Stylised Monologue

Tuesday, 14 October 2014

Proof that I'm still Alive

Wow... have I been awful at this whole blogging malarkey recently or have I been AWFUL at it. The latter of course, always look for the clue in capitalisation. I'm sure no one's noticed you've all missed me, so to slightly make up for it, here's an article I was commissioned to write for a luxury travel magazine. I was given permission to share it so... here's proof that I have not fallen into a comma just yet.


Myrsini’s best kept secret.

By Daphne Economou 


Solitary beaches on popular Greek islands are a rarity, especially ones sprinkled in golden sand, surrounded by gorgeous nature and dipping their toes into crystal clear waters. They are the kind of oasis relieved of buildings, crowds and tourists chasing to smother their unruly children with chalk-like sunscreen. My untrained eye, deemed camping the only way to call this place home during my holidays there. Camping isn’t what is cracked up to be, all the dreams of careless frolicking and sun kissed skin are soon replace by lobster like burnt flesh and windswept tangles. One morning, just as I was despairing, being woken up by the sun rising, what seemed like a well-kept secret caught my eye. Drenched in an orange-hued light, stood a house that blended in with the outskirts of the beach. Its colour, all sandy and chameleon like, made it hard to notice at first, but with the sun highlighting it, its presence was undeniable. Struck by curiosity and, let’s be honest, nosiness, I walked towards it. A large cobble web area proceeded the house itself. On it, nature had been turned into beautiful design ready to accommodate elegant living under the shading of bamboo sticks that let the sun peak through just a tad. I followed one of the stone paths that lied beneath the cooling olive trees when, as it often happens when you invite yourself into strangers houses, I bumped into the owner. 
He told me how he saw the land bare and dreamed up his perfect holiday palace out of nowhere. How he liked the old technique of Mykonian house making that keeps the elements at bay giving the residents the chance to dip in and out of them if and when they like. “It keeps the winds out but stores the brightness of the sun inside” he said.
“You can’t really witness the sunset from here, but you can take in all the warmth and light of the sunrise… it’s a home destined for a time of year when the sunrise is far more interesting than the sunset. In the winter, when it’s cold, you need those last minutes of sun to help soak up some extra warmth but in the summertime the afternoon shade and chill, the lack of blasting sun provides, are therapeutic.” As I stand in the sun-adorned part of the house by the tastefully subtle swimming pool, I couldn’t agree more.
We walk inside the house, all wooden floors and walls of curved stones, it looks like a like a classic dream yet feels cozy and familial.
Its corners and curves were the love child of the technician who tried to create straight lines ‘by eye’ dismissing all modern tools. A sharp illustration staircase would look foreign in this rustic space so the owner asked for “steps” to take its place adding to the familiar atmosphere that is so much more comforting to anyone that steps foot in there. The owner tells me how the spacious kitchens, which can easily welcome more than 12 people, are his playground, where he cooks for friends, using just biological eggs and vegetables from the potent and flavourful garden the nutritious ancient grounds hold outside.


I told the owner how this house was everything I had been looking for, the epitome of classic elegance with an edge of boho chic that doesn’t require lugging a tent all over the island. The owner credited it all to his wife who has an eye for spaces “she sees an area and immediately knows what will look good”. And once more, I have to agree for this house is the perfect equilibrium between an unrealistically decorated dream house and the perfectly comfortable family nest. And though I’m sure you could probably get the owner’s wife to decorate the insides of any crummy tent and I’m sure she would probably do it successfully, I’m going to suggest you saving her from styling a blow up mattress and a couple of wind up torches into a home, and move into their welcoming oasis instead.

Copyright: Mykonos Confidential 

Monday, 16 June 2014

(I forgot about) FATHER'S DAY

So you know how yesterday was quite a big day for the ones amongst you that have fathered an offspring? yeah...

... you all knew about it, including this guy:


...who threw plenty of reminders my way...

free drinks? final draft? fone daphne(sp)? admittedly, it could be anything!

but still... it all went over my head.

Until this morning when it dawned on me... F. D. .... FATHER'S DAY!!!!!!!!!

OH CRAP!!!!!!!!!!

And since my "OH CRAP" face has evolved into a significantly less adorable version of the photo above, changing this mood around may require some effort...



No, dad, you listen now, imma make it up to you, promise!!


