How to be a Hypochondriac in six easy lessons (and get what you want)

Being a hypochondriac has enormous beneficial uses as many women have already found. It will get you the right kind of attention from the man in your life. It will give you the much-needed rest you need from the housework and in the case of a good friend of mine it even gained her a nanny, Life as a woman, is not easy. We all know, having it all, means doing it all yourself. Now with Hypochondria becoming the most popular accessory, you too can have it all too just like the top celebrities without doing anything at all. Be like Lindsey Lohan whose weeping got her the comfort of tough women cons. Lessons. 1) Don’t underestimate the use of tears. They are a great stress reliever and probably all those headaches you get are due to stress because of all the things you have to do. Angelina Jolie and Hilary Clinton have used them to wonderful advantage. Easy to create with the use of an onion. Or, take a tip from Chris Brown and use tear inducing eye drops. A little more expensive but you should get the best you can when using hypochondria as an accessory It really is worth wearing that mascara you are so allergic to also. A few tears and you can put away the pots and pans, Your husband is sure to take you out to cheer you up. So he should after all you do. After one of those really tiring days, when you have filled the dishwasher and done the school run consider this as your treat. 2) Remember exercise is dangerous. If you insist on running then be aware if your knee hurts or your back hurts it is most likely you have slipped a cartilage or a disc. Be sure to hire a cleaner for three months and do not lift, not even an ironing board, or even an iron come to that. Be careful when lifting your arms as that could strain your back. Ask your husband to brush your hair when he gets home. He will be happy to have something to do after his boring day. Take painkillers four times a day and bed rest if needed. 3) Most severe, serious headaches come on at night, according to specialists. All physical activity should be avoided at these times. Your husband will understand that sex is out of the question. After all, this could be the start of a serious tumour and needs to be taken seriously. Take two aspirin and sleep for as long as possible. If this means all night and the following day, so be it. Your husband can sort out the children. If he is late for work, he will not be missed. It is important to understand your importance in the world and a tired woman is an unproductive one. 4) Any breast pain should be investigated properly. Often it may be due to the wrong size bra, but if you are a busy housewife and mother juggling a part-time job when can you find the time to buy a new one? Should you suffer from ‘Too tight bra syndrome’ do not lift your child/children as this will aggravate the pain. Hire a Nanny until your busy schedule allows you to get to the shops. Or make sure your husband leaves his credit card with you so you can shop for one online. Be sure to take pain killers every four hours and rest as much as possible. 5) Never forget Periods are an illness. They affect you profoundly both physically and mentally. You may notice your husband goes through something similar at the same time. This has now been diagnosed as ‘lack of brain activity syndrome’ and hits men once a month. Unlike women their lives are quite empty. Sitting at a desk, pushing a pen and checking emails can lead to ‘lack of brain activity syndrome’ very quickly. This leads the man to look for some activity during the month and this often coincides with your period. He will try very hard to arouse activity for himself and you will notice he uses you for this and may make comments which deflects the issue from himself. The comments often follow a pattern and he may use words like. ‘Is your period due?’ or ‘Is it that time of the month?’ He really means is it that time of the month for him, when he will be argumentative and then blame it on you. You must not forget that periods are an illness and that bedrest is needed when you are cramping. Again, you should not attempt anything too hazardous and housework is out of the question. A cleaner should be considered at all times. After all a slight pull to a stomach muscle could lead to a fibroid, I am told. 6) Celebrities have already seen the dangers of childbirth and use their hypochondria to its best advantage. Pregnancy causes stretch marks and can be unsightly and may even cause pain. You may also suffer from cracked nipples if you choose to breast feed. This is all detrimental to your health. Use your hypochondria here to explain the dangers to your husband and use a surrogate mother. For a few pounds you can get a good one these days and for just a little extra you can hire a nanny so you get the sleep you need to do all those other onerous jobs. Remember, you are special and your husband knows that.

