i have discussed this with CX long time ago, when i just stepped out of this phase.

every gal has to go through this phase, short or long, it is normally during the years when u r in high school or similar age. what is this phase like? ur waist is as thick as ur butt.  u have short hair which makes ur face looks especially round and big. u wanna look cool instead of looking hot so u try to dress like a guy with big t-shirts and track shoes. u may have pierced holes on ur ear but u only wear ear studs. u think accessories are not for u because it makes u less cool. u always have some attitude problems because this is a notion of being cool. u have a crush on a guy but somehow the guy always likes someone else, even though u may be good friends for each other but he never had feelings for you. actually not really any guys have feelings for u from what u know. and u always think that there must be a guy in this world who  is good-looking and rich and smart and will fall for u because of ur personality and not ur looks and it never happens. u are still waiting for "the one" to come. and sometimes, or most of the time u think u r a loner and u prefer to be alone...

well, this is the phase, horrible phase but every gal has to go through.

so for gals who are still in this phase, pls wake up.

prince charming is also human being--it means he also likes hot babes. 

so throw away the big t-shirt and sneakers, keep ur hair long, lose weight and wear a dress.

seriously.

i have discussed this with CX long time ago, when i just stepped out of this phase.

every gal has to go through this phase, short or long, it is normally during the years when u r in high school or similar age. what is this phase like? ur waist is as think as ur butt.  u have short hair which makes ur face looks especially round and big. u wanna look cool instead of looking hot so u try to dress like a guy with big t-shirts and track shoes. u may have pierced holes on ur ear but u only wear ear studs. u think accessories are not for u because it makes u less cool. u always have some attitude problems because this is a notion of being cool. u have a crush on a guy but somehow the guy always likes someone else, even though u may be good friends for each other but he never had feelings for you. actually not really any guys have feelings for u from what u know. and u always think that there must be a guy in this world who  is good-looking and rich and smart and will fall for u because of ur personality and not ur looks and it never happens. u are still waiting for "the one" to come. and sometimes, or most of the time u think u r a loner and u prefer to be alone...

well, this is the phase, horrible phase but every gal has to go through.

so for gals who are still in this phase, pls wake up.

prince charming is also human being--it means he also likes hot babes. 

so throw away the big t-shirt and sneakers, keep ur hair long, lose weight and wear a dress.

serious.

 

 

No sex and the city extracted from TimesOnline

 