But lets start with some reverse guilt tripping first...

Hey Dad, remember that time you and mum happily posed in Venice while I was being eaten alive by pigeons?


yeah.... that wasn't very nice now was it?!

But it's ok, I survived what could have forever been remembered as the poor man's Hitchcock disaster and can thus move on to wish you a Happy Father's Day which you wholeheartedly deserve for all the reasons I am about to list below (as well as provide photographic evidence for)

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY DAD AND THANK YOU...


  • FOR SCHOOLING ME IN ALL THINGS GREAT MUSIC






...AND THE GROOVY DANCE MOVES TO GO WITH IT...






  • THANK YOU FOR LOVING ME AS A BABY, DESPITE LOOKING LIKE THIS 



I bet you loved it when people said I looked just like you...

  • AND THANK YOU FOR NOT LETTING ME STARVE (, despite aforementioned hideousness )
<3




  • THANK YOU FOR TEACHING ME TO BE SILLY, HAVE FUN AND NOT TAKE MYSELF TOO SERIOUSLY.



I was chubbahontas...
  • THANK YOU FOR SETTING AN EXAMPLE OR TWO ABOUT ACCESSORISING





...although I am NOT thankful about the way your knack for accessorising translated in children-wear  ...

Baby Dyke Economou
 thank you for capturing this fetching ensemble on camera and an even bigger thank you to the little girl next to me, for providing some obvious contrast between normal VS overstuffed piglet in a striped onesie and pink tights...
  • I WOULD ALSO LIKE TO THANK YOU FOR OUTGROWING CERTAIN LOOKS (halleluja's all around)
The meanest kagouras around


  • THANK YOU FOR TEACHING ME HOW TO POSE LIKE A PRO


...an area in which you admittedly had some pretty strong in-house competition...

can you say awkward phase?

"smile"
  • "THANK YOU" FOR PASSING DOWN YOUR EYEBROWS (along with most of your face...)

  • BUT ALSO, THANK YOU FOR DECIDING TO PROCREATE WITH THIS GENETIC GEM!!

  • MORE THAN ANYTHING, (soppy bit), THANK YOU FOR ALWAYS HANGING OUT WITH ME NO MATTER HOW SMALL, STROPPY, TEENAGE-Y OR NEGLECTFUL OF MY PHONE I'VE BEEN... AND THANK YOU FOR NOT ONCE MAKING ME FEEL LIKE YOU'RE NOT ENJOYING MY COMPANY TOO (Let's exclude Finlandgate...)














'till next year ...
xxxxxx

Wednesday, 19 March 2014

ACUTE SELF-DEPRECATIONITIS

A stylisedmonologue overspill:

At the tender age of six, I got labeled a ‘bohemian child’ by my favourite teacher of all time. My creative streak and penchant for mischief earned me the highest spot on her pedestal of students. During a teacher-parent meeting (my most dreaded occurrences of all time) my parents expressed their concern regarding my absolute resistance to let numbers and their bizarre incestuous multiplying ways penetrate my young brain. Words made sense, numbers didn’t (I have since developed a theory that I am dysnumeral  - and, evidently, a wordsmith – ) and they bored me to death. My six year old brain, not unlike my 26 year old one, deemed maths unnecessary for my particular lifestyle of choice (what a knobby thing to say, at six especially) and therefore discarded it from the mental list of things I would ever care to learn. My parents were not only exasperated by the fact that they wasted their time trying to get their sole offspring to comprehend the notion of 1+1=2 while it (I) looked back at them with blank stares, but they also feared that this lack of mathematical basis would shatter my confidence in the next few, inevitably numerical, years of secondary school. They were right. That’s exactly what happened.

While being the artistic child that’s far more interested in putting on school plays and writing up imaginative stories was all the rage at my primary school, my new ‘grown up’ learning camp had a strict policy of feeding us information that we had to swallow intact and unquestioned, only to then vomit it all up on an exam paper. Learning to understand things was irrelevant to them. Having our own opinions on things was just plain unacceptable. Being creative or imaginative were borderline offences and I once got punished for rapping a prayer. Rapping could have been my true calling, now I'll never now.

