skin), which my skin absorbed with much thirst, I applied again and so on, four times.

6. I asked for advice on social media, did some research on Internet and went to Boots to buy E45.

I got the small one, 50 ml, for ¬£2,99. It seems to be working for now, one layer is enough and doesn’t leave any trail of grease on my skin.

I will keep with the new diet for a while, I might lower the water quantity though, as I feel like I am practically living in the loo. I will stop wearing skin foundation for a few days and keep fingers and toes crossed for improvement. Dry skin is itchy, looks dull and it’s annoying.

Please do tell me about how you treat dry skin and hair. I’d love to hear about your solutions.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go do a wee and bath myself in olive oil (sort of).

It’s official. I have the flu.

I am in bed, with a 3 year old sleeping on top of me, curled up like a cat. We are both down with the flu.

We’ve tried all day long to stay strong: we’ve played with the trains, read books, watched Peppa Pig and tried to watch Frozen (but the DVD stopped and the idiot nanny, aka me, had no idea how to work the TV, DVD player and the three remote controls).


I have a soup simmering on the stove, an English breakfast tea with lots of lemon forgotten somewhere downstairs , a 3 year old sleeping on top of me, like I’ve already told you and a plan to watch PSG vs Chelsea at a sports bar tonight. Because boyfriend.

I also have some Advil a friend smuggled from the USA so I might actually be able to watch the game.

Isn’t Advil awesome?
Who are you gonna cheer for tonight?
How many Peppa Pig episodes can a person watch before committing suicide?


I commute therefore my train of thoughts is not going straight – 1

“There is nothing like the smell of pot in the morning” I was thinking while walking to the Overground station¬† earlier this morning. And it isn’t. It simply doesn’t fit with the crisp air and with the freshness of recently showered people. But this is the former occasional pot smoker speaking. Occasional meaning every now and then at some party. Now I am done with it, pot doesn’t go well with antidepressants. I can barely have two drinks without getting away with the fairies. Poor me.

I am going through changes in my life. I actually like changes, the excitement new brings, to be more precise but history taught me that changes in general have a deep impact on me. Since this time I am aware of it and most important, I can afford it, I will take it slow, to adjust to change without facing psychological consequences. Therefore, I have started my new career in London, as a Romanian Interpreter, but only two days a week. The other three I am still the happiest nanny that can be.

Speaking of being a nanny, right now I have a tummy bug and a flu bug lurking around me and a kid close to the family has worms. But no nits this week, yey!

Also, my nanny job is just up the street from the home of Jihadi John. It kind of gives me the freaks. Not to mention he was apparently trained at a mosque at Finsbury Park, very close to where I live.

Commute is almost done. So am I. Over and out.

London Fashion Week dressing code

You want to go to LFW and don’t know what to wear or how to act? Worry no more, I will disclose the drill for you. You are very welcome.

Basically, what you have to do is use the most awkward items you can find in your household. Spare nothing: recycling bin, the Halloween costumes drawer, pay a visit to that storage room where you collect things you don’t even remember anymore. If you wanna pull an old school Lady Gaga, check the food waste bin as well. Don’t hesitate to visit the neighbours’ bins too. They will not understand but hey, they don’t have a clue about your OMG fashion style.

Now that you are done with gathering the outfit’s main elements you can start to mix and match. Just make sure that nothing matches in terms of colour, fabric, style, era etc.

When you are done go to the LFW locations and lurk at the doors with the rest of the nobodies. Strike a pose whenever you see a flash nearby.

It is better to travel in pairs so that you have someone to take your picture when your picture is being taken by a complete stranger that happens to have an IPhone.

You can now instagram it with a caption mentioning the amount of paps at LFW dying to snap your picture.

If you blog about the whole experience in a week or two, you will definitely be considered a fashion blogger and a significant part of the industry. At least by your mother who loves you unconditionally.

I bought some chairs and it was complicated

I needed some high chairs in my kitchen mostly because boyfriend said he would rather eat standing than in bed (I love eating in bed, I can live without chairs as far as I am concerned).

I looked up the offer and I decided for a cheap pair at Argos. Only ¬£25 and that’s awesome since I am not sure what I will do after my six months contract expires. I mean, I might be able to afford a one bedroom, right? Which will make my bar stools quite useless. I didn’t even care they didn’t match my kitchen at all.

Because I had some issues with how Argos makes the home deliveries, I decided to go buy them in person. By myself. I have a shop nearby so I thought I should be fine.

I went to the shop, I paid and while waiting to pick up my order I saw a box behind the shop assistant. It was almost my size and looked quite heavy. I started praying: please dear gods, let this box not be mine, pretty please, pretty pretty please. But while I was calling to the gods, the shop assistant took my receipt, looked at it, turned around, grabbed the very tall box and gave it to me.

Bloody hell, I said to myself (and something far worst in Romanian). I managed to take the box out of the shop in like five minutes, mostly by dragging it. There was a bus stop 30 seconds away. I got there in what seemed forever (ten minutes).

The bus came, I dragged the box inside and I was okay for the next three stops. Then I got off the bus. I was five minutes away from home, only five minutes. I could see my street from where I was standing. I looked at the box. Tall up to my shoulders, as wide as me or a bit more, and ten kilos heavy. All I had to do was get to the zebra, cross the road, cross the tiny patch of the park, cross another road, walk one minute up to my building. It seemed so simple.

But it wasn’t. I dragged the box to the zebra. I waited for the green colour. I dragged the box across the road, mostly on the red colour. Green didn’t wait for me. The drivers did, though. I must have put on quite a show. Green coat, black tights, short dress and a handbag, of course. Plus a carrier bag with a few things I had shopped before buying the chairs: some glasses and candles. And envelopes. A plant pot. But no plant, thank god. Oh, I also had nice shoes on, by the way.

Anyway, back to the story. Once I was on the other side of the road, I stopped. My arms were hurting. I was heavily swearing in Romanian like I didn’t know I could swear. I had to find a solution because dragging was not an option anymore. And I did. I dropped my load on the pavement, knelt by the box and tore it open with my bare hands. I took out the chairs and ripped the plastic off. I gathered my belongings, left the box there (I am really really really sorry for littering but it was a life and death situation), I grabbed the chairs and crossed the park to get home.

And I finally did. It took me almost half an hour to get from the bus stop to my flat! I unfolded the chairs and guess what? Too high! And I cannot return them because, yes, I left the box on the pavement.

I didn’t even bother to do some measurements, I figured my eyes are good enough. Well, they aren’t. And I feel like slapping the cheap me so bad, whenever I look at my kitchen.


A pair of brown wood chairs is the only thing that could cheer me up right now and I might go ahead and get them, in order to forgive myself for being such an idiot. I will sell these ones on Gumtree, if the buyer is willing to do the pick up. I will never ever ever carry furniture on the street again.

P.S. For those of you who wonder, yes, I was offered a hand by some strangers but I refused them for various reasons, mostly because I didn’t feel comfortable to let strangers know where I live. A very handsome guy insisted in helping me and I almost let him but I felt sorry for the Burberry coat he was wearing. Aren’t I nice!