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Treading on a penis

On Saturday I strolled into the Ann Summers shop in Oxford. Yes, I really did. I remember bumping into a bespectacled woman while browsing the vibrator section.
Don’t worry I am not going to go into a detailed description of the assortment of vibrators on sale. But the difference of ages in the women who were there was interesting. The youngest must have been 18 and the oldest (not me) had to have been the bespectacled woman, all of sixty, if not more. Of course, it is not the first time I have been into Ann Summers and thinking about it on the way home it reminded me of my first innocent Ann Summers party and the disastrous second one.
My first Ann Summers party was many years ago when the whole Ann Summers thing was something you whispered and giggled about. I went along with some trepidation. I had never even seen a vibrator and was quite nervous at the thought of ever even doing so. But, amazingly enough not even a glimmer of a vibrator was in sight. The whole party was about sexy lingerie. I came home feeling quite proud of the fact that I had attended an Ann Summers party and come home unscathed. When any of the women I worked with mentioned Ann Summers in hushed tones, I would say proudly, ‘Oh, I’ve been to an Ann Summers party and quite enjoyed it.’ So, when a few years later I was invited to another one and my friend’s-very innocent- eighteen-year-old daughter asked if she could come too, I said yes. After all, there would only be sexy lingerie there, I thought. Never presume in life, trust me on this one. We entered and the first things to greet us were little wound up penises running around the lounge floor. Somehow, my instinct told me this was not going to be anywhere near as similar as my previous experience. I looked to my friend who was very cleverly pretending not to notice the little penises, while I made concerted efforts not to step on them. The thought of a mangled penis, even made of plastic can make one squirm slightly. Glasses of wine were offered and boy did I need one having just spotted the various assortments of sex toys on the table. My sole aim now was to try and prevent any discomfort for my companion. I quickly realized this party had very little interest in lingerie unless you included pink fluffy handcuffs in that category. After being advised by my straight-laced friend that perhaps I should not be drinking considering I was driving us both home later, I shelved the wine. I waited with bated breath for what was to come next when the hostess asked us for quiet. After a brief introduction, she went on to tell us that we would now play ‘pass the parcel’ in an attempt to get to know each other and some of the Ann Summers goods. My heart sank. I smiled at my friend who shifted in her seat.
‘Ready girls?’
I wanted to scream no, and frantically tried to think of excuses to leave quickly. I could suddenly develop severe diarrhoea but the music started to blare and so began the passing of the parcel. Oh, horror of horrors. The first unwrapping produced the largest vibrator I had ever seen in fact I am sure my eyes watered at the sight. In case we needed a closer look it was passed around as the game continued. The music stopped and the parcel landed in my companions lap. I held my breath. In an instant she had thrown it into mine. Everyone began clapping for me to open it. Ah, at last some nice lingerie, a lovely black frilly bra. I read the forfeit. Oh, great. I had to stand up, clutch my breasts (such as they were) and sing ‘I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts’.
Strangely enough I was more embarrassed about singing out of tune than anything else. My friend looked relieved. Finally the game over, we had more fun with the walking penises and more vibrators were passed around until I became punch drunk on vibrators. Of course by this time a fair bit of wine had been consumed and some of the women began sharing their sex secrets. I discreetly moved the eighteen year old to a safer area. Others were crying into their wine and vibrators about how their husband’s didn’t care about their needs, while I tried to work out how to buy something without my friend knowing what it was. Then we had the fashion show where the lingerie came into its own. We were all encouraged to try on something and share. Sharing is bonding it seems. I sensed my friend was not keen to bond. I squeezed myself into a maid’s outfit much to her look of disgust. I was beginning to enjoy myself now even without the wine. But from her face I could see it was time to go. I raced through the book with her eyes on me and finally after handing in my order, I made some excuse and we left. We were silent in the car until we reached her house and as she climbed out I hesitantly asked.
‘Did you enjoy yourself?’
‘I just think it best if mum does not know.’ was her reply.
Driving home I remember thinking prim little madam! Finally I got home and my husband said,
‘Had a good time?’
‘Yes I trod on a penis, it was great fun.’
Now, thank goodness I don’t have to attend Ann Summers parties I can just stroll into the shop in Oxford and not have to worry about playing pass the parcel or being given disapproving looks. Wonderful