From the ages of eleven to eighteen, I slowly saw my confidence slipping away from me. This is not entirely a bad thing. I developed self-sarcasm which, trust me, is a double ended sword. On the one side, it's given me a fairly sharp sense of humour and the ability to not take myself seriously which makes me, not a knob. On the other side, hara-kiri. Unfortunately you occasionally encounter people who don’t understand sarcasm, self or otherwise, and will think that there’s nothing about you that is, in fact, serious. (I'm about to go deep for like, one minute, CAN YOU HANDLE IT? Let's go) The problem with being pigeonholed a  bad student is that, despite not quite realising it at the time, it makes you start doubting your abilities. So you joke about shortcoming you don't even have in order to prevent someone else finding them out for themselves. (But they don't exist, so they wouldn't find them out, so you're stupid. I am mostly talking about myself by the way, don't get offended. Also, I'm not stupid). I realised this started getting worse when I became a 'real adult' (wait, surely that's not actually happened yet?). Having an ignorant friend frivolously house me in the poor work ethic category for no reason other than, I can only assume, based on my own undermining jokes, really struck a chord.

While complaining about it to my saint of a boyfriend (whom I have in fact worked with and who can vouch I not only work hard and efficiently but I’m also good at team building) (he can vouch that because he wants sex, but also, because it’s true) (parenthesis), he pointed out that every time someone asks me what I do for a living, I flap my hands awkwardly and then trash talk myself. Is it because I think I suck? No. I think I’m good at my job and any job I’ve ever done including being a waitress and writing copy for escorts (excluding that one time I spilled orange juice all over some guy’s crotch – I’m not going to tell you which of the two jobs this happened during).  

In the same way I diagnosed myself as dysnumeric, I shall diagnose myself as a sufferer of a rare condition called self-deprecationitis. And lets be honest, self-deprecationitis is basically a residue of the even greater disease(fun fact: I had to leave without finishing my sentence, a whole 24 hours later, I have no idea what this greater disease was going to be but lets assume it was something hilarious with small rays of profound truth shining through). 

Like with every disease, imaginary or not, certain things can trigger symptoms. So, in the same way my body shuts down at the sight of an apple, my self-deprecationitis flourishes in nearly all social circumstances (especially the beginning and ending parts of a social gathering where you have to hug, kiss and introduce yourself/hug, kiss and make fake plans with each other) as well the receiving end of compliments (a position I oftentimes find myself at… #knob). 

So, in a bid to no longer self sabotage, I decided to fake it. I mean I got really good at it during my last relationship… JK! LOL! HAHA! etc…  No, but seriously, I am terrible at faking anything. I think it stems from that one time when I was, like, 7 when my dad asked me if I’d done my homework and I straight up lied about having been assigned none. When my dad persisted, my guilt got the best of me and I mumbled something along the lines of “err… something was written on the blackboard but I’m not sure that it was homework”. And that's when my dad proceeded to ruin my life forever (It’s true, dad, I’ve been meaning to tell you this for YEARS)*** by being really angry at me for lying. “Your punishment is that I will never trust you again” he said while wrath laced his voice and disappointment painted his face. I see what he was doing, he was trying to raise me an honest individual. An overrated quality, if you ask me, which he did managed to forcefully instil into me. 19 years later, and I’m more honest than Shakira’s hips(but with less of an ability to make a man want tospeak Spa-nish). I don't lie because I'm terrible at it, not because I don't want to. I don’t even lie on my CV out of fear that I will get caught and end up ugly-crying into the interviewers lap while questioning if she/he will ever trust me again. (You’re paying for therapy, right Dad?)   

So faking confidence when you are very confident that you can’t fake anything is hard. (Plus will that make me less funny? Since, you know, I mainly laugh AT me?) BUT I VOW TO DO IT!

Starting from today, I promise to not put myself down. Not even for the sake of a really great joke (I'm probably lying, but I do promise I will only do it when the joke is exceptional).

And if you are also a victim of Self-deprecationitis, you should do the same!


I WANT YOU, TO BE NICER TO YOURSELF!

God, I look SE-XY in a top hat
Unlike Jean D'arc (gurrrl was nuts!) we shall shut those doubt-y little voices. Well, maybe not shut them, but reserve them for the people whose humour can take it!