He’s thirtysomething, earns seven figures and lives in an immaculate bachelor pad. He drives an Aston
Martin, his Amex is impervious to the most frenzied shopping trip and you’ll never have to slum it on a cutprice
holiday again.
If this is your idea of the perfect partner, you’re not alone. When Prince & Associates, an American wealthresearch
firm, asked a sample group of thirtysomething women if they would marry for money, a resounding
75 per cent said yes. However, before you start hunting your City banker quarry, think again. The lifestyle
sounds promising on paper, but – like all good things – it comes at a price.
First, forget lording it at VIP tables in members’ clubs, cracking open bottle after bottle of Cristal. Serious
earners just don’t do that. Why? Because they’re long since tucked up in bed. I should know – for nearly
four years I had a 10pm curfew. My (now ex) banker boyfriend insisted on it. For a City trader juggling
multimillion pound positions, which could bring a bank to its knees, sleep is crucial. If my boy was to crush
the opposition, his brain needed rest.
So, by 9.30 every night we’d be brushing our teeth in separate bathrooms, and by ten the lights were out.
Whether you’re tired or not is irrelevant, and insomnia is not on the schedule. Tossing and turning will
interfere with his precious sleep, so if counting sheep fails you’ll be banished to a spare room to ensure that
he gets eight hours of uninterrupted slumber.
What about sex, then? Surely these testosterone-fuelled chaps are rampant in the sack? Again, you’ll need
to adjust your expectations: because if it doesn’t involve earning money, it tends to be rather low on the
priority list. A seriously risky trading position will mean he’ll be so consumed by angst that not even a trio of
Russian supermodels could appeal to his carnal side. And while you may have the luxury of endless lie-ins,
he’ll have bolted out of bed by 6am, scanned his BlackBerry and checked the markets before he’s even got
in the shower.
High flyers crave order and control because there’s enough chaos at work. So, be warned, he’ll expect his
home life to run on rails – smoothly, quietly, flawlessly. His wardrobe will be a temple to minimalist
efficiency: slabs of pristine shirts arranged by colour, bespoke suits, £500 shoes in clear boxes for fast identification, cufflinks and collar stiffeners ready to go. Underwear tends to be identical, white, usually
Calvin Klein or Armani. Watches are to City boys what alpha handbags are to women. Expect him to have a
collection worth more than a semi in South London. Patek Phillipe, IWC, Franck Muller – for day, night,
sport and everything in between.
When I first entered my ex-boyfriend’s house, I had the feeling that I’d walked on to the set of American
Psycho. “Are you sure you actually live here?” I asked. It was a quiet, immaculate space, no clutter allowed
anywhere. The boy sweated blood to afford the place and, since he spent no time actually living in it, he
liked it to look as if it was awaiting a House & Garden shoot. Shoes, toddlers and red wine were all
inconceivable.
So all week you’ve slept like a mouse, scur-ried about ensuring that the household runs without a hitch, and
by Friday night you’re aching to hit the town. He’ll feel too guilty to refuse, and you’ll find yourself in a
Michelin-starred restaurant, chattering away, while he stares into space, craving sleep as badly as a junkie
needs heroin.
Bankers’ girls find their lives mirroring market trends. When he does well, you’ll be swept along on a tide of
champagne and adrenalin. But when things go wrong – and they usually go spectacularly wrong – you will
find yourself in a darkened room, murmuring soothing words while he fights off a nervous breakdown.
Yes, you’ll get to sink into the cushioned depths of a grown-up sports car that draws envious glances at
every traffic light. But you’ll soon start to resent the thing when you have to remove your shoes in case you
soil the upholstery. Add the stress caused by scratches and damage, the endless search for safe parking,
and keeping it out of the hands of vandals and joyriders, and you’ll soon long for a battered Golf.
And what about those promised holidays? Well, they do exist and your friends will be gnashing their teeth at
the brochures, but you’ll need to be happy in your own company. I wandered the streets of Marrakesh and
Florence solo while he spent all his time with the BlackBerry jammed to his ear, or bashing away at its
keypad. Then there were the days spent Lost in Translation style at one of Dubai’s most opulent hotels,
because he had to fly back to London to deal with a crisis at work.
If you’re confounded by why bankers keep working long after they’ve accumulated millions and millions, the
answer is simple: it’s not about the money. Really. After a few years, the cash becomes irrelevant. Instead,
it’s about winning, about annihilating your opponents, whether it’s on the trading floor, the squash court, in
the bar or in the boxing ring. These guys have an insatiable appetite to win at everything, so don’t try to
compete.
And if it happens that he’s not winning, not out-earning his boss or his colleagues, you’ll be expected to
keep schtum. Having a few too many glasses of champagne and blurting out how disappointed he was with
his last bonus could see you hurled out the door. Bankers’ girls should remember it’s all about image: that
means silent, smiling supportiveness, and never, ever revealing what he earns – especially not to other
bankers’ WAGs, because the news will be around the City before the first espressos have been drunk on
Monday morning.
If this makes it all sound like hard work, then fear not. When I was taken to Selfridg-es and cocooned in a
cream-carpeted boudoir with a personal shopper, while a pair of flunkies rushed around the store finding
me a new wardrobe, I wasn’t exactly suffering. As I cooed over a perfectly fitted Armani jacket and an
immaculately cut Ralph Lauren suit and the bill soared ever upwards, the boy never flinched.
We left an hour later with an armful of bags and I have no idea of the final tally, but it must have been
nudging five figures. A further burst of retail madness in Bond Street, and we hopped into a taxi and headed
home. It sounds like pure fantasy, and for a girl like me with a job in public sector PR, it was. Every time I
put on one of those garments I feel a million dollars, and remember that heady day.
Yes, there were perks, and good ones. The ease of knowing that you can take taxis without a thought, of
never having to check price tags on anything. The luxury of going to the opera or the ballet without
scrimping for months for a seat up in the stratosphere.
I wanted for nothing – nothing that could be bought, anyway: La Perla, Crème de la Mer and acres of cashmere after every business trip, my 30th birthday party for a crowd of friends at Home House, the nights
out that now make me wince at their unabashed expense; the £1,000 dinner in Paris, the seven-course
tasting menus with matching wine flights at any number of Michelin restaurants; and the bouquets so large
they could hardly fit through the door, which had even the courier gawping in amazement.
But in the end all the cashmere in the world cannot insulate you from the cold truth that such men will
always love their money and their jobs more than you. You will be an afterthought – an indulgence at best.
If you can cope with that, and with a life whose sole spiritual or emotional dimension consists of
worshipping at the retail temples of Knightsbridge and Bond Street, then their world is yours for the taking.
But I couldn’t, and shortly after the City superhero picked up yet another multimillion-pound bonus, I packed
my things and left. No wardrobe was large enough, no jewels sparkly enough and no holidays glamorous
enough to compensate for the sting of unrequited love.
Since then there have been times when I’ve waited in the rain for buses and remembered all those
extravagances – my other life – and wondered if I folded my cards too soon, was too proud, too stubbornly
romantic.
But now, as I pad around my new boyfriend’s chaotic flat, leaving stray coffee mugs on every floor,
scattering newspapers in my wake, I have no regrets. We make an unholy mess in the kitchen, leave our
clothes strewn up the stairs and go to sleep in the small hours. He drives a beaten up car stuffed with dirty
riding gear and legal papers. And I think he’s wonderful.
I’d like to say I’m slumming it, but then Guy is a barrister, the flat is in Chelsea and he has his sights set on
a career as a Conservative politician. Some habits, it seems, are hard to break.