Life as a cleaner

Haven’t we all done jobs we hated just to pay the bills. Have you not had days when the bank balance was so low that debating whether to sell your body became less of a debate and more a matter of ‘is it up to it?’ Mine I am ashamed to say never was up to it and a life on the streets is something I will never be able to blog about but I can blog the next best thing. I became a cleaner. Oh yes, a cleaner and proud of it and not just any cleaner either. This job had great perks. I could work alone, get paid cash in hand and do more than one job in a day. As time went on I built up my clientele. This was all by word of mouth I am proud to say. Many had their kinky little cleaning obsessions. One did not care if the whole house was filthy as long as the shower door shone. Another was obsessive about cobwebs but her loos were far from whiter than white. I won’t even go into what colour they were but my time spent on the shower door meant there was little time for much else. I don’t mean just cleaning shower door. I had to wash, clean and then polish shower door and with special shower polish.
My week began with my first visit to an elderly lady whom I cleaned for every day. At least the idea was that I would clean every day but most of my time was spent putting her to bed with a calming cup of camomile tea after a heated row with her husband and attempt to prevent her having a heart attach of which she was prone. They were then both in their seventies. Or I would help her choose an outfit for a dinner she was attending that evening. Very little housework happened there. I would leave her and move onto the dreaded yuppie couple. This one had been working out fine. I would let myself in, clean and leave, until one day the husband came home early and my two hours were spent trying to squeeze by him or fight him off in the bedrooms using his children’s soft toys as weapons and pray his wife would not walk in and blame it all one me. I eventually had to give that one up or sleep with the boss (very unappealing). Tuesdays I would clean a weekend home, which was barely ever lived in, and full of spiders and webs and lots of other horrid creepy things. I was always paid weeks in advance and usually removed the cobwebs and spiders as that took most of my time. I hated that job as I hate spiders but take the money and run is my motto and even faster than the spiders if you can. During this time I discovered ironing at home as another way to make some extra money. Again I built up my regulars, some more weird than the next. One would bring all his washing, including underpants and socks. He was very particular about how his underpants were ironed and folded. This I always found very odd as they were faded and had holes in the Y fronts where holes shouldn’t be. He would collect a few days later and stand on my doorstep with a bowl of coins. I felt guilty taking his money but after twenty minutes we managed to get the amount needed although I could barely climb the stairs so weighed down was I with his coins. Often he brought his clothes so damp they stank to high heaven. Then there was my favourite. Well, he would be wouldn’t he seeing as he paid me a fortune by the hour? The first time I went I was a little nervous. He had already advised me he was a naturalist but I figured that meant he walked around naked when alone or with like-minded people of which, I hasten to add I was not. My husband (dum) thought it would be fine as his idea of a naturalist was someone who was into nature, green peace, plants and so on. I did not enlighten him. I would not make anyone suffer my naked body against their will. My first visit was great. He kept on a dressing gown and we chatted as I cleaned. I can do this I thought. The next visit the dressing gown disappeared. Now, I cannot tell you how hard it is not to look at something when you are determined not to. As much as I tried to focus on Henry the Hoover my eyes did wander to my clients John Thomas. I did try, I really did. But I had to look. Oh, dear, I remember thinking he has a lot of tattoo’s. Four visits later and I am cleaning around a naked man like it is the most normal thing in the world, oh god am I really revealing this? I even sat with him to sort out his ebay account, and yes he was naked and no nothing ever happened. I went once a fortnight on a Saturday and sometimes did his ironing. Then I progressed to working for an agency for a short time and this was a real eye opener. Now I did not work alone but had a partner. These were not homes; basically they were shit holes with toilets that stank. The cleaning rules here were, basically, hold your nose, stand back and spray bleach. Toilet done. Lounge was basically throw out the bottles, straighten the furniture and spray with fresh air fragrance and get out as fast as possible. A bit like robbing a bank really, in, do the job and out. The money was good so it was hard to say no. The Kitchen, no I wont even go there, you really will prefer me not to go there.
Eventually I had so many jobs I was racing from one to the other and had so many keys I looked like a jailer. But it was good fun. I played music I liked, worked for myself and had no one bossing me about. But eventually one comes down to earth and husband says having a cleaner for a wife is not cool. I get that. I had my fun!