***I'M JOKING DAD, YOU'RE THE BEST!

Friday, 14 February 2014

THE STYLISED GUIDE TO LIPSTICK-PROOF KISSING

I like film scripts, discovering a well written film gives me the kind of joy and satisfaction only ever rivalled by a perfectly cooked medium rare burger housed between melty slices of cheese and a shiny brioche bun. I love a brilliant book and although I'd fancy myself a lover of the classics that often drops Flaubert into conversations like a steaming hot potato, my heart will always belong to David Sedaris (who is competing with garlic for the role of my soulmate) and I'm much more likely to quote Joy Tribiani than Earnest Hemingway. Kieslowski and Spike Jonze have forever been entangled in battle for first place on my favourite directors list, but I'd pass them both up in a second for a marathon of High Fidelity (and by marathon I mean I'd watch it on repeat all day,everyday!).

Despite it looking like all I did was de-intellectualise myself, my first paragraph is meant to be a list of things I love. Think 'The Sound of Music' but with less nazis and brown paper packages tied up with string. (may I just digress here to point out that if, on a shitty day, raindrops on roses is all it takes to cheer you up, you are -in my humbe opinion- a twat!)  

I put all of my favourite things to the ultimate test, what would I pass meeting Bruce Springsteen for. Literature, films, music, travels, a handful of meetings with friends, good meat, tangy hearbs and creamy dairy all lost to the Boss. And then, I came to the sickening conclusion... my all time favourite thing in the whole wide world, the thing that I'd rather do than assume Courtney Cox status in THIS video, is new relationship kisses! I know, I know, what a soppy thing to say... but think about it. It's an unbeatable feeling! 

I call my relationship new despite it being the same age of a fully formed foetus nearing its due date. So kisses still turn my stomach into a butterfly disco! (I know, I judge myself too...). 

Alas, there is one thing interfering with all the fun that can be had while exchanging saliva with your paramour, and that is my love for lipstick. I don't know how it became socially acceptable to literally juts put paint onto your face and walk around like it's normal, but it did and I'm embracing it to the limit! So, to sum up... on the one hand, I love kissing. On the other, I love lipstick... now put your hands together.... -.- 



So for this Valentine's day (which I still think is the most unimaginative of man made holidays), when the dress code still calls for red roses, red wine, red dress and red lips, I propose you do more snogging and less consuming overpriced chocolates. 

To help you do so, I indulged into a highly enjoyable little experiment during which I searched high and low for the most long lasting lipstick formulas, I put them to the test and can now present you.....


THE STYLISED GUIDE TO LIPSTICK-PROOF KISSING


  • Contestant number one, is a stain that comes up so often on the long lasting lipstick google search, it might as well have it in its name. I'm talking about the one and only YSL glossy stain in #9. Overpriced, overly glossy, pretty sleek packaging....

....NOT KISS PROOF. 

  • Contestant number two, is an oddity in my collection. Picked up on a whim in New York, this fuchsia lipstick bares the brand of an Armenian family whose journey in America has been captured on film for the world to see. Kardashian Khroma in Shocking Pink. Tacky packaging, Tacky smell, Great colour/texture
... NOT KISSPROOF

  • Third on the list, is a liquid stain for the more Vampy of Valentines! My mother covets this so much I always have to hide it when I visit home or it 'falls out of my bag' straight into her make up storage. HOURGLASS icon
...This is one for couples that like to match. Boyfriend looks fairly unaffected but I seem to have acquired some crimson facial hair?! 

  • Next one up is my all time fave red. And the one most similar to a dog's penis. Bobbi Brown matte lipstick in HEART. One that may be aptly named for Valentine's... 

...but, sadly, not quite aptly formulated. Bummer. (we also seem to be a couple considerate of each others nostrils during kissing sessions...... what!)

  • The penultimate lipstick put to the test, is a NARS one. This one is in pencil form so I had really high hopes for it. Nars Velvet Matte Lipstick in Red Square...

... is DEFINITELY the winner...  of Lipstick-Most-Likely-To-Make-You-Look-Like-You-Have-Severe-Acne. 

  • My last contestant was the underdog. A ridiculously cheap lipstick I don't remember buying/being given. Max Factor something or other... 
...CAN YOU HEAR THE ANGELS CHANTING? (if not just click on the link...)!!

WE FINALLY HAVE A WINNER!!

 with the ST.D(stylised dialogue) SEAL OF APPROVAL, you can now proceed to start snogging! 

xxxxx